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Chapter Text

18th November 2022

“Draco Lucius Malfoy.” The Chief Warlock spoke as he cleared his croaky voice.

The Wizengamot High Court was desolate and numbing, albeit with a hundred, exactly a hundred, Wizengamot members sitting sturdily at the semicircular mahogany benches.

“Present,” Malfoy said, shivering.

 Calm yourself, Draco.

He took three deep breaths, as Narcissa insisted and instructed him. The mahogany-scented air ran deep into his lungs. He loves poshness, but definitely not this kind of poshness.

“Stand,” the Chief Warlock continued, voice like a thunderbolt.

Draco stood.

His opaque robes are still comfy on his body, swaying gently as he moved.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, convicted of four charges. One – aiding and abetting of Death Eaters during the years nineteen eighty-seven to nineteen eighty-eight ,” The Chief Warlock spoke sophisticatedly, every single word spoken like it’s a masterpiece, “Any comments on this ?”

Draco stayed silent.

His dad, Lucius Malfoy, screamed and quarrelled in the trial. At the end? He got sentenced to death in Azkhban, and the recent reforms allow a letter per year. Last year what he sent was a rant and complaints about the labour.

“No comments ?” The Chief Warlock inquested, their voice annoyingly smooth, “Now let’s proceed to the second charge – plotting the assassination of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore in June 1997.”

“Any comments or discourse ?” The Chief Warlock continued.

Draco wants to speak out; he actually hasn’t plotted his murder or even supported it. He’s just an innocent adolescent forced to witness the plotting of the ‘tragic’ death of the former Hogwarts Headmaster.

According to Astoria, in the Muggle society, there are things called ‘lawyers’, who both sides have a representative arguing for them, while in the Wizarding Society, one of the first laws Hermione Granger made Kingsley implement was to ban any representing lawyers.

“I… haven’t assisted or given them any… inspiration,” Draco spoke confidently, “Under Wizarding Law 33-A7, a person who is compelled to witness a crime shall not be held criminally liable for failing to report it or control it, provided that doing so would place their life in jeopardy.”

He can’t fail; he has memorised most of the laws for months now.

I am going to have a purpose, he told himself.

“Legilmens”, The Chief Warlock said as he (all Wizengamot are men anyway, despite Hermione’s ceaseless urging for reform) waved his wand towards her, the faint flash of blue light shot towards him. Draco could see his hands just briefly within the incarcerated half wall he sat inside – allowing his verbal mortification and watching his judgement, but trapping him within. Unexpectedly, the Chief Warlock’s hands weren’t calloused or wrinkled like he would expect.

Chief Warlocks were mostly elders; since Dumbledore’s death, according to rumours, there are already three dead Chief Warlocks post-war due to age. Finally, it makes sense that one of the new post-Wizarding War constitutions, more specifically Wizarding Law 30-A2, ruled there needs to be two Wizenmagot at any time Draco memorised.

The Chief Warlock’s cloaked head made a small nod as he took Draco’s wand and put it into some silvery thing – a pensieve.

    “So we’ll give him the cursed necklace,” Bellatrix cackled sinisterly as she crossed her legs comfortably on the leather sofa in the meeting room of Malfoy Manor. Draco was staring at the wall – he never liked gloominess. “Listen, Draco,” Lucius ordered as he patted Draco’s back hurtfully, discouragingly, “inspire us, or more whips tonight.” “I don’t think it’s going to work. How would Dumbledore sleep or even dare touch the necklace if he knows it’s not his, with his such humble and self-virtuous thinking?” Draco sniffed as he let out a laugh.

Why the fuck is he so stubborn at the time ?

His mind revealed another moment; he felt it.

“It didn’t work —“ Bellatrix stammered. “Didn’t work ?” Voldemort banged the table with his ghostly arms, his eyes bloodshot again against his pale skin, “Fifty slashes for today! And you, Mr Malfoy, don’t sit here at the side pretending you have nothing to do; enlighten me, please.”

Draco stayed silent.

“Part those lips before I dig out all the faulty garbage in your innocent brain !” Voldemort growled furiously. “I… don’t have a clue,” Malfoy mumbled, shaking involuntarily. “Not a clue ?” Voldemort grabbed Draco’s cloak as he pulled him close, so close that Draco could feel the heat, or whatever warmth that’s left in him. “Take me instead,” a voice came from behind.

Draco’s eyes watched the back. Narcissa, his mother.

Voldemort released Draco with a heavy thud to the desk as he hit it.

Voldemort pulled Narcissa towards the door at the side – Draco had never gone inside it despite it being his home… perhaps a storage room? He has absolutely no idea.

The last sight of Narcissa Draco saw was Narcissa’s grim, protective face.

That night when Narcissa returned, she was full of bruises and looked like she had barely escaped death.

The entire Wizengamot members’ faces were laced with shock… or respect? The respect definitely isn’t for him; it's probably for Narcissa – he doesn’t even call her mother anymore; he never has.

“Now we proceed with a vote on whether Draco Lucius Malfoy should be guilty or not guilty of his second charge – plotting the assassination of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore in June 1997. If you think he is guilty, please press the red button; if you think he is not guilty, please press the blue button,” the Chief Warlock proceeded.

Damn. Muggle inventions applied on magical trials.

Draco detested Muggle technologies.

The blue lights flashed one by one; occasionally a red light flashed as the ‘electronic display’ (according to muggle-loving Astoria) started a countdown.

59, 58, 57.

Even with this charge removed, he’ll still be convicted for at least three charges – aiding and abetting Death Eaters, discriminating against Muggle-borns within Hogwarts with physical evidence (Draco doesn’t know why that’s a charge; he was still an adolescent at the time), plus finally – using the Dark Mark. His life would still be obliterated; there is no comeback.

“Due to members having picked their vote, the results would be announced now – sixty-seven votes for not guilty and thirty-three votes for guilty.” The Chief Warlock announced, his voice deep and smooth.

“So therefore, Draco Lucius Malfoy would not be convicted or found guilty of the second charge – plotting the murder of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore in June 1997.”

“Let’s move on to the third charge – bullying and deliberate physical assault towards muggle-borns in the six years at Hogwarts,” the Chief Warlock said neutrally.

Gods, he hates this, especially if he’s going to retort with the Wizarding Laws.

“The Wizarding Law 2-A6 implies that any discrimination against muggle-borns is illegal and wouldn’t be tolerated if the culprit is older than twelve. The Wizarding Law 3…”

 The fucking Chief Warlock is a smug copycat.

Draco cleared his throat.

“B7 implies that every physical assault that leads to hospitalisation can be trialled, and I am guilty of this, but it doesn’t mention age, and Wizarding Law 2-B2 dictates that if the culprit is below 18, people would be rehabilitated unless the crime involves death,” Draco continued with confidence and poise, “which I didn’t kill anyone.”

The Chief Warlock’s covered face should probably be enraged by now. “Silence”, he commanded with a low voice, under his unbreakable facade , ”no more words from you.”

“That’s the final charge for today; no more convictions unless further evidence is found. The verdict will be announced in two days. For now, Draco Lucius Malfoy may remain free. You are adjourned, Wizengamot.” The Chief Warlock announced with his smooth, neutral voice as all the Wizengamot immediately packed up and moved.

The new team that Kingsley hired is definitely less nepotistic but not necessarily better.

As he walked out from the now even gloomier courtroom, except that it was lifeless save for the Wizenmagot moving slowly, his body giving off a slight aura.

As he opened the heavy mahogany door, another man, slightly shorter than him (after his growth spurt in these few years).

Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“Mr Malfoy, would you mind if we had a talk in my room ?” 

Chapter Text

⸻

“Mione,” Ron yawned as he lifted himself up with a low grunt, his thick, scarred, freckled arms bearing his weight. “Happy birthday,” he muttered huskily.
Hermione opened her eyes—they were stiff and crusted—as she moved her body slightly upwards, resting her head on the headboard. The bed squeaked impatiently. Ron Weasley’s face was imprinted in her clockwork thoughts; she could pretty much mark every detail on his face—the few scars at the top right of his eye, the sapphire eyes—his irises darken when aroused; lifeless during one of his ‘episodes.’ His untamed ginger hair, now streaked with a few grey strands, covered his pale forehead.

