This is a DH x HG story set post-Deathly Hallows, and rated M for language.

All characters that have died remain dead, and plot sequences remain unchanged except for Voldy emerging victorious at the Battle of Hogwarts.

…✧*…*✧… Chapter One …✧*…*✧…

Dark was the wizarding world after Voldermort's victory at the Battle of Hogwarts. Once bright and bustling, boarded windows and whispers of the terrors that spawned under the Dark Lord's reign were all that could be found along a deserted Diagon Alley, save the few muggle-born witches and wizards huddled by vacant doorways, stripped of their wands, employment, homes…; and during the daytime when the occasional shopkeeper mustered enough courage and will – or perhaps lacking both but faced with the harrowing reality of a family to feed in such desolate times – to open shop, they would find, aside from the infrequent, quiet patron with shielded eyes, their stock wrenched from their shelves in exchange for not galleons, sickles or even knuts but a yellow-toothed sneer from men cloaked in robes of black.

Knockturn Alley, in contrast, seemed a shade livelier than Diagon Alley, playing host to darker folks who walked still in shadows, but as the world seemed shrouded in shadow they no longer needed to hide. Nightfall was far worse. Shutters creaked shut, curtains drawn and a hush fell over the wizarding world as what feeble light that managed to pierce the ever-present clouds ebbed away and a dank chill blanketed the streets as dementors began their patrols. Such terror had not wormed its way into the hearts of the wizarding world since Voldermort reigned last, and now it seemed firmly rooted for generations to come.

It was on a particularly chilly night that Hermione Granger kissed Harry Potter on the cheek and Ronald Weasley on the forehead as the boys sat on a lumpy couch in front of her, dying embers in the fireplace, a worn rug under their feet. In a small house nearby Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, light peered out through a slit in the curtains from the sitting room. She had been sandwiched between the two, shoulders rubbing on the too-small couch, the bushy ends of her hair tickling Ron's neck as she leaned her head on him. It was only moments – mean minutes – from her departure, and they were pleading a lost case.

"Let us go with you, Hermione. We've always been together, been through so much together."

"Ron needs to stay here, the order has far too few people these days and-"

"I can help-"

"They are my parents, Ronald, and I am capable of handling it alone," she snapped. Seeing his hurt, she felt her heart break, an apology spilling almost immediately from the mouth that scolded him. "I'm sorry – I didn't mean –" The witch sighed and softened her tone; frayed nerves and tired mind, they were all on edge of late. "This is the best plan we've got, Ron. You know it is. It won't take long; I just need to check – I need to know that they're…safe." There was a suffocating silence. Nobody was simply safe in times of war, and they were all aware of the fact. "And you, Harry," the witch continued, having gathered herself from the worst possible outcomes that raced across her mind during the pause. "The wizarding world can't risk losing you. This operation is far too dangerous and you're all we've got left against You-Know-Who. You're our symbol of hope. You've got to stay safe."

"A symbol of hope everyone thinks is dead? A symbol of hope that, instead of inspiring, cowers in a house protected by charms?"

"Harry-"

"I can't stay here knowing that people out there are dying, that you-"

"I won't die, Harry." She gave his hand a squeeze, reassuring him as much as she was reassuring herself. A soft knock informed of Molly's presence, her wide frame blocking the dim light from the corridor as the door swung open.

"It's time, Hermione, dear. Come on now." The woman made a brisk follow-me motion with an impatient wave of her hand, pressed by a sense of urgency against an evil that seemed to breathe on their windows and prowl outside their doorstep. The trio made to follow her but the boys found themselves bound to their seats, restrained by cords they could not see, muted by an invisible hand that clamped down over their mouths. The witch knew that had she not cast the spells they would have followed her to the ends of earth, the edge of hell and she was heading straight into the heart of the inferno. Hermione turned to face her best friend and lover, dearer than brothers and more precious than life itself, and studied their features more intimately than she had ever cared to in more peaceful times. She brushed Harry's dark hair, adjusted his slightly askew glasses, smoothed out Ron's maroon sweater, brushed her fingertips over his lips; misty eyed, shaky hands.

