Chapter Text
Hermione and Malfoy landed in an untamed grove of beech and sycamore trees, their branches and leaves so densely interwoven they blocked out the sky. The ground sloped gently beneath their feet, strewn with fallen twigs and tangled roots. Wherever they were, the air was thick with the scent of bark and honeysuckle.
With a gasp, Hermione realised she could hear the unmistakable rumble of distant traffic. She’d been kept away from civilisation for so long; the sound of engines and horns was almost foreign to her ears. The more she strained to listen, the more shockingly normal hints of everyday life she could pick out: a bicycle bell ringing, a car radio blaring, a crossing beeping.
“Where are we?” she asked, turning to Malfoy with an undoubtedly awed expression on her face.
He slipped his hands into his pockets. “London,” he said, with the casual air of someone who hadn’t been imprisoned for months.
Hermione blinked slowly. “Really?”
“Where else would I take you?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe a creepy Death Eater estate, or an obscure bit of Scottish woodland perfect for burying a body, or Vol—”
Malfoy clapped his hand over her mouth, pressing firmer the more she struggled. He dipped his head and brought his lips to her ear, frantically muttering, “Taboo, taboo, taboo.”
Lightheadedness swept over Hermione as his meaning sank in, her body no longer struggling against his hold. She couldn’t breathe—but it wasn’t because of the hand still over her mouth. No, it was because of the memories: Harry and Ron, Snatchers and Malfoys, a silver sword and a hateful knife.
Malfoy looked down at her with a question in his eyes, keeping his hand in place for the moment. “You cannot speak You-Know-Who’s name. It’s had another magical taboo put on it. Meaning if you say his name, Snatchers will come for us—or worse. Nod if you understand me.”
Hermione nodded. Malfoy’s hand dropped away from her mouth, hovering halfway between them just in case she tried to say the name again. When she said nothing at all, he dropped his hands to his sides and blew out a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I should’ve warned you. Didn’t think… I only found out this morning, thanks to Nott, but I should’ve told you straight away.”
Hermione placed a hand on his upper arm. “It’s okay, I don’t blame you for—wait, Theodore Nott told you about the taboo?” Her brow furrowed as he confirmed this with a quick nod. “You’ve talked to Nott since the revel? Did you ask what he wanted?”
“Don’t you want to know where exactly in London we are?”
“Malfoy, don’t change the topic.”
“Granger, keep your voice down.”
“Malfoy, maybe I’d be quieter if you weren’t so irritating.”
“Granger, just ask me where we are.”
“Malfoy, I don’t care.”
He shrugged. “Fine. I suppose I’ll enjoy the park alone.”
Malfoy backed away with a gleam in his eye, turning around and disappearing through the trees. Was she really so predictable? First Pansy, now him—did they really think they could dangle a carrot of curiosity in front of her and expect her to bite every time?
Unfortunately, the answer was yes.
After a childish stomp and a huff directed at the nearest tree, Hermione hurried after Malfoy. He was waiting on a rough gravel path at the bottom of the slope, arms crossed and foot tapping. An amused smirk stole over his features as she came into view.
“Ah, come to join me?”
Hermione shoulder-checked him as she barged past, heading blindly down the path without a backwards glance. Malfoy kept pace with her easily, of course, seeing as he had the advantage of a pair of stupidly long legs. She watched him from the corner of her eye. Despite his playful banter, he was obviously tense—one hand in the pocket of his trousers, likely holding his wand, while his eyes scanned the trees.
“Have you figured out which park we’re in yet?” he asked.
“Hyde?”
“0 points to Gryffindor."
“Regent’s?”
He snickered. “Oh dear.”
“How about… Kensington Gardens?”
“Does this mess of wildflowers and gravel look fit for royalty? Come on, the trail isn’t even paved,” Malfoy said, tutting a few times just to add to the sting.
Hermione flushed, looking around as she considered other London parks. Which park was central enough to keep within close range of traffic—very close, if the smell of petrol mixing with the sweet aroma of flowers was any indication—but unassuming enough to look near-wild in parts?
“Holland?”
Malfoy gave her a patronising slow clap. “Fourth time lucky.”
Infuriating prat.
Hermione looked to the sky, hoping for divine intervention to help temper Malfoy’s arrogance. Much to her dismay, no almighty deity seemed interested in smiting the Malfoy heir. Perhaps they couldn’t see her from way up there? The sky wasn’t as clear and blue as it had been in Wiltshire—a thin layer of city smog dulled the colour, though the heat and light remained.
“I don’t remember the last time I was in Muggle London,” Hermione murmured beneath her breath, not expecting a response.
“Did you grow up here?” Malfoy asked, voice lilting with curiosity. “I never thought to ask.”
“No, I grew up in Surrey. But the drive takes only about an hour, so I came fairly often with my parents when I was a child.”
“Did you have a favourite place to visit?”
She chewed her bottom lip, thinking through the many different parts of London that she loved. Finally, she settled on, “The Barbican. It’s a performing arts centre. My parents would take me to see Shakespeare productions there,” Hermione said, blinking away the sorrow that always accompanied recollections of her parents.
