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Chapter Text

I was spending my days mending
All of the broken pieces of my heart
And I was walking by myself, talking
With only the echos as my friends
-Branches

Draco

Draco woke up with his hand on his wand, as he had everyday for the last two years of his life.

Like every other morning for the past six months,, he did not know where he was. All he saw was darkness, the smell of smoke, a sound that he thought was screaming. Screaming coming from the dungeons, from the drawing room.

His heart thudded against his ribs. His fingers dug into the sheets. He was sweating and maybe also screaming now, too.

The screaming turned into birds chirping outside the window.

He lay there and stared at the canopy of his four poster bed. His hand loosened around the wand and he unclenched the sheets.

The ceiling above him was clean and untouched. There was no blood or smoke and none of the faces that visited him in his nightmares were looming over him.

He was in his bedroom at the manor. Again.

He let out a long breath. It didn’t help, but he had stopped expecting it to.

The darkness would be back, just as it always was.

When he finally felt like he wouldn’t lose his tentative hold on reality, he sat up and looked around.

His bedroom room looked the same as it had yesterday. The same as it had during the war. The same as it had his entire life.

The only real difference, he knew, was him.

His father was not here. The corridor where his footsteps and cane used to sound had been silent for months. Azkaban had taken that. It had not taken enough, he thought. It should have taken more.

His aunt and the dark lord and the death eaters were not there, waiting for him to fail to have the opportunity to torture him or his mother.

Draco swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a while, trying to compose himself like he did every morning. He could feel his shirt clinging to his sweaty back.

He forced himself to stand. To shower. To breathe. Every day it became harder to do so.

The house elves had left clothes at the foot of the bed, as they always did. As he had always known they would.

There would be robes and a pressed shirt. He dressed without thinking about it. His movements were automatic. He buttoned his cufflinks and patted his pocket three separate times to assure himself that his wand was there.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He normally tried to avoid his reflection. He went as far as covering his mirrors for the first couple of weeks after Azkaban, until Narcissa put a stop to that.

For a second he did not recognise the person looking back. He looked like a caricature of his former self, like he had been twisted and warped and someone had attempted to put him back together, but something was off. Or something was missing.

He felt the mark on his arm under the sleeve. He always felt it.

He imagined peeling the skin away to get rid of it. The thought made his stomach clench.

He turned away from the mirror hastily, not able to stomach another second with himself.

***

The corridor outside his room was quiet. The portraits watched him go past with their usual interest. He ignored them.

What the fuck did he care what a long dead malfoy had to say about his messy hair?

He went down the stairs, one hand on the bannister, counting the steps without meaning to. It was a habit.

In the dining room, Narcissa was already seated at the table. As she was every morning. A pot of tea sat in front of her with the morning copy of the Prophet.

“Good morning, Darling,” she said with a smile that was too bright for the life they found themselves living.

Her voice was smooth just like every other day. It grated on him. She said it like they hadn’t listened to war crimes happening from this very table a few months ago.

“Morning,” he said, which he knew would have earned him a bop upside the head from Lucius. “A Malfoy speaks in complete sentences.” Lucius would have said.

Malfoys also committed war crimes and were sentenced to life in prison, apparently. Lucius was leading by example on that one.

He didn’t say any of this because he would have to pretend he didn’t see the hurt in his mother’s eyes whenever he said his father’s name.

He took his usual seat. An elf appeared and placed a plate in front of him. It was eggs and toast just like all the other days. And just like the others, he could not imagine swallowing any of it.

He poked at it to keep up appearances for his mothers sake.

Narcissa poured tea into two cups.

“There is an article on the Ministry reforms,” she said. “They are changing the Auror recruitment process again. It seems like a disorganized mess.”

Draco picked up his cup. The porcelain rattled against the saucer. He tightened his grip until it stopped. His mother pretended not to see.

“I suppose they are busy,” he said, trying to keep the bite out of his tone. He wanted to say they are busy cleaning up the ministry we helped destroy. He kept his mouth shut, again.

“Busy is not an excuse for incompetence,” Narcissa replied primly.

He did not answer. He focused on keeping his breathing even. In. Out.

Some days he felt like he wasn’t human.Today felt like one of those days already. He was merely bones wrapped in skin charmed to lurk around the manor.

Narcissa took a small sip and eyed him over her cup.

