A/N: This story was written for the Strictly Dramione Summer Loving Fest on A03 (that version has an additional photo-story) hosted by the lovely ladies of the Strictly Dramione facebook group.
Alpha appreciation goes to LightofEvolution, InDreams was my beloved Beta.
This piece is dedicated to F.
1991: before 1st year
A person changes every seven years, they say.
"Is that what inspired Billy Wilder to do the Seven Year Itch?" Hermione asked her dad. She closed the book on her lap. Hogwarts: A History shone in bright letters from the cover.
"There's no such thing as a 'seven-year itch'," her Mum snorted while she skillfully manoeuvred the car along the A303. The blur of a passing sign announced that they'd just passed Andover. Only 15 more miles to Stonehenge.
"The so-called seven-year itch is a rubbish concept designed to provide people who've stopped investing in their relationships with an easy excuse."
Helen Granger smirked at her husband. "Particularly middle-aged men in the 1950s who've felt entitled to have any woman they wanted; especially impressionable, innocent, good-looking young secretaries, nevermind the wife they had at home."
"Good thing you're not my secretary then," Richard Granger retorted cheekily. "Ouch!" he cried, as his wife playfully smacked him.
"But doesn't the seven-year itch have a base in science?" Hermione interjected from the back seat, "I remember reading somewhere that, apparently, every seven years each cell in the human body has renewed which would mean we're, effectively, different people every seven years."
Her dad laughed. "I'm afraid that's just an urban legend, darling. Not all cells have the same lifespan. In fact, scientists have found that brain cells, for example, can get as old as 15 years. Which means, you're brain cells still have a couple of years before they die," he teased.
"I see," Hermione mused and looked out of the window. The passing blur of green and yellow and bright blue anticipated a fabulous summer day. "No seven-year itch, then."
"I'm afraid not. It's all just fiction, after all," her dad replied good-naturedly. "However," and he turned in his seat to look at his daughter, mirth twinkling in his dark eyes, "in seven years, you'll be a witch. A seven-year witch!" Richard Granger laughed his throaty laugh, whilst slapping his thigh.
"I'm already a witch, Dad," Hermione retorted dryly, unable to keep a small smile from creeping onto her lips.
"Obviously," her father chuckled and turned back around, his gaze still fixed his only daughter in the rear mirror. "You've just vanished the joke."
Hermione was fascinated with history, which is why she loved historic sites. What Hermione did not like were brainless tourist masses pushing and shoving to take photographs they would never bother to look at again.
It had been her Mum's idea to drive out to Wiltshire this July weekend. Hermione had been here before, once when she'd been five or six, and then again with her class in 3rd grade. But since her eleventh birthday when the Grangers had discovered that their gifted daughter was far more gifted than they could've ever imagined, her mum had brought up the idea to revisit the place, tied as it was to so much pagan belief and British history at the same time.
It was a farewell of sorts; to see a magical place of her past before Hermione would go on to discover the magical things of her future.
The three Grangers had been early, and Hermione had enjoyed her Mum explaining the history of the stones, and the various theories relating to their use and origin. The small family had marvelled at their grandness, and her dad had waxed poetically about the aesthetic appeal of the shades of grey against the bright blue sky, man-made objects standing the test of time. Then he'd pulled out his camera to "capture the magic of the moment", while Hermione laughed at her mum who would not stop pulling faces, and, consequently, "ruined all the pictures".
But now that more and more people kept pouring onto the site, Hermione found it very hard to appreciate the magic of Stonehenge.
So the small family made their way over to the many surrounding burial sites. It wasn't noon yet, but it was already getting considerately hot, and Hermione was glad when they finally approached the nearby groves and barrows.
Just like before, her mum launched into a discourse (throughout the ages, the site had been used a resting place for distinguished members of society, not only kings or noblemen), while her dad unpacked his camera. Soon her parents were deep in discussion about social classes, and the merits (and problems) of hierarchical systems.
Hermione smiled fondly. She listened for a bit, but knowing that these types of discussions could take a while, she saw a chance to explore the site on her own. Maybe she'd even find a quiet and shadowy place to read.
She had rounded a couple of grass-covered graves when she spotted, somewhat isolated, seven huge trees surrounding (and almost hiding) a very particular tumulus. Unlike all the other grave mounds it was covered by a sea of purple.
Hermione went to investigate. As she crept closer, she realised that the trees were elm trees; very old elm trees, in fact, judging from the immense span of their trunks. The flowers, on the other hand, she didn't recognise. But she could see now that there were several types of various shades of red and blue.
