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Chapter Text

Hermione likes listening to the rain. The sound of it hammering on her large windows blankets out the noise of the city. And given that she only goes between her flat and her work, she’s never likely to get caught in it anyway. 

She lights all the candles by hand, moving slowly throughout the space. She turns her music down so she can hear the drum of the water, thinks of her plants on the small roof terrace that she tends carefully. It’s winter, and they are mostly bare. But the rain will be good. Lilith pads behind her, occasionally making a playful leap at her feet, her black tail swishing. Crookshanks died a year ago. His ashes are on the windowsill. Hermione isn’t sure where to get rid of them yet. 

The long dining table that sits underneath the windows that make up the entire side of her top floor flat is covered not in glasses, or plates, or food, but books. They are organised into small piles, with various labels placed on top of them in her own neat script. She brings them home with her, when she doesn’t get round to re-binding, or categorising, or examining them at work. She does not head to the table this time. Her destination instead is the large floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that sits across from the window, marked out from the rest of the floor by a huge, ancient sofa that cordoned off the area she thinks of as her ‘library’. It’s mostly fiction, here. The archives hold most of her non-fiction texts, aside from the ones taking up residency on her dining table. 

She pours a small glass of red wine. It shakes a bit as the sofa edge nudges the side table when she sits down. This is the only seat which has a deep indent. There are smaller indents on the other side, two of them, but they’re shallow and empty. Lilith obediently hops up next to her, curling into her lap. She’s still small enough that Hermione can hold her in one hand. 

Tonight is for re-reading, not for starting something new. She cocks her head as she takes in the various tomes. Last weekend she had spent the entire time reorganising them, unsatisfied with the inefficient system that she previously had in place. That combined all her texts together, whereas the sheer number of new and unread books that she had somehow acquired meant that she needed to separate them. It was a diverting task, and she’d returned to work feeling refreshed from it. Not that she has any colleagues to tell, or that her ideas of a weekend-well-spent would have impressed them if she did.  

There is a distant rumble. Hermione waits for the lightning to flash before summoning both Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights . Gothic feels appropriate, though she’s unsure if she can bear Heathcliffe this evening. Each book falls open easily, the spines long cracked.

She’s right - Heathcliffe is out of the question.

Her doorbell rings before she can open Jane Eyre . It’s tense, short, only two urgent buzzes. It makes her jump nonetheless. 

It is far too late for visitors. She slides her wand into her dressing gown sleeve, takes a breath to calm herself. Even all these years later, Hermione does not deal well with surprises. 

The buzz sounds again. She creeps down the stairs. Her apartment is on the top two floors of a townhouse, and because of the roof terrace and the huge windows, is organised upside down, with the bedrooms on the lower floor and the sitting area and kitchen above. She has never had people over to remark on how it is unusual. 

Hermione opens her front door, slips into the dark hall easily. Funny how even after all this time she is still able to move silently, as though it’s second nature to move through shadows with her wand in her hand and her heart in her throat. When she reaches the main door she can see, through the stained glass, a figure of a man. He’s leaning against the side, obscured by the darkness and the blur of the colours. She sees his arm shake as it goes to press her buzzer again. 

She makes sure her wand is able to be whipped out if she needs it. Highbury and Islington is a muggle area. No one here knows who she was. But it doesn’t hurt to be careful.

She opens the door to Draco Malfoy. 

He gapes a bit when he takes her in. 

He is grey. His jaw is tense, his stubble, pronounced. It looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. He drips onto the tiled floor as he hauls himself in, bracing himself on one arm on the doorframe. Hermione realises that he looks hurt at the same time as he opens his mouth and says;

I didn’t know where else to go. 

And then he withdraws his other arm that has been wrapped around his stomach to reveal a jagged, black-edged wound. Hermione has just enough time to wave her wand to catch his body before it falls. 

Hermione moves instinctively. Strange how that training hasn’t left her either. That even when she feels like she can’t breathe she can still bring a body swiftly up to her flat, how she can clear the dining table manually and sanitise it quickly before laying out the body of the man who has inexplicably arrived in the dead of night. 

Dead is apt. Hermione also marvels that he is breathing. 

Lilith has sat up in interest, quickly leaping up onto Hermione’s shoulder. Lilith always likes watching Hermione do magic, especially when her wand makes bright colours. Bright, flashing colours, just like the healing diagnostic is currently bringing up. Lots of red, some amber, and then purple, which Hermione knows for a fact is absolutely not a colour that means anything, diagnostically. 

She turns to the red bits first. She will have to remove his shirt. 

She rips, rather than vanishes, not wanting to risk magic interfering with the strange purple edges of his body that are still flashing on the spell. 

Hermione only pauses slightly when she sees the full wound. And then, before treating him, she turns to grab her small muggle camera. 

It will take seconds, something which she knows is a risk when a patient is this close to death. But Hermione has never seen anything like it. And she needs - she just needs some kind of record. 

It is as though his stomach has been ripped, rather than cut. Someone with filthy nails, perhaps that would explain why there are so many bits there, why she can see organs that are also covered in dirt. 

It takes her several hours to clean it, several more to slowly test enough spells on the body that mean she is able to use magic to stitch up the patient. She only knows that time is passing because at some point, the rain stops. The sky stays dark. 

Hermione finishes her glass of wine when she has finished. He is still glowing purple on that scan. But his heartbeat is steady, his wounds look good, and all other signs are stable. 

He’s still passed out, lying on that table like a cadaver. An effigy. An ancient, medieval knight finally at rest. She looks at the rest of him. 

He is still beautiful, even after everything. His hair is still that silver blonde. He has filled out. There are new scars on his chest, a smattering of bruises, a slight downy trail that leads below his belly button. He is still damp. It has been raining, but she didn’t expect  it to have soaked him through. She frowns as she contemplates what to do. 

Her training wins out against her own discomfort. 

He is moved to her spare bed. She does it with magic, drying him, pulling down the duvet. She does not touch him. She does not look at his legs or boxers until the duvet is safely covering his body. 

His clothes, though. She has to touch them. She mends the rip she made in his shirt. It has clearly been mended before. His trousers, too. Though they clink and are oddly heavy, thanks to the number of pockets that have been sewn into odd places. His cloak is similarly well worn. It is waterproof on the outside, which she marks for later consideration, as it doesn’t make sense for him to be wet. There are plenty of inner pockets on that, too. She doesn’t mean to pry, but she can’t help but notice a long knife tucked next to the inner seam. She doesn’t want to know any more. Doesn’t want to know anything about his life now, why he might receive wounds like that, why he might feel the need to be armed with more than just a wand, why he doesn’t have anywhere else to go, except her flat. Or how he had even found it, in the first place. 

Hermione gives his sleeping form a long look, before she casts a few exhausted alarm and monitoring spells around him, and finally goes to bed. 

Lilith is already curled on a pillow. 

Hermione’s alarm is unaware of her late night, and it wakes her too soon after falling asleep. She is halfway through her usual morning routine - shower, yoga, journaling, making tea, choosing a book to read at lunch - when she gives in. 

She goes to the front door first, intending to take more photos of the blood before cleaning it off the stoop. There is nothing there. The rain has washed it all away. 

She wonders, with a tight, tugging feeling in her chest, if he has died in the night. 

Do you know where you are, she asks, after they stare at each other for too long and she’d had to fight against the lump in her throat.

I’m in your flat, he replies, his eyes flat and cold. Tired. 

Yes. 

She should have known better than to expect a thank you. 

Nice sheets. 

Why are you here? 

I needed a Healer, and wasn’t about to walk into St. Mungo’s. You were the first one I thought of.

I’m not a Healer. 

There, finally. Something other than tight exhaustion in his expression. 

I thought you were.

I quit. 

Another pause, as he examines her, shifting himself slowly up the bed. Hermione watches him move painfully without offering to help. 

Hermione Granger doesn’t quit things.

She doesn’t reply.

Why did you? Quit, I mean. 

Because I was in charge of putting people back together when my own life was falling apart and I couldn’t take it any more. Because I had to watch my parents fade away in that awful ward, and then go downstairs, and have people shake my hand and call me a hero. Because I kept making mistakes, and it was costing people their lives. 

I fancied a change, she says quietly, instead. 

You must have remembered enough if I’m not dead. 

I don’t forget easily. 

There is another pause, and both take stock of each other. 

What happened, she asks, flatly. She wishes she doesn't care, wishes she could turn him out and go back to her life, such as it was before. He sighs, running a hand experimentally over the bandages across his stomach, frowning slightly. She does not look, even though the duvet has slid down and his body, different now, though somehow still familiar, is on show. 

I travel a lot, he says in his quiet, clipped voice. I haven’t been in the country in - in a long time. 

She swallows, nods once. 

It’s confidential, mainly. 

Naturally. 

Some Ministry work, though mainly I work for myself.

What kind of work? 

Investigative. 

Hermione is curious, despite herself. She cocks her head. 

So you arrive back in the country last night, and some enemy of a former client attacks you? 

I don’t have clients, not really. 

Right. 

And I don’t know who or what happened to me. There was just pain and then black. 

Hermione thinks back to the jagged ripping in his stomach.

Some kind of animal? 

Perhaps, he allows. Then he grimaces. Although it would be a strange kind of animal.

Why? 

Because most of my magic is - gone. 

Hermione blinks at him carefully. She checks her watch. She needs to get going if she’s going to have time to make her packed lunch. 

What do you mean it's gone? 

I can feel small bits of it. But the rest of it is gone. I don’t know. 

She could tell he is frustrated by his inability to describe it. 

I feel empty, he admits. She frowns, mainly to herself. Then she leans against the dresser at the end of the bed, and pulls up the diagnostics again. 

He is still purple around the outline of his body. 

What’s that? 

A standard diagnostic check. More specific than your basic first-aid spell, but simple enough on the outline. You can zoom, when you find the problem areas. 

What does purple mean? I’m healed? 

The faint yellow line across your stomach - that’s your wound from last night. Another day and it will turn back to green. 

Why is the rest of me purple, then? If it’s meant to be green? 

I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before. 

They look at each other again. Hermione hates that her heart beats when she meets his stare. She hates how she can’t help but categorise all the changes the last thirteen years have brought. 

Right, he says slowly, disappointed. She pushes down the urge to explain herself, excuse her ignorance in some way. 

Is there anything I should know? She asks instead. About what happened last night. It might help you find out what’s happened. And if you are feeling empty - then I would expect the purple colouring to be linked to your issue with your magic. 

I arrived last night. My portkey was scheduled to bring me into Battersea Park.

Hermione nods. She had done that, once. A long time ago.  

As soon as my feet touched solid ground again I was seized. 

By who?

I already said I don’t know, he snaps.

How many hands, she replies, equally tense. He blinks.

I don’t know. 

She smirks even though she shouldn’t. 

Very well. What happened next? 

I woke up on the banks of the Thames, searing pain in my abdomen, and half-drowned. 

Hermione blinks in surprise. 

They dumped you in the river? 

It appears so. 

That would explain the water. 

Water?

You were very wet. It was raining, but not that hard. 

Oh. 

How did you get here? 

She wants to ask how did you know where I live, but there is a kind of horrid anticipation in waiting for the answer, that she can’t really bear this early in the morning. 

I got a muggle cab. I tried to apparate but clearly, that didn’t work.

That’s when you noticed your magic was gone? 

I don’t know if I noticed, per se. I was in quite a lot of pain. It was just the only thing I could think to do. 

How did you pay, she asks suddenly. She doesn’t want his unpaid cabs to cause trouble for her.

With muggle money, of course, he rolls his eyes. He tries to cross his arms, but he only gets halfway before he winces too much and puts them back. 

Don’t tug your stitches. 

Stitches? 

The purple confused me, she admits calmly. I wasn’t sure whether or not whatever was wrong with you would react poorly to magically binding your stomach. I tried several methods, just in case. 

That’s very thorough of you.

I don’t like being woken up in the night. 

The cat comes in, once again leaping into Hermione’s arms before climbing onto her shoulder. It sniffs at his bed, before disregarding him entirely. 

I have to go to work, she says. You can stay here for a bit if you need. I get back in the evenings normally around eight pm. You will be gone by then. 

She turns to leave but he calls out after her, and she is pleased to note that there is a slight tremor in it. 

Wait. Wait. Hermione - 

Her name on his lips is a slap in the face. She stiffens. 

What do you want? 

If he finds out she is upset by him saying her name, she will track down the thing that tried to disembowel him, and offer herself to it. 

I need your help, he replies, as though him turning up after thirteen years of nothing, nearly dead, was something that is as natural as asking for help. 

Help? 

Yes, he says seriously. Of course I do. 

There are years worth of conversations that she has had with him. Imaginary ones, letters she has never sent but written on the advice of a therapist, scraps of paper she’s burned in the moonlight, because if wizarding magic couldn’t make her better then maybe muggle could. In that moment, all she can think of to say is No. 

No? 

No. She repeats it and turns away from him. She never has been able to look at him for long without feeling that same squeezing pressure.

Why?

Do you really need to ask that? 

His chest rises and falls as he breathes, the only movement in the room. 

There is no one else who can,

You’re a liar, she interrupts. You’re lying to me. Go to St. Mungo’s. You can walk there, get another muggle cab, get on the Tube. I don't care. But you don’t need my help and you need to leave. 

Those idiots aren’t going to know the first thing to do about this.

You don’t know that -

It’ll raise more questions than answers, he insists. 

So what? Have you broken the law? 

Hermione’s vision blurs as she thinks of another time, one where she begged to help him. One when he was breaking the law, and she didn’t know. She hadn’t cared, either.  

No, he says coldly. No I haven't. But what I do is confidential, and the fewer people who have their noses in my business, the better. 

Then count me out. That’s one less person for you to worry about. 

She risks a glance at him and regrets it immediately. He is staring at her still, one small furrow in between his eyebrows. There are new lines round the outside of his eyes, tight ones. She wonders if they were a result of smiling, and doubts it. 

What are you doing now? For work? He asks, changing the subject. She doesn’t want to tell him. She doesn’t want him to know anything about her. 

I work for myself, she says in a half-lie.

Doing what? 

Something I enjoy, she snaps back. And something I’m going to be late for. 

If you work for yourself then how -

Close the door on your way out, I’ll leave it on the latch. She can’t listen to him anymore. 

Shall I let the cat out? He asks drily. She peeps at him from under Hermione’s hair. 

Lilith comes to work with me, she replies as calmly as she can manage. So there’s no need. 

Lilith, he muses, and there is the hint of that small smile she remembers. She looks away again. 

Don’t bleed over my floors. 

My magic is in tatters, I have no idea what happened, and you’re not even going to consider helping me? 

She wishes he would let this go and just get out. She wishes she would leave. 

I’m not a healer anymore. There’s nothing I can do.

There’s plenty you can do, he says roughly. You just won’t. 

Fine, she snaps. I won’t help you. 

What if this is some new threat to the wizarding world? 

I already saved it once, she says roughly. Why don’t you have a go, this time around? 

Hermione feels like there are two versions of herself. One is her internal self. It wants to rage and smash and scream and throw herself at the feet of this man and beg him to stop hurting her, to let her go. 

The other self is the one in control. It holds her tightly, so tightly that it is an effort to speak. The heavy silence agrees with this self. There will be no space for raging. Not in the empty, white light of the spare bedroom. When Hermione had decorated she told herself she wanted a calm, clean room. Lots of white light, white sheets, only one painting. She had never used it before. Now she looks around and realised it is empty because she has nothing to fill it. 

You’re not even curious? He asks, his frown deepening, trying to fit the pieces together of the girl he’d known and the woman she had become. Hermione wants to cry. 

No, she lies. She is very far away from herself. Of who she had expected to be. She doesn’t need him to make her feel more guilty for that. 

Is there any coffee in the kitchen? He asks quietly. 

There’s a cafetiere in one of the cupboards. 

Alright. 

She doesn’t offer to explain how it works. And she tells herself that it is fine, and he will be gone, and then she will be able to get back to it. The life she has managed to make in his absence. 

Chapter Text

         Hermione bumps into her neighbour as she trudges down the stairs to take the bins out. She has returned home later than usual, too scared to arrive before eight in case he was still there. It is nine now, and she hasn't eaten yet. She’s also almost forgotten it is bin day. The chore seems so stupid and normal, now that he has come back into her life for a night, asked for her help, and left again. 

         Wasn’t the rain heavy last night, her downstairs neighbour is saying. She has a name, Hermione just can’t remember it. 

         It was, Hermione agrees. 

         Hope that sweet little kitten of yours wasn’t trapped outside,

         Oh no, she was with me, Hermione says politely, holding a slightly dripping bag in her hand. The woman hasn’t noticed that Hermione is in a rush to take it out. Or that Hermione doesn’t particularly feel like talking. She never does. 

         That's good, she smiles kindly. I bumped into your friend on the way out this afternoon, she adds, a glint warming her eye. 

         Oh, did you? 

Hermione feels slightly panicked at the realisation that it hadn’t been a mirage. That he had been here, and he’d been seen by muggles. 

         We had a lovely chat, she says. Hermione thinks privately that that is unlikely. It’s nice to reconnect with old school friends, she adds with a wink. 

         Well, I’ve got to get on with this, she tries to move past in the narrow hall.

         Let me know if you ever need a hand cat sitting, or man sitting, she jokes. Hermione laughs too loudly. 

         I will!

         He really is awfully handsome, she shouts as Hermione hurries down the stairs. Good for you! 

         Hermione cries next to the bins, big gasping sobs which are devoid of actual tears. 

She goes to sleep without supper, too tired to cook for herself, too tired to have the energy to want to ignore the yawning hunger inside of her. Not healthy, not healthy, her heartbeat seems to drum into her. He always looked at her in a way that had made her feel seen. Now it makes her want to disappear. 

         The next day Hermione rises with a more determined outlook. The cafetiere is neatly washed up next to her sink. She makes tea instead. 

         The archive is a blissful reprieve. Here, among the books and scrolls, she can pretend that her life is normal once more. That it is safe. 

         Lilith is well-trained by now, and settles in her office, sitting on Hermione’s shoulder while she works, or leaving her to it as she goes through the stacks. 

         Hermione hadn’t lied when she said she worked for herself. The archive had, after all, been her idea. After the healing had spectacularly failed, she had needed something to do. The Ministry had needed someone to organise the huge number of black magic texts that had been confiscated from the old families in the aftermath of the war. She had overseen its construction, been instrumental in pushing for the funding. She had dressed up night after night for galas and dinners, forcing a smile onto her face, using the last dregs of her name and reputation to squeeze money from people. And now her efforts sit, collecting dust, with only the quiet scratch of her quill to interrupt the silence. 

         The wizarding world failed to make her feel safe. There is nothing left for her in the muggle. So she has created her own haven, a place which no one would ever intrude upon. Most of what she oversees is prohibited, a giant restricted section. She reads ugly words and ancient magical techniques, and catalogues them, rebinds those that are falling apart. Rebinding herself, over the years. Gradually becoming less of a shell of a person. Or so she had thought, until he had arrived. 

         Now she is back, bleeding internally among the knowledge that had once comforted and appalled her. 

         Hermione works steadily through the morning. She stops for lunch at twelve thirty, like she does every day. She eats slowly, telling herself that the food will make her stronger. Her weekly meal schedule has not changed in five years, and she takes some comfort in it.

         Hermione taught herself to cook after she realised that she had stopped eating. For a long time, the hunger was the only thing that made her feel full. She hadn’t realised that the dizzy spells and the shaking in her limbs was a problem until one afternoon she had fainted in the darkest corner of the archive, and hit her head on a shelf. She had woken up hours later, her head sticky. No one had come for her. No one would have known. Hermione realised, as the darkness surrounded her, that she did not want to die. As hollow as she felt, she was not ready for it to end, just yet. 

         Teaching herself to cook was less out of an interest in food, but more driven from a desire to make herself feel human again. She does not socialise. So she crafts elegant meals for one, making it all from scratch. It helps fill the time and the void. Today is Thursday, which means a falafel wrap and side salad. She allows herself, on Thursdays and Fridays, a small sweet treat which she purchases reverently from the bakery down the street. That is the only thing that changes, depending on their seasonal menu. She has a small apple tart that day. Its sweetness reminds her that she has things to live for. Even if the empty, scuttling quiet implies otherwise. 

         That evening Hermione goes food shopping. The bags of groceries lie on her counter when she returns. 

         There is nothing to suggest that he looked around her flat after she had left. The bedsheets are stripped and folded on top of the duvet. She dares not to smell them, throwing them instantly in the wash. There is no sign the bath or shower having been used, or that anything else in her entire flat is out of place. She had come back and examined every crevice. Or so she thought. 

         On the small table next to her reading spot there is a ring. 

         She only notices it when she is turning to put the chicken she had bought in the fridge. Its shine grabs her eye. She hasn’t closed the door when she crosses to see it, and the beeping of the fridge is the soundtrack to more tears. 

         He’d given it to her. 

         It had seemed like a joke at the time. That he, the Malfoy scion, would give her, a muggleborn, a piece of jewellery. She’d read up about pureblood traditions in the library. Jewellery was considered an interest gift, though rings weren’t usually exchanged. She’d thought it had meant something. She had wanted it to mean something. Back then, back when she had thought and hoped of something more. 

         The next night, the Vanishing Cabinet had worked, and Death Eaters came to Hogwarts. 

         She has never thrown it away. Instead, it was hidden, along with the rest of her school things. She’s placed the trunk in the cupboard under her stairs, right in the back. It is covered in coats. It is impossible to stumble upon, unless you are looking for something. It is a relic from a more complicated time.

         She doesn’t try it on. He’s left it right there. As though he has seen and compared the different sofa indents, has known this one is hers, is where she spends most of her time. 

         She forces herself away from the thoughts of what it means. She had done that, once. She had hoarded moments, running over them in private like a miser counting gold. She had stayed up, imagining every possible interpretation of his actions. She is not that person any more. She can not be. She contemplates throwing it off the roof. 

         She has a bath, instead. A long one. And when she gets out, sees the ring once more, and knows she will not be able to sleep, Hermione starts to make ravioli from scratch, pounding the dough harder than it needs, cranking the pasta machine with arm-aching force. By the time it is ready to fill and gently curve into shapes, she is able to do so without her arms shaking. 

         Friday she forgets to pick up her pastry from the bakery. 

         Staring at her lunch, she feels vaguely panicked at the change in routine. Is it secretly deliberate? Hermione can easily travel into London, if she wants. She flooes to work, using the fireplace in her flat most days. She can return, go to the bakery in the lunch time crush. There will be no one to check on her if she arrives a little later than usual. Maybe if they have sold out of tarts she could even try somewhere new. 

         She adds an extra sugar into her afternoon coffee instead, and does without. 

         By the weekend, Hermione usually has a long list of chores that she has been putting off to keep her busy. She likes to deep clean everything on Saturday. Cook herself something that takes a while in the evening, curl up with a book and a long bath. Sunday she usually reserves for going to the yoga studio and preparing for the next week. She makes bread. Updates her to do list, plans her week and her meals. After all that, there is never much time left over, and if there is she will take her time learning something new. Language practice takes up a decent chunk, she is teaching herself Latin currently. She might open up an old Ancient Runes or Arithmancy textbook, work through some of the equations just to keep her mind busy. Do the crossword, and then the cryptic crossword. Make lots of pots of tea. 

         She can’t bear to be inside this weekend. Not when, try as she might to ignore it, the sense of him fills every nook and cranny. Since she has found the ring she has been tortured thinking of all the other places that he might have looked. What he might have found. She is unravelling, trying to see what he would have seen. What her life might look like from an outsider’s perspective. What does her flat say about her? Why does she care what he thinks? She doesn’t. She has turned away from that kind of approval a long time ago. 

         Her flat is too empty of personality, too full of the sense of him.

         She goes to an exhibition instead. She buys herself flowers, and a sketchbook, and tells herself that she is taking herself out on a date. She tells herself she will eat out, that evening. Try a new muggle restaurant, one of the thousands that seemed constantly in flux in her area. She doesn’t often do that, as by the time she gets comfortable enough in a new space they close down or change owners or kitchen staff. Or worse, she will start to become known, be considered a regular. 

         The museum exhibit is filled with couples. Hermione isn’t sure when London has become overrun with lovers. She turns away from their clasped hands, and soft cheek kisses, and gentle touches against lower backs. She stares at the paintings instead, the bright colours driving away the blank white noise that overwhelms her mind. Except this is also a mistake. There is nothing for her in the art of the Pre-Raphaelites. Or perhaps there is too much. Far too much death, and mourning, and lost love. 

         She leaves with tears in her eyes, again. She doesn’t bother going out for dinner, and sits in her bath for hours instead, staring at the wall. Jane Eyre lies next to her on the floor. It has not managed to suck her in as it always used to. 

         Monday is a relief. It is cold and bright, and the promise of a new week suggests new starts and an end to the winter, an end to January, which always seems endless to her. She has a new shipment in the archives, delivered with no notice or notes. She occupies her time writing several terse memos to The Ministry, inquiring as to the provenance of the manuscripts and why they have been deposited with no advance warning. They are lucky, really, that she arrived early that day. If not, they would have been left outside in the non-temperature-controlled corridor. 

         She goes to the muggle yoga place that evening, a change in her routine, but as she stretches under the dim lights and the instructors soothing cadence, she is glad she has done that. She is glad she is not at home. 

         Tuesday is filled with more of the same. She has made herself a sort of mash up salad, using some of the shredded chicken from her roast on Sunday. She wishes she made something warm as she pokes at the plate. She feeds a tiny piece to Lilith, who meows her approval, and twines round her legs in appreciation. Hermione finishes early that day. 

         It has been a week since he arrived. Hermione finds herself on Wednesday night unable to settle. She wonders if it will happen again. If her doorbell will ring in the middle of the night. It is raining again, which doesn’t help things, though this time it is a soft drizzle. It isn’t loud enough to drown out her thoughts. She strains for any sound in the corridor. There is none. 

         Hermione is tense for the rest of the week. She can’t shake the feeling that she is waiting for something. Nothing comes. In the wake of the tension, her week feels empty. Hollow. She wastes the weekend, does none of her jobs. Does nothing at all, including getting out of bed. The following Monday, Hermione calls her old therapist and makes an appointment. 

         She is about to eat lunch that Thursday when the wards jangle. Hermione sits up straight, startled from her book. She has just started to get back into Jane Eyre, and it isn’t with a small amount of frustration that she goes to the door. 

         All visitors have to have Ministry approval, thanks to the sensitive nature of the texts. The only people who come to the archive are here for deliveries, either to pick something up or drop something off. 

         She opens one of the enormous wooden doors, the ones that run to a double height, that had also been donated to her by an old, old family. They were tearing apart their entire library to make way for a new, brighter wing, and hadn't wanted any part of the old architecture. Hermione had thought it was a crying shame, though that hadn’t stopped her from accepting them. And the shelves, which now house some of her oldest texts. 

         He is there. Looking grim again, tense. 

         I’m here on official business, he holds up a signed parchment before she can shut the door in his face. Her hand trembles against the wood. She peers at it, to stop herself from peering at him. He really has got approval. 

         Why haven’t I heard of this yet? 

         I literally just got it signed, he answers brusquely. I’m sure your memo is on its way. 

         True to his word, an owl flies down the corridor towards her. She clasps the paper in her cold hand, not opening it. It bears Kingsley’s seal. She knows what it will contain. 

         Why are you here, she tries to ask professionally, but she is still shaking and she feels sick and sweaty. 

         Because I still don’t have any magic, he replies coldly. Seeing as you refused to help me, I’m trying to work out why. 

         Hermione pauses for a moment. She has truthfully not considered that he might still be injured. She glances at his stomach, though he picks up on the movement. 

         Physically, I'm totally healed, he says, still cross and cold. She prefers this version of him, she thinks. It is more familiar. 

         Very well. She steps aside. Did you know I would be working here? She asks, before she can stop herself. 

         I put two and two together.

         When you were ransacking my apartment? She asks, because she still can’t stop herself. 

         He turns to her, and she wants to shrink. 

         Yes. He looks to her empty finger, only for a moment. 

         I’m not here for - he breaks off, and she is grateful. This is likely the only place that will help me figure out where to look.

         We don’t often get readers.

         I don’t often stay in the country for more than a week, he says sourly. 

         She leads him to the single table in the centre. Around them, spokes disappear off into the darkness. A giant circle, with only a distant skylight at the very top for light. The candles burn day and night. Hermione has personally charmed them against setting fire to any of the materials inside. 

         I’ll be in the office. She turns to retreat to her refuge. He doesn’t call after her. 

         Hermione goes back to her lunch. She finishes it slowly. Lilith has sensed there is an upheaval in the routine, and is standing on the edge of her desk, front paws leaning her body up to look over the ledge that provides the only shield Hermione has to the wider room. She wishes she had a window, could be more closed in. From this distance she can hear him moving, even if she can’t see him. 

         He is placing books on the table. Shuffling about. Removing his outer robes. Letting out a small sigh. 

         Hermione turns back to her lunch. She has a lemon tart, that day. It tastes of nothing. 

         What time do you close, he asks, making her jump. He has managed to sneak up on her quietly, as she pours over a particularly mouldy-looking spell book. 

         Whatever time I feel like it. She is too startled to lie. 

         Alright. 

         He goes back to his table. 

         At quarter to eight, Hermione walks towards him slowly. She scuffs her shoes on the floor, so he will hear her coming. He looks up as she pauses. He has gotten glasses at some point. They are perched on the end of his nose, he peers over the top of them at her. She looks quickly at the books on his table, and frowns. 

         Those aren’t ours, she says.

         My notes, he replies tersely. She is close enough to see the names on the spine. His handwriting is the same, spiky block capitals on what look like scraps of masking tape on the spines of the thick leather bound notebooks. They have various names scrawled in his spidery writing – names of places, of ancient empires, of magical tribes and peoples. Mesopotamia. Babylon. Qumran. Göbekli Tepe. Lake Baikal. A notebook for each of the dynastic periods of Egypt.

She recognises most of them. She has read about them, of course. But he’d gone to them. He had visited all these places, while she has built herself an underground hole to hide in. 

         I’m going to close up now, she says, as her fingers twitch towards them. You can leave your work here. No one will come in, and I'm assuming you’re returning tomorrow, she adds sourly. 

         Alright, he agrees easily. I’ll just take my notes. 

         She nods, to show she has heard him, and turns back to pack up her things. 

         You can read them, if you like? 

Pardon? She turns back round. He is standing now, his weight slightly off-centre. 

The notes. If you’re interested, he holds up a book for her, one of his own. I don’t mind. 

I’m not interested, she lies. He looks at her and she wants to smash his face in. Wipe off the pity that is somewhere in that icy gaze. 

Alright, he says quietly, again. 

Meet me by the doors in five minutes. 

Hermione tucks Lilith into her hair and slings her bag over her shoulder. He is punctual, and she goes through the motions of locking up for the evening. She tries to pretend that she isn’t aware of his gaze on her. 

I don’t recognise those spells, he says, as they walk together to the floo.

I invented them, she replies. He is smiling and looking at the floor, as though she’d just confessed something that delighted him. 

Will you teach them to me?

What’s the point? If your magic is gone you won’t be able to do them. 

That wipes the smile right off his face, and it is her turn to feel smug. 

She waits for him to go through the floo first, turning expectantly. He places his bag on his shoulder and grimaces slightly at the weight. No charms, she supposes, that would be able to ease it. He reaches for the bowl of powder as he shrugs the strap of his satchel slightly higher on his body. 

What time -

Nine am, she tells him. He nods. 

See you tomorrow, Hermione. 

It takes her a moment to collect herself as he disappears. He uses words as weapons, that much she remembers. He is getting back at her for the jibe about his lack of power. She tells herself that to make sure she kept hating him. 

She does not sleep that night, and the next morning, it doesn’t look like he has either. 

         Here, he says, as he leaves a coffee on the edge of her desk. I would spell it against spillage, so it doesn’t damage the manuscripts but - 

         Hermione taps her wand on the lid of the cup, doing the correct enchantment. 

         Thanks, she says quietly. 

         No problem. 

         He goes back to his desk, and she doesn’t see him for the rest of that day, either.

         She knows he is there, though. She can hear him. Sometimes she fantasises that she can feel him breathe. That the library itself is attuned to his every tiny movement. She checks she has eaten that morning, in case she is hallucinating again. The sensation is unpleasant. She is getting used to once again being in a state of constant high alert, like she had been during the war. It is familiar, though she feels rusty in it. And because it is about him, it is even worse. She had sat at opposite ends of the library from him once, thinking about him, tracking his every move secretly. That had ended… 

         Badly, was a kind way to describe it. If it even had an ending, at least one that Hermione was aware of. Neither of them had spoken since the night before the tower. She’d only seen him twice since. Once, at The Manor, while she had been tortured and he had done nothing. And a second time, at the trials. She had testified for him. She had tried to see him. She had stared at him the entire time he was chained to that chair, and he had stared at a spot on the wall, away from her. 

         When they had announced his reduced sentence, she had cried, and she hadn’t been sure if she had been happy or sad. 

         And that had been it. 

         Now he is back and she has snapped a quill by accident already, and the coffee is delicious. She has to get on. 