“What did you love so much about it?”
“It’s Muggle, but there’s something magical about it—the building looks horrid from the outside, more like a multi-storey car park than a theatre, but inside it’s so warm and inviting, and the plays are so… Er, do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”
Malfoy shook his head, a strand of hair falling over his eye in a rather fetching way. “Not really.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said with a shrug. “It’s nice to hear you talk about something other than… Well, you know.”
“I do,” she said, unwilling to say the word ‘war’ in such a tranquil setting. These ancient trees had likely borne witness to more than their fair share of conflict over the years.
“The Barbican,” Malfoy repeated, the way one might when committing a new spell to memory.
Hermione smiled at him, something fizzy stirring in her belly. “Perhaps we could go to see a show together there. One day.”
He gave a noncommittal hum.
They lapsed into an awkward silence. The loose gravel beneath their feet became an actual path, although the paving stones were cracked and uneven. A flash of fluorescent pink ahead had Hermione stumbling back into the trees, earning a confused look from the passing jogger. The woman was listening to a Sony Walkman—identical to the one Richard Granger used to favour.
Malfoy watched the woman disappear with avid curiosity, then shot a concerned glance at Hermione. “Alright, Granger?”
She shook her head, eyes locked on the jogger until she disappeared around a corner. It was unnerving to see such normality, such freedom. A woman jogging in a park, music blaring in her ears and Nike trainers on her feet. She probably had a job, a car, a family…
“It doesn’t make sense,” Hermione said, jabbing her finger in the direction the jogger had gone. “Why does everything seem so normal? That woman certainly didn’t look like she’s living under You-Know-Who’s thumb. And I can hear traffic, radio—that’s the wireless, to you. Where’s the fear? The subjugation? The brooms instead of cars?”
Malfoy joined her in the trees. He spun in a circle to make sure there was no one around, then cast a Muffliato for good measure. Even with those precautions, he leaned in close and spoke quietly.
“There’s no war here. Not yet. The Dark Lord is concentrating on stamping out the resistance and expanding his rule across the entirety of the British Isles,” Malfoy said, eyes still sweeping the trees. “Once his rule has stabilized here, I expect he’ll focus on the rest of the Wizarding communities across Europe before breaking the Statute of Secrecy—he’ll need a proper army to take on the Muggle world.”
He really thinks Muggles will pose such a threat? Hermione felt safer communicating through their bond than aloud.
“No, it’s MACUSA he's worried about,” Malfoy whispered, curiously intent on speaking instead of thinking. “They’ll surely get involved once the Dark Lord exposes Wizardkind. The Americans haven’t been drawn into the war as of yet but… I think of MACUSA like a sleeping dragon—”
A beast you don’t wake until you’re ready for flames.
Malfoy nodded.
Hermione tampered down a flare of excitement. She should probably feel terrified at the prospect of Voldemort swelling his ranks until he was ready to draw the entire world into his war. She should feel like running, hiding away until there was nothing left of London but ash and blood.
In truth, she felt like stealing Malfoy’s wand and getting to work.
She had been shielded from the war for too long. Somewhere along the line, she’d become far too comfortable at the Manor—she hadn’t achieved anything of use so far, hadn’t even wormed her way into the library yet. Eating and resting, walking the garden and tending the roses, passing pleasant hours with Malfoy and his mother; the creature comforts of her new life had kept her constrained far more than any handcuffs could.
Fight now flooded her system, an acid eating through her complacency. Voldemort’s continued focus on conquering Britain indicated that the surviving members of the Order of the Phoenix were putting up a good fight. There was still hope.
Malfoy watched her carefully, his face blank but his eyes light and open. One of his hands drummed a rapid pattern against his upper thigh, the other still holding his pocketed wand.
“Malfoy…”
Hermione pushed into his space and placed a hand on his chest. She wanted to feel his heartbeat when she asked her next question—wanted to catch any stutters or stops. His eyes flitted down to her hand but he didn’t pull away.
Quietly, she asked, “Why are you telling me any of this?”
The conflict within him was clear. His gaze drifted over her shoulder. The beat of his heart became irregular. The drumming on his thigh stopped and started. Each puff of his breath against her face came quicker than the last. With a long exhale, he came to some decision.
Pressing his mouth to her ear, he whispered, “Hiding things hasn’t—hasn’t kept you as safe as I thought it would.”
What if You-Know Who uses Legilimency on me? Aren’t you worried he might be… displeased about what you’ve said?
“If he bothers to check your mind—a big if, by the way, seeing as he finds you no more threatening than a fly—I’m almost certain I can use the bond to shield your thoughts.”
“And if you’re wrong about the bond? Or you’re not with me when he pokes around inside my head?”
Malfoy shrugged. “You don’t need to worry. He won’t hurt you. Or me, for that matter.”
“Care to explain why?”
“No, I don’t suppose I do.”
Infuriating prat didn’t even begin to cover it.