“Mione,” Ron repeated, his face now closer to hers as her head rose.
“Morning, Ron.” She took a deep breath—she hated the scent of his mouth—it smelled of rot and earth, especially when he tried to slow down his breathing, as she had mentored him to do during his ‘episodes.’

She regretted teaching him the method. Yes, it worked, especially when he took deep, controlled breaths through his mouth.

It smelled like he hadn’t brushed his teeth in a fortnight.

“Hermione,” he spoke, his voice vibrating through her. It didn’t sound romantic—more like a plea.

He took another deep breath through his mouth—the warm, foul air pushing into her nose as his dried lips opened slightly.

Gods.

The smell was foul and gross.

But she couldn’t, dosent want to break him further.

He opened his mouth now—his incisors were yellowing,  his molars were decaying. His head leaned further against hers, staying there for a moment. It was suffocating, like she had just entered a sewage system and inhaled the scent.

Suddenly, he closed the distance between them further until they were nearly touching—skin to skin, their noses already contacting. His nose was huge and weathered—nearly double the size of hers, and rough. Her skin didn’t burn—it dulled with every contact.

He kissed her.

And he’s breathing with his mouth 

His mouth was filthy, decaying and rotting, yet as they kissed, he started breathing through his nose again. At least there was no foul smell for a few seconds.

His hands—calloused, pale, his fingernails uncut—moved towards her waist as his thick, dad-bod arms wrapped around her completely.

As her eyes gazed out the window - the trees stood proudly together, watching her with shame, she desired it, getting rid of her responsibility to Ron. She doesn’t want a family life, she wants freedom, liberty, and fresh air.

“In sickness and in health, to love and cherish.”

She don’t want to be reminded of this. 

Another wave of heat hits her.

Her gaze moved down—his boxers were strained, a bulge hinting at his groin.

Fuck. His erection.

It was utterly frustrating—every time he had an erection, desire spiked in her mind. But the last time they fucked was like… three years ago? All of it flushed at her in a flash. Their vigorous attempt to conceive Hugo had taken much longer than conceiving Rose—his seed less potent, her eggs dulled from age. While it worked in the end, her clit had been sore and swollen for months.

Ron pushed his lips harder, his power concentrating on one point. She let out an involuntary soft moan. Ron’s sapphire eyes darkened with something she couldn’t quite place—lust? Desire?

“Can we…” Ron whispered, his breath warm and foul against her face.
“No, I don’t want to.” Hermione moved her face backward, hitting the headboard.
“Why…” Ron continued, his eyes darkening further.

“I’m coming,” he growled, his voice pleasured and masculine, as she completely moved her body away—a gap, or a magnet of cold, sticking to her now.

“Honestly, no?” Ron questioned for the third time.

Obviously no. She hadn’t taken any of her contraceptive pills for months, and Ron loathed latex. While he was obsessed with Muggle items, condoms were certainly not one of them.

“I’m okay. Can you please stop? I’m not longing for sex in any way. It’s infuriating,” Hermione argued. “I’m going out.”

Knock. Knock.

“Mama, happy birthday!” a girl’s voice yelped across the wooden door, innocent and excited. Hermione went to push the door open, tiredly. It was Rose—again.

Rose was nine this year, the most annoying, troublesome age of a child—old enough to cause chaos, yet too young to be sensible. Most of the time, Hermione put the magic dampener on her before sending her to Muggle primary school.

But during typical Ministry of Magic overtime, she could work for two whole days straight without a single moment of sleep.

“Go away, Rose, nobody wants you,” Hermione snarled, irritated.
“Stop being so damn harsh to her, she’s nine, and it’s not a military academy,” Ron argued as he stared at his groin—the bulge even more prominent, a slight smug hanged on his face.

Ron let out a low growl. In her younger years, she would’ve loved it, called it primal; now she would call it a gross, involuntary sound. He came. Hermione moved towards the door to open it. She knew seeing Rose and exchanging a few words with her was inevitable, but it was the only way to get out of the room.

As she slammed open the door, the hanging items—a leather-made handbag she got as a birthday present years ago—swung. After wearing it only once, she left it there, afraid to inflict any damage on it. Her robe—green—saved for festivities and galas, hung there, abandoned.

She had received plenty of gala invitations in the few years post-war, so many that she actually missed a few of them. But now, she only received one maybe biannually, which got cancelled—or “postponed,” the excuse nearly every time.

Rose’s wide, optimistic smile boosted her mood slightly. Her white teeth spread wide in her mouth; her maroon Muggle clothing was loose.
“Here’s your birthday present,” she muttered as she took something from behind her back, where she had been hiding it, and handed her a white card.

It was a handmade birthday card.

Her recent hobby was drawing what she called ‘still life’—basically stickmen and a few inaccurately drawn circles. Hermione had prophesied the birthday present from Rose, and of course, she was predictable enough—some drawings of her and Ron, perhaps the entire family, in Rose’s quality.

The painting was a smiling face of her—Hermione only knew it was her from the label “Mama.” Her hair was still maroon according to the painting, which she was (after the Muggle-dyeing method; she preferred that, as the wizarding dye could be easily removed by a simple spell—reditus). Ron’s hair was different—half grey, half his remaining, fading ginger. The strokes on the grey were deliberately harder, probably because of his constant excuse of being “old” to avoid going out with her.

Hugo’s stickman was miniscule and plain, while she was drawn as a tall, developed adult. Rose definitely needed to improve on drawing things resembling her, Hermione thought.

“Thanks,” Hermione said sarcastically. Then she dodged past Rose. She didn’t know what Rose was thinking—perhaps that she’d cuddle her and give her sweets? As she walked down the stairs, the decaying wooden planks orchestrated a cracking rhythm, a few mismatched replacement planks rising up after she stepped.

She had told Ron to bring actual new planks, not just to relax the old ones every time, as they would be obliterated within a month.

At the peak of their relationship—perhaps a decade ago—when they kissed from want and fucked, her pussy swollen, their hearts full, they had lengthy conversations instead of these short, controlled exchanges. She had mentioned buying a Muggle house instead—larger, cleaner, more modern. He refused—or stubbornly avoided the conversation every time.

Up until five years ago, even with her prolonged hours and their diminishing common ground, they still laughed and giggled every day when she came home late.

At the dawn of her pregnancy, he was still a caring, loving husband—taking off a few of his Auror shifts. After Rose was born, he maintained the ordinary father façade for a year or two more before stress hit him. Then his kidnapping during an Auror mission dragged everything down to hell.

The news of the trauma came all of a sudden, after months of delayed notices. It all came from a single letter:

⸻

Dear Mrs. Weasley,
I’m sorry for you to receive this message, but unfortunately, due to a miscalculation, Ronald Bilius Weasley has been captured by Russian Dark Wizards. We don’t know Ronald Weasley’s current condition, but usually, in this situation, they would be alive (63% of cases). However, the chance of PTSD or any form of permanent physical injury is near certain (96%). If he returns alive, he will be placed/eligible for on PPP (Permanent Pension Plan) Level 2.

⸻

Level 2 PPP was never going to be enough to support a family—let alone one person. She realized this the moment she read the letter, a sharp pang hitting her chest. She had to work—take all the bonus hours for bonus pay. She was the one who had launched the PPP two decades ago. Such bitter irony.

She continued down the stairs. Well, nobody lived in The Burrow anymore except her family and the elderly Weasleys—Arthur and Molly.

The wall was just a huge piece of decaying wallpaper of roses. According to Molly, she kept it to celebrate “the birth of Rose” (for the last 9 years).

The different levels of The Burrow were mostly the same—abandoned, yet “cleaned” rooms. The walls held a few Muggle portraits and gadgets—some colorful dolls, plus digital clocks that Arthur, Ron, or even Hermione herself had no clue how to connect to the plugs. She had fallen out of touch with Muggle technology by now.