         She is still working through the shipment, and has done most of the work of separating what could be shelved immediately, and what needed some preservation work. It has been fairly slow going, but that is partly because there is no rush, and partly because she has been distracted by the texts themselves. Usually she skims everything that comes through before reading in greater detail later, but these books can’t help but intrigue her. 

         The collector, whoever they are or were, clearly has an interest in indigenous magic of the Pacific Islands. The texts are for the most part later nineteenth century, colonial records of local customs, but there are several much older and more fascinating collections, artificially bound perhaps by the original owner, and made up of sheets of paper, not parchment, almost amber in age. These she wants to pour over, to examine. If no one has come across them then this is practically unknown knowledge in the Western magical world. She contemplates putting her Latin on pause for a while, and focusing instead on the various local languages of the region instead. 

         But that has to wait. The rest of the texts need shelving, and while they are interesting, the need to read them doesn’t press on her as urgently as it does the more ancient and unknown papers.

         She will have to go near him, though. If she wants to shelve them properly, there will be no way she can skirt round the edges. Of course, she could do it magically. She isn’t sure if the books would slam into his face as they zoomed about, and also isn’t sure if she would find that funny or not. So she stacks her trolley up, adds an extra smoothing spell to the wheels so they won’t squeak or get stuck, and starts working.

         He looks up the first time she pushes it down the central spoke that led to the table, where he is seated. His eyes flick over her books, as hers flicked over his. He smiles. She frowns.

         She stops the trolley by the side, picks up the stack destined for the first spoke, and disappears into the darkness. There is no sound, save for her even breathing, and the gaps in between where she focuses entirely on his silent presence, at the end of the shelves. He seems to fill everything, take up too much space. He always had, to her.

         After a while she moves back into the central part with the table. He glances up briefly, and turns back to his notes. Hermione walks to the other side with her next stack a little slower than usual, taking in the spines of his books. She can’t make head or tail of his notes. It pulls at something in her mind. That same curiosity that had gotten her into this mess in the first place. She goes back to shelving.

         She wonders what he does, as she places the tomes on the shelves and adds their magical signatures to the cataloguing system. The darkness is illuminated by the subtle glow of the magic at regular intervals. When she finishes with that stack, she returns to the trolley.

         Another one of yours?

         Pardon?

         The spell, he murmurs, as he measures something with a protractor. She is frozen, staring over his shoulder at the work, a mess of lines and scratches on parchment in alphabets even she doesn’t recognise.

         Yes, she says quietly. He nods, absentmindedly. She can see the muscles in his neck move, the edge of where his hairline bleeds into his skin. They are nearly the same colour, his skin and hair. She blinks.

         I wish you’d help.

         I’m busy, she mutters, after a moment. She continues on with her restacking. That afternoon, she does no work at all.

Chapter Text

         He has been in her archive for over a week. Hermione can’t avoid the fact that they have a routine. She hates how much she thinks about it. There is nothing else, it turns out, that matters quite as much as the way they say their careful good mornings.
She still isn’t sleeping properly, feels as though she is being eaten from the inside out. She’s gotten accustomed to just going through the motions. His presence gives her tension headaches.

         He sees her, once, using the tip of her wand to massage a knot in her neck. Her face was screwed up in concentration and relief, and she had only opened her eyes because she sensed his presence. He was looking at her in a strange way.

         He doesn’t say anything. They no longer exchange even snippets of conversation. She can tell the research is going badly though, because his mood is deteriorating. She isn’t surprised, either. He clearly doesn’t have a plan. Or a clue about where to start.

         She does, though. She knows she shouldn’t. But when it comes to the following weekend she can’t bear going into central London again, and she doesn’t have enough to do except think about it. The names of the places keep floating in her mind. She draws up what she knows about each of them on large sheets of paper. She pops into the archive just to get a few books out on some of the topics she is less familiar with. She tells herself that it is fine, it’s just passing the time. She spies the last of his work on the table on the way through, and maybe takes a moment. Just to look at it. To see what is stumping him so badly.

         She is there for four hours before she remembers that she isn’t supposed to be there, or snooping, or even caring.

         That evening she watches a muggle film to try and distract herself. She switches it off halfway through to start on her notes.

         By the Monday she has drawn up a schedule and plan. She has never heard of a person’s magic being ripped out of them before, though it is very likely the case that this isn’t something that western modern magic is familiar with. Especially considering his work, which she still doesn’t know much about at all and perhaps she should have spent the weekend thinking about that instead of the problem, though the idea of researching him is distasteful.

         You’re distracted, his voice interrupts her train of thought and she starts. It is deep, measured, the first thing aside from a cursory greeting that he has said to her in days. She can’t help but take in every detail of his appearance before replying. He looks like he has slept. She scowls.

         Just busy.

         Here, he places a paper bag on the side, right where her desk began. And I’m stuck on five across, he adds, popping a newspaper on top. Then he disappears back to his table.

         She opens it.

         She can’t cry at work. She hates him for making her want to.

Hermione had been watching him for years. She knows it is stupid, pointless. She hates him. They all do. But there is something about him that just draws the eye. And if she is glaring in hatred, then that is fine.

The problem is, sometimes she swears she catches him staring back.

This year is different. He’d beaten up Harry, who was convinced he’d taken the mark. But he isn’t cocky, not like at the beginning. He’s exhausted. She knows the haunted look in his eyes well. It is the same one that she got, sometimes.

So it’s fine that, after the fifth skipped breakfast in a row, she takes him a croissant. She knows where he’d be, in the library. They often sit close to each other now, which is also strange.

The younger students give them both a wide berth. She prefers it like that, and would have given anything to say that he does too. He is there when she walks in. She places the croissant on the table next to him, then goes to her seat two tables away. She knows he is looking at her, can feel his eyes track her as she pulls out her books. It makes her blood fizz. She glances up.

He looks angry. She shouldn’t have done it.

But then he takes it, and she lets go of the breath she hasn’t noticed she is holding, and they exchange the briefest, barest of nods.

Hermione stares at the fat, golden pastry in front of her. She doesn’t recognise the label on the bag. She nearly throws it away. But then her stomach gurgles, and she takes the smallest, cautious bite.

They never get the butter ratio right over here, he drawls. He is back, it appeares. She closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to see him. He moves closer.

         What do you want.

         I got you a coffee, too, he says quietly, and places it on the side. Her eyes are still closed, but she knows he is there. She swallows.

         The butter ratio tastes fine to me.

         That’s because these are from Paris. She knows he is smirking.

         Paris, she tries to say calmly.

         A friend popped some through the floo this morning. I thought you might want a Monday morning pick me up.

         I don’t want anything from you. She manages to make the words hard.

         I know, he says mildly, as though it doesn’t bother him one bit. But if you’re not going to take pity on me for my magic, you might as well help me on the crossword.

         She opens her eyes, stares at the newspaper. She peers at it for only a moment.

         Kingfisher.

         Is it?

         Yes.

Alright, he says, picking it back up. Thank you.

And then he walks back to his table before she can tell him he is welcome.

Hermione stares at her notes that evening. They are spread out all over her dining room table. She hasn’t done any of the cleaning she usually gets around to on the weekend, and there are small signs of it everywhere in her apartment.

         Plates are scattered on the sides in the kitchen. An empty glass on her small table, next to the ring which has remained untouched. Some crumbs from a pastry she had bought herself on Saturday, even though that wasn’t her usual routine and even the person in the café had been surprised to see her. A takeaway coffee cup is sitting on her sink in the bathroom, which she had clutched in her hand all day and only just put down when she climbed into the shower that evening, achy and shivering.

         The mess bothers her. She wants to clean it.

         But there is a problem that she isn’t quite sure how to solve, and every time she tries to turn away from the notes, they suck her back in. She knows, from her experience with this kind of translation, that she should do something else. Staring at a page for hours is never conducive to a breakthrough. What she needs is another activity, to let the mechanisms of her brain quietly work it through while she is distracted. There is nothing, really, for her to do.
It is too late for yoga. Too dark to go for a walk. Too – she doesn’t know.

         Lilith mews from the doorway. A demanding one, one that lets Hermione know it is bed time, if you please. She sighs, stares at her tiny cat, her small green eyes blinking, slowly. Hermione allows herself a small smile, and the cat mews again.

         I know, she sighs.

         There is another, smaller meow. Hermione frowns.

         No. I’m not even supposed to have got this far. I’m not supposed to be thinking about it at all.

         Lilith pads over to her, and leaps up to the table, sniffing the edge of the parchment that has Hermione’s attention.

         I’m not going to ask him.

         The cat blinks at her. Hermione blinks back.

She lifts Lilith onto her shoulder, goes to bed. She doesn’t sleep, but she hadn’t expected to. As she watches the edges of the sky turn grey, she heaves a sigh. Goes to the shower. Makes up her mind.

You haven’t got a plan.
Her words startle him and he jumps slightly as he looks up at her. She is standing on the other side of the table, not trusting herself to be close.

I beg your pardon?

         A research plan. You haven’t got one.

         How do you know what I have and haven’t got? He says, sharply. She suppresses a sigh.

         Because, she gestures to the table. There is no rhyme or reason to the books you’re taking out. If you wanted to be systematic there are plenty of ways you could do so.

         How do you know? He almost sneers, and she takes a steadying breath.

         I glanced over your notes. She takes pains to keep her voice casual, as though this were normal behaviour. He raises an eyebrow and it is so familiar she almost runs from him, from this. But Lilith has jumped onto the table instead, even though she knows she isn’t allowed in the library, as though she knew that Hermione needed help. Needed reassurance.

         Hello, little thing, he murmurs to her, cocking his head. He holds out a hand, waiting for her to sniff it. Lilith turns to watch Hermione instead.

         Your notes, she continues.

         They’re private, he says, gruffly.

         Not if you leave them spread out everywhere.

         You reassured me that no one would be here, he reminds her coldly.

         You went looking through my apartment, she returns. They stare at each other, until Lilith smoothes the edge of her face against his finger.

Fine. They’re a load of shit, you’ve never seen anything so terrible, great. Come to insult me some more, Hermione?

Every time he says her name she feels a low twisting within her gut.

I’m not here to insult you, she says tartly. She whiskes the parchment from thin air, and for the first time she truly thinks about what it must be like to be without magic.
Besides, she continues, to stop her from dwelling, you’ve been asking for my help. So here it is.

She places the scrolls down.

What are these?

         A research proposal, she says quietly. I get stuck when we go further east than Thailand, Cambodia, you might have to fill those bits in, she admits. But this should take you geographically through whatever you’re looking for. It’s clear you’re not going to find the answers here.

         Here?

         Britain. Ireland. The UK, she says.

         It’s clear, is it?

         Yes.

         How?

         I’ve never seen anything like what’s happened to you. And by this point – she trails off, not out of modesty, but of sudden fatigue. She is tired of this, this conversation, this thing between them.

There is a beat.

Why?

         She knows what he was asking. Why has she changed her mind?

         Because I want you gone, she says. The words are true. She isn’t sure why they feel slightly thick on her tongue.

         She isn’t sure why he is smiling as he unravels her work, either. Or why Lilith stays with him that afternoon. Tiny, traitorous thing.

She tries to be productive, but she can’t stop herself be even more attuned to his presence.
Every time the scrape of his quill pauses, she wonders why. Every time it starts up again, she wonders why. And every time she can hear him audibly exhale she…

She spends the afternoon shelving. Manually. It is better this way, because it forces her to concentrate, forces her to walk through the archives, making sure she is far away from him. Of course, there are times when she crosses through the central spoke. When that happens, Lilith gives a little mew, and she smiles back. He sometimes lifts his head, sometimes not. She prefers it when he doesn’t. There is more opportunity to study him that way.

He is tense every time she crosses through. She does not think about why. Instead she observes him as a healer would a patient. To check if he is still okay. Alive. Two weeks without any magical powers seems like it must be bordering on dangerous. Or life threatening. He doesn’t seem like he is dying. She has seen him in worse states.

The manual reshelving ensures that her hands are busy, and her feet are sore, traipsing through the depths. The archives extend far enough that she is often hidden from him, his breathing, his writing. The dust down here is relatively thick, though Hermione does her best to ensure even those stacks that are the least reached for are still regularly checked up on. Indeed, for all her pushing for the invention of this archive, it is woefully underused. There is so much knowledge here, in the stacks, that everyone else has just…forgotten about.

         At the beginning, Hermione had reached out to her old professors and suggested school trips here. Or perhaps a loaning relationship between the archive and Hogwarts. A programme that older students could make the most of, to spend a few weeks one summer before their final year helping her out.

         It hadn’t worked out for various reasons, least of which being her own inability to be around people. Especially not children as young as she had been during the war. The entire week they had been here her behaviour had grown more erratic, before she had declared it was finished after only five days and insisted on them not returning for the second week.

         They had quietly dropped the programme the year after.

In the darkness of the East Asian stacks, Hermione breaths. She never thinks about that. She does not replay the moments of her past that she is ashamed of. She is not ignorant of the reason why they are suddenly looming too large in her mind.

It takes a while, for her to tear her brain away from itself. The flickering light of the enchanted candles eventually filters through, and she blinks in front of the manuscripts in front of her.

She had stopped when it came this far East, in his plan.

She can take a few of the books home with her. Carry on doing some background reading. She is not supposed to be helping. She moves quickly, as though the books themselves will taunt her for her weakness, slinging them under her arm, shoving the ones that are the reason for her being down here onto the correct shelves. Her steps back are quick but measured. They seem to echo.

         He looks up when she returns, because of course he does. His eyes go straight to the volumes under her arms.

         No magic today?

         He does not usually speak to her while she works.

I wanted the walk, she replies as she passes him, moving the books to her front and disappearing to her desk.

         She magicks the other remaining tomes away.

There is a stack of correspondence that Hermione has been ignoring. She is usually prompt in her replies. Diligent, when it comes to working alongside the Ministry. Since his arrival, she has gotten lax.

She arrives early the next day with the intent to sort it out. She knows that as soon as he turns up, his crisp boots crossing the threshold, his perfectly tailored robes slung over an arm, his hair pushed back off his forehead, that she will not be able to bring herself to work through them.

She wonders if he is going to bring her another pastry. Her stomach rumbles.

The missives are concise, polite, as they always are. There is not a hint of personalisation, or acknowledgement that those writing knew each other beyond a professional capacity. Despite the fact she has worked alongside most of them for years. Despite the fact that Hermione had gone to school with most of them, too.

The most pressing is clearly a request from the Auror office, which has been followed up twice. Once from the lead on the case, enquiring as to whether or not the requested items might be forwarded at her earliest convenience, and another from the Head Auror, stressing the importance of the enquiry and the pressing nature of the work.

She stares at Harry’s words and marvels that his handwriting hasn’t changed from school, either. And then she writes a polite and professional missive back, apologising for the delay. She blames it on the influx of new material that has required time to sort through, encloses the books, and provides a short, written summary of them, pointing out exactly which parts would be most prescient from the sounds of their issue. He has arrived at some point during this process, clutching another paper bag and coffee.

They look at each other for a beat, before either of them speak. He exhales first, placing the items on the ledge. She is grateful for the opportunity to look at something other than his face.

Apple tart, he says unnecessarily. She would open it soon anyway.
Right.

Still doing Potter’s work for him?

She flushes, angrily.

That’s private.

He shrugs. You left it out.

         She supposes that he has clearly shown no interest in her privacy so far.

It’s for the Auror office.

         Do you do a lot of work, for them?

She just looks at him.

         Nevermind, he mutters. Perhaps he is frustrated. She hopes so.

I’m stuck again, he continues, as Hermione folds her note with unnecessary care.
On what? Research, crosswords, or some other, new disaster you are intent on getting my help with, she asks coolly. She is not pleased that he smiles.

The crossword, though if you have changed your mind about the research, I would very much –

Show it to me, she interrupts. He places it on top of the pastry.

         She frowns as she stares at it.

         You’re doing this on purpose.

         Doing what?

         You’re not actually stuck.

         And why do you think that?

         She glares at him.

         It’s obviously ‘Gringotts’.

         Is it, he replies with mild amusement.

We’re closing early today.

Right. Weekend plans?

         Yes, she lies. Primly.

         Well. I best get on then. If you change your mind –

         Closing at four.

I’ll see you then. Where’s the cat?

Lilith is curled underneath Hermione’s feet.

She’s with me today.

         Shame, he smirks, as though he can charm the feline from underneath her. Hermione manages not to shout at him to leave. Her hands grip the desk, she swallows the rage. Useless, she reminds herself. This anger is useless. She turns back to her messages. She will be productive. Given that she has cut her work day short, for no reason other than she is desperate to escape his presence.

Hermione cancels her therapy appointment when she gets back to her apartment that afternoon. She doesn’t need it. She’s worked her way through her correspondence, and they had bid each other a good weekend politely, and the hardness in his gaze that lingers slightly over her face doesn’t bother her at all. She hopes he thinks she is doing something. Filling her time with glorious, fun filled plans with her enormous circle of friends. Perhaps she was going to Paris. That’s something that people with friends did. He clearly had at least one there. And if she couldn’t get a portkey or a floo appointment, then she could go the muggle way. Go to St Pancras and –

She does not leave her flat. She does not clean, either.
Instead she pours over the two books she has checked out from the archives. She has picked them at random, thinking that any start would be good enough, and also hoping they are going to be dead ends so she can stop this madness.

It is made more difficult by her not knowing what she is looking for. The research plan she has drawn up and unwittingly given to him is more on the organisational aspects. It summarised all she knew of western magical practices that are related to the loss of powers, and magical spells involving knife wounds. She goes back over the known aspects.

         He had been hit over the head and rendered unconscious. Suffered a stab wound to the gut, and dumped in the water. So far, there were plenty of rituals that involved one part of the above. None that involved all three.

She tries to ignore the faint voice in the back of her head that suggests it is new magic. That he is right. That there is a new threat. A new evil. She can’t do it again, waiting to hear who has died every night, sleeping in that tent, being followed, being hunted, being tortured –

Again, she mutters to herself. Not again. The wetness on her cheeks seems an embarrassment. Even in the privacy of her own home, Hermione is ashamed. Not just because now there are no friends to listen out for. She would be listening for the names of people she has not spoken to in over five years. They would not know that she cared for them.

She could undo it. If she wanted. If she tried. If she just pushed herself to reach out, a tiny bit, to grasp at the threads of her friendships.
Instead, she opens a bottle of wine, pours herself her one allocated evening glass. She has not had dinner, and it goes to her head quickly. Hermione has a bath. Finishes Jane Eyre. Waits to fall asleep, while staring at the wall. She has nightmares, which is to be expected, but when she wakes on Sunday, she decides to leave the flat.

She walks to the Ministry entrance in central London, and by the time she has arrived her feet are throbbing painfully. This is good. It takes her the best part of the morning, which is also good. And the bite of the backs of her trainers into her ankles feels right. Deserved.

Hermione goes in the employee entrance. As the archivist for the rare and dangerous books, her security clearance is high enough for what she wants. The building is near deserted, which she has also expected. In the space of the floors, the empty cubicles, she feels like she is able to breathe.
Then she goes down to the on-site archives. She will leave a note to explain to Deirdre, the elderly woman who resented Hermione’s presence as much as she hated everyone else who worked there, explaining why she had gone in on a weekend. She will lie, but that doesn't matter.

         Hermione spends the rest of the day looking up everything he had done in the thirteen or so years since school.

         The trials take the longest to get through. She tries not to look at the pictures, they are large and bright and made her feel airless and lightheaded. The words aren’t that much better, but at least she can skim those. She is too afraid to get caught in his icy stare, even if it is only reproduced on yellowing pages. This she also took note of – the preservation charms down here ought to be updated. She might take it up with Deirdre on the Monday, if she needs a fight to distract her further.

         She knows the passages by heart, it turns out. Clearly her younger self had done the same thing – pouring over mentions of him. Funny how she does not remember much of that time in her life.

         He had served a year in Azkaban, and his sentence had proved controversial. Many called for it to be longer, whereas others had protested on account of his age, the obvious manipulation he had been under. Hermione had testified, privately, so as not to create more of a media circus. Not even her friends had known what she had said. In the end, it had not made a difference. He went to prison. And she wrote to him every week.

Chapter Text

Fifteen years earlier

         He accepts the second pastry a lot easier than the first. And the one after that too. It becomes their routine.

         Hermione doesn’t tell anyone about it.

         For one thing, Harry and Ron are being unbearable. Harry’s obsessed with Draco, his theory that he is now a Death Eater, and the thrill of being the most popular person in school. Ron is busy being the most dramatic Keeper the Gryffindor quidditch team has ever seen. It almost makes Hermione regret spiking the try-outs. When Harry isn’t talking about Draco, the two of them are huddled over discussions of strategy, and beating Slytherin.

         Draco. She tests the way his name sounds in her head. Wonders about what it would feel like to say it out loud. She whispers it in the shower as a sort of test.

         She has never spent much time with him, obviously. But now she is, even with an ocean of desk between them, she realises things about him. Draco is smart. Draco isn’t sleeping. And Draco is stressed.

         She constructs elaborate fantasies about helping him. He will, as a result of her careful attention, realise the error of his ways and denounce his blood supremacist views. He will singlehandedly bring about the end of war by coming over to their side and helping them defeat Voldemort. He will publicly thank Hermione, and she will be known for something other than being ‘Harry Potter’s muggleborn friend’.

         Currently, Hermione brings him pastries, which he eats silently and does not thank her for.

         She tries to avoid talking about him with the others. Which is difficult, because of Harry’s obsession. He is convinced Draco has taken the Dark Mark, and Hermione isn’t sure why she scoffs so vehemently about his theories. It’s true that the slightly fanatical light that pops into Harry’s eyes whenever they settle on this discussion is enough to make her roll hers as a natural response. But she could offer to prove it. The boys don’t know that the majority of her library time is spent in proximity to him, a feat which is quite incredible to have managed to ignore, considering that every time someone ventures into their corner their eyes widen in surprise.

         But she has access to Malfoy. Draco. Her attention sometimes wanders to his forearm, which is always covered. That is not surprising, given that the castle is cold, and it is late autumn now. Does he fidget with his sleeve more than normal? Without staring at him for hours, it’s difficult to tell. Hermione tries very hard not to stare at him at all.

         Sometimes she thinks of him as a sort of feral cat. He has accepted food from her.  Any sudden movements, though, and she might spook him.

         The thought makes her chuckle slightly to herself, and she forgets, momentarily, that the object of her amusement is opposite her.

         Can’t say I’ve ever thought Slughorn’s essays are funny, a dry voice says.

         She is so shocked that she doesn’t reply. She stares at him. He stares back at her. He is unphased, acting as though speaking to her is normal. His eyebrow is raised slightly, his expression snide, though she is used to that by now and fancies she can tell the difference between when he is being derisive and when he is just wearing his ‘Malfoy mask’. This falls into the latter category.

         And underneath it all is something. Some tug, some awareness. Some painful lancing tightness that slices right through her.

         Can’t say I disagree, she manages to croak out.

         So what’s so funny, then.

         His voice is flattening out, getting his usual, cruel edge to it. The feeling of being cut intensifies.

         I was picturing you as a feral cat, she tells him.

         There’s a breath between them. It’s his turn to look off-balanced. The pain of her awareness is warring with the relief at the excuse to look at him, to openly stare at the planes of his face, to greedily take in every change of expression as though they are meant for her. It feels like finally being able to breathe, it feels like suffocating.

         And then he laughs, in spite of himself. Just one, wheezing chuckle, as though he can barely remember how to do it.

         Oh, he says, still not quite back to himself, still not safely behind his mask. Hermione is so grateful for this glimpse into him that she forgets to feel embarrassed about blurting out the truth.

         Sorry, she says, belatedly.

         Why?

         Er –

         Why was Hermione sorry? For being rude? He has said far worse.

         I don’t know, she replies. He stares at her for a moment longer, before going back to his books, scratching away.

         What’s yours on, she asks, because she wants to prolong this. This moment between them.

         What’s my what on, Granger?

         He says her name and he hates her, but his voice curls round it anyway.

         Your essay. Slughorn’s one.

         I haven’t done it.

         Oh, she says, blinking.

         And I’m not going to, he adds, and Hermione is painfully uncool.

         Right, she replies, insouciantly. If Harry or Ron had said that she would have berated the both of them. But Draco is not her friend. And she doesn’t care what he thinks of her.

         The next day, Draco is at breakfast. Harry spends the whole time staring at him, murmuring to Hermione about his every movement, about whether he looks worse or better than the last time he had made an appearance. Hermione hisses at him to stop, barely getting brave enough to shoot a glance at him from across the Great Hall. Pansy is sitting next to him, petting him, filling his plate with food. When he gets up to leave, Draco picks up two pastries. And when she meets him in the library afterwards, one is waiting on her side of the table.

         You didn’t eat.

         It’s true. Hermione had been so intensely aware of his presence across the hall from her, she had forgotten that she was hungry. Her stomach rumbles.

         Thank you.

         He looks surprised at her response. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to thank him. Maybe this was their ‘thing’. She thrills, slightly, at the idea of sharing something with him, even if it is ignoring manners.

         He doesn’t say anything, just disappears into the stacks to get out the books he was reading before. He has started to trust her, because he leaves his bag by the side of the desk.

         Hermione doesn’t see Draco for days. She wonders obsessively if it’s because she had become too familiar with him. Perhaps he gave her the croissant as a goodbye present. An acknowledgement of their almost-potential-friendship that never quite materialised.

         It makes her miserable, the thought that he’s abandoned her. She’s embarrassed about it. She should have spent more time trying to work out if he had taken the Dark Mark. She should have tried harder to convert him. She shouldn’t have cared about what he thought in the first place.

         Meanwhile, Katie Bell is cursed.

         She recovers, though Hermione is put on edge by the incident. They all are. Hogwarts doesn’t feel so far away from the war anymore. Hermione hasn’t exactly felt safe all these years, considering the amount that has happened within its walls, and how often she and the ones she loves have nearly died. But this is a new development. This feels closer to home. This reminds her of second year.

         While she sifts through the whispers and rumours, Hermione starts to plan for the future.

         She tells herself that she doesn’t care when Gryffindor beat Slytherin and he’s not even at the match. She tells herself she doesn’t care that Ron kisses Lavender right in front of her, even though the sight of it confuses her and she doesn’t know why. Hermione tells herself lots of things, these days. Things that she knows are not true, but she doesn’t examine them further.

         She invites Cormac to Slughorn’s Christmas party and wishes she doesn’t have to go. He’s unbearable. What’s worse is on her way down there, she sees him.

         There’s a moment where they cross in the corridor. It’s empty aside from the two of them. He halts, just as she’s brought to a stop by his sudden reappearance. It’s been weeks since she’s seen him last, and he looks worse than before. He looks so beautiful, tired and drawn, like something inside him is eating him alive. Hermione has a wild thought that she wants to peel him apart and find out what is destroying him. That she wants to devour him herself.

         He, in a moment that she will replay over and over again, lets his gaze travel over her. Her hair, her outfit, everything. And then he bows, as though they’re meeting in a ballroom. His mouth is cold and mocking but she can’t look away from it, and before she can say anything he disappears.

         Later, she’s relieved she kept silent. She thinks it works better that way, that she managed to seem aloof and potentially mysterious, rather than a gaping wide-mouthed idiot.

         Cormac’s appearance hammers home his own lack of grace in comparison. And Hermione is left to admit to herself that she wants Draco Malfoy. She doesn’t just want to save him. She wants to kiss him and she wants him to want her and she’s not a good person at all.

         Ron is unbearable to her even though he only knows about the Cormac thing, and secretly Hermione knows she deserves it.

         Now, when she watches him and Lavender try to reach each other’s tonsils, there’s a part of her that wonders how Draco would kiss. Would it feel the same? Better? It must be better. She decides he would have more finesse. She knows she will never feel it. She thinks about it all the time anyway.

         After Christmas, which is awful, he’s back in the library.

         Hello, Draco, she says, and he visibly starts as she approaches their table.

         Hello, he whispers back. She takes in his appearance, which is not good. Has he spoken to anyone about this?

         How was your break?

         There’s a pause, where his lower lip sort of wobbles.

         It was fine, he tells her. He doesn’t ask how hers was, and she’s relieved, even though she’s desperate to talk to someone, anyone, him, about something other than the war or Ron and Lavender or Ginny and Harry or the war.

         Good.

         She slides into her chair and brings out her work. Research, on apparition. They start lessons soon. She notices that he’s looking at the book, and pretends that she hasn’t seen him looking. As though she could somehow be unaware of him.

         I suppose it is all terribly exciting, for someone like you, he says. It’s cruel and she blinks but when she looks at him, he’s staring at her and she has the funny feeling that he’s only spoken to her like that because he doesn’t know any other way of communicating.

         Someone like me?

         You know, he tries to sneer, but his expression is still hungry.

         A muggleborn?

         He nods. She tries not to let herself pick up the crumbs of whatever this is and savour them, but she does mentally mark that he didn’t call her a mudblood.  

         It is, she allows, and turns back to her book. Softly, quietly. She has to let him come to her.

         What’s it like? He asks, and she manages not to smile as she turns back to him. It’s unusual for her to be able to stare at him so long, and she takes everything she can get, tries to take in every strand of perfectly dishevelled silver hair.

         Apparition? I’ve never done it.

         No, he shakes his head and then hesitates.

         Being muggleborn?

         He nods, once.

         Not growing up knowing this stuff, he mutters, glancing around as though he’s just asked her something dangerous and inflammatory. She tries not to laugh at him, or how furtive he appears.

         Well. She considers her answer. I think there’s a reason I spend so much time in here. Reading.

         Plenty of others like you, this he sneers, though she thinks she knows him well enough now to notice that there’s no real hatred behind it, plenty of people like you don’t do that.

         She shrugs. She hasn’t really got an answer and isn’t sure what he wants her to say. Does he expect her to admit to hating not knowing things? Voice aloud her quiet concerns for the future, and the expectation that she will have to do things no grown witch or wizard should do, probably soon? She can’t talk about the war with him.

         I don’t like being unprepared, she finally voices, even though he has given up waiting for an answer. But this brings his attention straight back to her. There is perhaps a slight warming to his complexion. He has that hungry look again. His lip moves, as though he will say something.

         And the air goes out of the library again. It’s stifling between them. Mentally she begs him to speak to her. To tell her what has happened to make him so drawn and sick and scared.

         I guess that makes two of us.

         There’s a small fortress of books around him. She tries to glance over the titles, before she realises that all the spines are turned away from her. She offers him a small, tight smile. Not something warm, but more of a gesture of understanding. They are in something together. Even if they might be on the opposite side.

         Harry’s theories start to feel less farfetched, though she does not even dare think that to herself. She can’t stop wondering about what Christmas would be like at The Manor. She has never been. Probably never will visit. She pushes thoughts about Lady Malfoy away. About marrying him and freeing all their house elves. About everything but the war.

         Hermione is shaken by Scrimgeour’s visit, though she thinks Harry dealt with it well. It serves to remind her that there are all kinds of people readying for conflict, and those people will fight however they know how.

         Hermione doesn’t feel like she knows how to fight at all.

         Something terrible happens when she is doing her prefect patrols.

         She does them automatically now, letting her mind wander. It usually just wanders back to him. Back to Draco. And usually the only things she has to deal with are younger students sneaking around, the occasional romantic hook up. She doesn’t care, ignores the squeaks of the younger students who recognise her as Harry Potter’s clever muggleborn friend, ignores the sneers that accompany the older ones who think they’re too cool to follow the rules. Hermione is well aware of her reputation. She’s weathered far worse.

         But this. This is almost too much to bear.

         There’s someone in a classroom on her usual route. She can tell, because the door is ajar, and there’s a sliver of light coming from within. And sounds, too. She can hear someone. Someone whispering, and something…else. She would usually barge in. But with the war and the uneasy prickling she has on the back of her neck, she doesn’t. She moves closer, slowly. Silently.

         She wishes she had barged in. And is pleased that she didn’t.

         He’s there. His head is thrown back, his blonde hair gleaming in the dim light. He looks relaxed for the first time she has seen him this year. Or perhaps not relaxed at all, because his face screws up slightly, his jaw tightens, and then she looks down and realises that there is another person.

         Pansy is on her knees in front of him. His shirt is still on, but his trousers have been pulled down and her face is pressed in his crotch. Well, not pressed. Her hands are round the base of his cock, her mouth is on the top of it. She is making noises that Hermione wants to scrub from her brain. And then he sighs. Moans, slightly.

         Like that, good girl, he says, and Hermione’s stomach tightens. She is standing at the crack at the door, and for some reason, she is not moving.

         Fuck. Yes. Suck my cock.

         Hermione must have made a sound, because his head snaps up, and he stares right at her.

         Draco – Pansy tries to speak.

         Keep sucking, he orders, his hands going to Pansy’s head, holding her in place, so she can’t turn round and see Hermione. Keep sucking my cock.

         He’s not looking at Pansy when he says it. He’s looking at her. Hermione. She’s watching him get sucked off and he’s more enthusiastic about it now, thrusting into Pansy’s mouth. Hermione can hear her gag.

         She’s turned on.

         She can feel it. That tight feeling low in her stomach. The ache between her legs, that persistent thrum of arousal. She wants to touch herself. She wants to touch him. She wants to run away, she wishes she had never seen this.