Approaching, she made out that the flowers grew in patterns around the grave mound. There were wild red roses, and purple violets, and another kind she did not recognise; all weaving elegantly into the grassy green of the grave. In-between, Hermione spotted a path leading up. She followed the way spiralling around and around to the hilltop, the wild flowers on both sides all the while waving in the soft summer breeze.
When she reached the peak, Hermione was surprised by the view. She hadn't expected the grave mound to be quite that high; she was able to overlook the seven elm trees, she could even see the other ancient graves which were a good bit away from this particular one. Squinting her eyes, she spotted her parents gesticulating by the grave mound where she had left them. Evidently, they were still absorbed by their debate about egalitarianism and hierarchical societies. Hermione chuckled softly.
She turned and considered her surroundings.
It was almost bizarre how this grave mound differed, so extravagantly, from the others. How very plain they looked in comparison: green and almost flat, while this hill covered by a blanket of purple blossoms formed a perfect hemisphere. The young girl did not stop to wonder how the roses and violets and other purple-blue flowers grew like this. It was evident, at least to her, that there was some kind of magic involved. And hadn't she just read about a similar type of magical repellent that kept muggles from places like Hogwarts? Yes, this was a perfectly plausible explanation, firstly, as to why this mound was not a key attraction, and, secondly, why (aside from her) no one else seemed to notice it in the first place.
Hermione walked around the surprisingly ample hilltop, glancing down the colourful slopes. Just like the path she had followed up, there were seven other naturally formed aisles spiralling to the top, each framed by the three kinds of flowers. Hermione bent to pick a couple of each. Her mum would love them. And then she could also ask her about the type she still did not recognise.
The bouquet in hand, she turned and noticed something reflecting the bright midday sun. At the very centre was a white stone let into the ground. Hermione crouched down to inspect it.
It was a white marble plate marked with several angular incisions. Although she couldn't read any of it, she realised that this must have been some sort of gravestone. Hermione stretched out a finger and carefully traced the indents.
"I wonder what you say," she murmured to herself.
"Here I lay, proud and bold Robert Malfoy, oath keeper and faithful servant of my liege, William the First. An equal to Ajax and Diomedes I roam the Elysian Fields, and bequeath upon my blood a mere fraction of my blessed fortune."
Hermione spun around.
A pale boy in almost black robes stood before her, his white-blond hair almost gleaming in the sun. His fine, somewhat pointy features were complemented by his overly erect posture, almost comical in its simpering grandness. He seemed to be about her age.
All this ostensible pride, Hermione noticed, was sharply contrasted by the way the boy held onto the broom he clutched tightly in his right hand.
Hermione stood up, unwilling to converse on unequal grounds.
"How would you know that," she demanded, imitating the voice she'd seen her mum use whenever she spoke to Mr Whitaker, the nosy anaesthetist from St Bartholomew's. "You can't actually read it, can you?"
She put her hands on her hips, unwilling to be intimidated by his attitude.
The boy's gaze flickered to the stone, apparently considering whether or not he could get away with a blatant lie.
"No," he finally admitted, and pulled his mouth into a thin line, "but my father told me."
"That's a pity." Hermione sighed, torn between relief and disappointment; relief, that the boy didn't know more than she did, and disappointment, that now she still wouldn't know what exactly the inscription said.
"I am Hermione Granger, by the way," and she firmly stuck out her hand, just like her parents would do at the Christmas hospital functions they had started to take her to. "Hermione Jean Granger," she amended.
The boy watched her intently through shrewd grey eyes. Some would say they were cold, or dead, or dull even, but Hermione instantly thought of the warmth and familiarity of pebbles; Pebbles lying smoothly in her tiny hand; pebbles she would let skip with her dad. Pebbles were plain stones – until submerged into water. Then they would come alive and show specks of green and blue and brown. Hermione felt an instant fascination with the eyes of that boy and wondered if his eyes, too, would be able to transform from colourless to colourful.
"I am Draco Lucius Malfoy," he said, voice tight. "Pleasure," he drawled, and his warm hand met hers.
Hermione's eyes widened in understanding. "Oh!" she cried excitedly. "Of course! You're a descendant of Robert! How fascinating! You have to tell me all about it."
Although Hermione felt apprehensive by his arrogance, her curiosity won. The boy was a source of knowledge and so she could ignore his priggish attitude for a bit. And it was so obvious that it was just for show, and she, Hermione Granger, would not fall for it.