“Hey, Hermione,” Molly shouted in her grandmotherly voice, cheerfully, as she took one of the pans with fried eggs sizzling on it. “Happy birthday! Wait, I’ve got you some presents. Work today, right?” she continued, trying to sound excited.
“Yes, eight to six,” she yawned as she massaged her legs.

Ten whole hours of work.

Kingsley had repeatedly offered her the Deputy Minister of Magic position if she completed a mission—to capture and detain Tom Riddle. But as the title suggested, it was hazardous and more likely to fail than succeed. He treated it very seriously, while she just passed it off as a—

As Molly handed her a wrapped box with colorful ribbons and a sapphire sheet, she stared at it. It would always be one of two things anyway—a purse or some colorful new cloaks.

“You know Ron—is he engaging more now?” Arthur questioned. She had explained to them for hours about his trauma and what was called PTSD—a Muggle concept they struggled to comprehend. They treated it like it was nothing more than an ordinary Muggle cold.

“I told you many times already—it’s long-term, not a muggle flu. Most of the time, it can have episodes for a lifetime,” Hermione complained impatiently. “I have enough struggles.”
“Hermione, calm down,” Molly prompted, her voice saccharine—or annoying—or both simultaneously. “Don’t create troubles. It’s not going to help with your struggles.”

Hermione was enraged.

She strode toward the fireplace.

Enough of the Weasleys.

“Ministry of Magic,” she growled as she flung the Floo Powder she had summoned.

The Ministry of Magic used to be solely for work and the Wizengamot, but post-war, one of the largest advancements was the creation of public commercial spaces—for example, a swimming pool, a library, and hundreds of new magical and Muggle-item shops—intriguing and far more diverse than the tedious Diagon Alley.

As she emerged from the fireplace in the Ministry, the crowd’s noise flooded the hall—children yelling and screaming, spouses arguing, speakers roaring about the next event: “Muggle football match on stream in fifteen minutes!”

She briskly passed the crowd, the children’s voices fading behind her as the shops came into view around the corner. The shops were mostly two-storied, detached houses—despite the underground setting. The owners lived at the top, shops opened downstairs—except for a few posh ones where the owners had their own homes.

The shop in view was a wand shop—Ollivanders—which had been relocated for better capacity, especially after the Ollivander heir, Severus Ollivander, took over after the old Ollivander’s death.

As she walked in—it was much less gloomy now, a lot more open, yet retained the same woody vibe. She was here to visit Luna Lovegood, after Luna met Severus Ollivander—linked by their love of unusual items and prophecies.

“Hermione! Happy birthday!” Luna rushed forward excitedly. They’d built their friendship not long after the Second Wizarding War. After a few unexpected collisions and shared topics, they had become at least… good friends?

“Wait, let me fetch something from my room,” Luna muttered as she was about to talk. “Why not try out some of the wand collections over there?” The wand collection included styles with exotic ornaments—sometimes gemstones, sometimes Muggle magnets. It was well-liked, even though their magical ability was usually weaker—since the new generation of wizards cared more about style and fashion.

That was all the negatives of Muggle society adapted without any of the positives.

As she fidgeted with a few wands from the ‘special collection,’ she bumped into the crowd—children and adults alike.
“Hermione, get out of the crowd right this instant,” Luna shouted teasingly.
Hermione whispered, “Excuse me.” Hermione moved through and out of the crowd. Accidentally, she collided with something sturdy and warm—a man.

The man wore an opaque cloak. Her eyesight only reached his shoulders. She looked up. His blonde hair was trimmed short at the back.

He didn’t move—remained still like a statue, expecting her to move away.

He turned slightly—his scent wafted from his cloak—musky, earthy, unlike Ron’s scent of decay.

“Hermione Granger,” he growled, his voice detached. Her face tilted up—his grey eyes staring down at her like a Muggle bullet.

Malfoy. Him.

Draco fucking Malfoy was staring at her.

Chapter Text

   “Ignore him,” Luna shouted playfully through the crowd as she clashed through the crowd towards Hermione, who is still in a eyeball duel with Draco Malfoy.

Draco’s grey eyes were burning with … rage ? Or just his usual ignorance ?. His eyes narrowed as she stared back with equal frustration.

The things around them seems to pause, as their staring contest continues.

“Stop, Hermione, take the present, and leave for your work, and stop trying to flirt with this widower,” the voice that sounds like Luna’s said, “I thought your work starts at 8:15 ?”

Yes, definitely Luna now.

Luna’s arms crossed Hermione’s body retreated a step as the view of her body came in her eyesight, blocking Draco Malfoy’s grey, flaming eyes.

Damn. Luna, despite only one, well, two for now younger than her, Luna looks miles more stunning and seductive than her already.

Hermione is jealous.

The few less lines on her face, no dark circles under her eyes, and more sculptures body than hers - getting fatter day by day from the late nights drinking.

Draco’s eyes kept staring at her, with a slight aggressiveness, as Luna attempted to make a smile. “Sorry… but Hermione—-, she really needs to go now,” Luna stammered as her hands - smooth and warm on hers, gave her a slight pull.

“It’s about work though, Kingsley asked me to find you, he… requests your presence,” Draco clarified irritatingly with his low voice.

Kingsley ? Asked Draco Malfoy - the ex-Death Eater to take her to him ? Why not just fucking come over himself ?

Hermione and Luna stayed silent as they shifted away slightly, Luna’s smile was even tighter. “No… I don’t want to go just yet… five more minutes,” Hermione muttered, she couldn't quite grasp it… she is embarrassed ? But why would she be embarrassed for a depraved person ? Or is she fearing him ?

Draco Malfoy walked away without another word.

“Why on earth would he want to find you ?” Luna questioned a few minutes later as they walk away from the crowd and moved towards the stairs behind the cashier. “I don’t know, but why would he even be hired in the Ministry of Magic again, have people already forgotten his past already,” Hermione ranted with a crossed noise. “I heard that a few elves were gossiping about Malfoy, promoted to the vice-Chief Warlock recently,” Luna said with a sneaky voice, “don’t tell anyone.”

Hermione let out a small sarcastic giggle, “that’s the best joke I’ve ever heard !” “That’s not completely without any evidence, you see his stern face ? Like he’s more of a statue than a sentimental being,” Luna continued.

“Wait—- and here’s your birthday present, hopefully it’ll stop your work addiction,” Luna passed the box on her crossed arms. The box is heavy inside the colourful wrap paper - at least she wouldn’t be able to figure it out, not like the hangbgs she got from Molly all the time. “Go and fuck with your work now,” Luna teased, “I’ve got to clean the shop up.”

She checked the clock hanging on the wall, 08:14. Shit. Walking to the Minister’s Room take at least five minutes.

She turned towards the double entrance door, people staring at her awkwardly - most people come to the Olivander’s for wand collections or else it’s the new Hogwarts pupil buying their resources.

“Bye Luna !” She yelped before she gave the door a hard push and ran.

Her wasn't in control her breathing anymore - every breath came out as a huff.

Ministry of Magical History.

Ministry of Time.

Ministry of Muggle relationship.

Ministry of International Wizarding Relations.

Goddamn. The Minister’s room is at the direct opposite of the shops, or the literal furthest point between two places in the  Ministry Headquarters. Pain radiated from her legs to her core.

As she rushed pass the clerks, administrators and officers, she was stared with confusion and curiosity. They were far more at grace than her - at least they’re not in constant unpaid overtime work.

She continued to run - her legs carrying her through the long corridors, the corridor get narrower and narrower, the sporadic people walking through is dressed in posh, opaque robes and cloaks. “Where are you going to ? My lady ?” A men grabbed her swinging arms said with a croaked tone, his hand calloused but warm, “entry beyond the Magisterial Institute is illegal is forbidden without permission.”

Gods. She could hear his French accent.

“I’m… sorry…” Hermione hesitated. “I’m in a rush to a meeting…rendezvous… recontre avec le ministre,” her primary-school French slipping back into her mind, “je vais bien.”

She faced up, the men was still there. He is probably in his sixties, a bit over six foot tall, with thick grey hair with a neat slick back cut. His tired sapphire eyes - as dull and monotonous as Malfoy’s glared at her. His face was clean shaven with a ghostly smile - of regret ? Or of wickedness ? She couldn’t figure it out.