“We have not had any correspondence this week” she said, as if they’d had any the week before, or anytime in the last year. “It is very quiet. It will change, of course. Once everyone has settled, they will remember their old friends.”

Old friends. Like they were merely polite dinner guests.

Draco could picture their faces. Most of them had sat in his drawing room and cowed down to the dark lord. Most of them had smartly jumped ship once the tide turned. He doubted they were sitting at home now, considering a visit to Malfoy Manor.

“Perhaps,” he said, knowing it was what she wanted him to say.

She reached for the Prophet. Her hands did not tremble.

“You should get out of the house today,” she said, eyes on the paper, attempting to appear as if this was a thought she’d just had. “Some fresh air would be good for you.”

It was the same line she had used every day for weeks. She never suggested a specific destination. She never mentioned Diagon Alley. Or anywhere he might have gone had this been a different time or universe.

“Maybe later,” he said.

He forced himself to cut a piece of toast. The knife scraped on the plate. He winced, knowing the sound may be a catalyst for a panic attack. He was becoming quite familiar with what would set him off.

He set the knife down very carefully.

“Draco,” Narcissa said, letting worry slip into her tone.

He looked up. Her eyes were on him now. There were lines at the corners that he didn't remember seeing before the war.

“Yes, mother?” he said.

“You’re not a prisoner,” she said quietly.

He almost laughed. He should be a prisoner. He almost had been a prisoner, his father is a prisoner.

“I know,” was all he said.

She looked at him for another moment, then lowered her gaze back to the paper. It was the end of the discussion. It had been the end of the discussion every day since he was released from ministry custody after being acquitted.

He lasted another ten minutes at the table. He drank the tea. He ate one bite of toast.

He pretended to listen to Narcissa as she discussed an article. He nodded in the right places.

Then he excused himself.

***

He walked without direction for a while, through rooms he could have mapped with his eyes closed. Every piece of furniture had a memory attached to it. Some of them were from childhood. Some of them were from the last year, when the house had been filled with people that still frequented his nightmares.

He stopped in the drawing room doorway.

The flooring had been replaced, Draco assumed the blood probably was too much for even the house elves to scourgify away. The walls had been repaired and there was a new chandelier. There were fresh flowers on the table. He felt nauseous looking at them.

You would not know, he thought. If you had not been here, you would not know of the pain this room housed.

He couldn’t look for too long. Just long enough to remind himself that his nightmares had been real at one time.

He walked away.

He ended up in the small sitting room that looked out over the far end of the grounds. It was one of the few rooms that held no memories of the war.

The garden elves had done their work. The hedges were trimmed and the peacocks moved across the grass. Nothing to outwardly indicate any sign of the war.

He could sit here for hours, maybe days. Time passed like that. He did not have anything else to do. So he didn’t do anything.

His chest felt too tight today, like he was breathing wrong. His fingers tapped against the arm of the chair. He felt restless and tired all at once.

He closed his eyes.

… then immediately opened them when he heard a crack of Apparition from somewhere near the front of the house. He flinched and had his wand in his hand before he had fully registered the sound.

He stayed frozen in the chair, then heard a very familiar, very unwelcome voice.

“Tell the boy his savior has come!” Theodore Nott called called.

Draco put his wand away. He stood up, irritation replacing the fear in his veins.

Theo stood just inside the front doors, his cloak open, surveying the entryway as if he hadn’t grown up coming to this manor.

“Morning,” Theo said, much too cheerfully. “You look alive, which is great news because what I have planned does require you to be alive.”

Draco crossed his arms.

"What do you want?” he asked.

“You.” Theo said with a borderline suggestive grin.

Draco frowned.

“I’m not interested in whatever scheme you’ve got going on,” he said.

Theo looked around the ornate hall, as if he was looking for something specific.

“I don’t see any better options,” he said with a grin.

Pansy came in behind him, her heels clicking on the stone. She wore black trousers and a short leather jacket, making her look even scarier than he already knew she was.

She was eying Draco up and down as if deciding if he was worth her time. She apparently decided that he was.

“Hello, Draco,” she said. “You look like absolute shit.” She smiled warmly at him.

“Pansy,” he said.

She leaned in and brushed her lips against his cheek. It was not a show of fondness but rather a chore being performed.

“Where is Narcissa?” she asked.

“In the dining room,” Draco said, frowning.

Pansy nodded once and strode off in that direction, uninterested in anything more the two had to say.

Theo watched her go, then turned to Draco with a shit eating grin,

Draco felt a headache come on suddenly.