         She can’t look away as his face creases up even more. His moans are louder now, more enthusiastic. As though he likes the fact that she’s watching him. As though he’s putting on a show for her. As though he’s proving to her just how good it feels to have Draco Malfoy’s cock deep in your throat.

         He comes with a moan, and he stares at her as he does it. He’s panting, holding Pansy’s head on his cock still. She hears the girl choke, slightly, and the sound of her swallowing.

         Hermione is transfixed, until she suddenly realises that her mouth is open and if she doesn’t leave now then Pansy will realise that she – that they –

         She turns and goes back to the Gryffindor common room as quickly as she can.

         Inside, Ron and Lavender are having an argument. Harry tries to talk to her but she waves him off. She’s tired, she says. She needs to sleep.

         Hermione casts every single silencing charm she knows on her bed. Her hands shake slightly as she knows what she’s going to do. At the first touch she hisses out a breath. She’s wetter than she can remember being. She hasn’t done this in a while anyway. With all the stress, she had forgotten that her body has other needs beside just food, sleep, knowledge.

         She tries to not think about him. Tries to think about anything, anyone else. She rattles through her usual fantasies, but none of them work. None of them satisfy. None of them are Draco holding her head as he thrusts into her mouth and calls her a good girl. None of them are his expression as he comes and watches her watch him.

         She imagines he’s watching her, then. Imagines he’s sitting at the end of her bed. She opens her legs wider, even though he’s not there, and pretends she’s putting on a show for him. Pretends he’s staring and has that hungry look in his eye again, though this time it’s for her and not for anyone else. And when she comes, her fingers crammed into her, desperate to feel some kind of fullness, she knows it’s not enough.

         She thinks he will probably avoid the library the next day, and she is wrong.

         He’s there before her, and they both brought pastries. He smirks when he sees her. Her stomach clenches again. She hides her hands. Wonders if he can tell. She thinks from the way that his gaze focuses on where they are tucked into her robe pockets, he can. He’s not embarrassed at all. She is. Enough for both of them.

         Thanks, Granger, he says, in a voice she has literally never heard him use before. It’s not quite warm. But it’s enticing. It encourages blushes, and her body obeys it. She doesn’t need a mirror to know her cheeks are scarlet.

         You’re welcome, she replies, primly. He smiles widely.

         She lays out her parchment and quill and disappears into the stacks to find her books. She doesn’t realise he’s followed her until he’s right behind her. She squeaks, and turns to press herself against the shelves. He’s still smiling.

         Can I help you? She asks. She swallows, and he watches her throat move.

         That depends, he replies softly. They’re both whispering, though his seem much more knowing than hers.

         On what?

         On whether you liked what you saw last night, or not.

         He says it so easily, so silkily. She blushes, stammers. Hates him for making her feel like this.

         Don’t tell me you want a mudblood sucking on your perfect, pure blood cock.

         The words come out harsher than she means them, but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she almost thinks he likes it. He leans towards her and places one hand on the shelves above her head. She did not, in all her staring at him, realise he was quite so tall. He has been folding into himself, it seems. But here, when his body is centimetres away from hers, she can appreciate his height, and the slender breadth of his chest. It’s so close she could touch it, so she grips the shelves instead.

         She inhales a bit shakily, but forces herself to hold his gaze. He is staring down at her, and she knows she is trapped. Not just by his body, she could extract herself quite easily if she wanted. The trouble is she doesn’t. He smells clean, masculine, nothing like the bodywash Ron and Harry use. She tries to move. Except she doesn’t try very hard at all.

         Such a dirty mouth, he croons. No one has ever spoken to her like that before. She didn’t realise you could talk to someone like that, didn’t realise you could say things like that aloud. She opens her mouth to retort, but before she can he puts his finger inside.

         He’s moved his hand up to grip her jaw and holds it. His fingers on her are a shock. They’re cold, far too cold, but he doesn’t seem to notice. And then his thumb presses against her lips, and slides into the opening.

         Hermione sucks it automatically. She doesn’t know why. But she gets to see his pupils dilate slightly, and then his smile changes from something cocky and mocking, to something approving. He approves. The thought tightens her belly.

         Good, he murmurs, and she squeaks around his thumb.

         Should have known you’d like that, he mutters, though he’s a bit more breathless than before. She bites down on him lightly, some kind of punishment for discovering something about her. He exhales sharply, and she realises that he likes that, too. She’s discovered something about him. She lets go of his thumb.

         He removes his hand from her jaw and she wants it back again, but then he inserts his thumb into his mouth, and sucks it too.

         She knows her mouth is open, and knows she is panting, and can feel the wetness in her knickers. She wonders if she’d stop him, if he opened her legs and touched her there. She knows she would not.

         You’re mine, Granger.

         She blinks.

         What?

         In Arithmancy. We need partners for the project. You’re mine.

         It takes her a moment to catch up.

         I already told Justin –

         Then un-tell him.

         I’m not doing all the work myself, she bristles, trying to ignore the resonance of his words. You’re mine.

         He snorts, is offended.

         I wouldn’t expect you to, unlike some other idiots who for some reason you call friends, he sneers.

         She studies him again, trying to work out if she can catch a glimpse of the violence that she knows he can unleash. She saw Harry after Draco had stamped on his nose. She wonders if she can see it, prowling under his skin. He looks the same as he always has.

         Okay.

         Good girl.

         He walks away from her, thank God, because she needs a moment. She debates going straight to her dormitory again, but decides that he would know why. She debates chasing after him and telling her to follow her, to go back to that classroom.

         She goes to find Justin Flinch-Fletchly and she explains that she can’t be his partner for the project. He’s disappointed, but she feels less bad than she would have thought. She knows it’s because she can hear his voice in the back of her head the whole time, telling her what she wants to hear.

        You’re mine.

         She doesn’t want to know how far she would go to hear those words again.

Chapter Text

Fourteen years earlier

         Hermione is convinced they will win with their project. It’s a feat that she should be used to by now, coming top of the class. But it's more intoxicating this time because she is with him.

         Her and Draco work well together, even though she struggles, sometimes, to drag her attention away from him and onto the parchment in front of them.

         She has spent far too much time on it compared to her other studies, but she can’t help it. Nothing excites her like it does. And by some impossible, incredible reason, he feels the same. She floats when she thinks about it, hides smiles into her jumper sleeve, doodles equations on her classroom notes.

         He sits next to her in the lessons now, so they can work together more easily. Professor Vector thinks she can hide the slightly alarmed looks she sends their way, but Hermione is well-practiced at ignoring things by now. She tells herself that she knows the real Draco, that she is privileged for that. Even if he is still cold, most of the time. Even if he still never says ‘thank you’ when she brings him breakfast. They take it in turns, now.

         The parameters for the project were enticingly broad.

         ‘Choose a common spell. Use arithmancy to break it down to its simplest form. Explain why arithmetic understanding is essential in understanding the use of magic in your working.’

         To Hermione, magic is arithmancy. It is the building blocks of all magic, the beginning of what can be created. She doesn’t understand why it’s not more widely studied in general. Transfiguration might have been the most exciting. But you can’t explain the meaning or control the essence of the magic without understanding how it is crafted into spells. That’s where arithmancy comes in. Ron and Harry don’t understand. They just moan at her for taking too many classes so she can’t help them with their homework. They don’t understand the subtlety involved. The fact that arithmancy isn’t as much about telling the future as it is about shaping the reality of their lives. When Hermione is studying, the unknown feels a lot further away.

         She probably would have chosen something common to pull apart without Draco. But he doesn’t want to play it safe, and Hermione sees the benefit of all that Slytherin ambition for the first time. She wonders if she would have been in a different position if she had people pushing her to be bigger, to do more. Even if that meant she might not have done the safe or nice thing. When she says something cutting, when she makes a reckless decision, Draco looks at her like she is impressing him. And instead of hiding the bits she doesn’t really like about herself, Hermione feels like she can just be.

         Don’t choose a household spell, he wrinkles his nose. Or some shit like alohamora.

She blushes. Why not?

         Because that’s what everyone will do.

         So?

         So, it’s boring. Let’s do something different. What do you want to know about? What do you want to actually know about?

         Hermione hasn’t considered this. She wants to know everything, so narrowing it down doesn’t necessarily make it easier.

         There’s got to be –

         There’s too many things, she interrupts him before he can hurry her. He grins, and she finds herself grinning back.

         Of course there is. But seriously. You’ve never thought that there was one thing that stood out to you more than anything about the way magic worked?

         She cocks her head, and looks at him. What do you want to understand?

         He shakes his head.

         No, come on, she pushes. This isn’t fair. If you want to know mine, then I’m going to know yours.

         I asked you first.

         So? I don’t want to answer. You’ve got to give me something in exchange.

         She knows she is in danger of giving too freely, of giving him everything and anything he wants.  

         He hesitates for a moment, and becomes serious.

         Alright, he finally relents. You first.

         She shakes her head. No way. I don’t believe you. He tries to smile cockily but it doesn’t quite work.

         I promise I’ll tell you if you tell me first.

         I’m going to need more than that.

         We could make an Unbreakable Vow? He’s teasing, but she’s distracted by the possibility.

         That would be interesting for the project, she blinks, considering. An Unbreakable Vow would involve lots of magical things. It’s tied to more than one person, but involves no blood. It’s binding to the point where it takes a life.

         It would be, he agrees, nodding along with her, waiting for her to finish thinking about it.

         Maybe we should do that.

         I still want to know what you thought about first.

         She rolls her eyes.

         It’s not nearly as interesting.

         I’ll be the judge of that.

         I’m not telling you first, she says after a moment where they both stare at each other and forget to ignore the thing between them. He chuckles and looks down at the desk.

         The backs of his hands are very pale, even more than usual. She can see the dark, snaking veins across them. He has large, delicate hands. The blood almost looks like lace. She wishes she could trace them. Wishes she could touch him like he touched her that day in the stacks. Wishes he would touch her again, touch her more. She masturbates to the thought of him nearly every night, now. It’s unhealthy. It’s mortifying. She cannot stop it.

         The Cruciatus Curse, he mutters quickly, as though saying it faster will make it better.

         She stares at him for a while, until the tips of his ears turn pink.

         Really?

         He scoffs. Don’t make me repeat myself, Granger.

         I’m just intrigued, she says calmly, even though her heart is hammering. Harry would have a field day. She should probably report him. But she wants to know more.

         Don’t lie.

         I am, she insists. I think you’re right. I think it would be fascinating.

         He looks at her, then.

         Do you think so?

         Yes.

         Do you know what it feels like, he asks after a minute. She blinks at him, and she is trapped by him all over again, even though he is sitting on the other side of their library table.

         No, she admits quietly, carefully. She has the feeling he will tell her something that she cannot forget, and she does not feel prepared. Do you, she dares to ask.

         His eyes are almost all silver when he meets her gaze, his pupils shrunk to pin points.

         Yes, he whispers.

         Who? She asks. He shakes his head. She needs to know. She needs him to know that he is okay, that he can be okay. Draco –

         No, he tells her, and she hates herself for pushing, for saying his name out loud. No. It’s fine.

         It’s not fine.

         It is, Granger. It’s hardly the worst thing to happen to a person.

         She knows he will not explain what he means by that.

         What’s yours, he asks hoarsely, and the only compassion Hermione can show is telling him.

         House elf magic, she says quietly. Examining how they could apparate in Hogwarts, for instance. I think it would be fascinating.

         She waits for his sneer, but it doesn’t come.

         That’s a brilliant idea, he says finally. She doesn’t believe him, but he seems so sincere.

         Don’t patronise –

         Merlin’s balls, Granger. Accept a fucking compliment, he snaps.

         Oh, because I’m so used to you giving me them, she snaps right back. He grins wryly at her, coming back to himself.

         I suppose that’s fair enough.

         Oh, you suppose, do you?

         Alright, he sighs. Alright. I wasn’t being a dick though. If you want to do that for the project then we can.

         She blinks at him. Of all the people to respond like this, she would not have expected him to.

         Um, she says, trying to sort out her thoughts. I don’t know.

         Why not?

         Well, she can’t help but feel a bit frustrated when she goes over their instructions. Would it count as a spell? If they’re house elves, I don’t, I don’t think that other witches and wizards really consider their magic as spells.

         When she walks into Arithmancy the next week, he’s already there and he’s speaking to Professor Vector. She’s telling him off, and he looks frustrated, but when she arrives he rolls his eyes at her.

         We can’t use house elf magic.

         She can’t believe that he asked for her.

         She turns to Professor Vector in question, and inquires as politely as she can why not. The Professor does not look happy about this development.

         Their magic is not the same as ours, and therefore is not able to be deconstructed using arithmetic techniques.

         Do you know that for sure?

         Hermione is being rude now, but Draco is standing next to her, raising an eyebrow on her behalf, and she feels invincible.

         No, but two sixth year students are hardly going to be the ones to prove it either way, Vector snaps, losing her patience with both of them. Choose a basic spell, Ms Granger, Mr Malfoy. Or you will fail the assignment.

         Vector calls her back after the class, and asks if everything is okay. Hermione is confused.

         Why would it not be?

         I was under the impression you would be partnering with Mr. Finch-Fletchly, the woman says rather gently. Hermione flushes. She has no idea the teachers were interested in such things.

         Yes. I changed my mind.

         Vector gives her a long, searching look.

         And this was your decision?

         Hermione blushes slightly as she recalls Draco’s fingers in her mouth, the way he said good girl, the way she did just as he told her to, because the sick thing inside her wanted to make him happy.

         It was my decision, she says.

         Alright, the woman sighs. Be careful.

         Hermione walks out of the classroom, confused and angry. She doesn’t notice a hand yank her into an alcove until it’s too late.

         She would scream but the hand is now across her mouth, and when she smells it’s him, she relaxes. He’s finally as close to her as he was that day in the library. Closer, even. She is pinned by him, pressed against the wall. One hand across her mouth, one hand tight on her wrist. His face is right in front of hers.

         When he appears satisfied that she’s not going to scream, he removes his hand.

         You don’t need to kidnap me, Draco, she scoffs. He smiles coldly.

         Isn’t that what they think I’m doing, anyway?

         What do you mean?

         The teachers, he snorts. Don’t tell me your little chat with Vector wasn’t just to make sure you were ‘alright’. His voice is tight and angry and she is ashamed that he is correct. Ashamed that she didn’t stick up for him more.

         I suppose you’re right, she agrees, miserably.

         I really didn’t expect you to tell me the truth, he muses. He’s still close to her. She doesn’t want to move, in case he realises and distances himself. But she bites her lip anyway.

         I’m sorry.

         He’s staring at it, then flicks his gaze up to hers.

         Don’t worry about it.

         It’s not fair.

         Plenty of things aren’t fair, Granger.

         She should know. She’s dealt with more of them than him so far. But she doesn’t say that.

         Have any of them asked if you’re okay, she asks instead, and his face gets the angry look again.

         They don’t give a shit.

         They have a duty of care to you, she reminds him.

         I prefer it this way. She can tell he believes that’s true, and she knows he does not know what is best for him.

         Will you talk to them? If they ask?

         I’ve got nothing to talk about, Granger.

         He’s lying. They both know it. She shouldn’t be surprised that he won’t confide in her. But she is, anyway. It turns out she had hope.

         Don’t look like that, he says, harshly.

         What do I look like, she replies her heart pounding.

         I don’t know, he says after a while. Like – I don’t know.

         She tilts her head up slightly, to look at him better. She decides to make the most of him pinning her to a wall, because she doesn’t know when he will touch her again, or look at her like this again.

         Fuck, Granger, he says softly.

         Something is going to happen, and she doesn’t know if she will be able to stand it.

         I – he swallows.

         He goes to move away, but she won’t let him. Not yet. Her hands go to his shoulders. It is the most intimate way she has ever touched him. His body is cold, too, just like his hands. She can feel his collarbones.

         His exhale flutters over her face.

         She kisses him.

         He kisses her back.

She’s right. It’s better than what Ron and Lavender do. It’s better than kissing Krum. It’s better than anything.

         He presses her even harder against the stone and it hurts, slightly. She gasps and he bites her lip and that hurts, too. His tongue wastes no time invading her mouth, tasting her. She wonders, slightly panicked, if her breath tastes okay. He tastes like mint and like desire and like wrongness, and there’s a hint of iron underneath it all. She realises belatedly that he has drawn blood. She likes that. She likes that he consumes her, that he is like ice but not like this, not when he is cradling her head and pressing her against the wall and she can feel his body and she knows that she could have him, that he could eat her up and she would be nothing, nothing but his.

         They break apart after a moment. His hands stay, holding her head against the wall.

         Don’t tell anyone about this, he says, and then he leaves her there.

         Hermione counts to ten before she leaves. She doesn’t heal her lip. She wants to feel the swell, to know that he has been there and marked her in some way that is visible for all the world to see.

         She doesn’t know how she will bear keeping it a secret, she has no idea who she would tell even if she wanted to say something.

         They decide to study the Unbreakable Vow. Perhaps Hermione can study House Elf magic, afterwards. It’s an enticing idea, and for the first time she has something to look forward to in the future that’s not just surviving the war. They make good progress, together. She realises that she likes having something to share with him. She wishes he would kiss her again, but he does not. Sometimes he looks at her like he would like to, but he never follows her into the stacks, and always leaves her to walk back to her common room alone.

         It happens again, the prefects round.

         It’s like he’s trying to get caught by her. He might very well be, she hasn’t heard any of the other prefects complain. When she sees them something inside her ices over. She wants to be able to leave, she can’t bear to watch him with someone else now that he’s kissed her.

         But she watches anyway, and listens to the sounds Pansy makes as she chokes, and treasures the small sigh he makes when he comes. It’s a soft sound, softer than it should be given the violence of the rest of the scene. Romantic, almost. Hermione should have left when she found them the first time, but now she’s pinned in the doorway, and her hand is in her knickers and she doesn’t know when that happened either.

         But she’s there and her fingers are wet and he’s staring at her as he comes down off the pleasure and because she wants to shock him so she can hide how she feels, she sucks her fingers. She watches his eyes widen and his jaw remain slack. And then she leaves and pretends that she’s crying over Ron because the truth is a million times more awful.

         They’ve nearly broken down the spoken elements of the Unbreakable Vow, but working out how it relates to the two bodies who make it is more tricky. Working out how it ties two people together, the role of the third person, how the magic knows when and where to stop seems impossible.

         The day after she catches them again Hermione is looking for a book to help. He finally follows her into the stacks. He grabs her hand. She jumps.

         Don’t sneak up on me, she hisses, her wand pressed into his stomach. He grins, and licks her fingers. The same fingers.

         Don’t wash your hands next time, he tells her, his wand pressing into her abdomen, too. She doesn’t know when he had time to draw it, and that should be frightening.

         She knows what he is saying but she can’t quite believe he has voiced it. She swallows. She doesn’t know how to tell him to stop getting blow jobs off Pansy without sounding like she wants him. She does want him, of course. But admitting that would be losing.

         I’ll wash my hands as much as I like, she hisses, and he bites down on the pad of one finger.

         Not if I don’t want you to.

         You’re disgusting, she manages to reply, and he lets go of her hand, pressing against her further, gripping the edge of her jaw and dropping his wand arm, letting his body pin her against the shelf.

         If I am, then you are too.

         We’re nothing alike, she manages to whisper, fighting closing her eyes to the feeling of his breath on her.

         Would it be so bad, Granger, he replies softly, holding off just enough to make her want to lean into him. To be like me?  

         He must have pocketed his wand because his other hand is now tracing the outline of her thigh.

         That’s not the point, she manages to say, and he dips in, and lightly licks the edge of her jaw. Its animalistic and horrible and it feels maddeningly good.

         You don’t have to pretend with me, he tells her, and she can hear the victory in his voice, as he grabs her leg and lifts it a bit higher. She lets him, lets him settle between them. She feels unsteady, and has to lean into him to keep her balance. You can be just as filthy as I know you want to be.

         Hermione is wearing tights, the castle is cold. His hand finally grazes the junction of her thighs, but it’s far, far too light. She tries to press against him, but he withdraws, and she isn’t sure she likes the way his face has twisted into triumph.

         Not here. Come to the classroom tonight.

         No, she counters quickly. I’m not going in there.

         He pauses, and nods.

         Alright.

         They are both silent for a while. Thinking.

         I – Hermione starts to say, and then she blushes.

         Yes?

         She says it quickly, before she loses her nerve. I know where we can go.  

Chapter Text

Fourteen years earlier

         Hermione takes him to the Room of Requirement. He watches her the entire time, and when she opens the door she is terrified at what she might find. 

         She asked for a room where they could be alone together. Two large sofas face each other. A fire burns in the grate. Drinks are set to one side. She’s relieved that there isn’t a bed. She doesn’t know why, but she is scared to admit that this is what they are doing. Might do. She isn’t sure why they are here, she’s especially confused as to why he is here with her. 

         Drink, he asks, crossing the room.

         Sure, she says.

         I didn’t know that this place did catering. 

         Neither did I, she replies, licking her dry lips. 

         He is fascinated by the room. She tries to remember if he has been inside it, if they broke in last year during Dumbledore’s Army, or if he just caught them from the outside. He inspects every nook and cranny. It’s a shame, he almost mutters to himself, that we can’t do the project on this.

         I like our project, she says, feeling protective of what they have done.

         Me too, Granger. The smile he gives her is surprisingly warm. 

         She sits on the edge of the sofa, awkwardly. After he has finished looking around, he sits next to her. Not too close, he leans back into the corner. But his body is tilted towards her, and he takes a sip of his firewhiskey without taking his attention off her. 

         You’re nervous, he says. 

         Yes. 

         Have you ever done something like this before? 

         I don’t even know what we are doing, she blurts out, and he grins. Then finishes his drink. 

         You and me both. 

         She’s caught off guard by his honesty. He feels freer here, for some reason. Some weight has lifted. 

         So, she asks, sipping her own drink. She doesn’t really like firewhiskey but she needs something to take the edge off. 

         So, he nods. 

         What do you want, she asks quickly, before she can chicken out. He considers her for a long while, so long that she starts to fidget. He has that hungry look again, but there’s something else underneath it. 

         I can’t, he says slowly. I can’t offer you anything. 

         I know, she replies calmly. Of course she knows. Of course he isn’t going to be her boyfriend. Her heart thuds anyway. 

         How far have you gone before? 

         She blushes at how boldly he asks her. He’s usually more skilful than this whenever he tries to interrogate her about other things. Or perhaps their conversations are just more guarded. Here, they are hidden away from the world, which means that they don’t have to hide from each other. 

         Not too far, she says, embarrassed by her lack of experience. 

         You’ve kissed someone before.

         Obviously, she points out. I’ve kissed you. 

         He scoots closer to her, and touches her lightly. Just the tip of his finger, trailing up her arm. She shivers. 

         Obviously, he agrees. But have you kissed anyone else? 

         Yes, she breathes, as his fingers reach her shoulder, and skate towards the collar of her shirt. He smiles coolly, and when she replays this, she is going to wonder if he’s jealous. 

         Were they good kissers? 

         She thinks about the heat of Krum’s large hands on her, she thinks of the boy she met in France when on holiday who pressed his mouth against hers awkwardly and then ran away. 

         They were, she says. His smile widens into a grin. He knows she’s lying. 

         Really? 

         Yes. 

         Good thing I’m not afraid of a little competition, then. 

         They kiss for what feels like hours. She is soon underneath him, writhing against him, and he has unbuttoned her shirt. Her lips are swollen, and when he traces his fingers over her bra she moans and she does not feel embarrassed for her desire, not here. The whole thing is better because it’s so wrong. She knows that. He knows that. She wonders idly if this is going to ruin her life. He kisses her like he wants to own her, and he’s good enough at it that she wants him to succeed. 

         He pauses briefly as he places a hand on her thigh, gently hiking up her leg so it curls around him. She can feel him now, the hard length of him pressed against her. He’s panting too, and although she has untucked his shirt, and loosened his tie, he has not unbuttoned it. She wants to try but is scared, far too scared of what it might reveal. She knows she should, because then she can tell Harry to stop wondering about it and leave it alone. But she knows, deep down, that Harry might very well be right. And she doesn’t want to stop this now, not when it feels so good. 

         I want to touch you, let me touch you, he begs into her mouth, and she has never imagined that he might want her like she wants him, and the proof that he does is heaven. 

         Please, she manages, before he bites her lower lip. One of his hands is braced above her, holding his weight up. The other is moving over her crotch, and she wishes she was not wearing tights. He flattens his hand against her, rubbing it in a way that suggests he almost knows what he is doing. Hermione wants more. Needs more. She scrabbles to find her wand, and vanishes her tights. 

         As soon as the spell is complete and he feels her skin he makes a small gasp of surprise that reminds her of when he came, and she loves it. 

         Fuck, he mutters against her. 

         Please, she asks, because she wants more. She needs him to touch her more. 

         What do you want, he says, and neither of them are really making much sense anymore, he can barely get the words out, but she understands him perfectly. 

         Touch me, she begs. 

         Properly, he asks, and she nods against him. He slides his hand underneath her knickers and they both moan as he makes contact with her pussy, and feel how wet she is. He slides a finger inside her, and then withdraws it far too soon. 

         She makes a small noise of protest, and he pulls back enough so she can see him grinning. And then he puts it towards his mouth. 

         I’ve wanted to taste you ever since, he tells her, and when he sucks the arousal off himself his eyes flutter close in pleasure. She watches him unravel at the taste of her, and she needs him. Whatever it means, whatever it will do to her. She needs him. 

         He sits back, and both his hands now go to her knickers. 

         Not enough, he manages to say. Please. Granger, Hermione, I need more. 

         She’ll do anything for him and not just because he called her by her first name. She wonders if it’s supposed to be like this. That after a few kisses and touches all of a sudden she is willing to give him everything. She braces her weight up so he can take off her underwear, and he stuffs them into his pocket before placing his mouth on her. 

         She cries out. She wasn’t sure how she expected it to feel, but she wasn’t expecting this. She loses control when he slides a finger into her once more, squeezing her thighs around his face tightly and thrusting against him. And when he comes up, looking so triumphant she sags a bit into the sofa, she knows that she is well and truly ruined. 

         God, she manages to whisper, hoarsely. 

         You taste so good, he tells her, his eyes not warm, not welcoming, but burning with something that makes her stomach tighten again. 

         Can I -

         No, he shakes his head, moving his hand to rub against his cock, hard in his trousers. No. Not tonight. There’s no rush. I want to savour you. 

         The words make her a bit lightheaded. He said he couldn’t give her anything. But this is more than enough. 

         The next month is a blur. They are together as much as they possibly can be without arousing suspicion. She sneaks out of her dorm to meet him, she hides in alcoves, she lets him touch her all over the castle, in the stacks, in empty classrooms, wherever he wants. 

         And she isn’t sure why, but he never asks her to return the favour. He never pushes her down onto her knees, never insists on her touching him back. She has done, she’s rubbed him through his trousers at several opportunities and he’s cursed as he’s come in his school uniform, as she comes in hers. But that’s it. He never undresses. Never gives any suggestion that they might take it further. Hermione is desperate for them to. She counts up the number of times he has called her by her name (seven), she thinks of how he looks when he’s on his knees in front of her constantly, she thinks of him constantly. Of the way he acts. The small tells he has. She realises she’s in love with him when he presses a kiss to her curls one night. 

         She’s so shocked by the tenderness of him burying his head in her hair that she just stares straight ahead at the wall. She will never tell him. Not when it is clear how many other things he is hiding. 

         The project is nearly complete. Hermione is thrilled with their progress. They have managed to distil a complicated spell, break it down to its purest essence. And Hermione knows a lot more about bonds than she did before. She knows about how people can be tied together by magic. By desire. She avoids looking at his left arm entirely. 

         She is meant to meet him when she finds out that Ron is in the hospital wing, and despite how furious both he and Harry have made her this year, she is filled with a deep, sickening sense of fear that reminds her of what is coming. She sends her patronus to him with a message, and afterwards, when Ron recovers and the three of them discuss what happened in hushed tones, things have changed. 

         He avoids her for several weeks, and would have avoided her for longer did they not have to present in Arithmancy. She tracks him down the night before using the Marauders Map, and finds him in a corner of the library that is not theirs. And she won’t let his sneers get to her, not when their final term grade is contingent on this project. 

         I know you’re avoiding me, she tells him and he looks straight past her. 

         Then why are you still here, he sneers. He sounds like he did at the beginning of the year, cold and haughty. 

         Because I'm not going to let your hurt feelings get in the way of my academic record, she sneers right back. She has decided that he is jealous, jealous that she ditched him to spend time with Harry and Ron. And while a large part of her wants to crawl to him and beg for forgiveness, an even larger part is far, far too proud for that. 

         He doesn’t reply, but he does sigh loudly, and bring out his notes. They finish the presentation that night, practising in an empty classroom - in that empty classroom - and afterwards, he leaves without kissing her. 

         Hermione can’t understand why the presentation doesn’t go well. What they have done is far beyond the class’s abilities, and Vector knows it. Hermione knows it. Draco knows it. They both present well, Draco perhaps is a little haughty but Hermione’s enthusiasm makes up for his general attitude and snobbery. But afterwards, in the hushed and impressed silence of her contemporaries, Vector sighs and shakes her head. 

         I’m afraid that you both misunderstood the assignment, she says in a clipped voice, although she only looks at Draco. 

         I beg your pardon, Hermione interrupts. She notices that he takes a step closer to her, perhaps out of shock. 

         My instructions were clear, she sniffs, and she is still only looking at Draco. You were to choose a simple spell to explore. An Unbreakable Vow most certainly does not fall into this category. While I am sure you both took great pleasure in refusing to play by the rules, the rest of your classmates were able to follow them perfectly. I will have to grade you accordingly. 

         But that’s not fair, she says. That’s not fair. We - we worked on this for ages. It’s correct, all the workings.

         Hermione wants to cry. The tears are hot, humiliated, angry. She is so furious she can’t even get the words out. He doesn’t bother to fight the injustice, and she almost wishes he would threaten his father’s involvement. Why doesn’t he? 

         Afterwards, she just wants to run away. She doesn’t notice him follow her out of the castle, right down to the lake, until he finally yanks her round. 

         He kisses her so fiercely their teeth clash, and then he holds her while she tries not to cry, tries not to stamp her foot. 

         He’s looking at her strangely when she pulls away from him. 

         What? She snaps. He grins. He likes it when she’s unreasonable, and he tells her that often. 

         I want to show you something. 

         She wonders if she is forgiven. 

         The something is on the other side of the castle grounds, a forgotten quarry almost, where stones have slid down to the lake’s side over the millennia. 

         Here, he says, and then uses magic to levitate a huge rock up in the air. Once it’s reached its pinnacle, he takes aim and explodes it with a neatly timed bombarda . When he turns back round to her he’s grinning again. You try, he tells her. 

         He shows her how to do it, and in an hour together, an hour where she skips her next class, they blow up rock after rock after rock. She is laughing and giddy by the end of it, the magic is pumping in her veins, and she feels strong and better. And he made her like that. 

         Thank you, she says, after they have sat, exhausted on the ground. They are close again, touching. 

         I should be apologising, he tells her. If you did that project alone then you would have gotten top marks. 

         I’m not interested in marks if the teacher is going to be so biaised, she says, with more bravado than she feels. 

         Still, he says. I’m sorry. 

         Why does Vector hate you, Hermione asks, frowning. He’s a bit of a shit, it’s true, but that doesn’t mean he should be penalised that severely. 

         My father, he says quietly, after a moment. The teachers don’t trust me, not after… he trails off. Hermione wishes she could stuff her question back in her stupid, idiotic mouth. 

         Oh, she says instead. 

         They are silent again, and this time it’s Hermione who has to bring him back together. She reaches up to place a hand on his cheek, turning his face towards her. 

         You are not him, she tells him. His face contorts in grief. 

         I wish that were true. 

         She kisses him anyway. 

         He’s less controlled this time around. Less able to hold her at a distance. She unbuckles his trousers as his hands go straight up her skirt, and he doesn’t stop her. When she finally touches him they both gasp. He’s hard but soft, smooth and rigid, and his face contorts as she awkwardly tries to move her hand. She pulls his cock totally out of his trousers, and there on the freezing cold ground, she tosses him off until he comes. 

         Her hands are sticky, and they are both panting. As they straighten themselves out, she thinks he looks guilty. They stare at each other for a while before they leave to go back to the castle. 

         Tomorrow night, he says after a while, and she nods. Come to the room. 

         Okay, she whispers. She leaves first, he’ll follow at a distance. She washes her hands quickly. 

         There’s a bed in the Room of Requirement the next night. Her heart is hammering so hard it's making her whole body shake. He looks just as nervous as she feels. But when he sees her, his lips quirk up in a smile. 

         They sit on the edge, sharing a bottle of whiskey that he must have stolen from somewhere, because there are no glasses here. There is a fire though. A big one. 

         Have you - he asks, and she shakes her head. 

         Never. Have you? 

         No. 

         Her eyes widen. Seriously? 

         Why is that such a surprise, he snorts. 

         Well, because, Pansy - she manages to say the girl’s name with only a little bit of jealousy. 

         No, Draco shakes his head. She would never, even if I wanted to. She has to wait for marriage. 