“Reason ?” The men continued, highlighting his own French accent, as she scanned his cloak. It’s probably made out of silk or velvet, or something expensive. He put on his top hat - completely opaque like the rest of his clothing.

“I’m going to minister Kingsley’s meeting,” Hermione answered with her failed attempt to at least sound a bit… posh. “À bientôt, bonne journée,” Hermione muttered as she walked away with large steps, the man walk away without a word with his curt steps.

The corridor suddenly led to a grand chamber - a triple-layered fountain, water sliding pleasantly, great, she needs some rest before sighting Draco Malfoy again, plus now she can justify her lateness by getting lost. The fountain was larger than her bed, probably more of some muggle sculpture as the hawk at the tip suggest.

The chamber’s slightly eerie, a gentle splash of water shot her skin as she walked closer to the fountain. The slightly rough texture of the concrete rubbing her skin. The fountain was probably lightened by a few weak permanent lumos, its soft light illuminating the stone-walled chamber.

“Granger, stop lingering there like a confused muggle,” a voice – low and sturdy – growled as the voice echoed in the chamber.

Fucking Malfoy.

“Go away”, Hermione said, annoyed, “nobody needs you.” “No, Kingsley is time sensitive, unlike you lazy mudblood – he has a stressed schedule,” Malfoy sighed, his voice laced with annoyance, “I want my promotion; hopefully you would want yours, to make yourself feel better of the long hours you love to rant about”

His face was suddenly confused - eyes darkened, mouth frozen, as if of his life force was pulled out of him for a sudden.

As quickly as it’s there, his face returned alive.

What’s wrong with him ?

She can’t care about him any more than her promotion, as he said.

She hasn’t had a promotion for years – after working as a manager in the Ministry of Magical History – her dream job at the start of her career, now it’s repetitive – days just organising files, planning to find artefacts (the part she thought would be fun but turned out not to be), and writing essays for nothing – she used to enjoy it, but no longer now, as she was always told there is a word limit of a few thousand, not tens of thousands, that she tends to adore.

The pay was also stagnant since the two decades ago she began working at the post; with Ron unable to work, her family is barely clinging on.

Hermione followed Malfoy silently as he led her to one of the corridors, walled with even more stones. At the end, they approached a giant plank door as the cool, ancient air massaged her face silently.

If she were there alone, she would’ve been afraid. She had expected to be scared to stay with Draco Malfoy without anyone around, but unexpectedly it was pleasant enough that she didn’t just… walk away; she managed to stay silent.

“Come in,” a voice ordered – Kingsley’s – as the door flipped open itself. Warm air flushed onto her face; the scent – old leather and burnt candles – evoked her. Twenty years ago was like a few months ago – the fleeting shadow of Ginny lingered in her mind.

20 years ago

“Ginny! Hermione screamed cheerfully as she ran towards Ginny. Ginny's ginger hair was braided, her skirts loose and swinging across her. Harry released Ginny from their cuddle only the moment Hermione arrived. Ginny was not as delighted as Hermione would’ve expected; her smile was tight. When she walked towards her, she wasn’t sprayed in perfume like she would usually like.

“Are you okay?” Hermione questioned as they approached for a hug – she’s much thinner, the floating cloak is just a facade of her thinness. She was never a curvy woman, sister-in-law, since last month after she and Harry’s marriage.

“Yes, I’m fine, very fine,” Ginny repeated, more like a sigh as she moved her head back. “Have you given flowers to Kingsley yet?” Hermione continued hopefully. Ginny gave a small nod. “I have, mind… if I sit down? “I drank too much last night.” Ginny pointed at a wooden chair at the edge of the main chamber of the minister's office.

Today is the anticipated opening gala of the new minister's office; prominent pure-bloods and some muggle-borns were invited. At least the Malfoy family wasn’t invited, Hermione thought.

“Hermione, want to dance?” A voice came from behind, warm breath colliding on her neck – Dimitri Verov stood right behind her, his buzz cut blonde hair screaming regality.

He’s from one of the prominent pure-blooded families in Russia; they met for the first time during a gala hosted in Harry’s house. His quick wit and elf rights advocacy had fascinated her all the time; now he’s the budget minister of Russia – perhaps from some nepotism – yet it’s a system Hermione adored due to its welfare programmes that were stemmed from the Soviets.

His thick arms moved forwards, offering her his hands – calloused, cuddly, and gentle.

As the orchestra played, the soft, silk-woven melody shimmering from the piano carried the dances in the gala. As Dimitri led Hermione for a spin, she followed; her gaze was focusing elsewhere for a moment – Harry muttering something to Ginny at her chair, his face worrisome. While Ron stood there, arms crossed, probably shouting ‘betrayal towards the old riches’ in his mind.

The waltz stopped abruptly.

“Why are we stopping…” a man yelped as he held his partner.

“Please welcome Harry James Potter to deliver the opening speech, applause,” Kingsley announced with a muggle Mike.

“Good evening, everyone. I’m grateful to have the gratitude to be the foremost speaker of the gala.” Harry moved towards the temporary podium. “So… How's your day? been like, good? Meh? Bad?” Harry teased; a few young children screamed, ‘Bad!’

“Well, well, well…  “Let’s get it going,” Harry continued with a light mood. ”Tonight, we’re not just here to drink our fine wine; we’re here to celebrate the opening of the new ministry office. Years ago, here, where were standing, was just part of the earth’s crust, yes, stones. But now – in a blink after the Second Wizarding War, well, time is a blink, right?” He said as he stared at the right-sided wall, where Ginny sat, although he hid it well, she could see glimpses of anxiety behind his eyes.

“Now let’s pass the speech to our next guest – the minister himself – Kingsley Shacklebolt!” Harry shouted as he tapped on the mike.

Present day

“Hermione, are you hallucinating? Do you need a Percieve performed on you?” Malfoy said with a sardonic tone. “No,” Hermione snarled, “go away.”

“You wouldn’t be able to ‘go away’ if you want a promotion,” a voice – Kingsley’s voice – snarled sarcastically. Hermione gave an irritated nod as she walked it behind Malfoy.

She loathes Malfoy, she loathes this damned meeting, and she loathes her life.

As Kingsley led them two, Hermione’s mood was dampened from Malfoy’s confidence. “How have the last few weeks been?” Kingsley questioned as they walked towards the stairs towards the minister’s room. Hermione shifted her stiff neck up – what should she reply… ‘good’?

“I’m fine; Narcissa has been annoying lately about marriage and stuff, as always, especially after the Douviors family’s ‘extinction’,” Malfoy replied.

The Douviors used to be one of the prominent French wizarding families, like the Malfoys, thought Hermione with her historical brain pumping out information. And the last descendant of the family – Jean Douviors – inherited the huge family estate a few years post-war and died in a few years. Rumours suspect his death was from suicide, not from natural causes; most witches live well into their hundreds, except a few like Astoria.

Draco and Kingsley continued to walk; she wasn’t even mentioned in their small talk. “Come, seat,” Kingsley said as he settled down sophisticatedly on the maroon-leather armchair. Malfoy followed, as he moved to the one adjacent to Kingsley with a smug smile hanging on his lips.

“Take a seat, please, Hermione,” Kingsley prompted as he pointed to a seat opposite to Malfoy.

She sat.

Kingsley went to the drawers to take out a file — her eyes moved around the room; multi-story mahogany drawers were installed now, covering the original oak wall. The entire half of the room was ruled by bookshelves, thousands of Latin, French, and Muggle legends standing there.

Her eyes slowly shifted back to the desk, towards Malfoy — yes, the room was regal, but there was not much to see.

She studied Malfoy’s face; she didn’t know why her eyes shifted to him unconsciously as if he’s magnetic.

No women with a mind would be attracted to this tyrant.

His face was perfectly sculptured — his grey eyes stood out perfectly, glaring at her with an intense gaze. His thick, naturally soft blonde hair was swept back — hairline perfect, without a single sign of decline — unlike Ron’s widow’s peak, which he did nothing to hide it, but with his ‘solution’ - keeping his usual messy style he had for a decade. His shoulders were broad in a way that shouted his control of the room, not Ron’s sloping broad shoulders. His jawline was defined, a blonde stubble covering it, making him more rugged.