“What exactly are you here for, Theo?” he asked, growing more suspicious the wider Theo’s grin became.

Theo stepped closer, looking like he was going to either hug or punch Draco, both options equally as concerning.

“To rescue you,” Theo stage whispered, “I think you’ve forgotten you’re not actually dead. Maybe inside, yes, but we can fix that.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but the back of his throat burned at Theo's words. He had a way of exposing you down to the bone, but did it with a smile so you barely noticed.

Theo gestured around them, “You aren’t actually a ghost, Drake. You don’t have to haunt these halls.”

Draco glanced toward the dining room. He heard his mother and Pansy murmuring, then turned back to Theo.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” Draco said, with a bite to his tone.

“I know,” Theo replied, giving a fake pout. “That’s the problem. Lucky for you, I don’t give a fuck.”

Draco gave him a tired look.

“Just please tell me what you want,” Draco sighed, knowing he’d have to give some concession if he wanted Theo to leave at any point.

Theo’s grin somehow widened even further. Draco’s stomach knotted tighter.

“We are going out,” he said. “Muggle London.”

Draco stared at him.

“No,” he said.

“Yes,” Theo said.

“Not interested.” Draco said, rubbing the bridge of his nose and beginning to walk back to the sitting room.

“Well that’s great!,” Theo exclaimed, clapping Draco on the back with entirely too much force, “Because I am not interested in watching you decay while you are still alive.”

Draco shook his head. He refused to fall for it.

“I am not in the mood,” he said, knowing this would do nothing to dissuade Theo.

Theo studied him for a moment.

“Then get in the mood because we are going.“ he paused for a second then added. “Please?”

Draco looked away, finding the floor tiles more bearable than Theo’s optimism.

Theo reached out and lightly tapped his arm.

“Come with us,” he said. “You can indulge in some of your favorite vices: sneering and scowling in a corner. Won’t that be fun?”

Draco opened his mouth to refuse again.

Then he thought about another night spent in the sitting room. Another forced breakfast with his mother, followed by another day of feeling nothing and then a night of flashbacks.

He felt like his chest was constricting with the weight of dread.

Pansy and Narcissa appeared at the end of the corridor. Narcissa’s posture was straight, looking like the consummate host to this impromptu gathering.

Narcissa’s gaze went at once to Draco. She had a hopeful twinkle in her eye. It made Draco feel even worse, if possible.

“Miss Parkinson tells me you are going out,” she said with a soft smile.

Draco shot Pansy a look.

Theo smiled at Narcissa.

“Yes,” he said. “And as you can tell by the angry look on his face, he has agreed to come without any objection."

Narcissa nodded.

“It will do you good, Draco.”

Draco blinked.

“Your mother’s right, it will,” Pansy added, like the traitorous bitch she was.

Narcissa walked closer and adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. Draco noticed a slight tremble. He wondered how often she hid her own broken heart from him.

“You cannot stay shut in here forever,” she whispered kindly. “It was necessary for a time, I understand that. But, Draco, you’re allowed to live a life outside of here.”

Her hand brushed his.

“It would make me happy to know that you are out with friends and not making yourself miserable here,” she said, quietly enough that only he heard.

He tried to recall a time he’d seen his mother so vulnerable.

He wondered how many times she had sat in her own room and stared at nothing.

“All right,” he exhaled.

Theo punched the air.

“You will not regret this.”

Draco was fairly sure he would.

Narcissa stepped back, recomposing herself.

“Send word if you need anything, or if you plan to stay out for the night.”

“We will take care of him,” Pansy said, sounding both comforting and threatening.

“I am quite sure you will,” Narcissa replied, smiling at Draco.

Draco went back upstairs to change into black slacks and a black shirt that wouldn’t draw attention in muggle London.

Though he wasn’t completely comfortable with the idea, he had spent enough time with Theo to have experienced muggle London.

Theo had inexplicably become a proponent of everything muggle since their fifth year. Draco had wondered if it was a “fuck you” to Nott Sr., but realized Theo was genuine in his fondness even after his father died.

“Look at you,” Theo said with a whistle. “You almost don’t look like you’re going to a funeral.”

Pansy rolled her eyes.

Draco picked up a coat from the stand.

“Are we Apparating?” He asked.

“Yes, the side street near Charing Cross Road.”

They said goodbye to Narcissa. Draco felt her eyes on his back until they stepped outside the wards.