         The unspoken is there. That Hermione, a muggleborn, does not. Hermione briefly panics that she is being an idiot. That she is an amusement. 

         But I didn’t want to, he says. Not with her. 

         Hermione swallows.

         Are you sure? 

         He nods, looking at her. Then he swallows, too. 

         I - we shouldn’t, he says, as though he is hoping she will change her mind. 

         Why not? 

         Because, he stresses. Because. You know that this - that I - 

         She sits on her hands to hide the evidence of their trembling. 

         I can’t be with someone like you.

         It stings, of course.

         You’re here anyway, she reminds him. 

         I shouldn’t be. 

         The honesty is bruising. 

         You’re braver than you think you are, she tells him, and she wishes she could just stop and walk out and wait for someone who wants all of her. But she can’t. She loves him. And there is something about him, about them, that makes her feel good. Even if it’s not. 

         I’m not brave, Hermione. He says it like a warning. She stares at him. 

         Let me help you, she murmurs, quietly, and he is stricken. 

         No. 

         Draco -

         No. 

         He is final. 

         You can’t. You don’t understand what kind of danger that you would be in. I won’t let you. 

         She reaches for him, then. She takes his hand, which is also trembling, and brings it to her mouth, kisses the centre of his palm. She traces the veins on it. Admires the grace in his fingers. 

         There are other ways to help, she tells him. 

         They kiss slower than they have before. His grip on her is harsh, unyielding, as though he is holding onto her for support. She holds him just as tightly back, lowers herself onto the sheets. And he lies on top of her, between her thighs, like this is meant to happen. 

         They’re both nervous, and her wand wobbles as she casts the contraception charm. He turns off the lights before he takes off his shirt, and Hermione knows, then. She knows that Harry is right, and she doesn’t stop anyway. 

         The feeling of his chest, gliding naked against hers, is good enough to hold any regrets she might have at bay. 

         She doesn’t regret it, though. Not when he edges inside her, not when their breaths mingle with the strange newness of the feeling, not when he moves and Hermione realises that this feels good, with him. That it feels right. 

         He orgasms first, but afterwards he touches her until she comes too. And then, against all sense, they fall asleep together. 

         They wake at some point, early in the morning, though with the lights still off it's impossible to tell what time it is, both slightly panicked that they fell asleep. But the panic is held at bay when she runs a hand over his chest, and they have sex once more. It’s better this time, Hermione more used to the feel of him inside her, more able to relax into his kisses and touches and then she feels like she is flying, that she is powerful. And even though it's not perfect, not yet, Hermione knows that it could be. And that she will do this again, even if, especially if, she shouldn’t. 

         The secret makes her buoyant, despite its weight. She is in love, she has had sex. She wonders if she should feel changed by it, and she is, but not in the ways she expects. She’s a little sore when she sits down at breakfast, and she likes that. Mostly, she just thinks about when they can do it again. Hermione wants to be good at everything, and she knows that with enough practice with him, she will be. 

         They don’t have a project anymore, and the excuses to be together are flimsier and flimsier. The next morning she wakes up and panics that he won’t want to see her, that she has misjudged it terribly. 

         He’s still sitting at their library table, though. And they work for less than an hour before they both give in. 

         Hermione wonders, after weeks of secretly being together, if she will ever feel this free again. The war is an undercurrent in everything they do. He hides from her, he makes sure they make love in darkness, he refuses certain avenues of conversation. But he never stops seeing her, sleeping with her, he’s even started to tell her that he finds her attractive, that he wants her. And she never stops doing the same for him. They both are stupid, she decides. And then she feels better, because she loves being stupid with him. 

         The day Harry attacks him is the worst day of Hermione’s life so far. 

         She’s so angry she can’t breathe. Can’t speak to him. Harry’s face is grey with shock, and while she knows he feels terrible for what he did, she can’t forgive him so easily, or be around him without wanting to scream at him. And she can’t do that either, because nobody knows. The secret doesn’t feel like something light and fun, then. She feels its weight pulling her down. 

         She doesn’t sleep, just waits for it to be late enough to sneak into the hospital wing. She can’t ask Harry for the cloak, but she is good enough at disillusionments to avoid most prying eyes, or at least those of the portraits. 

         She cries when she sees him. He looks emaciated in the hospital bed, so much smaller than he seems when he is with her. There is something devouring him, still. She is face to face with the fact that she isn’t enough to stop it. She wonders whether she should wake him or not, but he wakes first, frowning into the darkness, something like true fear on his face.

         It’s just me, she whispers, before cancelling the spell. 

         You shouldn’t be here, he says, but the fear on his face has been replaced with relief. She crosses to him, takes his hand easily. She kisses the back of it, and he closes his eyes. 

         I thought you might be dead, she admits, forcing herself not to cry. 

         I wish I was, he says. For once he’s not trying to be hurtful, and that makes it even worse. She knows that he is exhausted. Hearing it makes it real, though. She doesn’t bother to stop crying then. 

         You can’t die. 

         She doesn’t voice the reason why. The fact that it’s because she loves him, the fact that she wants to be with him. She thinks he probably knows by now, anyway. She doesn’t have to say it out loud. They can both pretend that what they are doing is fine, sustainable, going to end well or never going to end at all. But knowing that he has been hurt has brought some things into sharp focus in Hermione’s mind. And top of that, is the fact that she has to save him. She has to get him out. 

         I’m not dead yet, he says, moving along the bed with a wince. She hears the regret in his voice anyway. If you’re here you might as well lie down for a bit. 

         It’s risky, but then what about them being together isn't? Hermione slides easily onto the bed, underneath his arm, like all the other times she has lay on a bed with him. She tilts her head up, watching him. His eyes are slightly unfocused in pain, she doesn’t want to look at his wounds. 

         Do you need anything? She asks. 

         No, he says, tracing her lips with his finger. She frowns.

         Should you be moving? 

         Stop worrying about me.

         I’ll always worry about you. 

         It’s a slip and she shouldn’t have said it and both their eyes widen slightly at the admission. 

         Kiss me, he says after a beat. 

         She does, gently. Her cheeks are still wet. 

         Please don’t die, she whispers against his lips. He just kisses her back. 

         He recovers, but it isn’t the same after that. They go back and forth. Sometimes he tries to put distance between them, and Hermione stubbornly ignores all his attempts to do so. He always comes back, always holds her even tighter after a week apart, always hates his own weakness, but never her. 

         She wonders what they will do next year. She never talks openly about The Order, and he never mentions the Death Eaters, but she wonders if she should float the idea of him coming over. To their side. She fantasises about showing him around 12 Grimmauld Place. They would share a bedroom, he would bring everyone round eventually, they could hold hands in the corridors. 

         She will sometimes, when it’s late and she feels particularly bruised about the idea of letting him go, suggest he talks to Dumbledore. He hates this the most. She can tell because he forgets that she knows him now, and slips back into being cruel for no reason. He tells her that Dumbledore is an idiot, a reckless man who doesn’t deserve to run a school, who only cares about Potter and the Dark Lord and that’s it. 

         Hermione walked out halfway through the discussion the first time it happened, but she has gotten better at weathering things. 

         It is getting harder, though. As the year goes on, as Harry’s work with Dumbledore increases in urgency and her plans for the future start to get riskier, it is getting harder and harder to ignore what is coming. By the end of their final term, Hermione has given up sleeping almost altogether. She knows he has, too. Their undereye bags match. 

         She doesn’t mean for their last night before the break to feel like the end of something. It goes wrong anyway. 

         They fall upon each other as soon as the door is closed, like always. Hermione was right, it is good now, it’s better than good, and they can’t get enough. But afterwards, when they are lying in bed together, his shirt still on, though unbuttoned, she can’t help but feel like something is going to change. 

         She cries. She would swear that he nearly does, too. He gives her a ring. He tells her that she can’t wear it, not here because people will see and people will know. It’s plain, just a silver band. She’s not sure how anyone would know what it was. But she curls her fingers round it and it feels warm, like it’s just been taken off by someone else. She tries to tell him she loves him, but the words don’t come out. 

         It’s only out of desperation that she tries one more time. 

         You don’t have to go, she whispers into the darkness. 

         Hermione - his voice is both tense and tired. 

         I mean it. There are - I have plans, you know. In case things go wrong. 

         He tenses even further. 

         Don’t tell me - 

         My parents - 

         His hand is over her mouth and his face is looming too close to her, and even in the darkness she can see the gleam of terror in his eyes. 

         Don’t. Don’t tell me anything about them. Do you understand? You cannot tell me anything about them. 

         He withdraws his hand to hear her agreement. 

         But -

         No buts. I know you know why. Please, Granger. Hermione. Please. 

         She thinks he might cry, she thinks he might hit her. He does neither, but his grip on her is tight. When she nods her head, he crushes her lips below his. His anxiety tastes like blood. And the next night, Albus Dumbledore dies. 

Chapter Text

Present day 

         I’m going to help you, she announces that Monday morning. He has just walked through the door. His arms are full, his robes slung over a shoulder and several paper bags of pastries in one hand, his bag and coffees in the other. Hermione stands at her desk. She clasps her hands behind her back, and forces herself to stand still.

         He pauses, clearly surprised. He tries not to smile too widely, as though he doesn’t want to spook her.

         Really?

         Really, she mutters, fighting the urge to look down. He places the pastries and the coffee on the side of her desk, slightly clumsily. She picks them up, and steps out to the side. Lilith comes out behind her, too. Shall we? She asks him, nodding to the desk.

         He takes a moment to blink before he gets control over himself, and then quickly nods back.

         After you.

         She hears him walk behind her and their steps are slightly out of time. And then they both clear space on the table for her, and she summons her weekend research.

         He stares at the numerous scrolls that she places down.

         This –

         Just some brainstorming, she mutters, though it is far beyond that.

         Right, he says, because he knows as well as she does how much work she has done.

         She takes another breath, and then sips her coffee, and then slowly tears open the pastry bag to reveal another croissant. She fiddles slightly with the end of it. It is still warm.

         Perhaps you should bring me up to date on how far you’ve gotten, she finally says, looking up to find him already staring at her, as though she’s not quite real.

         Good idea, he replies, and it does nothing to her. She waits for him to start speaking, and he also puts it off a little bit. Shuffles some papers, clears his throat.

         So, he says finally, bringing her proposal to the top of the pile. I’ve been looking at your proposal.

         Yes.

         It’s good.

         Hermione nods. She knows it is good. She would never have given it to him if she did not think it was.

         I think you’re right about the fact we need to look further afield, he continues. I agree there’s not much in the UK that appears it might have any kind of influence.

         There doesn’t seem to have historically been much call for magic separation here, she agrees calmly.

         Yes.

         So you think the person, or group, who did this to you, might not be from the British Isles?

         Yes, I think we can reasonably deduce that.

         Hermione stares at him for a moment, before making a note on her page. She has brought a new notebook from home for this, and she blushes a bit at the effort. She waits for him to continue. He clears his throat. It feels strange for him to be the uneasy one.

         So, she prods after a while.

         So that’s as far as I’ve gotten.

         She doesn’t say anything for a bit. She’s confused. He has been working solidly for over two weeks now.

         What have you been doing? She asks, and she feels a little like she is telling him off. He grimaces.

         I’ve been working through stuff, he mutters. I’ve been going down various avenues, and none of them have been successful.

         What avenues, she presses and he sighs.

         Well, I was first exploring some druidic things –

         That’s western paganism, she interrupts.

         It is. He’s starting to get annoyed with her.

         I thought we just agreed that it wasn’t useful.

         I didn’t know that at the time, though, did I?

         Hermione stays silent for a beat. She had told him when she handed over the initial proposal but –

         Fine, she finally says. Fine. She unrolls one of the scrolls, and makes a few notes.

         What’s that?

         Progress report, she mutters to herself almost. He snorts.

         Great, he replies drily.

         So druids are a no, she continues. Anything else I should know about?

         Astronomy is also out, he replies. There doesn’t appear to be any significance to the positions of the stars at the time of the injury.

         And the time was?

         9:47pm.

         She looks at him, frowning slightly.

         That’s specific. I thought you couldn’t remember?

         My portkey dropped me off at 9:40, he replies coldly. I told you I was grabbed, and then felt searing pain. 9:47 is an estimate based on my memories.

         And they’re accurate?

         Yes, he says coldly. I believe so. I went back through using a pensieve, and the times seem to align.

         But we don’t know for sure.

         He rolls his eyes at her.

         No, Hermione. We don’t know for sure.

         So we can’t totally rule out astronomy.

         He sighs.

         Fine. Although a minute or two is hardly going to –

         What time did you regain consciousness, she interrupts him. He glares at her.

         I don’t know.

         Roughly?

         Roughly… he hesitates, thinks back. Probably about an hour later. Hour and a half, maybe.         

         Right. So between 9:40pm and midnight, let’s say just to be careful, the injury took place.

         Fine. We could say that.

         She makes a mark on another scroll, this one a sky chart. He sees it, and doesn’t bother hiding his sigh.

         It’s better to have the information now and rule it out later, she mutters. 

         Can you talk me through what happened again? She says after she’s finished making her notes, and watching the planets move slightly on the parchment. He’s right, probably, there doesn’t appear to be anything significant in the sky that night, but it’s still better to make sure. Especially when dealing with the unknown.

         I’ve already told you everything I know.

         She glares at him, and even Lilith meows at that.

         I thought you wanted my help.

         He shuffles a bit in his seat, and she’s unused to seeing this amount of guilt on his face. He’s usually much better at hiding it.

         Fine, he sighs again. She wants to poke him. She forces down the urge to giggle, because there is nothing funny about this.

         I landed at 9:40pm by Battersea Park, he says, staring off into the stacks slightly behind her. His voice has slipped into a more even rhythm, and Hermione is surprised to note that he has become a good storyteller. It was dark, already. There was no moon, that night.

         He pauses, looks at the astronomy chart pointedly. Hermione brings a small morsel of buttery croissant to her lips, and tries not to close her eyes when she eats it.

         It was dark, cloudy, already raining. I was excited to get home. I had – I had plans for the week before I could leave and go travelling again. So I was eager to get on with them.

         Hermione ignores this suggestion of another life. Perhaps another woman. Perhaps the plans were romantic, perhaps they were familial. She was not going to be Lady Malfoy. She did not care.

         I started to walk from the landing point

         You weren’t seized immediately?

         No. As per my estimates, it was around seven minutes before I lost consciousness.

         Where were you then?

         I could see the water, he says, as though he does not mind her interruptions. She takes another bite of croissant.

         And then?

         It was difficult to see, the streetlamps were out. I didn’t remember marking that as suspicious, it was more of an annoyance. The black water of the Thames was visible more because of the lights from the other side of the river, and the surface of it was shimmering, moving with the current and the raindrops.

         Hermione resists bringing her legs up underneath her, or propping her head on her hand, or leaning forward. His voice is deeper than she remembers it, more sure of itself.

         And then?

         Nothing. Blackness. Well, he reconsiders, there was pain.

         And can you describe this pain?        

         He thinks, for a moment. Hermione doesn’t press him, she understands what it’s like, the difficulty of putting hurt into words. When it happens it is always so vivid, feels impossible that you will ever forget. But you do. She has never been able to speak about The Manor.

         It felt like – he hesitates, and when he looks at her, he is sorrowful. She is not familiar with the way that emotion contorts his face, and she studies him, for a moment forgetting she is not supposed to be entranced. It was like the crucio, he says, and she blinks, and is reminded all over again of the things she is not supposed to feel.

         Exactly like it? Her voice does not wobble.

         No, he dips his head slightly to her. The initial pain, the searing, that felt like the curse.

         Do you think that was used by your attackers?

         Perhaps, though it feels like that would have been a waste of their time, if they were trying to take me somewhere else.

         Do you think they were?

         His brow raises. Do you not?

         I’m not sure. If you were dumped in the river afterwards, it seems silly to try to move a grown man just to move him right back.

         I didn’t wake up in Battersea, he reminds her.

         The currents are strong. You would have floated downriver anyway.

         He pauses again, and stares at the table. She wonders if this is hard for him, to admit the weakness. To admit that he was in trouble at all. If he has spent years working abroad, appearing invincible then –

         She stops herself. She is not here to psychoanalyse him. She is going to solve this problem, and then send him on his way, and then go back to her life.

         The thought causes her to start aching again, so she pushes it down.

         I suppose, he allows, and she has to remember what they were talking about before.

         Where did you regain consciousness?

         The Tower.

         She cannot hide her surprise.

         A long way.

         Yes.

         Hermione reflects again that it is a miracle he is not dead.

         I shouldn’t –

         No, she agrees. You should not be alive. It seems they tried very hard to make sure you were not.

         It does.           

         She pays no attention whatsoever to the way he looks at her.

         Right, she exhales, standing and leaving her croissant unfinished. I suppose we better get to work.

         He blinks, because he thought they already were working.

         She moves the table to the side, conjures a second one to place next to it, and then changes the shape so they are more rectangular. It would make the space awkward, but Hermione basically built these archives, and certainly did all the enchantments on them herself. The shelves move to make space for them, and she turns them all around, so that the wooden backs of them face inwards, allowing them to use the smooth surface as a kind of blackboard. Her notes are pinned up, leaving space for his (though if he has done nothing except work his way through her pre-existing work she doubts she needs them), and leaving space for their future plans. The books are divided equally across the two tables, and grouped by geographic location. They can reorder them later, perhaps when they have developed enough theories to divide by theme, but for now this will do.

         The whole time Hermione is conjuring he is staring at her as though he is starving. Being without magic must be infuriating. Hermione does not think about a muggle life, though she often has in the past. For the first time in a long time, she feels grateful she is a witch.

         Well, she says after she is done. This ought to be more practical. 

         He just stares at her. He still has the ability to make her feel breathless, to make her want to scream, to make her feel as though she is being pulled apart and is grateful for it.

         The way you use magic is beautiful.

         She doesn’t know what to say. He has paid her compliments before. He always managed to make it seem like he meant them, that he was the only person who thought those things about her.

         But he has never complimented her magic, and never looked at her like he is looking at her now, and she has not for a long time believed herself to be beautiful.

         I’m going to collect some things from my office, she mutters, and she walks away.

         She casts a silencing charm, and a disillusionment too, and then she hides under her desk. Even through the magic she still presses her hand to her mouth and tries to hold it in. She sounds like an injured animal and maybe she is, because he has told her one kind thing in fourteen years of nothing, and it has nearly killed her.

         She tells herself she is worth more than this. She tells herself that she is strong. She tells herself all sorts of things she knows are lies, but they are supposed to help, and once she had been instructed that if she says them enough she will eventually believe them.

         Hermione wonders if that would have been true. If there was a universe where she had gotten over him, if there was a world where she had looked after herself and made herself strong, and was able to turn him away from her without a care in the world.

         She checks her appearance before she returns, and has to brighten her eyes and remove the redness from her nose and cheeks.

         Didn’t find it? He asks, and she realises that she was meant to have brought something back with her.

         No, she says, after a beat. I must have left it at home.

         Will you bring it tomorrow?

         She hears the stress behind his words, the tightness there. She wonders if he has ever cried like she does over him.

         Yes. I’ll bring them tomorrow.

         When tomorrow arrives Hermione brings several of the texts she has on her dining room table, even though she knows they will be useless. She mimes reading through them anyway, and he works carefully on the other table. He does not ask her if she has found anything, and she is relieved when the next day comes and she can discard them again.

         They work steadily and in silence. Hermione finds herself looking forward to seeing what pastry he brings every morning, so she stops herself from finishing them. He never says anything, though he does not clear her half-eaten things away until they reach the end of the day, when he finally places them, defeated, in the bin.

         When you were attacked, she asks at the end of the week. His head snaps up immediately.

         Yes?

         You weren’t sure if a person had made the wound.

         You mean, was I attacked by an animal?

         Yes.

         He pauses and he looks frustrated though she isn’t sure why.

         I don’t think so, he says after a moment.

         Why not?

         What kind of animal would knock me out, first?

         Well, it could have been working with the people who wanted you dead.

         Again, people – are you sure it was more than one? Do you think there are gangs roaming the streets of London, divesting people of their magic with large creatures on leashes?

         His voice is snide and she relaxes into it. This is much better than the silence or the compliments.

         We can’t rule anything out, she replies coolly.

         I think we can rule that out, he snorts, derisive.

         Why?

         I just don’t think it’s likely.

         She wants to hit him.

         You not thinking it’s likely doesn’t mean anything, she points out. Unless there is something you’re not telling me, and you have other information.

         I’ve told you everything I can remember, he snaps.

         Then have you found anything that rules out the idea it was created by an animal?

         Not specifically. His jaw is clenched so hard it appears to take some effort to speak. She stares at him dispassionately, trying not to marvel at how easy it is to wind him up.

         Well, then. We’ll keep an eye out for any rumours of beasts, mythical or magical, that feed on magic, she replies calmly. I think there are probably creatures from Asia that might fit into that description.

         She eyes the stack of books on his desk pointedly. He rolls his eyes at her, and she makes a careful note on the board of ‘ideas’. This is to record any theories that might pop into their heads, no matter how unlikely they are. Hermione’s ideas outnumber his, and she is trying not to get frustrated with how slowly he is going. Perhaps the loss of magic also impacted his brain. She also notes that down, to check his mental facilities. She should have been monitoring him from the beginning, but she doesn’t want to look at the wound again. She doesn’t want to look at his body.

         What’s that for?

         He has come up behind her and she jumps, dropping the quill. The tip of it breaks as it hits the floor, and ink splatters up her leg.

         Bugger. She curses, and they both drop to the floor.

         I’m sorry, he is saying as she avoids eye contact, snatching up the broken quill.

         It’s fine.

         I’ll fix it.

         It will take me seconds to get a new one.

         But this one is your favourite.

         She hates that he has noticed that.

         It’s fine, she says again, crouched on the floor. She is starting to feel the ink seep through her tights.

         It’s okay if it’s not, he says, gently.

         There are lots of things that are not okay, and this quill is the least consequential of all of them. She will not give him the satisfaction of giving in.

         It’s fine.

         She stands up. They have been close for too long, and her heart is beating fast. Her body remembers things it shouldn’t and forgets the things it should have held onto.

         Mental damage? He asks, stepping away from her and nodding to the ideas board.

         She nods.

         If you suffered a blow to the head, and also lost your magic, it’s entirely possible that your mind was damaged in some way. It might explain why you are having trouble with the research.

         He starts laughing then, and even though it’s not directed at her, she feels slightly adrift, as though she’s missing the joke.

         He laughs loudly, and for a long time, and afterwards when he walks off to the stacks still chuckling to himself, she realises that she can’t remember the last time she laughed like that, and whether he always sounded so angry when he did.

         He comes back with more food. She tries not to sigh when she sees it.

         I brought lunch with me, she says instead and he just shrugs and places the noodles in front of her.

         I’ve wanted to try this place for ages.

         I brought lunch with me, she repeats.

         So just eat it tomorrow instead.

         She stares at the takeaway box. She doesn’t know how to explain without sounding crazy that she needs to eat it that day, because it’s her Thursday lunch, and it’s what she eats every Thursday. She also doesn’t know how to explain to him that sure, maybe another time she’d be able to eat whatever she wanted and something like this wouldn’t throw her. But he is here and she brought her lunch with her and she doesn’t want his noodles.

         She leaves the whole thing, and doesn’t eat her lunch either, and he leaves early, that day. Just gets up and announces that he has an appointment at four and walks out, leaving her staring after him, blinking, slightly.

         When he’s gone she tries the noodles. They taste so good they terrify her.

         She’s not so far gone yet. She calls the therapist again. Apologises about last time. Makes a new appointment. 

         She dreams about the noodles. The next day she doesn’t wait to see what he brings. She gets there early, and presents him with a pastry from the place round the corner from her. It’s an apple turnover, she didn’t dare get him a croissant after the butter comment. But he thanks her and she nods and he doesn’t leave early that day, even though it’s Friday and surely he has somewhere better to be. They work all the way through till 8pm, and when Hermione realises the time she’s somewhat startled.

         Plans this weekend, he asks mildly, as though they often exchange small talk.

         No, she replies before she can think up a lie. You?

         No, he tells her, packing up his satchel with the most recent of the diaries. Probably just writing.

         Writing?

         I’m writing up some of my research notes, for publication, he explains.

         Oh.

         Hermione hadn’t thought that he would do something like that. That maybe one day she might browse past a book with his name on it. She’s strangely grateful she has heard it from him and didn’t just see the words on the shelf one day.

         What kind of notes, she asks and he smiles, hesitatingly.

         Well, I’ve travelled a lot.

         Yes, she agrees.

         The idea came from a friend. The one who lives in Paris, he explains. She nods. She does not have friends who live in Paris, or anywhere else.

         They thought I ought to write up some of my travels.

         They’re not confidential?

         I’d leave bits out, he shrugged, but for the most part no. These would be more academic. Remember Lockhart, he pulls a face, and she is almost tricked into a laugh. He was her first proper crush, and he made her look like a fool too.

         I do, she allows, and thinks of him at the end of his life instead, crumpled in the Janus Thickey Ward, on a yellowing bed, talking to the ceiling.

         Well, something like that but also actually factually correct, I suppose. A write up of the different cultures I’ve come across, the kinds of magic I’ve seen, that sort of thing.

         That sounds interesting, she says quietly and she focuses on packing up her own bag.

         If you’d like I can tell you more about it, he suggests, so quietly that she perhaps thinks he’s joking.

         If you like, she shrugs, not sure what they’re doing right now if it’s not talking about it.

         Over dinner, he then qualifies, and she knows he has tried to trick her.

         I have dinner plans, she lies.

         You don’t, he says calmly.

         How do you know that.         

         You just told me you have no plans.

         Maybe I wanted to hide them from you.

         Why?

         Maybe they’re with a man.

         Why would you lie about that, he asks after a moment. This has gotten out of control, but he has always made her feel like that and she is sick of it.

I like to keep my private life, private.

         Lilith mews and he looks down at her and smirks.

         Come for dinner with me, Hermione. It’s just a meal. You wanted to know more about my travels. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

         She wants to say yes, so she has to say no.

         Maybe some other time, he says after she refuses again. His eyes are tight but he still manages to have that air of knowing. The suggestion that he is winning even if all evidence is to the contrary.

         She doesn’t bother to refuse again, she just waits for him to walk out first and locks up behind him.

         Can I come in on Sunday, he says.

         Why?

         It’s easier to write here than it is at home.

         She frowns as she considers his words.

         Is that what you’ve been doing?

         Pardon?

         All this time? When I’m researching ways to save your magic. Have you just been writing your book?

         She is so angry that her voice sounds unfamiliar to even herself.

         No, Hermione.

         Don’t lie to me.

         I’m not.

         I don’t believe you.

         If you looked at me you might.

         She risks it, and he is furious, too. She reminds herself that he doesn’t deserve her trust. 

         Well?

         I’m researching. I swear it.

         He does look like he’s telling the truth, and that makes her even angrier.

         You can’t come in on Sunday.

         Don’t tell me you have plans, he sneers.

         So what if I did?

         I don’t know when you’re going to get sick of whatever you call this excuse of a life, Hermione, but I’m already bored of the lies.

         Each word hurts, and they’re both shocked by it. She wants to defend herself against the accusation, she wants to make him hurt just as much as she does. She knows it’s unfair precisely because it’s so accurate.

         I like to do yoga on Sundays and cook for the week, she says quietly instead, because she doesn’t know how to protect herself.

         I’m sorry.

         Just leave.

         Hermione. Let me – let’s go for dinner.

         Perhaps this is a better punishment than raging at him. She can hear how sorry he sounds, even though she won’t look at him to see it. Perhaps she can punish him forever. Perhaps she can stop researching for him. Perhaps she can forget him. 

         I’m not going to dinner with you. Just leave.

         Will – Monday?

         She glances at him and wishes she hasn’t. She remembers that expression, even though it's slightly different on his adult face. That sick wanting, the knowing that something terrible is happening and it’s too late to stop it.

         I’ll be here on Monday.

Chapter Text

Eight

         Hermione goes to yoga on Sunday. And cooks for the week. And cleans her flat. And when she arrives on Monday, he is there early, waiting for her. He looks relieved when she turns up, as though he was worried that she wouldn’t.

         She has work to do before she can help him. Cataloguing, replying to correspondence. The Auror office are still struggling with their case, and tracking down the right files to help takes time. When she breaks for lunch, he sidles over to her desk.

         How’s it going, he asks, like normal. Perhaps he has already moved past it, perhaps he has already forgotten what he said. Hermione isn’t so sure she can. His words echoed round her head all weekend.

         Fine, she replies tightly. He looks at her lunch.

         That looks good.

         She doesn’t reply, but waits for him to leave before she starts to eat it.

         I wanted to say I was sorry, he says quietly, when he realises she will not talk to him.

         Don’t bother, she says quickly.

         No, this is important, he insists.

         Don’t, she mutters again.

         I was out of line, he continues. I said things I shouldn’t have. I let my – I got frustrated, he finishes, and she wants to throw her lunch in his face.

         You got frustrated? Her voice is ice, and he nods, unphased by her tone.

         Yes. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.

         You shouldn’t have thought it in the first place, she says and she has lost because that’s as good as admitting his words found their mark.

         He looks at her for a moment, and then braces his forearms on the ledge of her seating area. He’s close, but not too close, about three feet away. He turns his head towards her, and holds her gaze, and speaks slowly and calmly to her.

         I can’t apologise for what I thought, Hermione.  I was – I am concerned. But I should not have voiced my concerns in that manner.

         He sounds like he’s learnt how to say things like that in therapy and Hermione doesn’t know why the thought incenses her, but it does.

         I don’t know what you – I don’t know, he breaks off and stands up abruptly again. At least she is frustrating him, she thinks. At least he is not immune. I don’t recognise you, he says and it’s the cruellest thing he has said or done so far.

         I’m not – it’s been – did you expect me to be the same, she sneers to cover up the tremor. 

         No, he says so truthfully it stuns her. I expected you to be doing something other than sitting in this silent archive, though.

         I like it.

         That’s what concerns me.

         My actions are not yours to be concerned about, she reminds him. It’s been what? Thirteen years since she last saw him at the trials? Twelve? She wants to tell him that he abandoned her, but she does not. She wants to explain that it was never about the fact he was a Death Eater. That she is broken because he left her. She waited for him, and he left her. She keeps her thoughts to herself. 

         I know they’re not, he says, trying to keep an even keel. This is better. She watches the way his hands grip themselves and is once again intrigued by them. She knows, because she took his top off that first night, that he is a lot broader than he was when she last saw him naked. The strength that she never could see is now more apparent. But the unpredictability is gone. He’s centred. Secure in himself. His body is not the only thing to have matured. Hermione suddenly hates that she is thin.

         Then why are you here.

         Because you’re helping me, and I felt bad. Because I was wrong, Granger. What else do you want me to say?

         He has slipped, calling her by her surname. This is worse than Hermione. This burns.

         I don’t want you to say anything, she tells him truthfully. I’m busy.

         You’re ignoring me.

         See for yourself, she shoves the papers towards him. The Auror office need help. Not everything is about you.

         He barks a laugh. Don’t I know it.

         But he picks the papers up anyway, and scans them. Considers for a moment.

         Have you sent them Chiella’s Constructing Curses?

         She blinks.

         No. I’d have to check if we –

         You’ve got a copy, he finishes for her and her humiliation burns. I’ve been using it the past few weeks, for research.

         Anything useful?

         Not for me, he sighs. But I think it would do the trick for this. Especially chapter 15.

         Hermione knows the book, but she doesn’t know it well and hasn’t read it in a long time. She does not think, no matter what he has done to her, that he would lie about something like this. His respect for work, for magic, has always gone beyond his respect for people. 

         Fine, she allows, and he tells her he’ll bring it over. She manages two bites before he is back.

         Don’t stop on my account, he places it next to her. She shakes her head. He stares down at it again.

         What’s the deal with it, anyway?

         With what, she snaps. She’s busy. She wants to eat her lunch, and go back to work.

         The food stuff, he snorts.

         She doesn’t know how to reply.

         I don’t like people watching me eat.

         He frowns at her, as though she doesn’t make any sense.

         What if you’re in a restaurant. Is that okay?

         I – she stops herself, before she admits that she has not been in a restaurant in years, because she has no one to go with, and she is too scared to go alone.

         I like to dine in a private members club when I’m here, he tells her, smoothing over the silence. It’s a muggle one. No one bothers you. Come for dinner.

         I already said –

         Come for dinner tonight. It’s Monday. People aren’t going to think we’re on a date on a Monday.

         The fact that he’s even dared to say the words out loud, to admit that they might actually have gone on a date makes the floor swim underneath her. She isn’t aware she has swayed until his hand grips her shoulder.

         How long since he last touched her? His hands aren’t cold anymore. They burn.

         Okay, she says because he has to leave her alone and she is tired of saying no. Okay.

         Great, he almost whispers, removing his hand slowly. Great. We’ll leave at the normal time?

         She just nods, and he goes away.

         The normal time arrives and Hermione is trembling. 

         We’ll floo to mine, and then walk. Is that okay? I’m afraid because it’s muggle -

         I’m not going to The Manor. 