Fate was never kind — Ron, who had been humble, hardworking, and honest… just everything, had a decaying face and ruined luck, while Malfoy’s envy and smugness were rewarded with the look of a model and immense luck, for whatever reason he wasn’t rotting in Azkaban like his dad did.

Kingsley returned with hard steps and a black leather file. “So… here we go,” he said lowly as his legs paddled casually at the side. He took out two thick papers, words printed intricately on them; she couldn’t quite read it yet, but it was definitely some kind of detailed document.

What would it be about?

Her breathing quickened as her heart started to race. Worrisome thoughts rose from deep in her heart — what if she was accused of murdering Death Eaters? What if she was accused of ‘overthrowing’ the former pure-blood government? All those thoughts rushed through her mind, even if they were hysterical.

Stop these thoughts, Hermione.

She hates herself.

Kingsley handed the documents to them both at the side of the desk. “Draco knew about this already,” Kingsley said steadily as he drank a sip of his tea that he levitated to his hands, “Depends on how I call it… an adventure… or a mission that’ll give you both a promotion.”

At least that’s not a conviction against her.

“What kind of mission?” Hermione snapped as Malfoy’s face twisted into annoyance. “Can’t you just fucking read the details? “Stop being a little nuisance.” Malfoy slammed the table with a growl.

Is he okay?

“Draco —-, Malfoy.” Kingsley warned, “Don’t be rude, or I’m scrapping the promotion opportunity.” “Kingsley, may I ask, what’s the promotion?” Hermione questioned smoothly. “I’m retiring,” Kingsley started with an exhale, “I need to enjoy my own life more, and the current Deputy Minister of Magic – Charlotte Walker – is also resigning due to stress, which means both posts will be open.”

So she is going to be the new Minister of Magic after this ‘mission’? “Stop dreaming, Hermione,“ she told herself.

“You cannot pass the seat down; it’s not chosen by the former; it’s elected,” Hermione argued. She proposed those laws, and Kingsley agreed.

Draco’s eyes were struggling to concentrate.

“If you agree to the mission, then I’ll promote you to the Minister of Magic,” Kingsley said to Draco as he took a sip of the wine. “You certainly cannot decide who will be the new minister; it’s ‘democratically elected’,” Draco retorted. “The law 2G-7T states that the British wizards will vote across three candidates – one pure-blood, one half-blood, and one mud… muggle-born. The minister position would be given to the candidate who secured the largest portion of votes,” Draco read steadily.

“Being in Wizengamot fits you pretty well; no wonder why they promoted you to the main members from a minor clerk,” Kingsley said, his voice slightly mocking.

“Well, Hermione Granger hasn’t proposed a law to limit what the minister can do; I can just change any laws anytime I want, don’t you know?” Kingsley said smugly, “And I will make you the new Minister of Magic.”

”Minister of Magic”, Draco thought, “He can finally return the British Wizarding community back into order. The order of the pure-bloods.”

“And what’s the… mission?” Draco questioned it; it won’t be something simple, probably some dilemma or assassinating someone innocent (everyone thinks he doesn’t have a moral compass despite him definitely having one).

“It’s simple – murder Tom Marvelo Riddle and bring his corpse back here,” Kingsley settled the glass on the table as Draco went pale. “In the Wizarding War, most credit went to Harry Potter, and I’m just seen as one of the supporting, secondary figures behind him. I don’t want to retire to be forgotten; I want to retire with some achievements.” “How am I supposed to murder him? No one managed to kill him alone, not even the Great Harry Potter,” Draco chanted, “he’s under the assistance of a few purebloods.”

“So that’s why it’s not going to be a solo mission; you and someone else would be chosen, and if you succeeded, you’ll become the Minister of Magic, and she’ll rise beside you as the Deputy Minister of Magic,” Kingsley told Draco steadily.

But who’s she?

“Have you forgotten the Wizarding Law 1B-10R?” Kingsley inquested, his voice sarcastic; his smile slowly turned into a smile of wickedness. “The Minister of Magic has the power to amend and overrule any laws.”

Hermione was stunned by his ruthlessness.

She always thought he was supportive of her cause, or at least neutral, a bridge between muggle-borns and the pure-blood aristocrats.

Now, right in front of her eyes, his devil’s skin ripped off – he’s an opportunistic traitor, valued by money over values, or perhaps he’s never on her side after all.

Hermione didn’t know what to say; she gave a small nod. “Okay, can you tell me now what the mission is?” “The task is to murder Tom Riddle, bring him back, and you become the new Deputy Minister of Magic,” Kingsley explained as his hands wrapped together. “And… Malfoy will become the Minister of Magic?” Hermione inquested cynically.

Kingsley gave a small nod.

So Malfoy will be the Minister of Magic. Thanks, Kingsley.

“And… if we failed? What will happen?” Hermione spoke with faux fear. “Then you both will get the PPP, level 5 for you and level 7 for Malfoy,” Kingsley explained as Malfoy gave out an annoyed gaze at Hermione.

“Why would Malfoy get more money or promotion than me if we’re going to work together on the same thing?” Hermione raged, exasperated, sharp stabs burning in her body.

Nobody replied to her, as silence followed save for her gasping breath.

Malfoy, I’m going to fucking destroy you.

The Hogwarts Rivalry has revived.

And Hermione is going to kill him.

Malfoy was still staring at her like a predator. “Sign it, or enjoy your current job, your current life,” Malfoy barked, threatening her, as he threw the sheet on her breasts.

Her current life is boring; Malfoy wasn’t lying here, but he can’t just force her into a stupid ‘mission’ that she detests either.

“Or… do you want me to demote you to a basic clerk?” Kingsley let out a devilish grin, “I wouldn’t mind.”

She definitely does mind.

“Can I sign it now?” Malfoy asked pompously as he took out a pen, dismissing its content entirely. How does he know there aren’t any dubious terms inside?

She hopes there is one. Perhaps there is a hidden term – if the mission is failed, he’ll get executed or stoned.

Malfoy hovered on the sheet; after Kingsley led a small nod of agreement, Malfoy signed on it with two hard strokes. “And you, Hermione?” Kingsley shifted his gaze towards hers. “I… need to read more of the terms first,” she stammered as she took the paper immediately, her eyes scrolling on it.

She could feel Malfoy and Kingsley’s intense stare on her.

Binding Magical Agreement

By signing this contract, I, ______________________, do solemnly agree to the following terms:

Section 1: Obligations

 

I shall carry out the assigned mission to locate, capture, and return Tom Marvolo Riddle, known in infamy as Lord Voldemort, alive and intact, to the year 2024. At the time of capture, he remains legally recognised under his birth name.

 

I will cooperate fully with my assigned partner, Draco Lucius Malfoy, maintaining civility, respect, and professional conduct at all times. Hostile acts, sabotage, or magical aggression toward him shall be considered a breach of this contract.

 

Failure to comply with any of the above conditions will result in immediate nullification of all benefits listed in Section 2.

 

Section 2: Compensation

Upon successful completion of all obligations listed above, I, ______________________, shall receive the following without delay:

 

Immediate appointment to the position of Deputy Head of the Ministry of Magic, with all duties, privileges, and immunities that accompany the title.

 

A perpetual annual wage of 18,000 Galleons,

 

Signed and sealed under magical oath, enforceable by the Department of Magical Contracts.

Signature: ________________________

Date: ________________________

Witnessed by: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Draco Lucius Malfoy

---

      Her analytical side immediately activated itself. 18000 galleons, a few tenfolds more than one's PPP. Appointment – promoted as the new Deputy Minister of Magic, the authority that comes with it – even a slight counter-influence is a miracle. Her pessimistic side fought back – “No, it’s definitely a scam, especially when bargaining with tyrants like Malfoy and Kingsley.”

Well, what’s she going to do without it? She can’t keep working for a hundred hours per week, can she? And then who will Kingsley appoint as the Deputy Minister of Magic? Another pureblood?