***

They arrived in a narrow lane off a busy Muggle street. Draco staggered slightly on landing. He realized it had been sometime since he apparated anywhere.

Going from the intense silence of the manor to the busy muggle London street was disorienting.

He took a breath. He couldn’t tell if he felt more dead inside or less.

All the muggles around him were so loud and alive. Had he ever appeared that alive? Had he ever felt that alive? He didn’t think so.

Theo clapped him on the shoulder.

“Welcome back to the world,” Theo said.

Pansy adjusted her jacket.

“The club is two streets over,” she said. “Try not to upset any muggle children with your scowl.”

They walked out into the flow of people. Draco kept his wand close inside his coat. Every time someone brushed past him, his pulse jumped.

Theo pointed out things as if Draco had never seen them. Neon signs. A bus with an advertisement for a solicitor. A group of teenagers shouting at each other across the pavement.

Draco thought about another group of teenagers, sitting in the Slytherin common room having easy arguments that were forgotten as quickly as they happened.

Pansy ignored them both and walked with a confident stride that made her look like she belonged there.

After a ten minute walk, they reached the club.

A line had formed outside. People stood clustered together, shouting over the noise coming from inside.

Draco stared at the door. He felt completely detached to everything happening around him, until he realized that Theo wanted them to walk inside that door.

He could already hear the bass through the walls. The sound thudded in his chest. He was sweating and felt his hands tremble.

“This is a bad idea,” he said, eyes searching for a way out of the crowd.

Theo just smiled and said, “that’s the spirit!”

Pansy gave Draco a sideways look.

“You can stay outside and be miserable,” she said. “Or you can come inside and be miserable there. It’s your choice.”

He looked at the street. The people. The cars. The sky cut off by buildings.

He looked at the club door.

Inside would be a distraction from everything he wanted to ignore. It would be terrible, but a different terrible than the one he was used to.

He swallowed.

“Fine,” he said.

Theo grinned and stepped forward to talk to the man at the door. Pansy stood with her arms crossed. She would appear bored to anyone who didn’t know her, but Draco saw the flash of uncertainty.

Draco followed them in.

Chapter Text

I do not find worthiness a virtue
I no longer try to be good
It didn't keep me safe, like you told me that it would
-Florence + The Machine

Hermione

Hermione woke up with her heart pounding.

For a moment she did not understand why. The room was silent. The curtains were drawn. The sheets were tangled around her legs. Her throat hurt as if she had been shouting.

Another nightmare, then.

She sat up slowly and wiped the sweat from her brow.

She waited to see if the panic would fade on its own. Occasionally it did. Today it did not.

She pushed the covers aside and stood. Her legs were unsteady and felt like she could tip at any moment,

She walked into the small bathroom and turned on the tap. She splashed her face with cold water again and again until her skin stung.

Her parents’ empty house felt suffocating my quiet.

The quiet used to comfort her. Now it made her stomach twist. Every sound made inside this house came from her.

She could hear echoes of past happiness bounce off the walls.

She dried her face and looked at her reflection. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was flattened to her head. There was a faint line on her cheek from the pillow.

Nothing about her reflection looked like the girl who grew up in this house.

She left the bathroom and walked down the hall. The door to her parents’ bedroom was closed. She hadn’t opened it in months. Everyday she thought about opening it. Everyday she walked away instead.

The kitchen was spotless. She cleaned it every night before bed because she could not sleep if there was a dish out of place or if her mother’s stovetop didn’t gleam.

She knew it was a habit built from her fear of any other changes. She knew she was one spoon out of place from breaking completely.

She filled the kettle and set it on the burner.. While it heated, she wiped down the already clean counter.

She began to dread the nothingness today would bring.

She’d been able to channel her energy into studying for her newts for the past few months, and Professor McGonagall let her take them privately so she wouldn’t have to return for eighth year.

She never wanted to see Hogwarts again if she could help it.

Now that newts were over, she had nothing to do but feel guilty that she was at her home and her parents were not.

When the kettle boiled, she made tea and sat at the small kitchen table, sitting with her knees to her chest. The tea tasted bitter. She drank half of it before she realized she had forgotten to add milk.

She felt her familiar panic start to set in. It had become her one true companion over the past few months.

Her eyes drifted to the clock above the stove. Still too many hours left in the day to fill.

She closed her eyes.