         No, he says quietly. No, I live in Mayfair, now. Right by Hyde Park. The club is about a 5, 10 minute walk. 

         Right, she replies. She's trembling because of the cold. 

         Are you -

         I’m not feeling well, she tells him. I actually think I should just go home. I think I’m coming down with something and I’ve been very cold all day.

         Hermione - 

         I’ll see you tomorrow. Sorry. 

         He grabs her arm, and he doesn’t let her go to the floo. 

         Let me go, she hisses. 

         No, he replies. She cannot believe that he won’t let her. For all of their history, he has been unfailingly polite these past few weeks and she cannot wrap her head around the fact that he will not let her do something. 

         You don’t have magic, I do. I could hurt you. 

         She doesn’t reach for her wand, though.

         Come to dinner with me, Hermione. I swear to God. I just want to sit down and talk somewhere that isn’t a fucking mausoleum to all the things you’re hiding from. 

         Let go of my arm.

         No. I’ve tried giving you space and it clearly doesn’t work. So you’re coming to dinner and I will drag you through this floo myself if I have to. 

         You wouldn’t d-

         Her retort is broken by green spinning and she’s screaming at him but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t move an inch, even when they’re spat out onto the black and white marble floor of his atrium. 

         She hasn’t realised that she has lost control but she has, because she is crying in front of him which she swore she wouldn’t do again and screaming at him until she is hoarse. He just stands there, until she sags. 

         And then, because he is doing this to torture her, to hurt her, he carefully cradles her to his chest, and holds her even tighter. 

         Don’t, she is saying over and over again, and even she isn’t sure what she means anymore. She doesn’t know what to do with this pain. She thought it had gone, she thought she was in control of it. And he has shattered all of it and she is nothing. 

         He is trembling ever so slightly, and she doesn’t know why she doesn’t move away yet. For the first time all day she doesn’t feel cold, and his hands are making small, soothing motions along her back. 

         They stand that way for a long time. She is embarrassed to speak. She is exhausted. 

         I know, he says, and she has said those things out loud because perhaps she doesn’t have any control left. I know. 

         I don’t want to go to dinner, she says in a small voice. He stiffens slightly, but his soothing strokes don’t stop. 

         Why? He asks, heavily. Please tell me why. A real reason, Hermione. 

         She sniffs. 

         Because I’m not dressed properly. 

         There is a beat, and he steps back, though his hands stay on her upper arms. She stares at the floor. 

         You look perfect. 

         Don’t, she says again. She has forgotten all her other words, it appears. His loafers are ever so slightly scuffed at the toe. 

         I mean it. They’re not an overly smart club, anyway. Just turn your robes into a coat, and you’ll be fine. 

         Hermione isn’t sure her jumper and trouser combination is smart enough for any kind of members club that he would join, but she is so, so tired. And thirsty. He leads her out of the house like she is a small child, and doesn’t let go of her arm the entire way there. She should probably be interested in his muggle life, the fact that he lives here, now. But she can’t drum anything up except the energy to put one foot in front of the other. 

         They arrive, and she dreads meeting the maitre d’, because he lied and this is a very fancy club. 

         He knows the man well, apparently. Greets him by name. Moves to one side to show off Hermione, who manages a smile for Alex, who is very handsome in the way that older men are and stands behind the podium by the door like he owns the place. He greets her as though she doesn’t look like she has been crying, and isn’t wearing old, unflattering clothing. He greets her like she is a person. She can’t cry again. 

         They walk up an enormous staircase and are ushered into a private room. The seats are deep, and comfortable, and there is art everywhere, which makes sense, she supposes if the club’s name is literally The Arts Club. A wine list and a menu are placed into her hands, water is brought smoothly to the table. She is offered a choice between still or sparkling and she asks for still, and he tells them to leave the bottle and tops her up as soon as she’s gulped down her first glass. She’s still slightly numb. It’s happened so fast she doesn’t know how she got here. But he is ordering some wine quietly, the sommelier is gesturing excitedly and he is nodding in agreement, so she turns her attention to the food. 

         It all looks rich, and decadent. She chooses fish, and he orders a white, on the recommendation of the sommelier. She tries to see how much it is but the menu is taken from her before she can find it, and then they are left alone. He is leaning forward towards her attentively, and his eyes look a bit bright, too. She breathes out, and he breathes with her. 

         I’m sorry, she mutters.

         You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who is sorry. 

         She feels the weight of those words and knows he is not apologising just for this evening. She shakes her head. It is not enough. 

         Why did you want me to come here.

         I thought you would like it, he says mildly, as the sommelier re-enters once more and makes a show of pouring the wine. They both look to Hermione, to see if she wants to be the one to try it, but she just shakes her head. 

         Besides, he continues after the wine has been poured and they have been left alone again, I do want to spend time with you outside the archive.

         You don’t like it? 

         It’s beautiful, he replies, so free with his compliments when she used to be desperate for them, but I don’t like to stay in one place for so long. 

         So why have you? 

         He rolls his eyes. Come on, Hermione. I’m hardly able to travel. 

         She looks at his stomach again. 

         It’s not healing? 

         You did a good job, he tells her. The stitches are out, and the scar doesn’t seem like it will be too bad. It’s more about the lack of magic. 

         She didn’t tell him to take the stitches out, and she wonders how he knew that. 

         You’ll really be in danger if you leave? 

         I don’t know who did this to me yet, I don't know where would be safe. 

         She sits back, sips her wine and considers. There is too much between them to be able to think clearly, so she ignores it. He’s won, after all. She came to dinner when she didn’t want to, when she threw a temper tantrum about it, when she cried all over his shirt. She decides to focus on the problem instead of on him, and when she thinks about it as a puzzle she is able to relax. 

         I feel like we’re trying to start in the middle, she says after a moment. There’s still so much I don’t know, so much information I don’t have. Let’s go back to the beginning. She looks at him. You worked in Cairo first, didn’t you? Start there. 

         He shakes his head. That wasn’t my first job. 

         What was? 

         Azkaban, he tells her and his lips flatten into nothing. Her pulse speeds, slightly. If you want to start at the beginning, then I need to tell you about prison. 

         I wasn’t meant to stay in for so long, he starts, and Hermione doesn’t resist this time, tucking her feet underneath her. It’s probably terribly bad manners. But there is no one here to stop her, just the both of them, the dim sounds of the city outside and the rowdier restaurant downstairs and the slow hiss of the fire that is managing to keep the chill from settling in again. 

         I wasn’t meant to stay in for so long. Originally my sentence was just over a year, fourteen months. We’d reached a plea deal privately, and in exchange for certain information, I’d be out before I was twenty. 

         I didn't know that, she says softly. 

         No one did, he admits. I was going to get out, go home, and then leave the country immediately. Kingsley wanted a fresh start, but he also needed what I could give him.

         What happened? 

         Azkaban was still vile. The worst place I have ever been, without question. But it was in a period of transition. There were no dementors, and in the gaps other things had started to fill the power vacuum. 

         More guards? 

         Yes and no. He sighs heavily. What I'm going to tell you is highly confidential. I have never said any of this to another person.

         Are you going to have to kill me? Maybe it’s only because she is so tired of crying that she tries to make a joke, but he chuckles appreciatively, even if it isn’t that funny. She isn’t surprised now that he knows the reference, given that they are eating in muggle London and he has functioned perfectly well without magic for so long. 

         No. You’re probably the only person, actually, who I could tell and manage to avoid prison again. 

         She doesn’t understand why. 

         Our - our project, he clarifies, going a bit pink. The work we did on the Unbreakable Vows. 

         Are - is this a joke? 

         No, his lip twitched. No. It turns out that Vector was an arse and wanted to punish you for partnering with me -

         We already knew that. It was strange to talk about this as though it had happened yesterday. As though she was capable of revisiting these memories without wanting to claw them out of her brain. 

         True, although it was nice to have it confirmed. Especially at a time when I didn’t have anything else going for me. He clears his throat. Anyway. The Unbreakable Vow research was invaluable when it came to breaking down the relationship between the island that Azkaban was built on, and the Dementors themselves. 

         She waits for him to explain, and her heart is beating fast but it's not because she is scared. Hermione realises that she is excited. She wants to know, she wants this hidden, forbidden knowledge. She tries to keep her expression neutral and not smile, because he is grave as he continues. 

         The relationship between the very rock that Azkaban was built from and the Dementors themselves turns out to have been complex. It appears that they were in a symbiotic relationship, had basically constructed an ecosystem where the main source of food was the misery of the prisoners. The physical location was so grim that it fed the prisoners’ misery, which in turn fed the Dementors, whose energy then went back into the island. So when the Dementors left, there was a gap. By this point, enough magic had been exposed on that island - the prisoners are bound and left without powers but their magic doesn’t just disappear, it's a sitting duck of power, as it were. Anyway, out of this gap things were created. Developed. 

         And you were tasked with getting rid of the problem? 

         It became known quite quickly that I was able to deal with these creatures thanks to our research. News got back to the man at the top, and my first mission, as it was, was planned. I agreed to stay a little longer in exchange for money and a guaranteed post somewhere far away from England after I got out, and the work itself I found satisfying. I enjoyed it, he admits, before taking another sip of wine. She can’t take her eyes off him. Off his brilliance. She’s jealous, she realises once more. So jealous of his life. She was meant to be the one who had won the war. And somehow, she had lost. 

         You never wanted to stay, she dares to ask, as their food is brought in. There is a tense silence while they wait for the waiter to leave them alone again. 

         No, he says as the door shuts softly on them. I couldn’t stay here. 

         She focuses very intently on removing the bones from the fish. 

         So, Cairo? She can’t ask him about why he left, because she has decided that she does not want to know. He did, and she stayed here, and she never allowed herself to move on, when he so clearly did. 

         Cairo was the first job I got in the ‘real world’, he says wryly, although that was also a contract. Cursebreaking. It wasn’t particularly interesting, it didn’t give me the same amount of satisfaction as Azkaban, but it was worth it. And after years on that freezing island, to be somewhere warm…he trails off as he remembers. His eyes have gone slightly hazy, and she can almost feel that dry heat herself. It was like being able to breathe again, he says. 

         Hermione knows exactly what he means. And she has only ever felt that with him. 

         So, she rallies, bringing her attention to the problem they are trying to solve. These Azkaban…things. You got rid of them permanently? There would be no risk they might still exist, searching for you? 

         No, he says. I destroyed the number of monsters that had begun to develop, and then I devised a way to interrupt the food chain, he pulls a face of disgust, as though he doesn’t know how else to describe it even if it is distasteful to him, based off of our earlier work. 

         Hermione, despite being exhausted and sure she has had enough emotions for one day, is annoyed that he used their work and she was not credited in any way. 

         Right, she says, clipped. 

         I couldn’t see you, he tells her, and she brushes it off. 

         So it’s not to do with the prison. Cairo? 

         Low-level, pyramid things. 

         You said it wasn’t what interested you. What did you mean? 

         He sighs. 

         The work that I've done since then, some of which has been for the Ministry, some has been for my own interest, has very much focused on dissecting and understanding different kinds of magic. Learning about different cultures, powers, how it all fits together. I suppose you might think of it as experimental, he shrugs, the way that I have been almost collecting different experiences to try and broaden my own understanding of what it really means to be a witch, or wizard, or human being with magic. 

         She pauses as she digests this. There is something that is out of reach for her, she recognises the slight tickle on the back of her neck that she is closing in on a theory. She just can’t work out which thread to pull yet. And underneath it all, the anger, the jealousy, the pain. He had found that interest with her. He had taken their work, and used it to create a career she would not have even dared to dream of. And he had left her. 

         What happened after Cairo, then, she asks, trying to keep her attention focused on eating and not the rage. 

         After about two years I grew fed up of working for someone else. I didn’t have enough time to pursue my own interests and I didn’t want to come back to the UK. I knew that the longer I stayed working for one group, the greater likelihood there was of me having to be directed around, or back, to here. I didn’t want to be promoted, and I haven’t exactly been a fan of organisations since the last one I was in… he trails off. Hermione spears the last bite of her fish and chews carefully. She waits for him to continue. 

         I left. Went East. I’d come across a few things that had intrigued me during my time in Egypt, and it was these that I wanted to follow up. 

         What were they? She probably needed to know, if they were going to come up with a solution. She asks him for that reason, not because she’s desperate to just…know. Not because she cares what he’s done, or what his life looks like now, or anything like that. He has the grace to look down at his plate. 

         I wanted to find a way to remove my Dark Mark, he says quietly, and she is stunned as she chastises herself for not noticing earlier. 

         Ah. 

         Yes. 

         And you were successful? 

         He draws up his sleeve and shows her the expanse of forearm that is bare. An expanse of forearm that she has never, ever seen. It’s clear, milky white. There’s not even a scar. 

         Impressive, she says woodenly. She can’t tear her eyes from the skin, the blue of his veins underneath it. She wonders if she can see his pulse beating. Her breath comes a little quicker when she thinks about what it would feel like to run the tip of her finger along his wrist. 

         It took a while, he allows. And I ended up travelling all over the place in the mean time. 

         How did you figure it out? 

         I found myself in and around the Mongolian Steppes, and spent a while travelling there, moving between nomadic peoples. I was first drawn across because of the Pazyryk burials. The burial of the ‘ice maiden’ there was of interest to me, due to the tattoos on her body. Of course, the muggles got to her first and she’s now in a museum. But there are a number of magical peoples in that area of the world who understood what I was looking for. 

         It didn’t really answer Hermione’s question. 

         So her tattoos helped you -

         He clears his throat and folds his knife and fork together. There’s still food on his plate, but she supposes she hasn’t given him much time to eat it. 

         I retrained, he says, hesitantly. With them. The kind of magic they do - it offered me something I couldn’t find here. It offered me a way out. 

         She blinks. She wonders if he sees how much effort it is to hold herself still. She wanted a way out. Christ, she’s been searching for a way out for years, now. 

         What did you do? 

         Her voice is flat and he holds her gaze and she wonders why he’s so embarrassed. 

         I’m a shaman, I suppose. 

         They both stare at each other. He is beautiful, and she is trying to remember how to feel around him. 

         A shaman? 

         Yes. 

         For how long? 

         About five years, now. 

         You said it offered you something new. 

         The process is arduous. It - he sighs, frustrated, but this time at himself. I had to unravel my very being. Start again. Allowing me to follow through this process in the first place, as an outsider, was a great honour. But it was also without doubt the most emotionally, physically and spiritually gruelling experience of my life.

         She understands now, what he was seeking. What he managed to find. Oblivion. A fresh start. A scarless body. 

         Shamans are not like wizards, he continues in his low voice. They act outside the forces that we understand that govern magic. It's not formulaic. There is no arithmancy, he tries a joke too, but she doesn’t laugh. It’s more unpredictable, more instinctual. It’s incredibly freeing, actually, he offers to her. It feels like you are closer to everything, not just yourself, but to the world around you. 

         Hermione thinks. Breathes. Looks back at him. 

         Then if you have made yourself again, how was your magic able to be separated from you? 

         I don’t know.

         But you have a theory? 

         He sighs. 

         I think whoever did this must know. They must know that I am different in some way. 

         She nods carefully. 

         Very well. I’ll read them. 

         Read - ?

         Your notes. You offered them to me, did you not? 

         I did.

         Good. Bring them all in tomorrow.

         It’s the end of the meal, the end of the discussion. She is so tired, she doesn’t know if she’ll sleep. She still has that feeling, his confession has not lightened it. There is something else, perhaps. Something they are ignoring, probably something right in front of their eyes. It’s always the way. 

         As they descend, Hermione’s attention is snagged on the sounds coming from the bar below. Music is playing. People are laughing, talking loudly. Even if it is only a Monday, the people here don’t have day jobs. They don’t care. 

         He notices her attention and misreads it.

         Do you want to stay for one more? 

         No, she says, shivering slightly. No. I want to go home. 

         He hides his disappointment well, but she can feel it as he helps her into her coat. His fingers accidentally catch the side of her neck, and she pulls away quickly. They go out into the cold again, and Hermione does not say anything when they walk into his foyer, and she apparates away. 

Chapter Text

         He brings all of the notes the day after their dinner, and she spends the rest of the week pouring through them. It feels painfully intimate to read them. To experience where he has gone, to read about the different cultures he has learned about, to see the way he has worked things out. 

         It is remarkable. The amount that he has done. What he has achieved. 

         The process of becoming a shaman is explained in excruciating detail. He was not exaggerating when he told her it involved remaking himself from scratch. He literally had to break down everything inside himself to the smallest degree. To project himself outside of his body, to discover the rawest, most animalistic parts of himself. It almost sounds too far-fetched to be true, even for a woman who was told at age eleven that she was a witch. Almost, were it not for the clinical and effective way he has recorded these things. She thinks a lot about what he said, about how he described it as an opportunity. He ripped his soul apart to achieve some sense of peace and freedom. Voldemort would have been proud. 

         She realises that she never asked if it was worth it. If it even worked. For some reason, she isn’t sure. 

         There is something that doesn’t add up about the notes. When she is finished reading the books she takes out the pictures of his wound, and hangs them up on the boards, too. 

         He comes and stands next to her, staring intently. 

         I didn’t realise they looked so bad, he says, as though they are commenting on the weather and not his internal organs. 

         You were quite a mess. 

         I’m sorry for turning up in such a state, he says after a beat. 

         It was certainly a diversion, she allows. He smirks. 

         Since the dinner there has been a sort of thaw between them. She allows herself to be dragged into the research, she stops fighting so much against her own interests. She tells herself that this is an opportunity. She has so much information on her shelves, had thought it was exhaustive. But looking at his notes, she knows she is scratching the surface of what is really out there. She allows him to bring her pastries and finishes them, too. She tries to not notice his satisfaction. She has been holding on to all forms of control for so long, that this new foray into freedom confuses her. Some days she wakes up and can barely eat at all. Some days she wakes up and forgets she isn’t normal. 

         What are you thinking, he asks her. He asks her more questions, now. Constant questions, really. She cannot bring herself to ask him too many in return. But it is there. A detente. 

         The way you’ve been cut still doesn’t make any sense to me, she admits, although that’s not all she is wondering. 

         His notes are filled with drawings and information on tattoos. That would make sense, given what he has said about wanting to remove his Dark Mark. Except it goes beyond that. There are sketches of designs that he has clearly made for himself. And yet, she saw his chest. It was pale. Unmarked. If his magic was ripped from him, would his tattoos have been removed too? She isn’t sure why she’s so hung up on it, but she is.  

         You’re not still thinking about animals are you, he teases, although there’s a tension in his voice when he says it. 

         Look at the way your skin is torn, she traces the edge of his wound. It was blackened, and uneven, and not done with any kind of knife she can think of. That’s not a usual wound made from a spell.

         That’s exactly why we’re here, Hermione, he snaps. Because it isn’t a usual wound. 

         She stares at it for so long he eventually goes back to his desk. 

         She tells him she has to leave early that night and closes the archive at five. He doesn’t ask her where she is going, and she doesn’t volunteer the information that she is going back to therapy. When she arrives at the discreet muggle office, she surprises herself by crying for the full hour. She barely gets a full sentence out before weeping. 

         She had thought there was a detente, but under the patient eye of the therapist, Hermione falls apart again. She sends him a note the next morning, saying she will be in at lunch. 

         He is waiting for her with nervous anticipation. 

         Are you okay? 

         Fine, she says tightly, aware that her eyes are probably still puffy. 

         What -

         It’s fine, she interrupts. 

         Alright, he mutters after a moment. They make their way to their desks and start all over again. 

         Hermione assesses what she knows. She knows that his magic went through a transformation when he became a shaman. That would be interesting for anyone, she reasons. But only a small number of people would have been aware of the change. Was it a group who were angry that he had been allowed to take part in such a sacred ceremony? She would have put her money on disgruntled members of the tribes he visited, were it not for the fact that all of his notes are filled with the suggestion that he was welcomed there. There are even some scribblings in different hands, letters from people he has met. They are all warm, and full of requests to stay in touch. 

         Her next theory is that it might be former Death Eaters who have discovered that he has removed the Dark Mark, and want to punish him. This also seemed promising, but Hermione’s research quickly shows that most of them are either now dead or still rotting away in prison. She has asked him about the likelihood that one of them might have escaped, or have contacts on the outside. They both pursue this for a while, before it appears to also be a dead end. 

         And still, there is something that she knows she is missing. Some obvious point that she is just passing by. 

         I think I need to examine you again, she says one afternoon, almost apologetically. She has tried to avoid this. 

         The outline of his body is still confusingly purple. She examines the scar, which is healing cleanly, although the edges are puckering slightly. She wants to use magic on it, and he shrugs when she asks if it will work. 

         So she tries the smallest cleaning spell she can think of. The scar flickers slightly, but it remains, and there is no sign that he is affected. 

         Can you feel it? She asks. 

         The scar? 

         The magic.

         No, he shakes his head, frowning. I can’t. 

         She tries the healing spell she was thinking of, and the edges of the scar smooth. 

         How about that? She is avoiding looking at the ridges of his abdominals, avoiding the smell of his skin. He is still frowning down at her, and touches the edge of it experimentally. 

         At his touch something happens to his skin, the edges of his fingers blur ever so slightly. Without thinking she grabs his hand and holds it there, moving it this way and that, tracking the tip of his finger as it disappears. 

         She sits back, exhaling. Scribbles some notes, then shakes her head. 

         I don’t know, she admits, frustrated. I don’t know. Could you feel that? 

         I felt the tug of my scar. But not the magic, he tells her. She sighs. She needs to think about this. 

         That night she floats in the bath, idly casting spells in the air as she turns it over. The way the edges of his fingers blurred reminds her of something, but she can’t work out what it is. 

         She sits up too quickly, and water sloshes over the side. Lilith yowls in protest. Hermione disillusions the soap at the end of the bath. And when her fingers trace where she knows the object is, they blur. 

         It’s late but Hermione doesn’t sleep. She goes back to the archive. 

         In the darkness, without him there, she pours over the notebooks all over again. She goes to her desk, finds the manuscripts that she has been waiting to catalogue, the unusual ones that were dropped off anonymously. 

         It is starting to make sense, but she cannot believe the truth. 

         The next day he finds her already inside, in her loose tracksuits that she had thrown on the night before, when she clambered out of the bath and couldn’t be bothered to dry herself properly. She is not asleep, though she is drinking her fifth coffee so far. The caffeine is making her vibrate. 

         You figured something out, he says instantly. 

         She looks at him. Blinks. She wonders if he looks different. If she can see something different about him in light of what she knows. He looks exactly the same. Still holding two coffees, two pastries, one newspaper, one cloak. 

         Just a theory, she says. He grins. 

         What is it? 

         I need to see your wound again, she says, placing her coffee on the table. He crosses towards her quickly, divesting himself of his layers, taking off his shirt. She looks at him properly, then. Takes in the planes of his stomach, the way his muscles bunch underneath his skin. She stares. 

         She brings out her wand, and guides him to sit in one of the chairs. I need to concentrate, she says, and focuses on the edges of the scar. 

         She tries to cast most of it wandlessly. She doesn’t want to give the game away too soon. And then - she finds it. 

         The disillusionment on his body is not one she recognises. It has been altered, adjusted. But it fundamentally works the same way. She experimented over the night, using their Unbreakable Vow research as the jumping off point. What he had said at dinner was lodged in her head. And it turns out, she was right. 

         She cancels the spell with a slice of her wand, and then she sees him. 

         His torso is covered. Tattoos reach all the way to his hands and the base of his neck. He gasps slightly as the charm reveals them, his breathing becoming uneven. She is momentarily transfixed by them. The whorls and markings that she has seen drawn in his notebooks. The animals that she knows have meaning, because he has recorded them in his neat script. They are all there, the story of where he has been and what he has done. All inked onto his skin. And it’s shocking, but even so, he is beautiful. 

         How - he asks her. But she is not going to smile with him, because if she was right about this, then she was right about everything. 

         You forgot you had tattoos? She asks, coolly. 

         I thought they had been removed along with the magic, given that they were magically done. 

         And you didn’t mention it? 

         I was there when they were done, Hermione. I know that they’re not related, he says, and she can’t believe that he is still lying to her. 

         Did you honestly not think I would work it out? 

         He opens his mouth and then closes it, as though he wants to deny it, but thinks better of it. 

         What have you worked out, he asks instead, unsure. He doesn’t make a move to put his shirt back on. 

         That you did this to yourself. That you did this on purpose. 

… 

         They sit in silence for too long. Hermione tries to keep her breathing even, tries to remember what her therapist told her about moderating her emotions. After all the coffee, it’s difficult. 

         I can explain, he says. 

         I’m sure you can, she replies. She crosses her legs. Perhaps she should have worn something different. Something polished, put together. It’s too late to change now. 

         He takes a deep breath in. 

         Very well. He pulls his shirt back on, but doesn’t bother doing it all the way up. Right. She is waiting for him to begin, and he is clearly unwilling to do so. 

         If you don’t explain soon then I will have no choice but to report you to the Aurors, she says calmly. She does not feel calm. She feels like she is on the edge of losing control. Again. 

         The last time I came back to England was one year and seven months ago, he says quietly. The specificity surprises her. 

         I landed from my portkey. I’d been travelling for what felt like an age, it’s a long way to go and an international portkey from the Steppes is not enjoyable. Anyway, I was slightly dazed as I stepped through the customs, and literally bumped into Ginevra Potter. 

         Hermione flinches. Whatever she had expected, it was not this. 

         We were both surprised to see each other, to say the least. I had assumed that she would hate me forever. But she asked how I was, and because I couldn’t resist, because I was and always will be weak, I asked her if she wanted to go for a drink. 

         She can’t quite believe he’s telling her, and she is terrified now. That now she has been proven right, she has to hear the truth. 

         We went to a nearby muggle pub. Had a pint. She told me about her career - she’d just been returning from a training camp. Told me about her family. Potter. Their children. The whole Weasley clan. 

         It’s strange to hear him say those words with only the ghost of animosity. 

         I bought her another drink. I was waiting, you see. She talked about Quidditch, I gave her a brief outline of what I had been up to. I was still waiting, bought a third round. 

         We stayed in that pub all night, until last orders. He is staring at Hermione so intently she is already bracing for it. Her chest is tight, her mouth twisted into some form of grimace. 

         I waited all night, Hermione. And she didn’t bring you up once. 

         Hermione closes her eyes, from him, from everything. She is crying. Perhaps she has been crying since the beginning of this conversation. 

         It was like you had disappeared, he says, and his voice cracks. And I was desperate to know about you. To hear anything, just to know you were alive and you were happy. 

         She concentrates on her breathing, on the darkness that surrounds her. 

         I had to ask about you, he whispers, and she lets out a small whimper despite herself. Just so I could know. So I could know you were okay.

         And do you know what she told me? 

         Hermione shakes her head. She’s changed her mind, she doesn’t want to know. She doesn’t want to know any of this. 

         She said that you hadn’t spoken in over five years. His voice cracks again, and she wipes the slow, quiet tears from her cheeks. She blinks away the ones already re-forming. He is still staring at her. 

         She told me that you hadn’t been well, that you’d pushed them all away and wanted nothing to do with any of them. And then she asked me why I wanted to know. 

         Hermione isn’t sure if she will endure this. He’s speaking so slowly, as though he is desperate to prolong this agony. 

         I couldn’t tell her, he admits. I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t explain to her, in case it got back to you. And I had to be the one to tell you. 

         So I brushed it off, and we went our separate ways, and then I tracked you across London. 

         The casual admission stuns her. 

         You -

         I lied about not spending much time here, he admits, probably the least important of his lies at this point. I spent about four months just trying to find you. He laughs and it's without humour. I used every trick I could think of, even trying to access you through your dreams, but there was nothing. For a while, I was terrified that you actually were dead. 

         But then - I caught a glimpse of you. It was chance, perhaps, but I don’t really believe in that any more. I saw you walking through Highbury Fields. And I couldn’t - I couldn’t breathe. 

         I had told myself that I just needed to make sure you were okay. And then I would leave you alone. I have been trying to leave you alone for fifteen years. You deserve to be with someone good. Someone who treats you like you are meant to be treated. Someone who won’t put you in danger, or force you to live a haunted, broken life. 

         But you weren’t okay. You’re not okay, Hermione. This he whispers, and she wants to walk away now. She can’t. She is trapped there. 

         I watched you for about a month, and you, you were just so unhappy and I couldn’t do anything about it because it was my fault. And I knew - I knew I couldn't, not after what I did to you. Not after how I abandoned you. I knew I couldn’t just walk back into your life and beg for your forgiveness. 

         So I spent the rest of the time working out a plan. And yes. I did it to myself, I separated the magic from my body and nearly died because I knew that underneath it all you were still you. And if I could get you interested in something then I could get you to talk to me, and if I could get you to talk to me then maybe, just maybe there was a chance that you would forgive me. Because that’s the way that you got to me, that’s the way you saved me. And if you could do that for me, then I could do it for you. 

         She doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to process any of this information. 

         I didn’t save you. Her voice is hoarse.

         You did. 

         She shakes her head. You still went with them. She has lived with that knowledge, with that failure, her whole life. 

         I had to, he says. I had to, and it was a mistake. It was the worst mistake of my life. I regret it, every single day. 

         Hermione cannot talk about her regrets. 

         That night, he continues, desperate for her to understand. When you were brought to The Manor. Everything I had done had been because I knew I had to keep you safe. Because I knew that if anyone found out how I felt for you, your life would be over and you wouldn’t have had a chance. 

         I hid you deeper in my mind than anything else. Even the Dark Lord himself wasn’t able to discover it. 

         She wants to snort at his own self-congratulation. 

         And you were fucking tortured in front of me and all my worst fears came true anyway. 

         She can’t tell him what that night was like for her. She doesn’t think she can ever explain the breaking that took place. Not because of Bellatrix’s spell, but because he stood there and did nothing. 

         If I went to help you, he is still talking and how dare he manage to explain himself, I tried to think of any way I could stop it. I could make it end. But I didn’t know how without revealing what you meant to me. And I realised that even if the war ended and he was defeated, I would not have any place in the world that would be built after. I didn’t deserve to. I didn’t deserve to be with you, to put you through that. 

         You never gave me a choice, she argues back. You never let me choose.

         Because you would have chosen wrong, he snaps. 

         I would have chosen you, she admits. 

         I know. You deserved a chance at a better life.

         You left, she whispers, and once she has said the words, something breaks in her. You left. And I waited for you. I waited for you for years. I listened out every night. I thought you were going to die, and I prepared myself to mourn you in secret. I never told anyone. For fifteen years - I never told a single person what you meant to me. 

         I know, he chokes, and at least he is just as wounded as she is. At least she can get some sort of sick pleasure from seeing him so broken, too. I know you didn’t. I’m sorry. Hermione, I am so sorry. 

         Do you think it’s enough, she whispers. Do you think it is enough? Do you think it’s romantic? Stalking me, thinking I look like a mess, deciding to nearly kill yourself in order to get my attention? Is that what you dreamed of, me finding out and running into your arms like the past fifteen years hadn’t happened? 

         I didn’t -

         I come home, every night, and I have to turn on all the lights on myself. 

         Her voice is vibrating with the pain of admitting her loneliness. 

         Do you understand what I am trying to tell you? I come home alone. You left me, and that was it. There is no one else to do it for me - no one else to turn the lights on, or to make me dinner, or welcome me home and tell me they missed me. My life is empty. And the war might be mostly to blame but - I miss you all the time. I cannot be with you. 

         Hermione -

         You ruined me once. And you will not do it again. 

         I don’t deserve your forgiveness, he says quietly. I know that. But you deserve to know that every single thing I have done has been for you.

         Hermione snorts in derision and he has the grace to look as broken as she feels. 

         You abandoned me for fifteen years.

         You were supposed to move on. You were supposed to be happy. You were supposed to be better without me. 

         What do you want? What do you want me to say? 

         I want that, he admits desperately. I just want you to be okay. I want you to be happy. 

         You ruined that for me, when you didn’t look at me during the trials, when you didn’t reply to any of my letters, when you disappeared without a trace. So forget it. This is over. You can restore your magic now, and then you can leave. 

         He blinks at her.

         I don’t know how to.

         Don’t you dare lie to me again.

         I mean it. I didn’t have time to figure out the counter spell, he snaps. As soon as I knew you weren’t okay I spent every single moment trying to find a way to make this work. I didn’t have time to plan how to undo it. I don’t know how to. Not without your help.

         Hermione pauses, truly shocked for the second time. 

         You ripped your magic from your body without figuring out if you could put it back? She doesn’t know what kind of stupid, insane sort of decision that is. 

         Yes, he says. Yes. Because you needed help, and because I need you. I have never stopped needing you. I have never stopped loving you. I love you so much that it feels like it is breaking me. And I tried everything in my power to leave you in peace. But I can’t anymore. Please, Hermione. Please. 

         His voice breaks at this, and she closes her eyes once more. Back in the darkness. He has never told her he loves her before. And she has never said she loves him, either. 

         It doesn’t matter, she says quietly. Not anymore. You need to leave. 

Chapter Text

         Hermione does not go to the archive the next day. She takes the weekend off researching totally. She doesn’t go in the week after, either. 

         In total, Hermione takes ten sick days. She only goes in after she has managed to wake up and not howl. She cries and cries for who she was and what she has lost, what was taken from her. 

