Hermione gestured to the plump orange armchair on the other side of the desk. 'Take a seat,' she said imperiously.
Theodore Nott eyed the chair sceptically. 'I think I'll stand. I know better than to sit on anything owned by the Weasley twins.'
Hermione opened her mouth to correct him but stopped short. George would be more upset at the correction than the slip-up, and he wasn't listening anyway. Probably. She had extracted a promise not to eavesdrop from him when she had asked to use his office for the meeting, and she hoped a combination of honour and the fear of her wrath would make him keep that promise.
'Suit yourself,' she replied. 'This meeting should be brief. Thank you for coming.'
He met her eyes squarely. 'A mysterious summons from Potter's golden girl to meet at a joke shop under the cover of darkness? I wouldn't miss that for the world.'
She rolled her eyes. 'It's barely even dark yet, I just wanted to wait until the shop was closed.'
She slid a manila folder over the desk. 'I've sent a copy of this to your lawyer. He'll tell you it's all above board. You just need to sign and return it within the week.'
He picked up the folder and skimmed through it.
'Hermione Granger bequeaths you… what the hell is this?' he demanded.
Hermione sighed. 'You can't just sign the paper, no questions asked?'
'Explain,' he said through gritted teeth.
'I received a letter from a lawyer a few months ago. It turns out that your mother had an affair after you were born.'
'You expect me to believe you're my long-lost sister?'
'Half-sister,' she corrected him. Hermione slid a second folder over to him. 'Birth certificate and DNA test.'
He flipped through the documents calmly, but his shock was obvious when he reached the birth certificate. 'He's really your father?'
'Yes,' she answered.
He doubled over laughing.
'I know. That was my reaction too. It was either laugh or…'
Her voice wavered slightly, and he straightened up to give her a sharp look. 'Did Snape know about this? That he was your father?'
'No,' she said. 'After your mother's death no one in the entire world knew about it. She left magically sealed instructions with the lawyer, but he had no idea what they were, just froze the assets discreetly. He probably assumed she wanted them kept out of your father's hands. They were released upon his death.'
She coughed, and slid the first folder closer to him. 'Anyway, this is a standard deed of gift contract to return them to you. Just sign it.'
There was a pause as she tried to stare him down, willing him to match her casual attitude.
'You look like a mess. That shirt is practically a rag. The press implied you were living off Potter's charity, and I can't see any signs to the contrary.' His words were harsh, but his tone was perfectly neutral.
'Your point?' she asked through gritted teeth.
'I'm not going to take money from someone that looks like a pauper.'
'I don't want it.'
He slid the folder back to her side of the desk. 'She left it for you. Adopted or not, it's yours. I already have my own fortune. This is a pittance compared to that. A few galleons and a cabin in the woods.'
'Not adopted,' Hermione whispered. 'She messed around with their memories and foisted a baby on them. She violated their minds. I want nothing to do with her.'
Theodore gave her a condescending look. 'You think I'm proud of my father? He was a genuine monster. But I'm not going to throw away my mansion or my vault. I'm the son of a Death Eater. No one in their right minds would hire me, and I have to survive somehow. I'm betting you would find it difficult to get a job with the paparazzi following you around. Be practical, take the money. You clearly need it.'
'I told you, I don't want it,' Hermione said.
'Neither do I. Do what you want with it.'
Hermione looked at him thoughtfully. 'I think you're bluffing.'
'Bluffing?' he echoed.
'Your mother died when you were a baby. I know a thing or two about orphans. This "pittance" means a lot to you. It's the last piece left of the mother you never knew.'
He didn't respond.
'I feel nothing but rage for your mother. If you won't take it, I'll have it burned to the ground. The cabin, the vault, everything. I've had some practice with Fiendfyre. There will be nothing left but ashes.'
He grabbed the folder, signed the paper, and then walked out the door.
'Thank you,' Hermione whispered, leaning back in her chair in relief.
She walked through the door and up the stairs at a deliberately slow pace. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to run. Had been screaming the same thing for as long as she could remember. Before the letter, before the war, before Hogwarts even. The difference was that when she was an eleven-year-old girl she had been running towards something rather than away. She had thirsted for more knowledge, for more magic, for more friendship. The looks of scorn from her classmates as she waved her hand in the air had warned her to slow down, but she would not be held back by anything. Maybe she should stop holding herself back, denying her instincts. She could redirect them, and run with a greater purpose than just to escape from her pain.
She ran up the last few steps to the library and pushed the heavy wooden door open, the force of her momentum making it almost effortless. She paused on the threshold. Harry was curled up on the corner of the couch, glasses askew, blanket halfway on the floor, lightly snoring. He had clearly been waiting up for her- the library wasn't exactly his favourite hangout spot. Hermione smiled. She treaded softly over to the couch, slid in next to Harry and spread the blanket out over both of them. Tomorrow, she would start her race. Today, she would bask in the glow of friendship. It had always given her strength, ever since that fight with the troll. And she had a feeling she could use all the strength she could get.
Two Months Earlier
Hermione thrust the letter into the fireplace and watched it burn. She watched as it shrivelled and twisted into an unrecognisable shape, as it slowly faded into ashes, word by word. She grabbed her wand and her bag, walked out the front door, and apparated to The Leaky Cauldron.
She nursed her first glass in silence, with a light notice-me-not ward cast over the table. When she had first entered, she had only noticed the bar and the empty table, and everything else had seemed like white noise. Now, with her feelings dulled ever-so-slightly, she had enough curiosity to give the rest of the bar a glance. Her eyes were caught by a splash of white that seemed out of place in the gloomy room. Draco Malfoy was sitting alone in the corner. His eyes met hers. To remain unaffected by the notice-me-not, either he was particularly alert or he had noticed her before she cast the spell. Perhaps she should have stolen Harry's invisibility cloak. But as she and Malfoy had a silent staring contest, she realised that it was almost a relief to be seen. And she recognised the same feeling in him- it was all over his face, no bluffing, and no mask. She swirled her glass around a few times and watched the firewhiskey dance in the light. She had planned to get so drunk she couldn't feel anymore. She had never been drunk before, but of course she had read enough to know how it worked. But she could have done that at Grimmauld Place, or in a field in the middle of nowhere. She needed more. She stood up and walked out the door. She waited outside, not sure whether to hope that her signal worked or failed. She only counted to five before Malfoy appeared.
'I know a place,' she said simply, her wand held loosely at her side. There was a dare in her eyes. He could place himself at her mercy, let her apparate them to who-knows-where, or he could leave. He nodded. She wasn't sure if he trusted her good nature, or if he simply didn't care what happened to him anymore. She touched his shoulder lightly and then they were gone.
They landed lightly on the soft grass. He looked around at the clearing with surprise, but not alarm. So it was trust then. For a moment, she resented that she was the kind of person to inspire such easy faith, that he wouldn't accuse her of a nefarious motive for even a moment. But then she dismissed the thought as melodramatic and pointless. Either he didn't know her at all, or he knew her all too well. It didn't matter.
She made the first move. A hard and fast kiss, another dare. He accepted it. They kissed in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by open air, exposed. Their lips met over and over, nails scratched over skin, and they explored each other boldly. When the fury died down, Hermione conjured a blanket, and they ended the night with a gentler passion. When it was over, Hermione abruptly dissolved the blanket into nothing, and apparated away.