"I'll write, I promise," she whispered. "I..." Words failed her, failed any promise that she could have kept apart from the one she had just made. It was on a particularly chilly night that Hermione Granger kissed Harry Potter good bye on the cheek and Ronald Weasley on the forehead, her lips lingering for a second longer against ginger hair, as the boys sat on a lumpy couch in front of her, dying embers in the fireplace, a worn rug under their feet. As glad as she was to have cast a silencing charm, for a single word from either of their mouths would surely break her resolve, she could have made do with a "Stay safe, 'mione." And then she was out the door, a piece of parchment with an address hurriedly shoved from trembling hand to trembling hand. She found herself engulfed in a warm crushing hug from Molly, and then a rather suffocating embrace from Ginny who had raced down the stairs rather loudly, flaming haired, bloodshot eyed and a red nose from what she insisted was a mere allergy.

Hermione was ushered out the front door, and the last thing she saw was the dim yellow glow from the hanging lamp in the entrance hall before she disapparated with a soft pop.

…✧*…*✧…

Weathered floorboards, a kitchenette tucked behind a scratched dining table, books stacked on groaning shelves that curved under their weight. The front door opened and closed hastily as a young witch stumbled in.

"Lumos," she whispered, and then, "Homenum Revelio". Eyes darting around the room, teeth clenching as her scrutinising gaze passed over shadowy corners. Nothing. Standing alone in a small flat in muggle London, Hermione held her breath as she paced around, her wand at the ready. Although it was protected with a Fidelius Charm, she knew better than to let her guard down until she was utterly and completely certain the area was secure.

Pushing open the bedroom door cautiously, she peered in, the small light at the tip of her wand illuminating a bed, a small closest and a desk that faced the window. Silence. It was not until she had checked the bathroom and dragged the shower curtain open roughly to reveal, to her relief, an empty bathtub did she allow her tense shoulders to droop. As Hermione made for the door she saw, in the corner of her eye, a movement and, simultaneously, felt the sensation of something grabbing at her ankles. Startled, she cried out loud, instinctively blasting a spell, her back bruised by the doorknob as she scrambled for the corridor.

Breathing heavily, strands of her wild curls tickled by every exhalation, the girl observed the scene of her fright and slumped to the floor, fatigued in both mind and body. Constant vigilance, she found, soon after putting the phrase to practise, strained her nerves and breathed nightmares into her sleep, but it kept her alive and that was all you could hope to be during a war. Mirror shards glinted from the tiled bathroom floor, as did Crookshank's eyes when he padded cautiously to his mistress. Her goddamned reflection and her goddamned cat, she realised, had made her scream like a frightened child and fire an offensive spell.

"How embarrassing," she muttered, gripping her wand too tightly in her clammy palm. And then she let out a shaky chuckle, because if Harry and Ron were here they would have laughed at the situation.

"Hermione, are you all right?!" Harry would have asked, footsteps thudding as he ran to her.

"Bloody hell, 'mione. What the hell happened here?" Her chuckles grew louder as she imagined Ron's bewildered face.

"I'm okay," she would have replied. "Crookshanks just gave me a bit of a scare."

"Finally realised how ugly your cat is, have you?" Ron would have prodded the animal with his toe, and she would scoop her pet up and protest while Harry stood with an amused grin as he watched them bicker.

A soft mew brought the girl back to her patch of floor and worn wallpaper, her dark corridor and a mirror waiting to be repaired. The chuckles her reverie had induced subsided, and Hermione slipped into a luxurious self-surrender, her sobs echoing around the empty flat; crying because she had never felt more alone, and crying because she was alone.

…✧*…*✧…

Pearly grey morning filtered into her small bedroom, its feeble light touching the witch sprawled over her desk, a quill by her hand, notes under her cheek. A stretched maroon sweater was draped over her chair, fuzzed on the underside of the sleeves where it had rubbed against parchment when she wrote essays, and on the sides when her book bag brushed against her body. She jolted awake, snatching her clock in panic. Of course she was early, she thought bitterly, two hours ahead of the alarm.