She had fought in the Second Wizarding War, yet after the initial glory descended into the dusk, people seemed to ignore her efforts or just entirely forget them. “Make yourself great again,” her ambitious side told her in a wicked tone.

She disdains watching Ron fail day by day anyway – it’s frustrating how a man who was her best friend since he was 12 is never going back to his former self – bright, humorous (if his bad jokes count), and independent.

Now, he’s a shadow of his former self from the trauma – not pleasant to watch, especially if she cannot do anything to stop it.

She buried herself with work, thinking it would soothe it, at least, now, the boringness of the repetitiveness, monotonousness of her life. But no, it doesn't; it’s made it far worse. Hell, she’d be glad if she managed to spare an hour a week to be with Rose alone.

“Go for it, make your decision,” her ambitious side told herself, “do it.” “— Think,” her more ‘sensible’ side hissed.

Malfoy’s gaze was screaming at her aggressively, “Sign it or enjoy your life.” She met him with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes — “Fight me, Malfoy,” as her hand held the pen tightly, scribbling her name on the parchment.

His gray eyes finally return with a fierce determination. To beat her.

Hermione Jean Granger.

The name would stay there forever. 

Chapter Text

Kingsley let out a deep sigh with a shake. “Finally your stubborn mind retreated. Go get ready at home, Malfoy, and you’ll hopefully depart tomorrow morning.”

“I have a rendezvous with Malfoy and a few others,” he continued with some kind of… optimism? Just a tone purposefully to annoy her.

Kingsley and Malfoy marched out of the room without any farewell to Hermione.

She sat alone in Kingsley’s minister chamber; her mind was tense – leaving tonight. Back to some time in the past.

It didn’t even mention when it would be; would they be transported back to when he was born? No matter how brutal Tom Riddle is, she’s not going to assassinate some innocent – well, not innocent, but killing an indecisive baby feels tainted enough.

Don’t betray yourself.

Even when the rest of the world, even fate, betrayed her?

30 minutes later

“Hey, Hermione,” George Weasley taunted as he moved towards the cupboard, grabbing a teabag. From his recent obsession with hot, instead of the typical Weasley lukewarm, teas. “You want one?” He questioned casually as he poured a bit of boiling water, steam rushing out of the kettle, as he quipped, “Those magical kettles burnt my hands all the time; I’m done with them.”

“No thanks”, Hermione leaned on the table casually. “What’s the matter? Are you okay?” George dropped his usual casual tone to a more serious one, though definitely magnitudes more casual than Malfoy’s sombre.

“Yes, I’m fine, more than fine.” Hermione cracked as she rested harder on the table. “Don’t be like that; it’s your birthday!” George exclaimed, “Say it out, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” Hermione said with an annoyed tone.

If she’s going to the mission, she’ll return by the end of the day with a promotion – the time-turner physics works awkwardly; if you’re transported back in time, when you return, the time would be at max – a few hours of difference. do up in the birthday

So she can hopefully sleep tonight like nothing is going to happen, except she came with a promotion by tomorrow afternoon – if time passes through far slower during time travelling.

Yet the night feels like forever away. As a slight blow of air teased her skin through the window, she realised – it’s still morning, the condensation still glistening on the grass.

“Well, if you’re fine, then I’ll go to work,” George said cheerfully as he walked towards the fireplace, messy portraits and magical gadgets swinging furiously as he flooed away.

Footsteps drummed.

Hard, too sturdy to be Ron, too fast to be Arthur Weasley, her dad-in-law.

“Sweetheart—,” Ron started as his figure approached at the end of the stairs. “Where’s Rose?” Hermione questioned without acknowledging him. “I… sent her off to… Lercy’s,” Ron stammered, red spreading on his face.

Ron usually nearly never let Rose out to her best friend Lercy Willamstoke’s house. Lercy is a muggle and Rose’s nursery classmate, which Hermione accepted, but Ron is usually more reluctant about it or says ‘they won’t last’ because of their ‘different cultures’.

Today is pretty weird, at least – perhaps he’s in one of his ‘good moods’.

“Do you want to go out shopping?” Ron questioned with sudden affection as he leaned closer.

Damnit, not again.

“No, it’s very hard for me to persuade Kingsley for the day off; let me go—“, Hermione shouted as Ron grabbed her arms. “Hug?” Ron asked abruptly.

According to the muggle therapist, that’s one of the symptoms of Ron’s PTSD – mood swings.

Several months ago, Ron suddenly started doing housework and stopped being bed-ridden most of the day; he even went out to the Wizarding Centre once. The fake sign of him recovering was bittersweet, a few joyful, memorable moments earned, although in a few weeks, he locked himself in the room again one morning, masturbating, and descended back into his usual self – lustful, isolated, and bedridden.

“Hermione, come on, it’s your birthday; don’t be such a pessimist.” Ron teased. “No, I’m not a pessimist; I’m just a realist. Got some missions to do today. No, you’re not required; you can go—chill.” Hermione joked – it’s quite ironic; it’s a truth, but of course she doesn’t want him to know the truth.

“Fine, then I’ll clean up a few pipes, as you said, for your birthday present,” Ron nodded delightfully as he walked away, “—wait, and I’ll also cook you dinner for tonight, sweetheart.”

She’d indeed told him about the problems with the pipes – rusting and corroding – but it’s a microcosm for the condition of this entire house.

Shit. His dinner. It’s one of his ‘talents’; every time, even before his kidnapping, they would have arguments, and after that, he’d cook her a muggle ‘dinner’.

Ron’s definitely not a great cook; the last time he cooked was at Christmas, and everyone ended up throwing up after an hour. While it’s funny with the vodka for the night, yes. The next day was rather grim – she was bedridden for the whole day, while Rose was still jumping and dancing and raving about Christmas, she was in the toilet half of the time, cleaning then vomiting again.

No, don’t cook, Ron.

Hermione marched up the stairs – Hugo always needed her to clean up or someone to dry his tears. Well, Hugo was never meant to be there, but Ron insisted they want a second child – one is already too much – plus she finds out she’s not really the child-raising type like Ron.

Sometimes Rose is too stubborn or too annoying; her mind comes up with problems with Rose all the time.

“Not everyone is an intellect like you,” Harry had told her once, “stop being so strict and pushy with Rose.”

Perhaps that’s part of the Weasley gene.

_______________________

A few hours later

“Ron?” Hermione shouted as she walked around the house. The Burrows is eerily silent, even though it’s right in the middle of the day.

Old Arthur and Molly don’t have the stamina to stay awake the entire day – Arthur’s snore vibrating through as she walked past their floor.

She continued walking up the stairs, the slight ache of her joints from age, the stairs cracking louder as she walked further up.

She reached their level.

Finally.

Ron’s here, his body laid, slumped on the corridor. A few undrunk bottles of wine stood next to him; at the opposite, a few more empty glasses stood, some collapsing.

His face was glowing red, his sapphire pupils looking aimlessly, his sclera bloodshot red.

“Are… are you okay?” Hermione questioned sarcastically, though apparently he didn’t hear it. His body twisted slightly. He’s drunk, deeply drunk. After another twist, in which he nearly hit her foot, he started to chant possessively, “Hermione — come, no one is harming you, not even Malfoy, not even Harry.”

His arms began striking aimlessly, “Go to hell, Harry! Go to hell, Malfoy!

What the fuck is his mind thinking about?

“Ron, you’re drunk; calm down.” Hermione barked, “Wake up.” Ron remained still, his body limp, lying on the wall.

“Goddamn”, Hermione said, “Have you been hexed? Wake up.” Ron remained anchored .

Perhaps his consciousness is gone for now. His PTSD consists of a lot of different symptoms – hallucinating, masturbating, being possessive, or all at once.

“I’m fine,” Ron muttered suddenly, nearly giving her a heart attack, so quietly that she could barely hear it, unlike his usual projected voice.

Hermione let out a deep sigh. There is no use of her in this sleepy, hopeless house. All the other Weasley brothers, the ones with ambition, moved away, leaving alone the traumatised Ron, the two old Weasley, her, their daughters, and perhaps Fred’s ghost lingering.