It always started the same way. There was no trigger she could pinpoint, no reason for her to feel the sudden onslaught of emotions.

She could feel the way the snatcher’s hands were on her. His grip on her arms. His breath near her ear, the smell of him. The taste of blood in her mouth when she bit her tongue.

She remembered clearly thinking that she was going to die. In the moment she wished she would hurry up and die so she would not have to feel what came next.

She had not had her wand in her hand. It had been three steps away on the ground. She remembered the terror of reaching for it while he pulled her back. She remembered choking on her own breath.

She had reached for her magic and used the first spell she could think of. Expulso.

He had flown back into the tree and hit the ground in a way that told her he would not be getting up.

She crawled to her wand and sat there, shaking, until Harry and Ron found her. He had been a stray snatcher, she had been foraging. She let her guard down for a second too long and now she had killed him.

Harry and Ron found her, then saw the body. They didn’t ask why she had killed him so she had never told them. It was war, people were killed. The snatcher was a bad man and he had died a bad death.

They had assumed she had done what she needed to do.

Hermione pushed the memory away with force. Her stomach rolled. Her hands shook as she forced herself to come back to the present.

She got up and walked to the living room, shaking her hands out. She needed to be anywhere else. She needed to be anyone else.

The living room looked exactly the same as it had growing up. All the same furniture and books and a fake plant in the corner. She had not changed anything because this was not her home. The house was in stasis waiting for her parents to return.

She was the stranger here.

She drank a glass of water. She walked up and down the stairs. She scrubbed the counters. It didn’t help.

She needed noise that didn't come from her. She needed other people’s noise to drown out her thoughts.

She went back to the kitchen and opened the cabinet above the fridge. There was a bottle of vodka on the top shelf.

She uncapped the bottle, poured a small amount into her favorite tea cup, and swallowed it in one motion. It hit her stomach fast. She was vaguely aware she had not eaten today. She didn’t care.

Warmth spread through her chest. It hurt going down but it dulled the ache.

She poured a second and drank it in quick succession.

When the alcohol settled inside her, she felt better. She rinsed her glass and set it back in its place. She knew this would not be the last time she performed this ritual.

She went upstairs and brushed her teeth. She made herself use the toothpaste with her parents’ old dental practice logo printed on it. It was a bruise she pressed so often she started to confuse the pain with pleasure.

She chose a short black skirt and a fitted top and told herself it did not matter what she wore. All of her clothes were too big on her now.

She checked her reflection again. She applied lipstick, then wiped it off. She tried a milder shade. She still felt like she was a little girl playing dress up, but kept it on anyway.

She grabbed her wand and slipped it into the inside pocket of her jacket. She checked the kitchen again to confirm everything was in its place.

The sun was already low. The street was quiet. She passed houses and tried not to look in the windows to see the families.

Hermione walked to the nearest bus stop and stood there without looking at anyone. She boarded the first bus toward central London and sat in the back.

When she stepped off near Leicester Square, the noise hit her immediately. It was too much and it filled her head in a way that had become soothing. There was no room for her thoughts here.

She walked toward the row of clubs she knew. She had found them weeks ago when she had gone out alone for the first time. Nobody there knew who she was. Nobody cared. It was euphoric.

She went into the first club she reached. The lights were too bright. The floor was sticky. The music thudded through her chest.

She went straight to the bar.

“Gin and tonic,” she said when the bartender looked at her.

Hermione leaned against the counter and let the noise wash over her. She closed her eyes for just a second, relishing in her lack of thoughts. She scanned the crowd without interest. No one here mattered to her and she didn’t matter to anyone here.

The bartender set the drink down. She paid in cash and took a long sip. The alcohol settled into her stomach and numbed her further.

She finished half the drink in two swallows.

Someone bumped into her shoulder hard enough to make her stagger and spill.

“Watch it,” she muttered.

Hermione turned her back to the crowd and finished her drink.

She ordered a second. Then a third.

The room grew warmer. Her hands grew steadier. She lied and told herself she felt better. She felt nothing, which was the point.

She saw a group of friends sitting and talking nearby.

She wondered where Harry and Ron were right now. She wondered if they still had nights at the leaky and if they drank to chase away their demons, too. She wondered if they were still worried about her. She had ignored the last three letters they sent. She would have felt more guilt if it wasn’t for the alcohol flowing through her bloodstream.

She could not bring herself to write anything back because she did not know who or what she was anymore. And she didn’t know if she’d ever know again.

