Disclaimer: These characters belong to J.K Rowling and she'd probably hate what I'm doing with them but alas! I cannot help myself.
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The Great Hall had not changed in almost a decade.
The long benches were exactly the same, if only a little more weathered. Long tapered candles floated, midair, and above them, the Enchanted Ceiling sparkled like the summer night sky, Venus shimmering in a multitude of colours. A meteorite streaked against the black sky, blazing a trail that reminded her of chalk against a blackboard.
Standing at the entrance to the Hall, indeed it seemed as though the only things that had really changed, were the students.
Taking her seat beside Harry, Hermione found herself facing the Slytherin table and her eyes ran along the former students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and a deep sense of nostalgia settled heavily in her stomach. No matter how well she did in her life, she still missed the relative light heartedness of school, and even, dare she admit it, her enemies.
Pupils she did not recognise narrowed their eyes at her simply because she was positioned at the Gryffindor table or perhaps, she thought, dropping her chin into her hand, it was because she was sandwiched between Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.
"Here we are," Ron said, raising his goblet, "ten years after Hogwarts, still single and as hopeless as ever." Harry chuckled, his too-long hair as untidy as ever flopping over his forehead.
"Not as hopeless as Neville," he replied, draining his goblet which automatically refilled. Hermione traced the engraving of the Hogwarts shield on her own golden goblet, listening to the pleasant chatter of her former classmates. It felt so nice to be in their company again, even if nothing much had changed between them.
"Hey Neville," Ron called, gesturing to an empty space opposite them, "come sit." Personally Hermione thought Neville Longbottom had grown up nicely; gone was all his puppy fat, his hair was cut in nearly and he dressed in smart, sharp robes. He waved back, sliding unto the long bench.
"Can you believe it?" he asked, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. "It's like no time as passed at all." Harry nodded, his glasses askew on his nose. "Your victory over Voldemort is told on every drunken night at The Three Broomsticks," Neville said. No one was afraid to utter the Dark Lord's name now and it felt as though the wizarding world had somehow been liberated. "Good evening Hermione, you look lovely." Ron craned his neck, as though only noticing her pretty aubergine dress for the first time.
"Thank you, Neville," she replied pointedly. Her eyes flew to the entrance and her heart stilled in her chest. Draco Malfoy's artic blue eyes swept across the Great Hall, pausing momentarily on their table, on her, before moving on to the Slytherin table where his expression changed to one of instant recognition.
Unclipping the intricate, shiny silver clasp on his cloak, Draco slid the heavy black garment from his shoulders, his attire sharp and pristine beneath. Hermione watched as he draped his cloak over his arm and much to her surprise, he took a seat at the end of the Slytherin table and not, as she had expected, by Crabbe and Goyle.
Dropping her gaze to the empty silver plate between her elbows, Hermione cursed her curiosity. Rumours about the mysterious Draco Malfoy had circulated among wizard families for almost a decade, ranging from speculation that he was dead to whispers that he was locked up in Azkaban for the murder of his father, Lucius. Few people, including her, expected him to attend their reunion.
Even now, after he had taken his place and reached for his goblet, his expression impassive, whispers passed between the tables. Beside Neville, Colin Creevy glanced over his shoulder.
"A criminal of the worst kind," he murmured, "no remorse." Harry blinked, finding Malfoy's cool gaze.
"He's not a criminal," Harry replied slowly. Everyone within ear-shot stopped talking, their gazes swinging towards him, mouths agape. "Mean-spirited, perhaps, but he killed Lucius to save another." Hermione focused her attention on the table, the tops of her cheeks pink. Inside her chest, her heart fluttered rapidly and she swallowed hard, willing herself to be calm.
"When has Malfoy ever tried to save anyone but himself?" Neville asked and it was startlingly unlike him to comment badly on anyone. Hermione's gaze lifted, settling on her friend's face. Harry had stopped talking and she felt the weight on his eyes on her. Straightening her spine, Hermione inhaled sharply. "Malfoy saved you?" Neville asked, in voice high with disbelief. "Surely not!" It was no secret that Draco Malfoy considered her to be the lowest of all witches.
"Voldemort's followers knew that the easiest way to defeat Harry was take what was most important to him. Ron was stronger than me and he escaped… I was held prisoner by Lucius Malfoy and other Death Eater," her trembling fingers tucked her hair behind her ear as she recalled the wet, cold night that she had been tied up, robbed of her dignity. In some dreams, she could still see their wands poised, the unforgivable curse on their lips. "Draco saved me." Three words Hermione would never have believed. As if of their own accord, her eyes found him again and she found him looking back, the icy blue irises of his eyes bright, despite the candle light. He blinked slowly and her breath burned in her lungs.
"You don't own him anything," Ron insisted sharply, as if reading her expression. Pulling her gaze away, Hermione turned back to her friend.
"I owe him my life," she replied tightly. No one spoke, possibly because no one could believe that Draco Malfoy had murdered his father to save 'mudblood' Hermione Granger. The truth of the rumours had been known only to she and her two friends and now that former pupils of Gryffindor knew, she felt doubly indebted.
A tinkle at the teacher's table silenced the room and everyone's eyes swung to Headmistress McGonagall, who had barely changed at all in the past ten years. Her eyes were still shrewd and her tone still sharp if even a little bit kind.