         Sometimes she feels so angry she can't breathe. She doesn’t know what to do with her feelings. She doesn’t know where to put it, this great boiling rage. Hermione thought she had grown accustomed to being let down. This shows her she was wrong, and the knowledge of that wrong is almost enough to send her over the edge again. 

         She tries to order her emotions. Tries to think through why she feels this way. 

         She can’t, not yet. All she has is the fury, the hurt, the grief. The sense that something was taken from her, that she has denied herself for nothing. The rage, underneath it all. At him, so much anger at him. 

         He took her work and he made a life with it, without her. And then he tried to say it was for her own good, as though he can make those decisions for her. And then he comes back to her despite it all, and tells her he loves her like nothing has happened between them. 

         He loves her.

         She replays the words every time she wakes up and forgets, and they make everything bad again. That’s good. Hermione likes the bad. She wants to feel bad. She wants to feel terrible and punish the world, but most importantly she wants to punish herself. 

         When Hermione finally feels able to leave her house, she is a different person. To describe herself as a ‘person’ might be a step too far, but it’s all she has. She is thin and angular and angry and her eyes are red-rimmed, they might be dyed that way permanently now. That makes her think of his tattoos, but she manages to call out the archive and step through her floo without weeping again. 

         He’s not there when she arrives. She doesn’t know if she’s disappointed. Of course she is. As much as she hates him, she still wanted him to be there. He isn’t. 

         Instead, there is a mountain of correspondence. Hermione realises that she didn’t tell anyone she wasn’t coming in. She can’t bring herself to feel guilty about that, not on top of everything else. She stares at the desk where he sat. 

         It’s still there. Everything - all their work. He wouldn’t have been able to get in even if he did have magic. Which he doesn’t. Because he tore it out for her and he thought that somehow that would make it all okay. 

         She wonders if it is okay. If the balance between them has been paid, somehow. 

         She doesn’t want it to be. She is still too angry. He left her. He loves her. 

         She cries so often these days that she doesn’t notice that she is crying again. Lilith has not left her side, and her fur is slightly damp as she rubs herself against Hermione’s face. Hermione has placed her head on the desk. She doesn’t remember doing that. 

         She starts to work her way through the letters. 

         They are mainly from the Auror office. It’s not good. It’s not good that she hasn’t been here. She reads and starts to feel guilty even though she doesn’t want to, and when she looks up Harry Potter is standing there. 

         She gapes at him. 

         How did you get in here? 

         The doors were open. 

         Hermione blinks. She forgot to lock them behind her. She is forgetting a lot of things. 

         Hello, she tries again. Her voice doesn’t sound like hers. It’s scratchy. Tired. 

         Hello, Hermione. 

         He sounds so sorry for her she hates it. 

         I’m sorry about the case, she starts to say, clearing her throat. 

         We figured it out, he replies. There is an ocean of unspoken things between them, and she is staring at one of her oldest friends, and she doesn’t know why she ever let him become a stranger. 

         I’m sorry about a lot of things, she says, but there aren’t any more tears. Perhaps she has run out. 

         So am I, he tells her. Can I sit? 

         Sure, she says, and she watches as he crosses into her office and takes the spare, empty chair that is never used, not even by Lilith. 

         Your cat he says, spotting the void standing protectively next to her. 

         This is Lilith, she says. Lilith, meet Harry. 

         Hello, he says, holding out his hand. Then he looks up at her again when Lilith makes no move towards him. What happened to Crookshanks? 

         He died, she says, even though that’s obvious. Last year. I still have his ashes.

         She doesn’t know why she’s telling him this.

         I’m sorry.

         Perhaps they’ll just spend the entire conversation going back and forth, trading these short, useless apologies. 

         He was old. 

         There is a pause. Harry looks nervous. She probably does, too. 

         Would you like a cup of tea, she asks, remembering that this is what people do when they visit each other. They drink tea and share news and gossip. 

         Sure, he says. He follows her into the small kitchen when she makes it. She opens the fridge for the milk, before she remembers that she hasn’t bought any in weeks, because she got so used to him bringing her coffees instead. 

         Is black okay? She asks, closing it quickly. She knows he has seen the empty shelves, knows it as she feels his eyes trace her body. 

         That’s fine, he says, and leans against the side. 

         I am sorry about the proj -

         I’m not here about that, he interrupts her. 

         Oh. She stares into the mugs as she waits for the tea bags to steep, watches the water slowly stain brown. 

         You disappeared for ten days, he says softly. 

         I was unwell. 

         You didn’t tell anyone. 

         Are you my boss, she asks, harshly. He hasn’t spoken to her in years, and now he turns up and expects to be able to tell her off about the way she lives her life? She carefully brings out the tea bags, waiting for the drips to stop completely before carrying them to the bin. 

         No, but about that - 

         Hermione whirls round to him, her eyes wide. 

         About what? 

         He sighs, runs his hand through his hair. It’s still messy. Always has been. And his glasses are slightly crooked, too. Even though the frames look expensive. She wonders briefly what his children look like now, whether they favour him or Ginny more. 

         There’s not an easy way to say this. And I know there’s a lot - there’s a lot to catch up on, he says lamely, but when I heard I thought you deserved to be told in person. By a - he hesitates. By a friend. 

         She breathes quickly and shallowly, and tries not to cry as she hands him the tea. 

         What do you need to tell me. 

         The Ministry want to cut the archive funding. They’re - they’re going to shut it down unless you can find an external source of money. 

         Her legs are hollow, she hasn’t eaten enough. She walks very carefully to the chair and sits, her hands shaking too dangerously to hold the mug of boiling water. 

         External funding? 

         The archive has sat, basically empty since it began, Harry says softly. Kindly. She hates him. It was important and useful, it has been, since the end of the war. This work needed to be done. But now most of the old families have handed their books over, there’s much less to process. The Ministry are looking at budget cuts for all the departments, he adds, but with the latest absence, and the issues with the Auror case, well, he hesitates. Questions were raised about the viability of continuing to fund something like this, when the most important texts could be brought in house. 

         Deirdre’s charms are terrible, Hermione says angrily. Her preservation techniques are archaic. 

         Of course, if you wanted to I’m sure you’d be welcome into the main Ministry archive -

         No, she says quickly. No. I don’t want to work there. 

         She doesn’t. She doesn’t want to be surrounded by people who know who she is, or more accurately, was. 

         Harry sighs. 

         And it isn’t useless, Hermione argues. There was a new shipment the other week, loads of books, on magical techniques from the Pacific Islands - really, that’s basically unknown for so many people here, it could prove essential - 

         There’s just not the budget for things like that, as interesting as though they might be, he says gently. There’s not much we can do, Hermione. Unless you find some sort of funding. 

         She wants to scream. It isn’t just interesting. It’s important. She’s sure of it. There’s plenty that this archive could teach - 

         But then she breaks off. Because she tried that, once, and it didn’t go well either. 

         How likely do you think that is, she asks tightly. 

         There’s one interested party, but other than that, the Ministry haven’t heard anything. Of course, this is still highly confidential so enquiries have been discreet, but still. I’m assuming they’ll want to set up a meeting if you accept, and see how things go. 

         Who’s the interested party, she asks tightly. 

         I don’t know. She knows Harry, knows he is telling the truth. But the fact that there is one is a good sign. 

         Hermione stares off into the direction of his table. The one with all their research. Harry follows her gaze.

         I actually - he clears his throat. I actually came here because of that, in the first place. 

         What do you mean, she asks as she turns back to him with a frown. He sighs. 

         I only heard about the funding plans because Kinsgley caught myself and Malfoy talking in the corridors, Harry mutters. Everything in Hermione tenses.

         Talking about what.

         Well, it was less of a conversation and more of a bollocking, Harry says, and for some reason he is blushing slightly. He tracked me down then demanded to know if I had seen you recently. 

         When, she asks, tightly. He shrugs. 

         Some time last week. I obviously didn’t appreciate being spoken to like that in front of my department and we got into a bit of a row and then Kingsley was there because we were about to have a meeting, and then afterwards when the meeting was over we were making small talk and it was about you and then Kingsley mentioned it and I just thought… I just thought I should be the one to tell you.

         Hermione stares at him.

         What did he say? 

         Kingsley? He -

         No, she says. She can’t speak it. His name. 

         Malfoy? 

         She nods. 

         Well, Harry shifts. There was some mentioning of egos, mine, not yours, and then he said you weren’t - he said you weren’t well and also that he didn’t think it was like me to just abandon someone, erm, lots of stuff like that, Harry says, and Hermione has gone back to staring into the stacks. 

         And? 

         And what? 

         And you just listened to him? 

         Well, I mean, he wasn’t - it’s not -

         You’re now taking friend advice from him, she sneers. 

         Not advice but he had a point, Hermione. I mean, Draco Malfoy knowing more about you than I do - that’s not great is it? 

         She can’t hear this. She might tell Harry the truth. It’s not fair. Harry doesn’t know, Harry moved on easily and put it all behind him and she didn’t. Whatever. I don’t care. 

         You sound -

         He’s been working here, she says.

         He mentioned. 

         Did he mention why? 

         No, Harry says, curiosity filling the word. Is it going well? 

         Hermione doesn’t reply. 

         Is that why you’ve been sick, he crosses to her, sinks down onto his knees. 

         No, she lies. 

         Has he done something to you? 

         Harry takes her hand, tugging it slightly to get her to look at him. 

         Has he jinxed you? Hurt you? Touched you - Merlin, Hermione if -

         No, she manages, and she can’t stop the tears. No it’s nothing like that. 

         Harry stares at her for a long time. His eyes are so green. 

         I shouldn't have given up on you, he says quietly. I shouldn’t have left you. 

         Hermione doesn’t know what to say. He’s not the one she wants to hear those words from. But then she blinks and realises that maybe he should be. Maybe she has been angry at him for all this time, and her friends left her too, in the end. Everyone did. 

         You’re my friend, Hermione. And I shouldn’t have - I think I just wanted everything to be okay. I wanted everything to be okay so, so badly. And the fact that you weren’t okay, that you weren’t coping, I couldn’t handle it. I'm so sorry. I’m so sorry that I gave up. 

         She is shaking again, this stupid shaking. Hermione feels empty. 

         I’m sorry, she tells him, and she means it. I don’t know why I’m not. I don’t know why I’m not okay, and I don’t know how to be better. I don’t know how to be okay about this. 

         It’s like the words have freed something in her, some final, ancient grief that she had pressed down so hard for so long that she had forgotten it was there. 

         I just want to be okay, she sobs into him, as Harry holds her tightly. I just want to be normal again. 

         I know, he says tightly, as tightly as he’s holding her. I fucking hate that we don’t speak anymore. His voice sounds like he’s crying now, too. I miss you. I miss being your friend and I feel terrible that it all happened. 

         I don’t know what your children look like, Hermione bawls into his shirt as she grips him. I pushed you all away. 

         You don’t have to apologise. I do. I shouldn’t have let you, he says into her hair. I should never have let you do that. 

         I miss you so much. I do, I just - I don’t know how to be a person anymore. I don’t know who I am. 

         It’s okay. It’s okay - you don’t have to be. You don’t have to be real or normal or anything. I love you anyway, you know that, right? Gin does too. We all - we all miss you.

         Hermione cries harder, a feat that she wasn’t even sure was possible. But these tears feel - they feel better than the others. 

         They stay like that awkwardly for a long time. Hermione isn’t sure how long. But she has ruined Harry’s shirt, and he doesn’t seem to care, so it’s okay. She pulls back eventually, he conjures up a tissue, and then cleans his shirt quickly as she blows her nose. He also wipes his eyes when he thinks she isn’t looking, and sits back in his chair. 

         I can’t say I expected to cry at work today, he tries to joke, after it has clearly become awkward. Hermione laughs. 

         Oh, I cry at work all the time. You get used to it. 

         She realises as she says it that he is looking at her with concern again.

         Joking, she mutters. He sighs.

         I don’t think you are. 

         No, she gives in. You’re right. But if it makes you feel better, yours is the first shirt I have ruined. 

         She doesn’t know why she’s being so cavalier, but it’s - it’s fun. It’s fun to talk like this with him. He grins. She doesn’t tell him about the shirt she ruined before dinner the other day. 

         I’ll take it. 

         She exhales, gives Lilith a scratch, who has jumped into her lap. 

         She’s a very sweet thing, Harry says. I did - I actually knew you had a new cat, he admits, guiltily. Malfoy mentioned it. I hope that’s okay. 

         He did? She frowns down at Lilith, who mews. 

         Well, he more accurately yelled that I was a shit friend, because Crookshanks had died and you had a new kitten who was the sweetest thing and if I cared about you at all then I would have at least sent some flowers, or cat litter, or whatever the fuck you did under those circumstances. 

         Hermione blinks, unsure how to process this.

         He certainly managed to say an awful lot of things, she says, tightly.

         He was yelling for quite a while, Harry says wryly. I think he wanted to hex me. 

         Hermione snorts despite herself. 

         I doubt he would have. 

         She knows he can’t. 

         Nah, it would have looked terrible if he did. Plus, he’s got quite a reputation upstairs. 

         Really? She asks despite herself. Harry nods eagerly, taking a sip of his tea. 

         Kind of a loose cannon, maverick sort of vibe. Does the odd job. Gin bumped into him a few years back, actually, when he was just coming off a job. Covered in tattoos. He asked after you then, Harry says, after a moment. 

         He mentioned, Hermione says, taking a sip of her own tea. Her hands, mercifully, have stopped shaking. It’s cold, so she warms it up quickly with a wave of her wand. 

         Is it deserved? 

         Is what deserved? 

         The reputation, Harry asks, grinning slightly. Hermione is startled into unhappy laughter. 

         I - he’s gone to an awful lot of places, she allows. He nods. 

         I heard something about a book.

         Yeah, she says, lamely. 

         Is that what you were helping -

         I can’t talk about that, she says tightly. He mistakes her, and thinks it's because of confidentiality. 

         Ah well, he says with a sigh. It was worth a try. 

         She tries to smile again, and can’t stop glancing off to his desk. 

         Where is he today? 

         He’s not coming back, she says quickly. 

         Harry stares at her. 

         Why not? 

         We had a falling out, she tells him, looking back into her mug. He’s quiet for a moment. 

         Would this falling out have happened before he came and accosted me in the corridors of my workplace?

         Hermione feels like this might be a trap of some sort, but isn’t sure how to avoid it. 

         I think so. 

         He’s quiet again. 

         What are you going to do, he asks her quietly. She knows he isn’t talking about… about him. 

         Write to Kingsley, I suppose, she says with a sigh. Set up a meeting? I don’t know. I don’t know what the protocols are. 

         I can speak with him, if you like, Harry offers. Let him come to you. I’ll tell him you’re amenable, and then you can let him do the pushing. 

         Hermione considers this, then nods appreciatively. 

         Thanks. That actually would be a big help. 

         Hey, no worries. And - look it might be a bit much but I’m going to the pub tomorrow with Ron if you wanted to come? He says it quickly, the words tumbling over themselves.

         Her instinct is to say no, but given what has happened she reconsiders. 

         Which pub? 

         The Staff, he says, mentioning a quieter one, slightly off Diagon Alley. No one bothers you, he adds. It’s very lowkey. 

         Hermione looks down into her tea, then up at her friend. 

         Yeah. I’ll pop by for a drink. 

         He grins widely, and he looks so happy that she can’t help but feel good about it. 

         Great. We’ll be there from seven. 

         I’ll see you then. 

         Hermione nearly doesn’t go. She still looks terrible. She still cries herself to sleep. But meeting with Harry has eased something, and she wants to. She wants to mend things, even if she does feel bruised and sore. Even if she still can’t tell them about sixth year. 

         Ron beams when he sees her. He’s put on a little bit of weight, but it suits him, and he sweeps her into a huge hug. 

         I didn’t believe Harry when he said you were coming, he chuckles, nearly cracking her spine. But I’m really fucking glad you’re here. 

         Hermione doesn’t know what to say to that. Their attempt at dating, mainly because she was trying to scrub his presence from her brain, was a short-lived disaster. She is pretty sure she doesn’t deserve such a friendly greeting. But he’s genuinely pleased, and it’s nice. It’s really nice. 

         Harry also gives her a big hug, and pushes a pint towards her, along with a bowl of nuts. 

         Hermione drinks slowly, she still hasn’t managed to eat very much, and it’s going to her head. But she nibbles the nuts as the two of her friends talk about work. Ron’s at the joke shop now, and he manages to make her laugh with tales of mad customer requests and laboratory mishaps that resulted in him and George both covered in foul smelling sticky goop. Both of them show her pictures of their children, when she asks, and neither of them ask her about her dating life, or work, or why she’s so thin and sad looking. And Hermione is grateful that they don’t have to do that. They don’t have to act like this is an intervention, they can just…be. 

         She had told herself she was only going to stay for one, but she has a second when it’s finished, and orders some more nuts too. The talk turns to the Auror office and how they managed to solve the problem that Hermione was meant to help with. She can’t even remember what it was, and blames him for her lack of attention. Ron asks about him in an easy, but curious voice, and she tells him the same thing she said to Harry. 

         She knows, deep down, that he’s behind this. That he is the reason Harry came to see her, that he is the reason that she is sitting in a pub, reconnecting with her oldest friends, and feeling something other than empty. 

         She thinks about the magic, she thinks about the ways he has betrayed her. She can feel herself letting go of the anger and she panics at the idea of being without it. Without the anger, she knows she will take him back. She will crawl over glass to be with him again, and then he will hurt her again, and she will be left with nothing, again. 

         When she gets back to her flat, a little bit tipsy, she sees that Kingsley has written, inviting her to an event at Flourish and Blotts the following week. The potential donor is going to be there, he says. He knows Harry has spoken to her, it would be good for them to meet in a more casual setting. 

         Hermione desperately doesn’t want to go, but she writes a quick response, agreeing to anyway. Harry has made her realise that she isn’t ready to give up, not just yet. She might still be able to have some sort of a life. 

         She still cries when she turns the lights off, but the pressure in her chest doesn’t feel so sore. Perhaps it's the pints, or the fact that she has something in her stomach for the first time in days. Or perhaps it's because when she said goodbye to the boys, they both told her that they missed her, and invited her to the same thing the following week. 

Chapter Text

         Hermione manages to avoid thinking about him, their research and his magic for the rest of the week, which is easy, because there is a lot of work for her to do. She forces herself to prepare the archive for visitors, though she avoids the central table. She will face that if she has to give tours, she decides. She doesn’t want to just throw it all out, even if she doesn’t ever want to see him again. 

         She still aches when she thinks that someone will be coming in here, coming into her domain and making it theirs. She is embarrassed about it. It feels like another failure. That even the world she created in order that she could feel safe didn’t work. All the things she tried to do to survive are crumbling around her. 

         But she has decided to survive, and to live, and so she goes to her therapy appointments until she realises that this is not enough. 

         It takes her a week to send an owl to the discreet Mind Healer’s offices that lie just south of wizarding London. She rewrites her request constantly. She tells herself that it doesn’t matter, that no one really cares about her anymore. She managed to go to the pub twice, with Harry and Ron, and they weren’t disturbed at all. 

         It’s after the second time, and Hermione’s second pint, that she has enough courage to send the parchment. 

         In the end it’s blissfully short, her request. Just a simple, ‘I would like an initial consultation, Yours sincerely, Hermione Granger.’ They respond the next day with a suggestion of Friday morning, and she agrees. It will be the day after the meeting with the donor, and she thinks it is probably for the best. 

         The reasons why she went to a muggle therapist all those years ago raise their heads. But she has to face the fact that she can no longer speak in half truths about the things that are eating her alive. She needs to talk to someone who will understand. She needs to explain to someone who knows exactly what this has all cost her. 

         She won’t tell them about him, exactly, she resolves. She’s going to say she had a relationship with someone on the other side, but really, put the emphasis on the leaving, and also the food, and also the fear that she lets dictate her life. Hermione is so, so tired of being afraid. She doesn’t know how to stop. 

         Her hands shake because of this fear as she zips her dress up. She is trying to make more of an effort, but that’s tiring too. She sits on her bed for a long time, agonising about whether or not she should say she’s unwell and can’t come. She does feel sick. But she knows that is the anxiety, and it’s not real, and if she doesn’t go then Kingsley will be even more likely to strip her archive to pieces. 

         She tries to summon what courage she remembered having when she canvassed for its creation. Tries to summon what people wanted from her - the cleverness, the golden whatever they said. The lies. 

         She puts on lipstick, and she uses a beauty charm to brighten her eyes, and she straightens her dress even though it is shorter than she probably feels comfortable in, and she puts cushioning charms on her long-neglected heels. 

         The atmosphere at Flourish and Blotts is intimate, but expectant. She hasn’t been here for an evening event in a long time, and she barely recognises anyone. By the glances that come her way, they recognise her. But their gazes aren’t cruel, just interested, and she tries to stop it from scaring her off. She spies Kingsley with ill-concealed relief. 

         Hermione! He is pleased to see her too, which she isn’t expecting. He leans forward to kiss her cheeks. 

         Kingsley isn’t Minister for Magic any more. But he does work alongside the office, managing the ‘special projects’. She wonders if it’s an honour for someone like him to attend a small literary salon. But the room is filling up very quickly, and she realises that she doesn’t know the smallest thing about society these days. She doesn’t know anything at all. 

         Kingsley steers her to the drinks table with a hand on her elbow, enquiring after her health, whether she is on the mend or not. Hermione answers as best she can, and tries to move the conversation on. To this evening. 

         When can I know who it is? She asks. 

         Kingsley chuckles as he hands her a glass of warm white wine. Then he blinks, when he realises that she’s being serious. 

         I thought you knew? He says, bemusedly. You’ve been working together the last month or so - I assumed you’d discussed it together? 

         Hermione does think she might be sick, then. She is furious at herself for not guessing before. 

         What do you mean, she says flatly. Kingsley looks at her, slightly concerned, slightly confused. 

         If we can keep this out of official Ministry channels, he murmurs quietly to her, then it would be better for all involved. That way you won’t have to report to anyone, I know you expressed concern about Deirdre’s use of outdated preservation techniques, not to mention you’d have a little more leeway over your internal budget. 

         What do you mean, she says again. 

         Draco told me you had discussed this, he says with a sigh. Sorry, Hermione. I assumed you agreed to come because you had - 

         Do I even need another donor, she asks quietly.

         Oh yes, Kingsley says matter-of-factly. Hermione sips her wine. It was Draco who provided the solution, offering to fund in the first place. He’s very interested in the work you’re doing. 

         She stiffens at his tone, because it’s clear that Kingsley is slightly confused that anyone thinks Hermione’s work is interesting, let alone him. 

         Plus he has been extremely complimentary of how the archive has been helping his current project, Kingsley continues with a sigh. Whatever that may be, he sneaks a sideways glance at Hermione to see if she will speak. Her lips are pressed tightly together, both literally and figuratively. She wonders if anyone aside from her has noticed that his magic has gone. 

         They move to the seats set out before the small stage. Hermione is introduced to various people whose names she forgets instantly. She tries very hard to be present, and sips at her wine. She wonders if anyone can tell that she is just pretending to be a real person. She wonders if it's obvious that she is somewhere very far away, as though she isn’t quite sure how to be in her body. She wonders why no one has noticed. She wants to scream at them, at all of it. 

         She should have expected this. She should have expected his manoeuvring. He always got what he wanted, she should not be surprised. 

         She’s furious mostly because she didn’t see it coming. And then that fury crystallises even further when the lights dim and he is introduced to the stage. 

         Hermione is so out of it that she hasn’t seen the number of books that are covering literally every surface, all of them with his name neatly at the bottom. What a fucking joke. Besides, wasn’t he just writing it? How did it end up published so quickly? 

         He’s reading aloud a section but she is just staring at him, her pulse beating so strongly that she can’t hear what he, or anyone is saying. He looks perfect, of course. The shadows under his eyes only make him look more attractive, more dangerous. And now she has cancelled that ridiculous disillusionment the various edges of tattoos can be seen rising above his shirt collar and edging onto his hands. She remembers the deers on his shoulders and the dragon’s head on his stomach and the millions of others that she barely had time to take in the first time, but her eyes don’t leave his torso now, wondering. His shirt is white, but thick, and she can’t see any of the ink coming through. She finds herself thinking it's a shame and stops herself. 

         She hates that she wants him still. She hates that she wants to be the one who maps out every single line on his skin, she wants to trace them all with her fingers and her tongue and her teeth. She wants him, she wants him, she wants him. 

         She hates him so much it hurts. 

         She blinks when people start to applaud and the lights come back up. She doesn’t think she has moved the entire time, her wine glass is still clutched rigidly in her hand. 

         Hermione wants to leave immediately, but with Kingsley next to her she can’t. There’s more conversations, but now they are all edged with more of that stupid anxiety, that fear. Every time someone moves Hermione’s attention is broken, in case it’s him, in case he’s coming over to her. He never glances at her, is always speaking to someone else, though he is making his way across the room slowly. 

         Hermione accepts a refill even though the wine is disgusting and leaves a sour film over her tongue. She doesn’t know what else to do. A woman is talking to her about her own travels, something related to the book passage that was read out, but Hermione has no idea what she is saying. She looks over to him again, and this time, he is looking at her. 

         She doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move. Is totally, utterly trapped. He’s glowering, almost. Looking at her so intently it reminds her of him in the library, all those years ago. Her skin prickles in anticipation of something. Of his hands, perhaps. Of the feeling of his fingertips running up the sides of her arms. She blinks, and he is moving towards her. Kingsley is saying something to the woman, who leaves, and then before he can reach the two of them, another woman steps in between. 

         Even with shorter hair, even fifteen years later, Pansy Parkinson looks exactly the same. 

         Draco, darling - I am so proud, she exclaims and Hermione is still frozen as she wraps her arms around him easily, casually, and hugs him. His eyes are still on Hermione’s, and it’s exactly like that time in the classroom, suddenly Hermione is sixteen all over again and she still feels stupid and boring and he has all the witches dying over him even as a fucking Death Eater and she can’t take it. 

         She turns to Kingsley and says she has to leave and doesn’t bother to make an excuse. She just walks straight out and apparates in the middle of the street, next to a group of startled witches who had been laughing over a cigarette. The smell of the smoke accompanies her home and Hermione finally manages to scream. She screams until her throat is hoarse and even Lilith doesn’t come to see if she is okay. 

--- 

         I was in a secret relationship with a man on the other side of the war and I never told anyone, you’re the first person I’ve ever told in my whole life I never even managed to say the words out loud to my cat and he died and I feel guilty that I never confided in him I’m sure he knew, I’m sure he knew that I was hiding something from him. And I spent it all waiting to hear if he was dead but he didn’t die, the man not the cat, but I wish he had sometimes even though I wanted him so badly to survive it, because after it was over he left and he left me and he never said anything and now he’s back and it’s as though nothing has happened but it has, it has happened to me. I think I might have made it up sometimes - the way that everyone is fine - why is everyone so fine all the time when this happened to all of us and I watched people die and I can’t let go of it and it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair how everyone got better and I’m still here I’m still stuck here.

         She’s got just enough preservation left to go to her appointment the next day. And as she sits in front of the woman, she can’t stop the words from coming out. Except she’s also crying all over again, these stupid fucking tears, so she can’t say anything that makes any sense. She doesn’t even feel better afterwards, not as she pays and sets up an appointment for Monday and Wednesday and Friday and really, that feels a bit excessive but short of Hermione committing herself to hospital, this is the best way forward for now because gosh, there is an awful lot to get through. And hasn’t she been brave? She has been brave, braver than she needs to be, holding onto all of this. She can tell that Hemrione has been too used to holding things for other people, and now she deserves to let go of it. She deserves it - to rest. 

         It makes Hermione cry again and she hates that she is so weak. Even if the therapist gently says that it’s not weakness, not at all. It’s just because she has had to be strong for so long. And now she needs to let herself heal. 

----

         Therapy is hard, Hermione doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like saying the things she spent so long keeping inside, and she feels stupid often. Stupid because a lot of the time the therapist points out things like they are obvious, and they are obvious, and Hermione doesn’t like feeling stupid. She doesn’t like her feelings either, and doesn’t like that the point is to feel them, and not learn how to manage them so they effectively go away. 

         But therapy is better than wasting her life again, Hermione has decided, and she goes to the pub with Harry and Ron and avoids all of Kingsley’s letters, which are so obviously about him that she doesn’t even bother to open them anymore. 

         This backfires when Kingsley turns up at the archive, demanding that she stop being so childish about it. 

         Hermione is forced into a meeting room with other Ministry drones, which Kingsley has rather snappishly told her is only a result of her own stubbornness, and now they have to go through all the proper channels, which will take ages and result in Hermione’s freedom being even further curtailed. 

         Hermione doesn’t bother to explain to Kingsley that she has been a prisoner in her own mind ever since the war ended because she knows he’ll just think she is being dramatic. 

         He’s sitting on the other side of the table, in another white shirt. This time it’s slightly open at the top though, and he’s pushed the sleeves up because she supposes it is quite warm with all the people, more people than she has been around in a long time, and she can see more of his chest than she wants to, mainly because it makes her feel hot under her skin. She takes off her jacket, and doesn’t know what to do about the fact that he stares at her chest when her shirt tightens across her breasts with the action. She wishes she wore something different. 

         His eyes flick up to her face and he gives her a small, lazy smile, and all the carefulness he has shown around her seems to have gone. Perhaps this is who he is now, and perhaps the version of him who brought her coffees was another lie. The thought makes her frown, and she looks away. 

         But he doesn’t take his eyes off her, and his voice is low and seductive as he speaks to the room, lays out the plans for the funding which all of them are thrilled about except for Hermione, who has never wanted any money less in her life, and she can’t fight the feeling that he is making absolutely no attempt to hide his desire for her. 

         Hermione? He asks, as there is mention of a fundraising gala. Would you be interested in that? 

         No, she says quickly. Not particularly. 

         But there’s bound to be interest once the news - 

         Does there have to be, she interrupts Sally, the Head of Communications. Does there have to be an announcement? 

         Sally frowns, shoots an uneasy glance to Kingsley, who purses his lips slightly. 

         If we want to entice other funders - 

         There’s no need, he’s still staring at her, the corner of his lip pulled slightly up at the corner. I’ll be the sole donor. 

         With all due respect -

         The money is no object, he tells Sally without bothering to even glance at her. Hermione swallows. If Hermione doesn’t want to do all that shit, then I’ll be the sole donor.

         But -

         I said the money isn’t an object, he snaps. It’ll be myself and Granger. Now, he stands, crosses the room and stands close to her, so close that she can smell his cologne. I’ve sat here for long enough. My solicitor’s will be in touch with the updated contracts. Granger? 

         He cocks his head. She wants to say no, she wants to not follow him. But at his announcement apparently everyone else has decided the meeting is over and there is shuffling of papers as people stand and start to talk about the fact that he has just agreed to fund an entire archive that no-one thinks should really exist anymore anyway. 

         She walks out, but not with him. She just keeps walking, right to the lift at the end of the corridor to take her away from this hell hole. 

         Where are you going?

         Back to work.

         I don’t think so.

         She ignores him.

         Stop running from me, Hermione. 

         I’m going back to work, she snaps. Surely that’s what you want? Given you’re going to practically be my boss soon, anyway. 

         He grins and looks her up and down again. It’s not warm but it makes her stumble. His hand shoots out to grab her, and she flinches away. He freezes, the grin disappears. 

         Don’t run from me. 

         Are you kidding me, she whispers, glancing around to see the rest of the people start to file out of the room. He turns to see what she’s looking at, and then does grab her, pulling her into another office just off from the lift, that is empty. Because of course it is. 

         Silence the room then you don’t have to whisper, he says, leaning back against the door and crossing his arms. She is momentarily distracted, because they are large. And then she remembers them wrapped round Pansy and wants to cry again. Or scream. 

         Let me go. 

         No. Not until we have a conversation. 

         You could have had a conversation whenever you wanted, she points out. 

         I wanted to give you space, he replies easily.

         You’re not giving me space now. 

         I lost patience, he says. She snorts. 

         Of course. A few weeks really must feel impossibly long after fifteen years, she replies coldly. She doesn’t feel empty for once, she feels like she can take him on. She wants to. She wants to fight him, she realises. 

         That was a mistake.

         I don’t care anymore, she says. 

         Liar. 

         It’s not a lie.

         It is, Hermione. You’re a terrible liar. You always have been. 

         He looks almost dangerous, despite the fact that he is still leaning nonchalantly against the door.

         Don’t fund the archive. 

         You don’t have a choice, he snorts this time. I can’t believe they’ve let the thing run for so long, if I’m honest. It’s a total drain. 

         It’s important, she hisses. 

         It hasn’t done anything new -

         We just got a shipment, Hermione yells, again. She is sick of people forgetting that -

         Who do you think donated those fucking books, Granger!

         She shouldn’t be surprised that he is shouting too, but she is. 

         Is this a joke?

         Do I look like I am finding any of this fucking funny? 

         You - how - you - 

         I donated those fucking books, I found out that you were going to be shut down, I’m saving your fucking bacon and ensuring that you don’t have to spend weeks cosying up to rich old purebloods for their money, guilting them out of their inheritances, I’m doing all of this for you. For you, Granger. Are you seriously going to stand there and tell me that it’s not enough? 