She wondered what it was like working at the ministry, if they both felt like real adults working and training as aurors.

Hermione had been offered basically any position she wanted. She turned them all down and stopped reading the letters that came with the ministry seal.

She wondered if she would ever feel normal enough again to go back to her old life. Then she reminded herself that normal was gone. What remained was not Hermione Granger. She was the shadow of her, just like Peter Pan’s.

A man slid into the space beside her. He smiled at her in a way that made her stomach churn. She did not smile back. His eyes flicked to her chest. He said something she couldn’t hear and she didn’t ask him to repeat himself.

She turned away.

He placed a hand on her hip. His grip was firm. He leaned close to her ear. She froze. She was in the forest and she was reaching for her wand and she was breathing hard and she knew what was coming next.

Then she was back in the club and shaking the man off of her.

“No,” she said, clear and loud.

He either did not hear her or pretended not to. His hand tightened.

She pushed him off with a jerk of her elbow.

He raised his hands in mock surrender and walked away laughing. He’d go tell his mates she was a bitch and hoped she’d hurt his pride.

Her drink sloshed. She picked it up and finished what remained. Her hands trembled again. She placed the empty glass on the counter and looked toward the back exit. She needed air and possibly to vomit.

She turned.

Someone entered her peripheral vision. It was a looming blonde figure. She couldn’t see his face in the shadow of the strobe lights.

Then he moved closer.

She groaned to herself.

Draco Malfoy.

Of course. Of fucking course.

It figured that the muggle hating prat who had tormented her childhood would somehow be at the same London club as her.

He stopped beside her. She kept her eyes straight ahead, pretending she didn’t see him.

“Granger,” he said.

She looked up with a sigh. He looked pale (did he have a health condition, she wondered. He looked paler than normal), tired, and very overwhelmed. He looked the same way she felt.

His voice was the same as she remembered but it had lost some of the pompousness. She bet his father would not be hearing about this. She snorted to herself at the joke.

For a moment she didn’t say anything. She did not owe him anything, especially her time.

She forced her voice out.

“Malfoy.”

She said it flatly. She dug her nails into her palm to keep herself steady. She felt panic creeping into her edges. He was not supposed to be here. She had left wizarding London and the war behind. Here was the blonde embodiment of all she was running from standing beside her.

He gave her a look that she couldn’t place. Probably because she was used to seeing a sneer. He looked confused and out of place, like a lost animal. For once, she did not feel the need to play the hero and offer him any help in finding whatever he was looking for.

She took a slow breath to clear her thoughts again.

She met Draco’s eyes fully, and the world narrowed to the two of them in the middle of a place where neither belonged.

She lifted her chin. This would probably be a mistake.

“So,” she said. “What are you doing here.”

Her hands had stopped shaking. She downed the rest of her drink in one swig.

Chapter Text

That's all l'll do
'cause I'm not free
A fugitive too dull to flee
I'm amorous but out of reach
A still life drawing of a peach
-Fiona Apple

Draco

Draco had expected the club to be unbearable. He had not expected it to make him feel like he was back in the war.

The music was louder inside than it had been outside. People were standing or dancing together much too closely and everyone was bumping against each other. The lights flashed across faces and looked too much like spells being cast.

Theo dragged him toward the bar with the confidence of a man who was used to being around this many people. Pansy followed with a half bored, half alert expression that suggested she was cataloging everyone she saw. She looked almost as out of place as Draco felt. That made him feel slightly better.

Draco stopped near the edge of the bar. He tried to focus on anything he could see. Everything and everyone was moving too fast and he couldn’t really breathe.

Theo slid into a gap at the counter and shouted for drinks. Pansy leaned against the bar and appeared to be trying to telepathically bully someone into giving up their table.

Draco looked away from them.

And that was when he saw her.

Hermione Granger stood alone near the bar with a drink in her hand. Her hair was pulled back in a way that he had never seen at school. She wore a skirt that was absolutely not Hogwarts regulation code length. He could only see her side profile, but he could see her scanning her surroundings. He recognized the same habit in himself.

Her face was eerily blank. Blank in a way that wasn’t from occlumency or anything magical. She looked like she was putting effort into staying blank. Every once in a while she would blink back to reality and he saw her slowly go back to showing nothing on her face.

During the war, Draco had overused occlumency. Now, if he tried to occlude for longer than an hour he would get a migraine that would almost bring him to his knees. He knew the feeling of needing to not feel.