She’s quitting this.

Maybe going to the past isn’t so bad after all.

—————————————————————————-

The rest of the night passed like a blitz for Hermione, with saccharine smiles and sweet voices from a few of her sister-in-laws (George and Charlie’s wives).

The morning wasn’t extraordinary or unique; nothing happened in The Burrows, Ron’s continuing his hibernation from wine, and Rose called her deep in the night for a sleepover with her friend.

The morning sunlight was glazing through the window. Suddenly, an owl approached – hers is stuck in the cage so often that it can’t really fly long distances anymore.

Please arrive at my room (my working chamber) at 8AM. You will meet with Malfoy for 15-20 mins before commencing the mission; it is for coordination and cohesion between you two.

 

Kingsley Shacklebolt

2 hours later, Minister of Magic‘s Main Working Chamber

“Punctual and quick as always, Granger,” Malfoy said with sarcasm, “have you brought everything?”

She nodded, half embarrassed.

“Remember that one time you punched me right in the face? You’re not so determined and confident after all as you grow older; I’ve expected the opposite,” Malfoy continued curtly.

Has time softened her? She definitely hasn’t reached the age where age would be a main cause of her fragility yet.

Hermione crossed her arms, trying to look confident. But definitely nobody could be confident in front of Malfoy – his face is fucking perfection, his once boyish face now pure alpha, sculptured by his testosterone, chiselled, rugged, and covered with a thick stubble without covering his piercing jawline.

She would call herself having a high tolerance against handsome males – most women, probably even Ginny, when she’s living, would fall for him.

“Well, if you haven’t forgotten anything, we’re ready to find Kingsley,” Malfoy ordered as he put on his vintage-styled handbag, probably with an undetectable extension charm within.

If it were back a decade ago, she would probably question, ‘Why would they have to find Kingsley first?’ He’d probably just ignore her.

But she’s definitely sharper and brighter than Malfoy; there's no way she felt threatened and triggered by Malfoy. “You suck,” her critical thoughts crushed her.

“Accio”, Malfoy spoke gravely as he settled on the armchair, the same one as their morning. Malfoy took the cup and started to drink the boiling tea; that teacup probably cost her an entire month's wages – intricate patterns and smooth ceramic surface. The brittle ping was strangely pleasuring, at least to her.

They sat in complete silence for the rest of the fifteen minutes.

“So, I think you both are ready for the mission?” Kingsley questioned rhetorically, “Any plans after the fifteen-minute rendezvous?”

Malfoy gave an approving nod, while hers was reluctant and small.

There is no coordination made at all; maybe she’ll hopefully just abandon Malfoy.

Malfoy has a few years to prepare, and she has…what? A night?

“C'mon, Granger, we’re going to 1946 in less than an hour, 1946!” He exclaimed with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, attempting to stimulate the ‘excitement’ for them.

Kingsley took out a thick document from a drawer as he walked towards the exit. “Come, we’re leaving now,” he announced.

She wasn’t scared or feeling uneasy until now; her heart started drumming rapidly, anxiety flooding her core. She’s going to 1946 – no anti-discrimination law, no Muggle smartphone, no Voldemort.

Not Voldemort just yet.

And they’re going to destroy it before it consumes and massacres thousands.

At least that’s what she believes Kingsley wants to do.

As Malfoy walked out of the room with Kingsley, she followed.

“We’re going to the Time Turner rooms now,” Kingsley said as she caught up with him and Malfoy. They’re walking away from the minister's office.

15 mins later

The Time-Turner room is gigantic, or better said, the time-turner itself. It’s a silvery metallic box; it probably just managed to fit 2 people inside.

The room was flooded with people; Hermione and Malfoy were stuck in the middle, Kingsley continuously pushing them. According to Kingsley, they need at least a hundred specialised people to secure them ‘safety’ in the travelling.

She was never particularly interested in time travelling before – but it’s definitely not a bizarre mission anymore. With the advancements, a year back to a decade ago is no longer exceptional; pay a few hundred galleons and it’ll be done.

As they walked into the crowd, they moved away from them – a small gap for them to move.

No way.

It looks like a fucking marriage.

They left a straight line for them to walk. “You can go first,” Hermione hissed at Malfoy as he leapt in front of her without a word.

“Go in,” Kingsley ordered as he clapped like the rest of the crowd.

Flash.

Cameras. Even more flash. This means everyone is going to know what’s going to happen, including Harry, Luna and the Weasley brothers.

“What words do you have for the mission you will be going on in a moment?” A young woman questioned with a speaker - muggle technologies were used in the Wizarding World now, rarely for good purposes.

Hermione stepped back, right into the time-turner.

“Go away! We need order to make this work; it’s no easy job,” Kingsley yelped.

Finally, a short moment of silence followed.

Malfoy followed in.

A few moments later, the door was slammed hard, too hard.

As it began to vibrate, Hermione took a deep breath.

And she closed her eyes. 

Chapter Text

White.

And Malfoy.

That’s all Hermione sees.

Gradually, gaudy, vivid colours strike through her eyesight.

She wants something to lie onto against her for her vertiginous sight.

She leaned back to the slight warmth behind her.

“Fuck off, Granger,” a voice, Malfoy’s, snarled, as he gave a strong push on her, pushing her away from the little stability he offered.

But where is this?

Has the time turner failed?

Hermione’s calculating mind started offering her possibilities – the time turner could have gone wrong, and now they’re stuck in limbo, or is she hallucinating?

“Calm down, Hermione,” her sensible mind told her.

Panic roars through her mind, her senses, her consciousness.

At least Malfoy didn’t look panicked; he must’ve been told this would happen by Kingsley before. She could… ask him what’s happening? What does he have to gain by knocking her out?

“What’s happening?” She finally questioned quietly.

“We’ll be stuck here for eighty minutes,” he answered emotionlessly; there was no empathy in his voice.

So on their way back, they’ll (probably she, because he’ll probably force her) carry Tom Riddle’s corpse for eighty minutes.

“Somnus”, she held her vine wand as she targeted herself.

For a few seconds, nothing happened, except Malfoy’s face gradually became enraged.

Spells don’t work in this fucking place?

She closed her eyes, letting sleep drag her; slowly, her consciousness started to wane away.

The streets of London appeared in her eyes.

_____

20 years ago, 2004

The air outside the Grimmauld Place was bitterly cold; Hermione’s nose was bright red, her scarf providing some comfort against the gust.

Her footsteps were the crusting sound of snow; her heavy boots insulated her feet barely, and her feet sweated slightly.

“Quick, or the flower would die,” she told herself.

Ginny had gotten ill recently, with high fevers that won’t go away even with peppercup potion. Harry suggested she should try her ‘muggle diagnostic’ method. She came, not really to diagnose her; she forgot most of the muggle diseases and symptoms already – especially ‘noncommunicable infections’ that she memorised at college – immediately after the war.

Number 8, number 10.

12 Grimmauld Place shifted slowly in front of her view; the adjacent Georgian townhouses made the street somewhat… grimmer.

Knock, knock. She knocked the opaque wood door.

Silence.

She stood still, her breath forming vapour, barely visible from the frail Victorian streetlight outside.

Soft footsteps came.

The steps are slow – not what she would’ve expected from Harry.

The door opened spontaneously after a soft whisper.

“Harry!” Hermione greeted as she ran inside the hallway – she always said Grimmauld Place was cold – but out there, with snow clawing at the windows and the wind roaring like a lion, it felt warm by comparison.

Harry’s clothes were dishevelled, two black spots ruling below his eyes.

”Where is Ginny?”, she asked with a hint of unease. “Is… this for her?” Harry asked as he looked at the flowers – sapphire roses, lilac lilies, turquoise daisies, and vermillion carnations.

Hermione nodded.

“She’s upstairs,” Harry sighed lowly, ”she’s asleep as always.“

“Can I… find her?” Hermione continued quietly. The soft, sole hum of the house orchestrating the cold further with Harry’s quietness. “Yes, but… Where’s Ron? I thought he would want to check out his sister,” Harry said.

“No… he’s at work,” Hermione stammered as she began her ascent up the stairs.