She sat back down and crossed her legs, and the boy, after a moment's hesitation joined her.
She started to ask him questions about his ancestor and his role in the Conquest, and Draco told her that Robert was one of two sons of his earliest ancestor who was one of the Companions of William the Conqueror when he had invaded the island. Robert had given his life in the Battle of Hastings to save his lord, so he was honoured with this extravagant grave, while his family was rewarded with a piece of land nearby.
She asked about the different flowers, and he explained that they were spelled with an ever-blooming charm so the grave could be a spectre of the Elysian Fields while Robert had been granted a place amongst the heroes on the isles of the Blessed.
"So, the flowers won't wilt even if I pick them?" she asked, eyes wide.
"They are all under a stasis charm so they will keep their form as long as you like," he said. His grey-blue eyes considered her thoughtfully.
Hermione beamed at him. "Excellent," she smiled. "My Mum will love them. It's her birthday soon!
"Speaking of which," Hermione scrambled up, and Draco followed suit. She looked over the trees to the other tumuli and noticed that her parents were no longer standing together. Instead, she saw them agitatedly walking around the plain grave mounds.
"Oh dear, I think I need to go!" she exclaimed. "But it was really fascinating talking to you, Draco. I'll see you at Hogwarts, I hope!" And without a second glance (and before Draco could protest) Hermione ran off.
Draco was so caught up in her wide, curious eyes and the swirl of wild brown hair rushing down the hill, that it took him several moments to stomach what just had happened.
He climbed onto his broom and pushed off, flying the short distance towards Malfoy Manor. Only when the warm summer breeze whipped through his hair, he finally asked himself why by Merlin's beard he had never heard of a family Granger before. It took Draco longer than he would have liked to admit but with a shock (and a rush of shame) he finally realised that the smart and bossy girl whose company he had just enjoyed, whom he even had tentatively been hoping to meet again on the Hogwarts Express, the girl in her muggle clothing with her muggle parents; that Hermione Jean Granger was, in fact, a Mudblood.
Hermione, on the other hand, was bursting with excitement about her very first encounter with one of her future classmates. Especially her mother (after her parents had calmed down from the initial shock of having lost their only child,) had joined in her daughter's enthusiasm for the intersection of magical and non-magical history. But when Hermione led her parents back to the magical place, her parents were neither able to see the grave nor Draco; both were gone.
Hermione closed yet another door and followed the plump boy into the next carriage. They still hadn't found his toad, Trevor; but to be perfectly honest, Hermione was rather happy about that.
It wasn't just her helpful nature that had compelled her to offer Neville Longbottom her assistance; neither was it that she felt just a little bit sorry for the boy with the kind eyes; nor was it her bleeding heart for the underdog. No; Hermione was hoping to find Draco.
She had spent the last couple of weeks looking forward to the train ride to Hogwarts, and, hopefully, talk to him again.
Neville let his shoulders hang. "Gran is going to kill me if I lose Trevor," he sighed.
"Don't worry, we'll going to find him," she placated him.
They opened the next door and in I sat three boys: two bulky boys next to a pale, blond–
"Hello, Draco!" Hermione exclaimed excitedly, and with a smile, she entered the compartment. Without hesitation she sat down next to him, Neville nervously hovering in the door.
Perfectly well-mannered, she stretched out her right hand to introduce herself to the two others. Baffled, they didn't immediately react but looked to Draco as if for approval.
"I don't know what you are doing here. You were not invited," Draco sneered in the coldest voice he could muster. Immediately, the two hefty boys sported matching expressions of disapproval.
Hermione jumped up and faced Draco.
"Excuse me?" she demanded, her shoulders stiff, and her head held high.
"Are you deaf?" Draco seethed through clenched teeth, "I said, you were not invited," and he turned to look out of the window, wand twirling in his right hand.
For a second she stared at the back of his head, and the colourless eyes reflected in the glass.
"Alright then," Hermione snapped and whirled around to join Neville at the door.
She gave the three boys a severe look; two were very confused, one was pointedly ignoring her stare. She put her hands on her hips.
"I do hope you all realise that this," and she fixated the stubborn, unlooking Draco, "is no way to behave. Let's go, Neville," and, without sparing the trio another look, the feisty girl marched the shy boy out of the compartment.
"Who the fuck was that?" the boy with the buzzcut mumbled.
Draco was still staring out of the window, bright late summer colours flashing before his unseeing eyes.
"A Mudblood."