"Good morning, Crookshanks," she cooed as the ginger cat snaked around her ankles and jumped into her lap. Coffee, Hermione decided, and then breakfast, and then more coffee would be what she needed. Clutching the cat to her chest, she made her way to the kitchenette. It was a charming flat, she decided, when viewed with a steady mind, and although it was a bit small and cramped she supposed it was rather cosy that way. Tucking into her toast, she scanned the news, her ears tuned to Potterwatch as the programme rambled in the background.

Under Voldermort's reign, the Ministry of Magic was working day and night to prosecute muggle-borns, conducting unjust hearings in dungeons under the guise of wizard community protection. Disappearances, deaths and propaganda frequented the front cover of the Daily Prophet, the publication seized also by his forces, spreading fear through its words. While public unease had been battled through action by members of the Order and grief shouldered by them all, true panic settled in for Hermione when she lost track of her parents.

She remembered the evening when she packed her bags, logic blinded by dread, and announced she was going to Australia.

"Merlin's beard, what's all this mess? What're you going on about, a bloody holiday in the middle of war?"

"I'm not going on holiday, Ron. My parents – they're not on the map – I need to go-"

"Slow down, Hermione. What map? What's happened to your mum and dad?"

"The map, Harry! My map. I've made – I-I've studied the magic on the Marauder's map, complicated magic, genius really, but I've managed to understand the spells, tweaked them, – so it shows my parents, just them, the area isn't defined since Australia is too large obviously, too much detail needed but that doesn't matter, it's better anyway since nobody would know where they are if – not that it'd happen, I've protected it quite well, only I know the password and mechanisms, but I just needed their footprints. I-I just needed to know that they're – safe, alive – but they – it's blank-"

She'd been pulled into a hug from Harry who, in that moment, understood Hermione better than anybody else in the room, and the tears she'd been holding back soaked his shoulder, her strong front crumbling in his arms.

He didn't tell her that everything would be fine, that her parents were alive, that her map was surely just malfunctioning and there was nothing to worry about. They simply stood holding each other, her hand in Ron's, because sometimes there were no words.

…✧*…*✧…

Her footsteps echoed around the atrium, leather soles tap-tap-tapping smartly on polished dark wood along with hundreds others as she jostled through, and was jostled by, the morning rush. A swig of Polyjuice Potion later, Hermione, still a brunette but a different person entirely, had secured a small position in the Office for House-Elf Relocation as Sheila Brooks who, having lost her parents to the war, had agreed to lend her identity to aid Hermione's quest to find her own. A higher position, preferably on the first or second levels of the Ministry, would have made information gathering quicker and more dangerous, but they were restricted to Voldermort's inner circle and previously influential officials under the Imperius Curse.

Regardless, a small job within the Ministry might give her a chance to visit the office of the Muggle-born Registration Commission, where information of her parents would likely be kept if they were indeed taken by the enemy, and even if it didn't…she straightened her collar and powered towards the lift, her shoulders squared, her chin up. She was Hermione Jean Granger, brightest witch of her age, and she would find a way to obtain what she came for.

…✧*…*✧…

Knocking twice on a tired looking door, a plaque hung slightly lopsided on its face that said: Office for House-Elf Relocation. She tugged it open with a small groan; it was heavier than expected. "Excuse me, good morning. I'm starting today, my name is Sheila, Sheila Broo-" She stopped short, her breath hitching when she looked up from her slip of paper with directions and formalities to her new position. "Malfo – Mr. Malfoy."

Dressed in crisp robes and surrounded by cluttered desks piled high with paperwork, Draco Malfoy seemed oddly confined despite the dusty office being fairly spacious. A faded brass nameplate sat in front of him, etched with the words: Head of House-Elf Relocation. When he rose from his chair the top of his blonde head seemed to brush the ceiling, and as he made his way to her the path of carpeted ground not buried under paper seemed too narrow. It was no wonder he looked so out of place. He was a man born into the lap of luxury, and grown up without want or need for he had the very best handed to him alongside his silver spoon. Arching windows, lofty ceilings, acres of trimmed grass; he had been bred into aristocracy and he had grown into it, so what a man with the Malfoy name and Malfoy heritage was doing in a department that dealt with house-elves was beyond Hermione.