She actually had an argument with Ron.

The familiarity of the house – once the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix – wasn’t scrapped. The peeled wallpaper was still there.

Hermione walked towards the door; the air was warm and sweet there, yet according to Harry, Ginny still felt extremely cold and was shivering constantly.

Knock. Knock.

“Her—Mione”, a voice, shivering and frail, came from the room.

________

A sharp pain jolted through her.

“Granger, get out of your sweet dream about Weasley,” Malfoy said with an irritated noise.

She fluttered open her eyes – the sky was grey, grey as ash.

Like what she used to see in documentaries when she was young – the old black-and-white world.

She lifted herself up from the ground, the numbing cold snow numbing her hands, her body limp from the dream and sleep.

Her legs finally stubbornly lifted her weight, her eyes wide open – the scene is pretty bleak – the Georgian townhouses – charcoal-grey brick walls, the basements hinting at poshness.

It wasn’t like the ones that survived to contemporary – no moss or dirt, all of them still lighted open, its roof covered in snow. Their destruction is imminent – thousands removed to let brutalist buildings take root, the rest abandoned and left rotting.

“Why… is there nobody?” Malfoy stammered, his head twisting around to try to find one single human.

Hermione didn’t want to help his ignorance. He could answer it himself if he thinks he could be the Minister of Magic.

His face moved towards her, his dull eyes threatening yet alluring. “Tell me why,” he snarled.

He must be thinking muggles are like ants – infinite and parasite-like, growing uncontrollably.

“Maybe stop being so damn ignorant of Muggle events,” Hermione answered, “figure it out yourself; I’m not an encyclopaedia.”

She obviously knows what's happened – World War Two was completely over for the first year; people are still recovering from the war. Families, especially those that were divided during the Second World War, would be far more close-knit.

Her eyes shifted further down the street; they met Malfoy’s figure, who stood a few metres away, inspecting around with awe, probably due to the emptiness of the street.

Well, Hermione certainly doesn’t have a clue where on earth fucking Tom Riddle lived at the year posh-Hogwarts.

“Where would he be?” Malfoy questioned her sarcastically, “I thought you memorised all the histories, muggle or magical, like in Hogwarts.”

“Not the bad bits,” she grinned sardonically.

Malfoy’s eyes shifted on her again, this time more sceptical. “So… what do you suggest we do?” He questioned.

Well, they’re not staying outside tonight; no one in these London streets has any hospitality – especially not towards two weirdly dressed people (at least Malfoy is… decent-looking).

“We’re… going to a hotel, or an inn,” Hermione cleared her throat.

“What hotel?” Malfoy pressed; she could feel his pressure on her. “The… the next inn we see,” she spoke.

“Why don't we go for proper hotels?”

Fuck. He’s definitely not going to rely on her – she simply won’t let him.

“Do you have any Muggle money?” Hermione continued critically, “If you don’t, no one is going to let you into their hotel like they’re a charity.”

“Do you forget hoaxes, unless you actually converted yourself into one?” Malfoy chanted.

At the second year post-Wizarding War, she proposed a law to forbid wizards from using any wands unless permitted; she thinks it’s just like why most muggles (except the ones in America) cannot own a gun.  ”Preventing accidents is better than protecting 'freedom'," she always lectured on pure-blood when she was welcomed as a speaker in Hogwarts.

She had once abstained herself from using wands for

nearly a decade – there is no need of it. At least until her pregnancy, when Ron forced her to bring a wand in case she got kidnapped or cursed or hoaxed.

“I’m not tricking muggles for a free bed; go to Gringotts and exchange some of yours for their money,” Hermione suggested didactically, “so what do you think would happen if someone hoaxed you and— fucked you for the whole night?

His eyes darkened.

Gods. She’s talked with Rose too much – which is mostly scolding and lecturing child things. Her mind was never so empty when thinking about verbs – sabotage, abuse, defraud – words came to her mind times slower today.

“Fine,” Malfoy sighed with slight humour as he tapped his legs, “don’t have a clue where we are, and you’d better figure it out; I listened to your rules.”

They wouldn’t apparate now; she doesn’t know. Probably not. Malfoy knows how Diagon Alley used to be in 1946.

And is she supposed to ask a random muggle, “Can you direct us to

A plan quickly wrapped up in her mind; her stubborn mind always seems to go slow down when arguing with Malfoy, but when helping him? Her mind blitzed through it.

She’ll knock on a house and ask them the closest underground station, and she’s going to figure it out from there.

The rows and rows of Georgian townhouses on the streets were charming; the snow-covered cobblestone road and street add a certain attraction and vibe that appeals to her. It is even more alluring when compared to the modern British muggle houses now.

Noveanne Street – the yellowing plate read.

Whenever that is, it’s not famous enough for her to have ever heard it.

She inspected around for a suitable or inhabited house as her gaze dashed to Malfoy’s again.

His broad figure stood close to the roads, a lone frame between the townhouses, his cloak waving slightly with the wind, inflating his size – something she could lean in and cuddle and get warm away from the chill wind.

No, fuck. How could her mind come up with this?

His smile turned into a smirk as he crossed his arms, expecting her to do something.

24 Noveanne Street.

She knocked the thick, posh, opaque wood of the Georgian door; the stairs immediately rumbled faintly.

After a brief moment of keys clinging, the door opened.

Warm air flushed out, massaging her face; inside was a soft scent of roasted turkey flowing through her nose.

A dark-haired man, with a five-o’clock shadow, probably in his early thirties, opened the door.

“Aria, slow down!” He screamed as his head turned backwards. A small girl ran down – probably no older than nine.

“So… hey… merry Christmas,” he questioned in a friendly tone, “I hope my mind wouldn’t lie, but you’re not one of my guests. May I ask you what your name is?”

His refined dressing hints the household is at least middle-class, his dark blazer revealing he is white, neat shirt. “Can I just ask you… do you know where the closest underground station is?” She questioned, “I’m a bit… lost.”

“Would you like to come in first, and I’ll tell you more? I detest the cold air,” the man continued joyfully. “No, thanks,” Hermione snapped as another blast of cold wind blew on her back.

Suddenly, a bright red beam of light shot right next to her neck; she missed getting hit by an inch as the men got hit. He went unconscious spontaneously.

Fucking Malfoy.

“Ahhhhh!” A young girl’s noise yelled as she rushed down the stairs inside.

Hermione turned around immediately – Malfoy was holding his wand in the snow, fidgeting like it’s some toy wand.

There is a muggle girl right there, and Malfoy treats her like she’s hidden.

“Bezdusa”, Malfoy spoke as a bright green light shot immediately towards the girl, who was staring at them.

She turned back; his face was void, the same again – devoid of any emotion, hands trembling. His eyes were dark, gazing to nowhere.

“Shit,” a soft hiss from Malfoy as he faced the other side.

”No, no,” Hermione muttered as she tried to block the spell with her body.

She wasn’t that shocked, at least compared to Malfoy, who showed the first ever different emotion other than stern – fear.

Bezdusa is a spell discovered in the Slavic Wizarding War – the same one Ron got captured from. The spell is used by the Russian Auror to detect and kill muggles.

It’s not a dark spell, and most of the time it doesn’t cause death, but sometimes it could – especially when targeted correctly and wielded with proficiency.

All it does is inject the victim’s body withmagical power that ordinary wizards have and are born with, but the magical power would only run through their blood – not their soul, not their organs, not their mind. Sometimes, the body rejected its own blood, therefore bursting the blood out with small blood pores like water fountains. Or else sometimes it could strain the organs – that’s more long-term.

She hopes Malfoy has neither.

The spell hit the girl – Aria, as the men said. She screamed and yelped – as if her body was chained with chains twisting her chest.

“Fuck you, Draco,” Hermione snarled as she collapsed. Hermione rushes towards Aria, Aria’s eyelid barely opening.

Hermione approached closer, red spots began gathering on her skin, her eyes becoming bloodshot.

Petrificus totalus.

The only spell that would postpone her death, and even so, she would eventually die once her blood flow returned.

“Peteificus totalus,” Hermione said solemnly.