She looked too thin and a little older. He’d last seen her at the battle of Hogwarts. Somehow she looked worse now than she had then.

She turned her head slightly and caught sight of him.

Her eyes widened for a brief second, then flattened back into that emotionless expression.

Theo followed Draco’s gaze and let out a low whistle.

“Well, that is veeeerrryyyy interesting,” Theo said in a sing-song voice.

Pansy’s eyebrows rose a fraction.

“Interesting indeed,” she murmured.

Draco ignored both of them and walked toward Hermione.

He did not think about why. Truly, he had no reason to approach her. They’d never been friends. They’d been enemies on opposite sides of a war. He’d wished her dead at one point. He watched her get tortured on the floor of his home. In the room he avoided now. The one where his mother put fresh fucking flowers out daily.

He told himself he wanted to know what she was doing here, alone, in a place like this. He surreptitiously looked around for Potter or any of the Weasleys.

If he’d been a more honest man, he might have admitted to himself that he wanted to be around someone who looked just as wrecked as he felt inside.

He stopped at her side.

“Granger,” he said.

She waited a full three seconds before turning to face him.

“Malfoy,” she finally said with no inflection in her tone.

He stood awkwardly beside her, unsure of what to do now that he had approached. His rational brain seemed to be catching up and wondering what in the ever loving fuck he’d been thinking.

“So. What are you doing here?” She asked, not looking at him.

“You look different,” he said like a stupid idiot.

She gave him a hard look.

“You mean I don’t look like a swotty little Golden Girl?” she asked in a tone of mockery. She actually fluttered her lashes when she said it.

He almost smiled. He stopped himself. He’d never seen this version of her.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

She took a drink from her glass the bartender had just placed. She seemed to swallow at least half.

“Trying not to think,” she said, eyes moving down as her finger traced the water ring left by her drink. “And you?”

“Theo insisted I come,” Draco said then paused, processing her answer. He decided to be just as honest . “And because I’ll feel the same way no matter where I am.”

She nodded once, slowly.

Then, she knocked her glass against his, a little clumsily, and said “I’ll drink to that.” As she swallowed down another sip.

They stood in silence. The music thudded through the floor. Draco watched her hands. She held the glass too tightly. Her expression of indifference wasn’t sliding back into place as neatly as it had before.

Hermione’s gaze flicked to the crowd, then back to him.

“You look terrible,” she said suddenly.

He blinked.

“So do you,” he said. He braced to be punched in the nose.

She looked at him for a second and then started laughing. Full, body wracking laughter. He was stunned.

She quickly caught herself and stopped.

Her eyes darted away again. She looked like this conversation and the brief moment of levity had cost her something.

She looked over her shoulder at the crowd in a way he knew was strategic. She’d probably already mapped every exit and was reassessing to see if anything had changed.

Draco felt a strange pull in his chest. Recognition, maybe. Or seeing something familiar in an unfamiliar place.

A man bumped into Hermione’s back hard enough to push her forward.

She stiffened and looked genuinely panicked. Draco moved instantly, closing the small space between them.

The man laughed, placed a hand on her waist, and leaned in as if he knew her.

Hermione spoke loudly and clearly.

“Fuck off. I’ve already told you no once tonight.” She snarled.

The man did not move his hand.

Draco reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“Did you not hear her? She said no.” Draco said icily, yanking his wrist away from her hip.

The man twisted his wrist, trying to yank free.

“Get your hands off me,” the man snapped.

“Keep your hands off her, then.” Draco said. He felt angry. Angrier than he had in a long time. His blood was pumping, he felt alive.

The man shoved Draco’s shoulder. Draco shoved back twice as hard without thinking. He stumbled into a stool and hit the floor with a loud crack. His drink spilled across the tiles, shattering as it hit the ground. Draco was about to stomp on his face with his dragonhide boot, but stopped.

Hermione grabbed his arm.

“Great,” she said, sounding flat again. “Security will love that.”

Draco’s pulse was hammering. He barely heard her. He was still staring at the man. Had he been any more drunk he doubted he would have been able to stop from killing him.

“Come on,” she hissed. “Now. Before they see who did that.”

She pulled him toward the back hallway. He followed without argument. She was still holding his arm as she led him and he felt a tingling where her hand was.

They slipped through a half open door and into the alley behind the club.