He took her by the hand and led her back to the path. They walked on in silence until the trees thinned out, the path beginning a steeper incline until they reached a small clearing. In the centre of a hexagonal pond, there was a weathered statue of a cloaked aristocrat sitting on a Victorian armchair. Though this monument was likely once bronze, oxidation had left a greyish-black patina over the surface.
Hermione felt vaguely ill. There was something uncomfortably throne-like about the armchair, and the old-fashioned cloak looked too much like wizarding robes. The statue sat atop a plinth, an inscription letting all who passed know that this was Lord Holland. Though Hermione knew nothing of the man or his legacy, the image of a cloaked Lord in a position of power wasn’t something she took pleasure in viewing.
Malfoy, apparently unperturbed by the statue, walked straight to the edge of the pond. He muttered to himself until he spotted something on the ground. “That must be it,” he said, pointing to an ordinary-looking shrub. He glanced over at Hermione, breaking her out of her discomfort when he asked, “That’s the tallest one around the pond, right?”
“Seems so. Why on earth does it matter?”
Rather than give a straight answer, Malfoy lined himself up with the shrub and turned to his left. “Okay, thirty paces from here,” he said, lifting a leg. Suddenly, he slammed it back on the ground and frowned.
Hermione started to worry he may have lost his mind. “Malfoy? What’s going on?”
“Would you mind coming over here?” he asked. “I need your legs.”
“What the hell has gotten into you! I’m not giving you my—”
“Disregard that, it came out all wrong” he said, cheeks flaming red. “I need you to be the one who counts the paces. My strides are likely a bit too long, I think yours would be more accurate.”
Hermione’s hands flew to her hips, as they were apt to do. “What year did I punch you in? And why did I do it?”
“Granger, come on, we really haven’t the time for this.”
“I’ll run if you—”
“Third year. Because I was being a git.”
“What in particular were you being a git about?” At his reluctance to answer, she added, “Never mind, I’m sure there are ever so many things you could say in response—how about, what creature did we fight about?”
“Buckbeak the Hippogriff,” he said, furiously waving her over with an unusually panicked look on his face. “Hurry. I swear I’m not under Polyjuice, we just have limited time to find what we’ve come for.”
“Which is?”
“Important.”
Hermione reluctantly sidled over, electricity shooting through her when he lightly gripped her waist to move her to the place he’d just been standing. Unaware of—or indifferent to—the way his touch affected her, he tightened his hold and angled her to face the same direction he’d been looking.
“Off you go, Granger. Thirty paces. Keep straight while you walk,” he said, releasing her waist.
She glared at him over her shoulder, finding his face unnervingly close to hers. “Why do we need to walk thirty paces,” she said, pausing to check the position of the sun in the sky, “east?”
“Because Pansy Parkinson is incapable of doing anything without dramatics."
Hermione’s shoulders relaxed. If Pansy had something to do with this, it probably wasn’t deadly. Probably being the operative word. With a resigned sigh, she walked forwards and counted each step. It was rather difficult to walk normally while being so aware of the need to do so. She did her best to take even, measured steps—somehow not losing count, even with Malfoy so close on her heels that he kept bumping into her.
Between paces seven and eight, she hissed, “Watch where you’re going, you insufferable oaf,” and then settled back into a rhythm. Nine, ten—
“You can’t seriously take such tiny steps,” Malfoy grumbled.
“Eleven,” she said loudly. “Shut up or we’ll have to start again.”
He took her warning to heart, keeping his complaints to himself as they scrambled through the undergrowth. Thirty paces led them off the path, into another thicket of trees, and past a few stray potato chip bags and sweet wrappers.
“Thirty,” Hermione said, coming to an abrupt stop.
Malfoy smacked straight into her back. “Give a man a warning, Granger!” He kept her steady by grabbing her waist again, gripping tightly as he peered around her and studied their destination. They had arrived at a beech tree with a large cross scratched into the trunk.
“Subtle,” Malfoy said, breath ghosting Hermione’s neck and his fingers twitching on her waist. If he didn’t let go of her soon, she was going to… do something. What exactly she was going to do, she wasn’t sure.
“Now what?” she asked.
Finally, Malfoy removed his hands from her waist. He ushered her to the side and turned his eyes to the ground. Drawing his wand, he cancelled what was likely a Notice-Me-Not charm and vanished a clump of roots—revealing a shiny gold Galleon. With a graceful flick, he Accioed the coin into his hand.
Hermione inspected the Galleon. “All that bother for a coin?”
“It's a Portkey,” he said, a hint of nerves in his voice. He held his open hand out to her, the Galleon glinting in the centre of his palm. “Touch it now, it must be about to activate.”
She reached out but didn't touch. “Where will it—”
“I swear to Merlin, if you don’t touch the damn thing—”
“Why can’t you ever answer a simple question!”
“Hermione! Touch the damn Portkey!”
It was his use of her first name that shocked her into action. She pressed her hand on top of his, the Galleon caught between their palms, and had just a moment to gape at him. Had he ever called her Hermione? Even once? Before she could consider every interaction they’d ever had since first year, the Portkey activated and they were swept away with a brutal yank.