"Did nobody ever teach you how to knock?" His irritated voice snapped her out of her thoughts, her heart racing like the first time she'd flown on a broom and thought she might fall off and die. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She'd barely gotten half her foot into the Ministry and she'd already run into Malfoy.

"I-I beg your pardon. – sir." she added hastily, remembering she was not Hermione Granger facing her Hogwarts nemesis but Sheila Brooks speaking with her senior, yet couldn't stop herself protesting against his unjust accusation. "But I did knock. Twice, in fact."

"Perhaps a knock or two on your face would fix it. Do you always look so sour, Miss…" he fished her identity card out of her breast pocket, "Bro-"

"Brooks," she said, snatching her card back from the tips of his pale fingers.

She considered him with reserved scepticism, acknowledging the boy who spat insults at her and her best friends during their years at Hogwarts, and the boy who had refused to identify them in his home. That a man of his stature would be found standing in the department was laughable in peaceful times, but to have a Malfoy heading the office during Voldermort's reign could only mean that the family had finally, truly, fallen from favour, useful to Voldermort only in name and wealth, their useless heir kept in a dusty office otherwise as humiliation, an inside joke amongst the Death Eaters.

There was almost pity in the way she regarded him, but she remembered Fred, and Tonks, and Remus, and Sirius..., and her parents, and in that moment the witch loathed him, loathed how he still stood with the enemy, loathed the way he stood with that smarmy look on his face.

"Just surprised, Mr. Malfoy," her teeth gritting, "to see you here, as Head of House-Elf Relocation. I never knew you cared much for house-elves, sir."

His face darkened at the comment, her tone mocking.

"Why do you suppose," he said slowly as he drew himself to his full height, his voice low, "this office is empty?" He didn't wait for a reply, continuing as if musing to himself. "Because they were all killed. This desk here, for instance. Muggle-born. That one; a distant relative of some member of the filthy Order. And that one over there…well, he was just unlucky, I suppose."

"Is this a threat, Malfoy?" She reached for her wand, her surprise that he had used the term "muggle-born" rather than a more Malfoy-esque "mudblood" melting in the face of imminent danger. The tension snapped when he sneered at her response and turned away.

"Just a bit of background information, Brooks." He sauntered back to his desk, maintaining grandiose in poise and tone. Perhaps it was because of the things people said about his family, or the way his family was slighted in their very home, that compelled him to keep up his façade.

Draco, his father had told him after a severe beating when he broke a vase by accident, stop that disgraceful sniffling. A Malfoy will stand with their back straight – his father whacked the small of his back with his cane – and their heads held high – his head tilted upwards as the snake head on the cane collided with the bottom of his chin. We dirty our hands to keep ourselves pure, Draco, and through the filth a Malfoy will remain dignified. He was eight at the time and his father, seated on a high back leather chair, had never commanded more fear, and more respect.

Draco thought of his father now, grovelling inside their manor, rotting for the loyalty he placed his faith in, and wondered at which point it had gone all wrong.

"Where should I sit?" He looked up, frowning at the interruption.

"What?"

"Where should I sit?"

"Does it matter?"

She set her bag down on the desk that belonged to the deceased muggle-born, disturbing the dust as she started working through a pile of paperwork, his question hanging between them both. Does it matter? Sitting across each other in a silent, dusty office, the two continued their mundane tasks until evening, each lost in their own thoughts about what mattered in a time when so little did.

…✧*…*✧…

Hello!

Thank you for reading the first chapter of my very first Dramione fic.

I hope you enjoyed it.

Please leave a review to tell me what you thought! (:

Disclaimer: All characters, recognizable settings, etc. belong to J.K. Rowling.