"Thank you for coming," she began, smiling fondly, "it is wonderful to see all your faces again. I barely recognised some of you," her gaze lingered on Neville, as though she were thinking exactly the same as Hermione. "We decided to host this little reunion while our current students were at home for the summer, so your old dormitories are available tonight.
"Now that you are all grown up, the wine is plentiful and I ask you to consume as much as what can be considered sensible," she lifted her goblet, "and enjoy meeting your old friends again!" Students from all four houses raised their goblets and the feast began.
Hermione wished she was hungry enough to enjoy the delicious food that appeared along the table, but her stomach felt heavier than lead as the weight of her past reminded her constantly of who she owed her life to. Another cursory glance across the room revealed that Draco was not eating either. His head was bowed, his fingers tight around his goblet. He had become such a devilishly handsome man; dangerously handsome, in fact.
Slipping her legs over the edge of the bench, Hermione stood. "I'll be back shortly," she promised her friends, her heels clacking heavily on the stone floor as she strode between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, the delicate chiffon of her dark purple dress fluttering behind her. Keeping her eyes focused intently on the entrance, she clenched her jaw.
Outside in the empty hallway, she braced her hand against the wall and inhaled a steadying breath. Despite her own insistence that she did not owe Malfoy anything, she felt eternally indebted and she wondered if her dreams, her secret and illicit dreams about him were, indeed, life's way of ensuring she forever paid the price of her survival.
Pressing her fingertips to her chest, she felt her heart flutter crazily against the soft skin there and she wondered how many nights she had woken in bed, drenched in sweat with Draco's name on the tip of her tongue.
"Alright there, Granger?"
Hermione kept her back to the door, despite the overwhelming urge to spin towards the owner of the voice. "Good evening, Draco," she replied stiffly. Inside the Great Hall the chatter was almost enough to drown out the din of her heartbeat inside her eardrums. "How are you?" Her fingers clawed at the rough stone walls, her spine achingly stiff as she kept her back turned.
"Beginning to know how Potter feels," he replied dryly, "being the topic of conversation and all that." Hermione stiffed, turning at last. He hated the haunted ice in his eyes, that intensified her belief that she owed him so much. She hated being indebted, especially to someone as mean and cold as Malfoy.
"What have you been doing, Draco?" Hermione asked, her curiosity stronger than her desire never to speak to him again.
"Best if you don't know," he replied. Hermione noticed that he was wearing his cloak again, the silver clasp glinting in the flickering flames that lit the castle. "You'd probably think I was lying." His tone had changed, she noticed. As cold as he still was, there was no malice – at least, not as there had once been, all those years ago. She suspected that he called her Granger out of habit. He had done it that night, too.
"What happened to you, Draco?" she asked, folding her arms across her torso. He straightened, tall and proud, despite the years of torment that was evident in his eyes. "Did they catch you?" His jaw was tight and Hermione held her breath, expecting great amounts of anger to spill forth from his lips. After a long moment, however, he swung the edge of his cloak over his shoulder, moving forward.
"Of course they did," he replied darkly. "I murdered my father," he hissed. Hermione swallowed, her mouth dry. Her eyes stung with guilt. Despite hating Lucius with every fibre in her body, she felt tremendously bad that she had torn Draco's life apart. Her.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, brushing her hair from her cheeks. Draco slid his hands into his pockets, his broad shoulders filling the space between two flaming torches. She caught his eye and saw the softer, less menacing side of the Slytherin boy.
"You owe me nothing," he insisted roughly. "Not that I'd take anything from you anyway." Hermione nodded; she had long since learned to accept that Malfoy would never see her as anything of any worth. She would always be the mudblood girl who had no right to practice magic. "That's not true," he muttered, back against the wall. She blinked, frowning tightly. "I wish I could say I haven't thought about you," his voice was a hurried whisper, fierce and somehow frightening. Hermione held her breath, wondering if perhaps Draco had dreamt forbidden things about her, too. "You haunt me," his eyes narrowed, cool and almost silver in the light. "When I close my eyes it's not him that I see," Draco hissed in reference to his father. "It's…"
"'Mione!" They both jumped and Draco slid into the shadows as Hermione turned to the entrance where Harry stood, goblet in hand. "What are you doing out here?" She felt her skin prickle with cold anticipation and she trembled.
"I'm coming now," she insisted with a wave of her hand, urging him back into the warmth of the Hall. Turning slowly back to the Draco, she folded her arms around herself. "I do owe my life to you," she admitted in a low whisper, "but I didn't ask you to save me." Malfoy's roved her face, drinking in the image of her, womanly and still as youthfully beautiful as she had been as a virginal eighteen year old. After a moment, his gaze shifted, following the curves of her body beneath her dress; supple and firm.
"Want to know what's kept me awake?" he asked, the lurid implication hanging in the air between them. She stepped back, shaking her head.
"No," she insisted, "I do not."
His laughter, cold as ever, followed her back into the Great Hall. It was not this that bothered Hermione Granger, however.
What distracted her for the remainder of the night was that she really ached to hear what he would have said. Her burning questions were almost answered and her pride had forced her to refuse to listen. Each time she caught his eye, he smirked, his forbidden thoughts always on the tip of his tongue and as the plates were cleared and the music began, Hermione wished she could just go to bed and have a Draco-less night sleep.