         You’re just throwing money at it, she shouts back. You can’t fucking buy me! You can’t!

         Did I buy Potter? No! I went - 

         That was none of your business -

         Oh sure, thanks Draco for helping me mend my broken relationships that I’ve spent the last ten years sabotaging -

         And who’s fault is that! She screams it right into his face. Who’s fault is it that I don’t have a fucking life! 

         It’s mine! I know it’s mine, Hermione. But you’re not even letting me make amends -

         I don’t want you to -

         Stop lying to me! Punish me all you want but don’t fucking lie to me. I know you know. I know you know this is it for both of us. So stop lying -

         You’re mad, she laughs, slightly breathlessly. She can’t remember the last time she felt so alive. You’re totally mad - 

         And who’s fault is that, he throws the words back in her face. Do you honestly think you’re not the reason I’ve lost my fucking mind? 

         You don’t even want me, she screams. You’ve told me enough about how pathetic you think I am -

         I don’t want you? He laughs frantically again. I want you so fucking badly, he yells, and he grabs her and slams his lips on hers. 

         She is encircled in his arms, one wrapped around her waist, the other holding her up, placed up her back along her spine, his hand gripping her head so he can manoeuvre her how he wants. She gasps and he takes the opportunity, delving into her mouth with his tongue. 

         She doesn’t even bother trying to stop it.  

         He tastes like heaven, and she’s angry, furious. She can’t get enough of it. Of the feel of his body pressed tightly against hers. Of the fact that he kisses exactly like she remembered, better, even, of the knowledge that somehow even though she hates him, he still wants her. She grabs his head with enough force to hopefully hurt, and he grunts into her, turning them round so she is the one pressed against the door. She bites his lip and he moans again, moving his hands all over her body, grabbing her, frantically. They’re both frantic, trying desperately to unravel the other. 

         A knock on the door interrupts them, and Hermione wonders if they would ever have stopped without it. He steps back. She goes to slap him, but he catches her hand. 

         They stand there for a moment, his grip tight enough to bruise, both of them catching their breath. The knock on the door sounds again. 

         It’s busy, he snaps.

         We’ve actually booked -

         Wait five fucking minutes, he shouts, still not taking his gaze off hers. 

         You don’t want me, she says, hatred filling her voice. You want the old me. Everyone does. 

         Don’t be fucking stupid, he says coldly. I want you to be happy. But I want you any way I can get you. And that is why I tried so hard to stay away. 

         That -

         It’s not healthy, he says with a short, mirthless laugh. But I don’t care any more. You’re mine, Hermione. You can pretend and lie to yourself all you want. But you were mine then, and you’re mine now. 

         She can’t forget the words even though she’s desperate to.

         When she gets back to the archive, still breathless even hours later, she stares at the research until her eyes hurt. 

Chapter Text

         After the kiss, the shouting, she had felt…better. Not good. But there was something that made her feel like she was alive again. That she wanted to do it again. That she wanted to see him.
         But this morning that has apparently all gone away, because she cries and cries and only gets up because Lilith is demanding food, and then goes straight back to hiding under her duvet.
         When the doorbell goes she ignores it.

         When it goes again, continuously, ringing for fifteen minutes, she silences it.

         When, another fifteen minutes later, there is a banging on the actual door to her flat, Hermione finally drags herself out of bed.

         It’s going to be him. She knows it is. She tugs on her dressing gown and doesn’t bother brightening her eyes to hide the tears. She has tried so hard this past week. She can’t try today.

         It’s not him, though. It’s Pansy Parkinson, who is drumming her fingers on her crossed arms and is looking absolutely furious. Hermione tries to shut the door in her face, but Pansy’s foot stops her from closing it.

         What -
         We need to talk.
         I have nothing to say to you.
         Good, because I don’t particularly care about listening to you. You, however, will want to listen to me.

         Why are you here, Pansy, she manages to bite out.
         Because I know, Granger. I know about the two of you. I always knew.

         It's the last thing she expected her to say. And the tears rise again because he had told someone and all this time she had thought she was utterly on her own.

         Merlin Granger, he never said anything to me, Pansy correctly interprets her reaction, which is slightly uncomfortable. Just let me in. Let me explain before you jump off the deep end.

         So she does. Hermione lets the second ever guest into her flat. Lilith greets her immediately, and Pansy even gives the tiny thing a small smile.

         Hermione doesn’t know what to do, but Pansy walks straight through, as though she is welcome there. She looks into the bedrooms curiously, and Hermione trails behind her. When they go up the stairs to the books and the sofa and the kitchen, Pansy gives a hum of appreciation.

         Have to say, this is much nicer than I was expecting.

         Hermione ignores her, and goes to put the kettle on. She makes Pansy tea the muggle way, because she needs to do something with her hands. Pansy is staring at the bookshelf. No - Hermione realises when she hands Pansy the cup, that Pansy is staring at the ring.

         Where did you get that?

         Hermione has left it on the small table he had first placed it on, because she can’t bear to touch it.

         It was a gift.

         When?
         When?
         Yes, Granger. When was it gifted to you, she snaps.

         Hermione debates not telling her for a moment.

         Sixth year, she says quietly.
         Pansy stares at the ring, blinking. Then she stares at Hermione. She sighs. Then she sits down, rather heavily. As though Hermione has managed to shock her.

         Hermione stands, awkwardly. Pansy is staring at the ring still.

         Bloody hell, she mutters, then seems to pull herself together. Sit down.
         This is my house, Hermione says.
         Just sit down, she snaps. I don’t want to hurt my neck because you insist on looming over me.

         Hermione sits on the other side of the sofa, far away from the ring and Pansy, who keeps glancing at it warily.

         Pansy doesn’t look exactly the same, Hermione realises, as she studies her. She does at first glance, but now that she has the opportunity to sit across from her, Hermione realises that Pansy looks less…less angry. Less snobbish, perhaps. She’s lost that sneer that she used to have, the expression that always made her look like she’d just smelled something foul.

         Are you just going to stare at me?
         I thought I wasn’t supposed to be talking, she replies snippily. She doesn’t want to sit across from Pansy, studying her. She has an inkling that Pansy is here because of the book launch, and she’s embarrassed that she will be confronted about the fact she stormed out.

         I suppose you’re right, Pansy sighs. I came to tell you, Granger, that you don’t have to worry. I’ve not got my claws in your man. I never did.

         I didn’t think that -
         Oh please. Don’t try to deny it. It was so painfully obvious at school I never did understand why no one else realised. Not to mention the other night.
         I had to leave, she tries.
         Pansy just laughs shortly. Of course you did, Granger. Of course you did.

         There’s a moment.
         Did he tell you to come? She asks bitterly. She wonders if this is another Harry situation, another desperate attempt to fix everything for her. Even if she likes having Harry back in her life again.
         Absolutely not, Pansy says sharply. He has no idea I’m even in the country. And it’s going to stay that way.

         This does surprise Hermione.

         Why didn’t you say anything, she says, finally, and then blushes at her own desperate eagerness to know. Hermione can’t believe that she is talking about this with someone who knows. Someone other than him. Why did you never say anything?

         Isn’t it obvious? I was hardly going to admit that I wasn’t enough to keep him, Pansy laughs, and it’s not a nice sound. Please. I would have been humiliated. I was supposed to be his. I was supposed to marry him, look out for him. And he’d thrown me over for you, she scoffs, takes in Hermione’s dishevelled appearance. She wishes she had made herself up a bit, then.

         Anyway, Pansy sighs, and then continues. It’s quite common in our circles for the men to stray. Have a mistress, that sort of thing. As long as they’re discreet then everyone else just turns a blind eye. I just told myself this would be normal.

         You didn’t care? Hermione can’t believe it. The thought of him with anyone else is enough to make her want to set fire to someone.

         It’s quite funny how easy it is not to care when it turns out you’re a massive lesbian, Pansy deadpans, and Hermione blinks. Stupidly, she feels relieved.

         Oh.
         Yes. Oh.

         Did you come here just to tell me you were gay, Hermione asks, frowning, trying to make sense of Pansy’s appearance. Pansy laughs again, and this one is slightly warmer.
        

         I saw your face as you stormed out of the book launch. And I saw Draco’s face as he watched you go. I put two and two together, and figured I would let you know that he’s not cheating on you, and never has, and probably never will, Pansy sighs. He’s a good man, she says quietly after a moment. I don’t know what’s going on, but I wanted to tell you not to worry. There’s never been anyone else.

         Hermione stares at the floor.

         Nothing is going on, she says after a moment.
         Oh please, pull the other one Granger, Pansy snaps. Look at you. You look terrible. Like total, utter shit. No one mopes around in old dressing gowns when they’re happy.

         Hermione tugs the gown slightly tighter around her, much to Pansy’s derision.
         Whatever. Can I use your floo? I’d rather not have to deal with muggle transportation.

         That’s it?
         What did you want, Pansy snipes. To braid each other’s hair? Talk about our feelings? I came to do a good deed for an old friend, and now I’m going to leave.
         What do you know about the ring, she blurts out before Pansy can stand. Pansy clearly does not want to answer. Please. Please tell me.
         Ugh, she pulls a face at Hermione’s begging. I assumed you knew anyway. It’s a wedding ring.

         So?
         So? So? The Malfoy heir gives you a wedding ring before the war and all you can say is ‘so’?
         He told me never to wear it, Hermione shifts.
         Of course he did. Anyone with half a brain would know who it belonged to. Anyway. He probably thought he was being romantic, she snorts.
         We were never actually married, Hermione finds herself saying even though her heart is beating again. Or betrothed. Or anything, really.
         Doesn’t matter if the words weren’t said. That’s a promise right there. At least, in our circles, she shrugs. Anyway. Floo? Unless you have more stupid questions?

         Hermione can’t decide if she likes Pansy or not. Despite her prickliness, there’s something about her that she has warmed to. It has nothing to do with the fact that she came to tell Hermione that her and…and him weren’t together.

         She hands the floo powder over and Pansy calls out a French address, which also solves the mystery of his Parisian friend, too. Hermione stares at the grate after Pansy has left. It’s a Saturday. But once she’s gone, Hermione dresses for work.

         She is staring at the research again. Now that she knows he did it to himself, it’s easy to work out how. The clues were all there, hidden among it all. He created a sort of pastiche of the shamanistic ritual, breaking himself down to his basest element, then separating the magic from his essence of being, and ripping it out. She wonders briefly if that’s offensive, if the people who gave him this gift knew about the fact he threw it all away in such a destructive manner. Nevertheless, combining that kind of magic with elemental magic, the blood, water, air, fire, thrills Hermione, even though it should horrify her. Just contemplating the level of power that’s needed to manipulate your body like that. Hermione’s theory is that he literally tore it from his body. He should have been more careful. Should have tried to work out a way to do it without causing such life-threatening wounds.

         But he didn’t. He tore it right from his body and nearly died.

         She likes the desperation. It makes her feel better about the thing clawing her apart.

         She tinkers with various cures. She forgets that she is angry at him, and then remembers and walks away from the table, and then finds herself back there once she thinks of another theory about how she could help him bring it back.

         It’s gone, she assumes. What was in him, is gone, he hasn’t kept it in a jar. You can’t conjure something from nothing, after all.

         But there’s another option that she thinks might work. She doesn’t know whether to tell him.

         She knows what it will mean. If she tells him, then she forgives him. She doesn’t know if she can.

         The therapist, who she sees again on Monday, asks Hermione what will holding onto her anger do for her. Hermione says she doesn’t know if she can love him after what he did, how he left.

         But Hermione knows, and her therapist gives her a look that suggests she also knows, that Hermione already does love him. She loves him because she never stopped. That was the problem, after all. The fact that she couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. The thing that buried her underneath its weight and crushed her but is still the only thing she can’t let go of. Can never let go of.

         She starts to hope that he will be there. Anywhere, wherever she is. He doesn’t pop up. He kissed her, and told her that he was hers, and has now disappeared.

         She misses the coffee in the morning. She never paid attention to where he got it from, and regrets it, because she would have liked a cup anyway, even without him bringing it to her. She misses the croissants, too. Hermione hasn’t thought about food in a while. Since the kiss, since the Wednesday pints with Ron and Harry, she finds herself suddenly quite busy. She’s absorbed by other things. Sometimes she finds herself halfway through a meal without having had to concentrate on eating it.

         At times like these her mind feels enormous. There’s so much space. To just…be.

         She feels guilty for letting go of her problems so easily. Is she just better now? Is that it?

         She’s in love with him.

         She has bad days. Lots of bad days. But they aren’t as bad as before, because now Hermione knows they’re bad days, and she also knows that she wants good days, days that don’t feel like that.

         Is this it, she thinks to herself often. But it’s without the despair that she used to think those words. Rather, is this as easy as it can be? Can you just one day, be better?

         She has spent so long feeling awful she isn’t sure what to do when she doesn’t.

         So she fills the time with work, and writes up the letter that she has decided to send to him. Even if he doesn’t come back for her, even if he’s just disappeared and that’s it. She is still going to tell him how to replace his magic. He saved the archive, or rather is saving the archive. The contracts have come through, and she suspects that he has made a series of very poor business decisions when it comes to the way his money will support it.

         He hasn’t just gone to help fund it. He’s bought it from the Ministry in its entirety.

         He will be a silent partner. His name won’t be anywhere on the project. His solicitors, or rather he, insists however that it be renamed to the Granger Research Archive, and that she stay on for as long as she desires.
         There are no targets she has to meet. He doesn’t even get unrestricted access, the security requirements are exactly the same. She can leave whenever she wants, but she can stay as long as she wants, too. He’s given her a pay rise. A stupidly generous one. And they will assess the budget every year, in case she needs more money. For anything.

         Hermione cries when she reads it. She doesn’t know why he didn’t bring her the contracts himself. She tries not to let it make her fall apart. She’s been doing so well.

         But it’s been a week since Pansy’s visit, and he’s still not seen her. Then another week goes past.

         Hermione doesn’t sign the contracts because she hopes he will come and hurry her up. He doesn’t. She doesn’t get letters from the solicitor’s either.
         The therapy goes down to twice a week, which is a relief, but it’s also not. She needs to see him. He told her she was his.

         He’d said that before and left her anyway.

         She wakes up one day and can’t bear it. She writes to Pansy. Does he have an office? What’s his address? She can’t remember his home, she knows vaguely where it is but she wasn't paying attention then. How much has she missed over the years? She shoves the thought down.

         Hermione waits for an hour before she is too worked up and grabs the letter herself. Perhaps she’ll go to The Arts Club first. She remembers where that is, at least. And then she can wander the streets until she finds him. He won’t be at The Manor, she’s sure of that.
         She could leave it, she could shrink back into herself like she did all those years ago, under the threat of rejection. But Hermione has always fought for him. So she goes.

         There’s a different man at the door, who is snippy and rude and tells her she can’t come in, not even to look for her friend. If she’s not a member, then she certainly won’t be allowed to just roam around, whoever they might be. So Hermione wanders the streets, trying to remember which one of the identical, white pillared houses was his.

         She’s going in circles, and close to tears again. She’s clutching the letter in her hands, the thick sheaf of papers with all her theories on. It starts to rain.

         She shoves the papers into her jacket pocket, and checking to avoid muggles, casts a repulsion charm around it, so they won’t dissolve. She is about to do the same to her coat, about to try and sneak into a bush somewhere so she can transfigure an umbrella out of a leaf or something, when she sees a flash of blonde hair.

         He’s running towards her, a hand thrown over his head, not that it's doing anything to stop him from getting wet. His shirt is sticking against him, she can see the tattoos now.

         Hermione, he’s calling her name. Hermione!
         He reaches her, and she just gapes at him, letting herself get wet.
         What the hell are you doing in this weather?
         You aren’t wearing a coat, she says stupidly, blinking at him.
         I was just inside - he gestures to one of the houses down the road. I saw you - I couldn’t believe - I saw you.

         They’re silent, the only sound the raindrops on the pavement, both of them squinting as the fat droplets cover them.

         I - I think I did it, she says, swallowing. Stupid. She should have planned what to say. Now that she’s in front of him, she doesn’t know.
         What did you do, he asks, and she isn’t sure if this is the same man who kissed her so fiercely in the office.
         Your magic.

         Are you serious?
         Yes.

         Yes, I’m serious, she says, after he doesn’t answer her. She hands him the papers. Here. My suggestions.
         He takes them woodenly.
         I -
         It’s fine, she says. It’s fine. He swallows.
         Thank you, he says.

         What have you been up to? She says, because she doesn’t want to leave. Why haven’t you come to see me, she wants to ask, but doesn’t. It’s pouring, getting heavier every moment, but neither of them move.

         He looks at her.
         I’m so sorry.

         Why?
         I - he tries to collect himself. I lost control when I saw you last. I shouldn’t have.

         She blinks at him.

         Oh.
         You deserved - I shouldn’t have shouted at you. Or kissed you without your permission. Or forced you to take that meeting in the Ministry in the first place. I just - I was running out of time and patience and I’m sorry.

         You don’t need to be sorry for that, she mutters at the pavement.
         I panicked. I wanted to give you space. I thought that you might have been angry at me for the way I spoke to you.
         She just blinks again.

         I - he sighs again, frustrated, but she knows it’s at himself. I can’t bear to see you in pain, and I can’t bear that I am the source of so much of it. I should have - I should have told you I loved you earlier. I should have spoken to Dumbledore. I should have come with you, fought the war on your side. I should never have left you. I should have replied to your letters. I should have come and found you afterwards. I should have given you fucking credit every time I used our work for my own good, to save my skin.
         I was terrified by how much I love you. I still am, to be honest. Everything bad that ever happened to you, it all seemed to be because I loved you. I’m sorry. I tried to stay away. I shouldn’t have. I should have let you choose.

         Hermione shivers from the cold, her clothes sticking to her skin. He must be freezing too, but he’s just standing there, wet and waiting for her to say something. She wasn’t expecting this. She wasn’t expecting a declaration and now she’s getting one she doesn’t know how to respond.

         I don’t know what else to - how else to - I don't know how to be good enough for you, Hermione.
         I’m not good. Isn't that what you've been trying to tell me? That I’m a wreck? It’s the first thing she can say. It’s uglier than she meant it to be, but he doesn’t care.
         No, he shakes his head so hard it's almost as if he is trying to dislodge water. She has a strange urge to laugh. You have always been too good for me. And I'm sorry for being so fucking arrogant that I thought I could somehow turn up and fix you. That you even needed to be fixed in the first place. I - I want to get to know you. Who you are now.

         I don't know if I can do that.

         Why not?
         Because I don’t know -
        

         Because she hates who she is now, she wants to say. Because she doesn’t want him to love that version of her. And she knows that no matter what he says, he won’t. He can’t. No one could love what she has become.

         I can't survive you leaving me again, she desperately admits. I can’t have this happen again.

         I know, he tells her quietly. Let me prove it to you. Let me prove that I’m not giving up on us.
         She wants to say yes, she wants to give in. She wants to believe him.

         Will you come to dinner with me? At my home. I’ll cook. Just us. It will be quiet, and we can talk, and after, you can go straight home, but I just want to spend some time with you. God, I’m so desperate to be next to you for more than a minute. To be able to exist without feeling like the pressure of missing you is caving my chest inwards.

         She gives in, that same pressure clenching her in its vice.
         I’m free next Thursday. We could discuss my suggestions about your magic, too. If you have time to read it before then.

         Are you, his voice cracks.
         Yes.
         830?
         That would work.
         Shall I owl you with the address? In case you forget?
         Please.
         Alright.

Chapter Text

She wears a dress for the dinner. She puts on makeup. She hasn’t cried since she gave him the papers. She shifts between anticipation so painful she thinks she might genuinely break, or bone shaking fear. 

She goes anyway, and knocks on his door at half past eight, just as they agreed. 

He opens it almost immediately, and smiles when he sees her. A simple, happy smile. 

She is smiling back without realising, and is momentarily stunned by him. By how beautiful he is. 

Come in, he steps to the side, and she walks into the foyer. She remembers the marble from last time, but as she takes off her coat this time she looks around, takes in the paintings and things that decorate the rest of it. None of them appear to be wizarding, all muggle. There’s a beautiful tapestry-like thing hanging behind the stairs. A large fossil stands on a simple table, and the coat rack next to the door itself appears to have been made from driftwood. 

It’s surprising. A real hodge podge of all kinds of things. He hangs her coat up for her, and for a moment they stare at each other. 

From your travels, she asks slightly hoarsely, gesturing around the space. 

Mostly. Although the art I collect whenever pieces come up at auction. 

Abstracts? 

Yes. There was an exhibition a while ago on Hilma af Klint that I found incredibly moving - she was obviously far ahead of her time and her work is now nearly impossible to get hold of - but I'm keeping my eye out for anything that’s similar. I’m looking to expand my collection in that respect, most of my new acquisitions are in my study, or the more casual sitting rooms. I like to be able to see it, you know? Be surrounded by it. That’s the point, I always think. Not to put them all away in a safe or something. 

He is babbling. Hermione realises he’s nervous. 

Do you want a tour, he asks after a moment when they both stare at each other again. Or a drink first? 

Perhaps a drink, she suggests. She would like to take the edge off. He nods eagerly, and gestures for her to come through. Something smells good, and his hand hovers over her back slightly. The sound of her heels on the marble floor fills the space. She doesn’t know what she is doing. But that doesn’t feel like a terrible thing, right now. 

It’s even more filled with objects than the foyer, the sitting room at the front of the house where a bottle of champagne is sitting in an ice bucket. She could spend hours looking at all of his things, souvenirs or mementos from his travels, or just things that he has chosen because he likes them. She resists the urge to go and touch it all. 

I thought we’d keep it casual, he explains, I hope you don’t mind not using the dining room?

She just gives him a look. He pops the cork. She shifts. 

I read the papers, he says as he starts to pour, and then looks at her as he hands her a glass. 

What did you think? 

He raises his own glass, and clinks it softly against hers. 

Cheers, she mutters automatically, feeling light headed already, even though she hasn’t yet had a sip.

Cheers. 

They drink, they don’t take their eyes off each other. She can’t breathe again. 

I think it’s brilliant, he says after a moment, when they remember that they were meant to be talking. Risky, but brilliant. 

We don’t know if it will work, she says. 

I checked your calculations, and they look good to me. He says it with a slight shrug, but there is a tension around his eyes. 

You have concerns? 

Some. His intensity grows. About your safety, he says. Hermione sighs, is thrilled slightly, that he is worried. 

I don’t see any other way.

That’s what I don’t like, he says. 

He hesitates. 

Tell me.

I didn't do it here, he says quickly, then sips again.

I beg your pardon? 

The spell. I - I didn’t want anything to go wrong and if it did then - well. I wasn’t going to unleash a bunch of magic on London, he points out. 

So -

Mongolia, he says tightly. I had a portkey that was scheduled to bring me back as soon as it was done. The portkey went a bit squiffy as a result of the spell, and it dumped me in the river. I was never supposed to be wet. 

She just gapes at him. 

You - how - how are you alive? 

He chuckles softly, takes her in. 

I was very determined. 

She swallows, and he smiles again, but there’s a little bit of an edge to it that makes her breath catch slightly. His smirk grows more pronounced when he realises. She thinks back to the kiss, and her eyes flicker to his mouth. 

So what does that mean? You have to go to Mongolia? She forces herself to think, to loosen her grip on the champagne flute before she snaps it accidentally. 

We do, he says after a beat. If you want to help, then we have to go to Mongolia. 

I can’t. It’s all she can think to say. She hasn’t left the country since - since Australia. Since she went to bring her parents back. He takes a step towards her, his hand going to her elbow to steady her. 

Why not, he says quietly. 

I - she doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know why. 

We don’t have to go, he says. Not if you don’t want to.

You can’t live without magic.

Plenty of people manage, he says wryly, but she shakes her head. 

No. It’s not - it’s not fair. 

He is smiling at her again. She can’t tell if it’s gentle or if there’s something underneath it that isn’t, but she stares anyway, to try and figure him out. She takes another sip to stop herself from kissing him. She is meant to be - they have to talk. She is still scared. She isn’t ready to give in to him. But his hand is still on her elbow, and his shirt is unbuttoned enough that she can see the tattoos again and she wants to press her face into the small triangle of skin and inhale him. 

We don’t have to go, he repeats. 

You need your magic, she says uselessly.

Very well. Then we go together. We can go whenever you want to, Hermione. Whenever you’re ready. I’ll wait. 

There’s a tension in the words. He doesn’t want to wait. Neither does she. Not really. She doesn’t want to go but she doesn’t want to have it hanging over her.

You think the rest of it is correct? You think the logistics, if we change the location, are all correct? You’re sure? 

As sure as one can be with experimental magic, he says. She nods, with a bravado that doesn’t exist. 

Very well. Let’s go. 

He cocks his head. 

That’s it? 

Let’s just get it over with. 

Okay, he says slowly. When? 

She blinks up at him. 

Now. I thought you meant now? 

We can’t go now, he says with that slow smile again, not even bothering to try and pretend anymore that he isn’t holding her, that they aren’t staring at each other so desperately. She wets her lips, her mouth is suddenly dry. His pupils dilate slightly. 

Why not? 

I don’t have a bunch of portkeys lying around, even illegal ones. Unless you want to go the muggle way. But we’d still have preparations to manage. 

She shakes her head. No aeroplanes. Too similar to Australia. 

Plus, he says, I promised dinner. 

She blinks, her stomach rumbles, and he smiles wider. 

I’m going to pan fry the sea bass, if you’re hungry now. Do you want to help? 

Hermione follows him through to the kitchen, which is enormous and looks also very muggle-ish. He sees her gaze.

I had to improvise after the magic, he explains easily. Plus, living in a muggle area, I always think better to be prepared in case one of the neighbours gets curious.

Do they, she asks. He snorts.

Definitely not. I don’t think I’ve ever met them.

She nods, and watches him pull a frying pan out of the drawers, assemble the ingredients he’s going to use. He turns up his shirt with quick, efficient motions that make her press her legs together and sip from her champagne, throws on an apron. 

How’s the archive going - did you get the contracts, he asks easily as he heats up the frying pan. She blushes. 

You really don’t have to -

Don’t be stupid, he says, rolling his eyes. Of course I will. I actually agree with you, by the way. I’m not just doing it for - for selfish reasons, he stutters slightly. Knowledge like that should be preserved. Has to be preserved. The Ministry are too cash-strapped and short sighted to realise it. 

Hermione hums her agreement. 

Not to mention you’re right about Deirdre, he shakes his head and Hermione genuinely laughs. She’s an imbecile. 

When I was doing some, erm, research, Hermione says, blushing a bit, all the Prophet’s were yellow. 

Yellow? His face scrunches in horror.

Yellow, she nods. 

Well. I’m glad that you don’t have to have her as your boss.

Thank you.

You don’t have to thank me, he says after a beat. You don’t have to at all. 

He sees that she’s running low and leaves the frying pan to top her up, glancing back at it occasionally. 

This is when it gets annoying, he tells her. Multi-tasking without magic is a pain in the arse. 

She laughs again. He grins at her, then retreats back to the stove. 

Is fish okay? I thought it would be, after you ordered it last time. 

That sounds lovely, she says, watching him still. 

Good. I thought we could have it with a caponata, and then some greens on the side. 

Delicious, she says, fiddling with her hands. There’s another silence, and she tries to think of something to say to fill it. Something that isn’t treading on the past or any of the things she doesn't want to talk about right now. But there is so much of it she can’t think of a single conversation that doesn’t, somehow, remind her of it all. 

How are you, he asks. How are you actually? Are you - how’s Pot- erm Harry? 

I - yeah, she says, still looking at her fingers. He’s good. I’ve been having drinks with him and Ron on Wednesdays. 

She looks up to see him stiffen slightly. 

That’s great.

Yeah. They’re both married now, with kids, she tells him and she watches his shoulders relax ever-so-slightly. 

That’s great, he repeats, and she knows he doesn’t care about how they are. 

It’s nice to see them again. 

Good. 

I saw Pansy, she says, and he whirls round. 

What? 

Pansy. I saw her. She came to see me, actually. After the book launch.

He looks furious.

Don’t tell her you know she came, Hermione says, and he rolls his eyes, mutters something about stupid interfering women. 

Oh, come on, Hermione says, faintly amused. You can see my friends but I can’t see yours? 

He turns round, his lips still pursed. 

You’re not angry? 

She shakes her head. 

Why not? She shouldn’t have -

She knew. The whole time. She knew about - about us. 

He removes the fish from the pan and sets it to drain, and starts assembling the salads. 

She did? 

She came to tell me not to erm, worry. 

He stares at her.

That’s why you left? At the bookshop? 

I didn’t - I - Hermione doesn’t know what to say. 

She never - she has a girlfriend.

She told me. 

There was never, it was stupid of me, back then. I was stupid and angry and terrified of what I felt for you.

I know, she says quietly. I know. I panicked. Kingsley had just sprung the donor thing on me, and then you were publishing your book which I thought you’d only just started writing and -

I’m writing the sequel, he says and neither of them are looking at each other. 

Right. 

I’ve laid the table in the other room, he says. Can you take one of these through? 

Of course. 

Hermione takes the bowl of caponata, which smells vinegary and delicious and fresh, and follows him. It’s a small room, more textile art adorning the walls, most of it looking old. There are many lamps, and the effect is that she feels as though she’s ensconced in a warm, soft bubble. 

The small table is laid for two, and he fusses around her, placing the champagne bucket off to the side, then bringing through the rest of the dishes while Hermione hovers awkwardly. He pulls her chair out for her, and his hand rests on her shoulder for a moment before he goes to sit himself. 

He lets her serve herself, which she does, and tops her up again, and they eat in silence for a bit.

This is delicious. 

It’s true, she is surprised.

Thank you, he smiles cautiously, watches her as he sips. She fidgets slightly. He raises a single brow, waits for her to explain herself. 

I - she sighs. He tenses. I don’t know what to say, she says lamely. He frowns. 

You don’t have to say anything, if you don’t want to. 

I don’t know how to be around you, she blurts out, and he grins, despite himself. 

Are you uncomfortable? 

No. Yes. Hermione is uncomfortable because she keeps forgetting that she should be. She finds it almost too easy now to slip back into just wanting to know about him. 

I’m not, she admits. 

Then that’s all that matters. Tell me about Lilith. How’s she? 

She’s grateful for the change in conversation, the opportunity to talk about something that is safe.

She’s good. I think she misses you. 

He smiles properly then, his eyes warm. 

Really? 

Hermione wishes she hadn’t said that, but she has. 

Yes. I think she liked it when we were both in the archive. 

She stares studiously at her fish. 

I’ll make sure I pop in, he says. 

Do you need your notes? 

At some point, he shrugs. To be honest, I did think you might have destroyed them. 

Hermione gives him a reproachful look.

I would never do that.

He stares at her warily.

You were very cross.

I was.

Rightfully so.

I wouldn’t have taken it out on the books.

No, I suppose that’s true, he allows with a sigh. Are you still angry? Angry that I lied to you about the spell? 

I think you’re an idiot, she says, and he shrugs in agreement. 

It was a stupid thing to do.

Do you regret it? 

No. 

She blinks. 

Really? 

Of course I don’t regret it, he looks at her, his eyebrows creasing. I’m sitting opposite you for the first time in far too long. I would never regret anything that made that possible. She swallows carefully, and a hunger that has nothing to do with the food thrums in her breast.

What if I hadn’t come for dinner? This doesn’t mean that I can just - she falters, and he nods.

I know. I know. But even if I had to spend the rest of my life without magic I still think it would have been worth it. Even if you never spoke to me again.

This keeps happening, they keep getting drawn into things that Hermione doesn’t really want to talk about. But perhaps she was naive to ever think they could skate over it. 

Do you know what you want, Hermione, he asks quietly. She just shakes her head. And he tries to hide the fact that he is sad.

I’m sorry.

Don’t - you have nothing to apologise to me for.

Please don’t say sorry again, she says, and he grins again, though he’s hardly happy. 

Had enough of apologies? Of declarations of love? 

The acknowledgement of it makes her whole body freeze. 

I just - I, she sighs, and then she decides to be brave. I’ve been so angry at you for so long. And I don’t know how to just let that go. 

I understand that, he says quietly, looks over her shoulder at the tapestries hanging behind her. I know how you feel. It’s terrifying. I was terrified, when I decided that I was going to forgive my father, forgive myself, when I decided that I was going to let go of the past. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. And not least because there was one thing that I couldn’t let go of.

What if it doesn’t work? What if we’re - what if it doesn’t work.

Do you think that will happen? He asks, mildly curious, though his eyes find hers again and they are burning.

Does she think that? 

No, she says after a moment, and his lips curve ever so slightly. To her frustration, her eyes fill with tears again. No. I don’t think - not for me. There’s never been anyone else. 

She laughs at how stupid she has been. 

You don’t have to let it go all at once, he tells her, and she has forgotten about everything except the fact that his hand is inching towards her. You can take as long as you want.

You keep telling me that, and then you keep losing patience.

His lips twitch again. I know. I’m trying. Although I never said I was a good person. Just that I wanted you back. 