The door shut behind them. The noise dulled. He was breathing hard and fast.

The air was cold enough to sting. There was a dumpster next to where they stood.

Hermione let go of him and pressed her back against the brick wall. She ran a shaking hand over her face.

“That was stupid,” she said, eyes fixed on him. Her
Expression was a little more alive, like she’d felt the same adrenaline he had.

“He grabbed you,” Draco said, trying to sound unaffected. Like he went around saving former enemies from drunk men all the time.

“I had it handled,” she replied, sounding genuinely angry.

He shook his head.

“I know that, Granger,” he said, “but it doesn’t mean I liked watching it happen.”

Something in her expression morphed. The anger took the shape of defensiveness.

She was clenching her teeth and looking down at her feet. “I do not need a savior, Malfoy.”

“I know,” he answered, feeling a little embarrassed at her reaction. ”But I didn’t like it. So I acted.”

They stared at each other. The alley was narrow. A single streetlamp flickered at the far end. Their breaths fogged in the air, both coming too fast.

Hermione stepped forward. Again, Draco thought he might end this night with a broken nose, afterall.

She was too close now. Draco could see the dark circles and makeup under her eyes. He involuntarily looked down at her lips which were smudged with lipstick. He looked back up to her eyes and found she was staring at him like she was trying to solve something.

“Why did you come over to me?” she asked quietly.

The shift in her tone caught him off guard

He swallowed.

“I.. I really don’t know,” he said. “You looked…”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Do not finish that sentence,” she growled. “Do you think I don’t know how I look? That I need Draco Malfoy to tell me what I look like?”

She took one more step.

Draco felt his pulse climb into his throat. He could feel her breath.

Hermione reached for him with a sudden motion and gripped the front of his shirt.

He froze.

Then she kissed him.

It hit him fast and hard. The whiplash of the conversation had him disoriented. He kissed her back.

Her mouth pressed hard against his. It felt desperate and he felt himself pushing his lips against hers with a matching ferocity. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. Her breath tasted like gin. She made a whimpering sound and he almost lost his last shred of control.

Draco made a low sound in his throat. His hands found her waist. She pressed closer, their bodies colliding.

She broke the kiss only long enough to whisper, “Don’t ask questions.” and looked back at his lips.

He nodded. He couldn’t have mustered anything to say even if he’d wanted to.

She kissed him again. Harder.

Her back hit the wall. Her hands were already at the buttons of his shirt, undoing them, She pulled him closer by the collar. She tugged his shirt out of his trousers.

Draco’s hands shook as he pushed her skirt up. She sucked in a quick breath against his mouth. He started to pull away, to ask if it was okay, but she pulled him in harder. Her hands were on his chest, her palms were cold. His skin jumped at the contact.

“Here?” he asked, breathless as he looked around the alley.

“Yes,” she said in a breathy voice.

He did not argue.

They worked with hurried, frantic movements. He touched her desperately, hungrily. She touched him with the same intensity.

Hermione hooked a leg around his hip. Draco moved her knickers to the side and braced his hand against the wall beside her head.

The first thrust knocked her breath out. She bit his shoulder lightly to muffle a sound. Draco’s grip on her waist tightened. His forehead pressed against her temple.

It was unsteady and urgent. He lifted his head and met her eyes. Their breaths tangled in broken gasps. Hermione clutched his neck. Draco bit back a groan. He wasn’t going to last.

Hermione whispered his name once, his first name, almost involuntarily, as she came. His name on her lips had him barreling over the edge.

After, Hermione rested her forehead against his collarbone for a moment while she caught her breath. Draco kept a hand on her hip to steady her and himself. He was breathing hard and his heart was thumping at a rate that he normally only felt in moments of fear.

They stayed like that for several seconds before reality returned in sudden sharpness. He pulled out with a groan and started trying to right himself.

Hermione took a step back and pulled her skirt down with quick, clinical movements. Her breathing was still uneven.

Draco cast a quick scourgify, then ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the tremor return in his fingers.

They looked at each other. Neither spoke for a long time. Draco began to panic a little, worrying that he’d accidentally gone too far or misinterpreted the situation.

Hermione broke eye contact and brushed past him toward the mouth of the alley. Her steps were steady, but her voice was wobbly when she spoke next.

“I’m not going home,” she said.

Draco swallowed and nodded.

“Neither am I.”

She turned back to him with a tight expression.

“Well, then come on.”

And Draco followed.