She doesn’t nod, or say anything, and he glances down at her plate, which is empty.

Would you like some more? 

No, thank you.

What about pudding? 

There's pudding? 

Of course there’s pudding Granger, he winks, and her heart lurches, I made us tiramisu. 

She helps him clear the table, and admires the tiramisu as he plates it for her. The champagne has made her feel light headed, but in a pleasant way. He opens another bottle and she doesn't stop him from topping her up again. 

He doesn’t stop her from catching some of the spare cream that dripped onto the counter, but he does stop her from putting it in her mouth. He catches her hand, and brings it slowly to his lips. And then he sucks, flicks his tongue against her finger pad, and she exhales softly and he doesn’t stop looking at her. 

She swallows when he eventually lets her go, and then carries through the puddings as though nothing has happened. She takes a moment to collect herself before following him. 

They talk about magic over pudding. Hermione talks through her theories, and he tells her about the location in Mongolia where he undertook the ritual. She mentally redoes some calculations. 

I think that it might still be there, he says, finishing the pudding by sucking every last bit from the spoon. 

What might, she blinks, distracted by him. 

The magic. I tried to channel it into the deer stones, as that seemed like the best way to go, he shrugs, although I'm not sure how lasting it would have been. I obviously didn’t have any power left afterwards to seal it. 

What was it like, she asks, finally able to voice what she really wants to know. What did it feel like? How did you figure it out? 

He grins at her, and tops them both up, again. 

It felt fucking awful, he admits, and she laughs again. He sits back in her chair, she’s leaning forward. She wants to cross her legs under her, but resists. But he seems to know this, and says why don’t they sit more comfortably on the sofas? 

They go back to the front room, Hermione feeling slightly awkward. He puts on some music, gestures for her to sit, and then sits next to her, not on the sofa opposite. 

You can take your shoes off, put your feet up, he says. The sofas are meant to be used. 

She toes off her heels, and he follows the journey of her legs as they swing up underneath her. 

He’s not sitting too close, the other end of the sofa. But his entire body is tilted towards her, and she’s turned to him, and both of them are propping their heads up with one hand, the other on their glasses. It’s familiar, it’s utterly different this time around. 

So, she prompts. It felt fucking awful? 

He grins at her. 

Awful, he nods. The process of pulling myself apart, distilling myself, whatever, was grim enough, he says, taking another sip. I knew what to expect from the ritual anyway, so that bit was at least not totally new. There’s this bit when you unravel all the way, and you hit this bottom, I guess that’s the only way I can describe it. 

His eyes unfocus as he tries to explain it to her. When you’re undertaking the shamanistic ritual, it's from there that you start to rebuild. Except this time, I waited. I hovered, in that unmade state for as long as I could, until I started to feel things move around me. And that’s when I could see it, the magic. It felt like a fine mist.

How -

I willed it to become something solid, once I knew what it looked and felt like then I could manipulate it.

You did this all at once? 

It took several goes to perfect, he admits. Her eyes travel to where the scar is on his stomach. Well, perhaps not perfect, he admits.

But you lost patience, she says wryly. He laughs, and agrees. 

Once I had it as a solid thing, then I could do it. I could rip, tear it. 

She winces. 

I used a knife made from ancient ivory and tungsten steel, I ran through my enchantments, I spilled my blood to every corner of the compass, all that stuff, he shrugs off a series of incredibly complex directions that clearly would have been both painful and arduous, and then I shrunk into myself, and I tore it out. 

And then what happened? 

Lightning, he says, it looked like lightning when it came out, at least, that’s how I remember. Once it had happened I was in a lot of pain, and it was quite hard to see properly. But the lightning hit the deer stones, and then I lunged for the portkey, which I shouldn’t have left so close to me, he mutters to himself, that was fucking stupid, my magic definitely fucked it up. Anyway, then I was travelling through space and dumped into the river. 

She blinks, and is released from his story. 

So it might still be there? 

It might be. 

That would be good, she admits.

I don’t want to take anything from you, Hermione. 

She turns her head away.

It’s the only way.

Because she is sure that it is. He needs someone to provide the spark, the beginning of something that can be grown. And where else can that come from, except her? He needs the connection, whether or not he wants it. 

Those fucking Unbreakable Vows, he mutters, and she laughs again.

I know you know I’m right.

You’re always right, he says, rolling his eyes. That’s the problem. 

If it’s still there then you won’t need me.

I’ll need you to capture it, he points out. Round it up, free it from the stone. I don’t know. I’ll revisit the notes. 

I will, too. She says. He nods, careful, and then he settles back slightly into the sofa, and his legs fall open a little more. The movement draws Hermione’s eye, and she swallows. 

Tell me about the stones, she says, because she wants to know. 

They’re ancient. Bronze age most likely. Markers of civilisations, markers of graves, markers of ritual spaces, we don’t exactly know. Some of them are close to the khirigsuurs, the graves, though not all. They’re covered in carvings.

Similar to your tattoos? 

Yes, he says, then he hesitates. I can show you. If you want. 

She nods before she can chicken out, and he takes off his shirt.

She’s been in front of him when he’s half-naked before, but this time is different. This time, she’s allowed to stare.

She does. He’s beautiful. He twists to point out the two deers on his shoulders, the deers with backwards facing legs and tumbling, curling flowers coming from their antlers.

These I got because of the Ukok Princess, he says with a grin. I figured I owed her because her body was the one that made me realise how to remove the mark. He lifts his forearm, where it’s gone. Instead, there is a mirror, and a ring of blank space, the only empty space on his arms and torso. 

Oh, she says, reaching for it instinctively. Her hands stroke the skin. It’s soft. 

I never - I never saw your arm when you had it, she says, and she has shifted closer to peer at the ink. She doesn’t think he’s breathing. 

No. I hid it from you.

I’m glad you did, she admits. I knew it was there. But if I never saw it, then I could pretend. 

I felt like I didn’t have it when I was with you, he says hoarsely, and she looks up. She’s close to him, close enough to feel his body heat, to see the way his lashes almost flutter as he takes her in, bent over his forearm, her fingers still tracing his skin. Her eyes flick over his chest, and the muscles bunch. It was like I could pretend that I wasn’t that person. That I wasn’t me. 

He clears his throat, then points out some more geometric designs that turn into animals, spears and people, predators and prey, all of which have come from the stones themselves. 

Why the dragon, she asks, her fingers moving to trace the scar that now ran over its mouth. 

That one I just liked, he admits, and she giggles. Not all of these have a ritual meaning. It’s quite easy to get addicted, he says. 

The pain? 

He nods. She understands that. Her hands are still on him. 

He sits up further, closer to her. His fingers trace her face, hers are now pressed into his stomach. She wants him. 

He kisses her softly. Slowly. But then she moves into him, and the control that he has shown starts to slip. He yanks her glass from her hand, dropping it onto the floor. The carpet is so thick that it doesn’t break, but she is momentarily distracted by the thought of the remaining champagne spilling out over it. 

He doesn’t care though. He’s moving her so she’s underneath him on the sofa, and she is throwing her arms around him, holding him to her. She can feel him grind against her, she opens her legs to wrap around him. 

She isn’t sure what this means for them. What any of this means. But she wants him, and for once she isn’t going to stop herself. 

He is pressing kisses to her neck, breathing in heavily. Inhaling her. His hands are in her hair, trailing over her body, holding her against him. The feel of his bare chest is very nearly perfect. She wishes she wasn’t wearing the dress, and tries to shimmy out of it. His hands go to unzip her, spreading over her back and holding her against him even tighter. She whimpers at the sensation and he captures it with his mouth. She doesn’t need to breathe, she thinks at one point. She doesn’t need air. She just needs him. 

He pulls back slowly, and she tries not to pant. He is breathing heavily, his lips swollen, hair messy. She is sure she looks equally undone. 

What - 

I’m not going to rush this, he says hoarsely. We’re not going to fuck this up. 

She opens her mouth to agree with him, and then changes her mind. She doesn’t know what she wants, she doesn’t know what this means. But she does know she doesn’t want this to stop. 

She backs away, and then finishes unzipping her dress. His hands twitch, as though they want to touch her. She hasn’t been naked in front of anyone in a long time. But the way his eyes are glued to her chest as she shakes off her dress, the way his breath comes faster as she stands, and lets the entire thing drop to the floor, she doesn’t care. 

She’s standing in just her tights in front of him, and he reaches for her, then, holding her hips, and tugging her to the edge of the sofa. 

Hermione - 

Don’t stop. 

He is looking up at her when he moves his face to the junction of her thighs, and glides his hands over his backside as he inhales. She’s trying to keep her breathing steady, but she can feel the prickle of his stubble through the thin fabric of the tights, and she shivers. 

Are you sure? 

She lets out a breathy laugh. 

Yes. 

Yes, she is sure. She is sure about this, right now. Everything else can wait. 

His hands skate to the top of her tights and roll them down, slowly. His fingertips are rough against her skin, she feels the brush of calluses against her hips and the outsides of her thighs. Her breath is coming a little quicker, so is his. He helps her out of them, one leg at a time, and then runs his hands all the way up her legs again. This time, they skate to the inside of her thighs, and he pulls them apart ever-so-slightly. She knows what he wants, and widens her stance. 

He presses small kisses to them, little licks, little bites. Teasing her, making her wet and desperate for him. He slides down her knickers again, and then, as she stands in front of him, finally licks against her. 

The sensation is just as intense as the first time, maybe because it has been such a long time since anyone has touched her like this. But it seems to finally unravel something in him, because the slow teasing stops, and he yanks her closer, so that she has to put her hands on his shoulders for balance, and starts to eat her messily and hungrily, because he is starving. 

She was worried that she wouldn’t be able to stop thinking, that she wouldn’t be able to forget the past. But now, with his tongue deep inside her and his finger circling her clit, she can’t think of anything except the pressure building up, the need she has for release. His invisible stubble is rough against her inner thighs and the only thing she can focus on is that she’s going to be red tomorrow, red raw from him, and that tips her over the edge. 

The force of her orgasm makes her stumble, and he manoeuvres her onto the sofa even while she is bucking against his face, and then he doesn’t even wait before he is hovering over her, yanking his trousers down and pressing himself against her opening. 

She grabs his shoulders again, pulling him closer and then he’s inside her, and she might still be coming or this might be a new orgasm just from the pinching fullness of feeling him again. He doesn’t stop, and neither does she, and she can taste herself all over his face, and he is gripping her hard enough to bruise and she nearly tells him she loves him but manages to change it right at the end to say that she loves it, she wants more, she needs more of his cock inside her. 

He comes with that same soft moan, the one she always remembered, and she twitches against him, wrung out, her hips sore from her legs being open, from the sharp edge of his hipbone jutting into her. 

They catch their breath, she decides that she will not stay the night. 

I’ll make travel plans, he whispers against her lips. And then we’ll go and give it a try. 

Are you sure? 

Sure, he says, and kisses her once. Together. 

She kisses him again. 

Chapter Text

It takes a week for him to make the plans. In that week, Hermione doesn’t see him. But he’s there anyway. 

There is coffee waiting for her every morning, with more pastries. There are flowers, one day, huge anemones sitting outside her door at home, with a note that simply says that he is thinking of her. The evening she signs the contracts, a box full of books arrives. None of them are rare or new, but the note on the top says these are all the things he had read over the past 13 years that made him think of her. He has written inside every cover with what, exactly, made him miss her. 

Some of them are specific, references to a jumper on page 246 of one, for instance, made him remember the way that she looked in the hideous one she had tried to knit for herself. 

Others are more vague. One mystery book by an author that Hermione has never heard of simply says ‘like staring at you sitting next to the window while it rains’. 

The bruises fade and when she thinks about making new ones, she aches. 

She goes to drinks the following evening with Harry and Ron, and Ginny is there this time. 

Ginny cries when she sees her, which obviously makes Hermione cry too. 

It’s later, when they are all a drink in, that Ginny tells Hermione that she looks well. Hermione is so surprised that she just blinks. 

Thank you, she says.

I mean it, Ginny nods. You look happy. 

Harry is watching Hermione carefully, as Hermione stutters and tries to avoid it.

There’s nothing wrong with that, he points out, after Hermione has denied it.

No, I know, she says. I know. I just - well. I don’t know. She looks down, thinks of the kiss, the books, and then realises she is smiling. 

Alright, she admits. I suppose I might be. 

And then she panics that it’s all going to disappear.

It’s not, Ginny says, wrapping her arm around her. You deserve it. You deserve to be happy. 

Hermione disagrees, because a person who deserves to be happy would not have pushed away her friends and everyone she loves, but she stays silent. 

So, who is it, Ron asks, never subtle. Hermione rolls her eyes.

Who says it’s a person? 

Come on, he chuckles. 

It’s no one, she says quickly. It’s complicated. 

Harry is grinning at her, and she frowns at him. 

What? 

It’s obvious, isn't it? You don’t have to keep it from us. We’re your friends. If you’re happy, then I’m happy.

Is it obvious? Why is it obvious? Ron asks. Ginny gasps.

No! Is it him? 

Is it who! 

I - Hermione panics, her heart beating fast. She opens and closes her mouth like a fish. 

Breathe, Hermione, Ginny says, frowning at Ron who is still demanding to know. Breathe. We mean it. If you’re happy, then we’re happy. 

It’s him, she says finally. When she says the words out loud, it is like she has taken a step forward. A step away from something, from that cage she made for herself. She exhales. It was always him. 

Always? Harry frowns. Hasn’t he just got back from wherever he was? Macedonia, or -

Mongolia, Hermione says miserably. And no. Well, yes, I mean. He has just got back. But we - before. It happened. Um. 

Her entire life she has been desperate to tell someone, she has been terrified of anyone knowing. 

Who are we talking about, Ron hisses.

Malfoy, you eejit, Ginny hisses back. 

Mal - Malfoy?! 

Shut up, Ginny stresses, turning her attention back to Hermione. What is it? Before what happened? Hermione - what’s going on? 

Hermione presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. Takes a deep breath. And then says it all at once. 

Weweretogetherinsixthyearatschoolandwekeptitasecretallthattimeandthenafterthewarithoughtwewouldgettogetherbutheleftandibrokedownandnowhesback. 

There is a shocked sort of silence. And then everyone speaks at once.

Sixth year - wait did you know that he - Merlin Hermione you kept it a secret for what is that, 14, 15 years - all those times you told me I was being - what do you mean he left, why the hell would he do that - did you see the mark - does he still have it - when did you reconnect - what the bloody hell is going on. 

She has no choice but to tell them all of it, and they stay far too late for a Wednesday night. Hermione is drunk, by the end of it. Despite her attempt to sip slowly on her pints Ginny has insisted on shots to get them all to calm down, and then they all grow increasingly hysterical as Hermione unburdens herself to the people that care about her. 

I thought it was funny that he asked after you, Ginny slurs eventually. He looked - hungry when he said it, she eyes Hermione meaningfully. And when I said I hadn’t seen you he just got up! Threw some money on the counter and walked up! S’rude. 

I can’t believe I was right and you knew!

I didn’t know, Hermione says quickly. I didn’t want to know.

Yeah, yeah, Harry rolls his eyes, grinning. I was right! 

We already knew that, she points out. He went to prison. 

Yeah but you knew it before.

I can’t believe we didn’t notice, Ron says morosely, staring at the table and shaking his head. Bloody hell - all that sneaking around and we never noticed. 

Harry is nodding along.

Shit friends. We’re shit friends 

No - I’m the shit friend -

No - we are - 

No - 

They are asked to leave eventually, and Hermione forgets to take her makeup off before she falls asleep. Lilith mews in a judgemental tone, but she curls up next to her anyway.

Hermione hasn’t had a hangover for a long time, and she does not appreciate the reminder of how miserable they are the next morning. But Ginny writes her a letter that makes her cry again, and the coffee is waiting for her at the archive which makes her smile again, and even though her head is aching because she doesn’t have any potions to stop it from doing so, Hermione feels happy. 

On Friday, he turns up at the archive doors. He’s wearing a muggle suit, and he takes her breath away. 

Hello, he says, as she opens them. 

Hello. She smiles, feels shy. He kisses her on the cheek, and hands her more flowers.

Thank you, she says softly, as she takes in the bouquet. 

I was wondering if you were free tomorrow, he says. 

Tomorrow? 

Yes, he nods, smirking slightly. 

I - yes, she says, and his smile widens. 

Good. Great. Pack warm things. 

Pack? 

We’re going to Mongolia. 

----

The sky is huge. Hermione has forgotten that horizons could look like this, could be this open and wild. 

The Steppes stretch out before them, the wind moving over the low grasses, and she shivers slightly. 

Are you cold? 

I’m fine, she reassures him, and he is still holding her hand. 

The international portkey has made her feel slightly off-balance, but that’s not the only reason why she is happy he’s clasping it. 

It’s beautiful, she says. His hair is being whipped by the wind, his jacket is open, as though he wants to feel it blow all the way through him. He looks wilder here, more free, and grins down at her, lighter than usual. 

I’m glad you could see it. 

Where are we going? 

Just there - he points to a collection of stones standing tall against the horizon. Hermione sniffs the air cautiously. 

What is it? 

Feels like there’s going to be a storm, she says, even though the clouds are white and fluffy and moving far too quickly to threaten rain. 

Ah, he says. That might be the magic. 

Hermione reflects that what he did was utterly, balls to the wall insane. That he ripped his magic out, shoved it in a bunch of stones and then left it there with no other protection. 

I know, he says, as though he can read her mind. 

She sighs and double checks her wand is gripped firmly in her hand. 

Where are we, she asks, as they start to walk towards the stones. 

Uushigiin Uver, he says. Hermione doesn’t speak Mongolian, but she is sure his accent is perfect. It’s one of the largest collections of these deer stones there are. There are small signs that she can pick out from this distance. 

Do muggles come here? 

Some, but not at this time of the year, he reassures her. Their feet crunch over the frozen ground. Hermione wants to tell him to do his coat up, but she stops herself from fussing. 

What’s it for, she asks instead. The stones? Is there a reason there are so many of them? 

Probably, though we don’t know for certain what that is, he tells her. Every time she asks a question he squeezes her hand slightly. This site was potentially important, and the stones perhaps relate to different dynasties. Or different clans, maybe. The carvings are slightly different between them. 

As they approach Hermione can feel it even more. The sense of crackling, of anticipation. She asks him if he can also feel it, and he nods, struggling slightly, as they get closer. 

Are you okay? 

Feels like altitude sickness, he sighs a bit shakily. 

We shouldn’t do this, she says quickly. We shouldn’t be here. We haven’t even told anyone where we are, what if something goes wrong, what if we can’t get back, what if you die,

I’m not going to die, he stops her. I’m not going to die. Do you trust your workings? 

No, she exclaims, the panic making her voice shrill. No! Not any more, not -

Hermione hasn’t trusted herself and her decisions in a long, long time. She messed up everything, her relationships, her job. And now she’s about to do something so utterly reckless, with absolutely no safety net whatsoever. All because -

Well I do. And I trust mine too. I’ve checked it a thousand times. We both redid it a million times, adjusted everything for the geographical location. We’re brilliant, he smirks, so arrogant once more. 

But we didn’t account for the magic, she whispers. We didn’t account for how it would feel for you -

This is hardly going to be the most painful experience of my life, he tells her wryly.

We can’t just - 

Come on, he starts to walk off, chuckling to himself. She can’t believe that he’s so cavalier about this. She wants to hit him all over again. 

You can’t just -

Come on, Granger, he shouts back over the wind. Hurry up. Or you’ll miss all the fun. 

He walks straight to a large stone slightly different from the others, but Hermione is distracted by the carvings on all of them. She can’t help but pause as she takes in each one. One with a face stops her in her tracks, and she could swear she feels its eyes watching her. It’s old here, it feels old. Ancient. As though they shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t disturb whatever is waiting, buried underneath them. She doesn’t like it. 

He looks totally at home, standing in front of his chosen rock. 

Why this one? She asks tightly, when she finally reaches him. He moves behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, and pointing out the carvings that don’t look like the others. 

This one is different. 

She can feel it. The pulse. The - familiarity. It’s him, she realises with a jolt. The reason she can feel it is because it’s his magic. 

That’s an ibisbill bird, he is saying, pointing at a twisting figure. I have a version on my side. You see that necklace, he points to another, normally they have beads, but this has a boar's tooth. I have that around my neck. Hermione squints at it, she isn’t sure how he knows it’s a tooth, but she decides to take his word for it. These stripey cats are attacking a boar too, he points to more. That always made me think of Crookshanks. And wolves. They always made me think of you. 

Me? 

You’re fierce and wild.

Hermione doesn’t believe him, but he is moving to unpack things from the bag. 

There are no deer antlers on this stone, he is telling her as she stands and watches him, starting to sweat despite the cold. Which is unusual. Typically, deer are represented on most of them, hence the name. You’ve probably seen I have lots of them on my body - it’s common imagery for the shamans, especially in connection with the sun, which was used for thousands of years to represent the spiritual transformation. 

And you’re going to do that now? Bring about a spiritual transformation? 

We are, he reminds her.

But there aren’t deer on the stone, she worries. Why this one - perhaps we should -

This is the one, Hermione. The deer are on me. I don’t need them on the stone.

Why this one? She asks weakly. She has never felt more out of her depth. 

I like this one. 

You - you chose this one because you like it? 

He is laughing as he starts to make tracks in the ground, calculating the angles for a perfect pentagram to surround the stone. 

Yep. 

But - but - 

I needed a good home for it, this was my favourite one, so this is the one I choose, he says with a shrug. 

But -

Magic doesn’t have to be complicated, he tells her, his eyes shining. Sometimes it can just be. 

She doesn’t know what to say to that, so she helps him unpack. 

The plan sounds simple. Hermione is going to take the role of the person who oversees an Unbreakable Vow. She will be the conduit through which the magic will flow, and he and his magic will be the two things that need to be bound. He had taken her through how he ripped his magic the other night, and when he explained that he had used a mix of both western pagan and ancient shamanistic techniques the perceived power and chaos that would have unleashed had filled her with dread. Sitting here, in the open, with the atmosphere crackling with that still-loose magic, it made her quake. But they needed to recreate the exact elements that he had used the first time in order to reverse the spell, with Hermione as the new element that would enable the magic and him to bind themselves together. 

They set up the pentagram that he had used that first time, binding himself to the elements in case something else had gone wrong. They set out a small, shallow dish ready to be filled with Draco’s blood, another tether. He spilled blood when he ripped his power from him, and hopefully it will remember the thrum of his pulse when it is poured out underneath the huge sky. They set up the tea that he will drink to pull him into a trance, to try and mimic the effect of magic. 

Hermione will sit there and once he is under, she will act as the lever to trigger the magic to come out. She will essentially be the person casting the vow, and will have to wait and hope while he finds his way back to his own self, his own power. Simple. Except no-one has ever done anything like this before, and she doesn’t know what to expect. 

Her hands are trembling again, and she casts another warming charm, though she knows it’s not from the cold. 

He’s excited, nearly bouncing around. Hermione tries to channel some of the enthusiasm but she can’t escape the fear. She has just - they have just - 

They haven’t spoken about what they are. They haven’t discussed a future, she has barely been able to admit that she wants one. But she doesn’t know what that will look like and she can’t be without him again, especially not if something goes wrong and he dies. 

Sit down, Hermione, he says gently, and she sits on the freezing ground. He sits opposite her, gets comfortable, and then brings out the knife, and the drugs, which he has steeped into a tea. She eyes it doubtfully. He winks at her. It does not make her feel better. 

Ready? 

Now? She blinks, panic roaring through her. 

If we stay out here too long we’ll get frostbite, warming charms notwithstanding, he tells her, smiling at her slightly bemusedly. 

I - it’s - this is all happening so quickly. 

I’m not going to die, he tells her again. I mean it. I’ve just got you back. I’m not about to leave, not under any circumstances. 

You can’t, she stresses. She hasn’t told him how she feels. She hasn’t said the words. She hasn’t said his name. You can’t. 

I won’t. Now. Seeing as you are the Gryffindor here, I am expecting a little bit of the famous recklessness. 

She swallows, and tries not to wince as he cuts into his wrist, spilling the blood casually into the dish. She holds out her wrist after a moment. 

We only -

Together, she tells him. She doesn’t know why. She just wants her blood in with his, just in case. Just in case his is not enough. 

He cuts her, too. Their blood mingles. He drinks the tea, and she sits and watches him. 

He breathes steadily, but she marks the moment when his eyes start to unfocus with unease. When they roll back, his body going limp and then convulsing, she panics. She wants to jump up, to run to him. 

But she can’t cross to him without crossing one of the pentagram lines and if she messes this up then all of it is for nothing. 

The wind picks up, and every hair on her body stands on end. It’s time. 

Hermione raises her wand and stares at the stone now towering above them. She thinks back to what he said, that he chose it, just because he liked it. That the tigers on the side reminded him of Crookshanks. That magic can be fun, can be joyous, can be wonderful. 

The ropes of the spell are golden, just like the Vow. She finds herself closing her eyes as she casts, though she can still see them moving throughout the darkness, feel them crackling around her. They seek the magic, any magic, to tempt it out. 

And then, right when she despairs that maybe his has gone, maybe it has all just dissipated into the air, she is confronted by such a powerful sense of him that she cries out. 

He was right. It is lightning, it is power. It crackles and buzzes around her, seeking her, pulling her hair out and rubbing over her skin like static. She turns in her mind’s eye towards him, and the magic also turns. 

It finds him, seeking him, moving towards and throughout him like it did with Hermione, but this time it devours him, it rams itself down his throat. Hermione can hear him coughing and choking and she doesn’t know whether it is real or imagined, but she continues to chant, ensures that the golden ropes wrap that crackling white fire around his body, ensures that they are bound together in every way she can think of. 

Hermione didn’t think she would ever be able to visualise the hunger that she has for him. But it is there, in the magic. That sense of desperate searching, of need. The wind whips round her and tugs at her hair, her clothes, her skin, seeking. The magic does the same thing to him. Her mouth waters, she watches as his fingers lengthen, elongate, become almost claw-like. His whole body shudders, twitching unnaturally and brutally and she isn’t horrified, at least she doesn’t think so. Even as his blurred outline becomes something not-human entirely, even as the sense of some great beast draws her further in. She is more desperate to crack him open, to pry open his ribs and push the magic inside herself. 

She forces herself to stay where she is, even though the need to touch him, to tear at him is building inside her. But she is just the conduit for this, she is just the enabler. His magic needs to devour him whole. 

At least, that is what she tells herself. 

But there is something that feels off in the air, it’s the only way to describe it. Something dragging, something dark. Something that feels as though it should not be there. There are three parts to this spell, herself, him, the magic. 

Hermione feels the presence of a fourth. 

She doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t particularly care either. All she knows is that there is something hunting, looking for a home, and he is there, and perfect for it. 

She whips her wand round, gouging at the shadowy thing behind her. Something coats her hands, and she tears and bites, kicking against it, until the resistance in it falls and whatever it was, invisible in the dark, glowing eye of the storm, falters. 

When it is over, Hermione doesn’t think she has ever heard such silence. 

She opens her eyes, blinking at the sky. The clouds have all darkened, perhaps it is night, though she had no idea they had been casting that long. 

The lines of the pentagram are all blown away, the dishes spilt, their blood staining the white frosted earth a deep black. And then in front of her, he is there. Sprawled across the ground, his fingertips twitching. 

Hermione chokes on his name as she flings herself over to him. 

Her hands go to his pulse, and it’s then that she realises that they are coated in dark blood. Hermione chokes, and then vomits the same substance next to him on the ground. She is shaking, turns all around, her wand up. The hunger, the bloodthirstiness is gone. 

A dark stain lies on the ground, though whatever form it had, whatever thing she tore through with her hands and teeth, has gone. 

There is nothing except the wind over the grassland, the frozen feeling of the ground underneath them, the silence of the sky. And the hot, steady heartbeat of the man underneath her. 

He groans slightly, as she rips up his shirt, exposing his scar to the air, checking to see if he is bleeding from the wound again. 

Stay lying down, she presses him back as he tries to move. I need to check you over, first. 

She goes through every diagnostic spell she can think of. He’s no longer purple, at least. He has bruising over his body. There are traces of the drug still in his system. One of his shoulders has been dislocated, which she fixes quickly while he’s still slightly out of it. 

But other than that, he is perfectly healthy. 

When she is satisfied Hermione casts more warming charms over the both of them, and waits for him to come to. She whips her head back and forth between the stain and him. 

Hermione? 

He sits up after a while, and she has spent the entire time crouched on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees, barely able to breathe. She lets out a sob. He blinks at her, mouth open, and then starts to shake. 

Are you okay, she is instantly there, holding him, checking him over, but he just wraps his arms around her and presses his lips into her neck again and again, murmuring her name. 

You’re a genius, he says eventually, once the shaking has subsided, and coughs slightly.

The blood - 

He turns to see what she is talking about, and his mouth flattens in surprise. 

Is it -

I killed it, she says quickly. There was something in the spell and -

I felt it, he frowns, and then gets to his feet shakily to investigate. 

Have I done something wrong, she asks desperately. 

No, he says, when he crouches down to investigate it. No. You did the right thing. There are other things that take on harmless forms, seeking shelter in willing, or vulnerable conduits. You did the right thing. 

Hermione just stares at him, taking in the flush on his cheeks, the fact that he is alive. That he is truly, alive. Whole. 

 I - where’s my wand, he suddenly stands, scrabbles for the bag, pulls it out. 

Hermione continues to study him as he casts, spell after spell, crying and whooping and sending sparks shooting up into the sky. 

He looks the same, perhaps. Except he doesn’t. There is something underneath his skin now that wasn’t there before, a shimmering, moving veil of power that she can’t believe she never noticed. He doesn’t look like a normal wizard, that is certain. But when he stares at her, it’s the same way he has always done. 

---

They camp under the stars instead of returning home straight away. The tent is enormous, luxurious, filled with more soft furnishings and low-lighted lamps. Hermione is thrilled that there is a bath. After spending hours on the frigid ground, the cold has seeped into her bones. 

He cooks while she bathes, and when she emerges, her hair slightly damp, he places the stew in front of her, and they eat from their laps, side by side on the sofa, while the fire roars. He tells her more stories of his travels, and they do not speak about the thing that Hermione felt, as though to discuss it while out so far in the wilderness would bring bad luck. As though there is no space for such things in their future. 

He insists on doing the washing up so he can use his magic, insists on doing everything he possibly can by magic. 

I thought you said you could live without it, Hermione says, after he spills a bit of the wine on the sofa, because he levitated the bottle to top her up instead of just pouring it normally. 

Eh, he shrugs, casting a cleaning charm. I probably could. But would I prefer to be able to do this? Obviously, he snorts. She rolls her eyes. He sits back. 

You did it.

We did it, she reminds him. I can’t believe you did any of this in the first place. 

He takes her hand and presses a kiss to the centre of her palm. It is not the first time he has kissed her since they slept together, but it is the first time his teeth have scraped over her skin.

I know. I stand by what I said, though. It was worth it. 

She has to look away from how desperately he stares at her. 

I’m scared, she admits. 

I’m scared too, he tells her. 

I can’t lose you again. 

You won't. The thing that scares me more than anything is having to live another day without you. 

She stares at him, he doesn’t let go of her hand. She waves her wand, and out of the inside pocket of her coat, the ring emerges. He smiles when he sees it, catches it from the air. 

You brought it with you. His thumb runs over the platinum. 

Why did you give me this?

For a moment, she wonders wildly if this will be another secret he tries to keep from her.

I couldn't tell you how I felt. But I wanted you to know that there would never be anyone for me but you. I thought you figured it out, he says finally. I thought you knew what it meant.

I thought it was just a ring. I knew it was probably from your family but I thought it was - I don’t know. Some small token of affection.

He snorted. Not quite. 

How did you even get it?

I stole it from my family’s vault, he says with a grin, and then he frowns. When I had to collect the necklace from Borgin and Burkes I - I went to the vault. 

Hermione frowns.

We weren’t -

I know. 

She considers this some more, and stares at the sheen on the outside.

I didn’t know. 

You know now. 

It thought it was just a ring. It was just a ring to me.

Just a ring? 

No, she admits after a moment. Not just a ring. But I didn't know it was more to you, either. And I wouldn’t have let myself believe it, even if I had known. 

It is everything to me. You are. 

The words are right there. And she reaches for them, finally lets them out. 

I love you, Draco Malfoy. I always will. 

His eyes widen, then crinkle to almost nothing as he smiles. 

Say it again. All of it. Say it again. 

I love you, he kisses her palm again. Draco Malfoy, he tugs her closer, taking her lower lip into a soft bite. I always will. He kisses her properly, his tongue lazily running along hers, until she moans, and he pulls back to trace a finger over her face, to cup her cheek tenderly. 

He takes the ring, her hand, and slides it onto her finger. Her ring finger. 

She stares at it, her heart thrumming once more. 

I’ll marry you properly whenever you’re ready, he tells her. But I want you to know that for me, this is it. Right now. That I am yours, and you are mine. 

She places her hand on his cheek, moves it to cup his head. Grabs a small fistful of his hair and pulls, ever so slightly. 

You’re mine too, Draco. 

And as her grip tightens, and she pulls him into her, Hermione lets go.