This story was originally written for Hawthorn & Vine's Reverse Challenge 2014, and it was inspired by a gorgeous art piece entitled Homewards, by raa, which can be found on that site.
They were chased by the sounds of crushed leaves and broken twigs, punctuated by the occasional shout of "Get them!", and "Don't let them get away!" The light of the waning moon was held hostage by the canopies and did not reach the forest floor below. Lanterns moved in the darkness behind them, but neither looked back, pressing ahead while trying to avoid crashing into the trees. She could hear him up ahead — over the creaking sounds of the forest and over the sound of her own laboured breath.
"Lumos," he kept trying, his tone increasingly annoyed at the lack of results. She felt for her own wand, safely tucked into her back pocket, but did not draw it. There was no point. There was no magic here. None that they could use, at any rate.
Hermione quickened her step, afraid of losing Draco in the darkness, but a root caught her foot, sending her flying. She fell heavily with a thud, repressing a yell and closing her mouth against the dirt and leaves.
"Not the time for acrobatics, Granger," Draco hissed, helping her up. She ignored the searing pain in her ankle and followed him, only too aware of the host following closely on their heels.
Her mind kept running over the inventory of The Vaults. Whatever had sent them there, she had to know it. She had catalogued every single item in the room. She had handled most of the objects herself.
The Ministry called it The Archive of Dark Matter — a collection of Dark artefacts gathered after the First and Second Wizarding Wars. But everyone in her department just called it The Vaults. The objects were buried under layers of security and secrecy, and while she understood the value in keeping and studying them, sometimes she just wanted to set the whole room on fire.
But it had seemed like a good place to hide when Ginny warned her with a wink that her ex-husband was looking for her. Bravery had its value, but so did self-preservation, and while running away might be cowardly, it was also smart. She had work to do down in The Vaults anyway, and Dark magic was the sort of darkness she could keep at bay.
She did not run very far, however. He caught up with her just as the lift doors started closing. There was a certain smugness in his smile as he said, "Fancy running into you." Which was code for, 'nice try, love'.
"I'm working." Which was code for, 'go away'. But Draco Malfoy had never heard a hint he didn't elect to ignore, and this time was no different.
"I won't keep you very long," he said, straightening his tie.
"You won't keep me at all." She pressed the main floor button before stepping out of the lift. "You can't be here."
"And yet, here I am." Without giving the doors time to close behind her, he followed the witch into the dark corridor. The blue torches meant to identify those of ill-intent did a poor job of actually lighting the space. Draco walked by undisturbed, which did not necessarily speak to the purity of his intentions, only that they did not extend to the objects kept in the room ahead.
Hermione ignored him in the vain hope that if she could keep it up long enough, he would simply vanish like a bad dream. But it was the week of futile wishes, and he was still behind her when she crossed the threshold into The Archive. There were wards protecting the room, but they did not stop Draco Malfoy from entering, either because he was with her or because Ginevra Potter couldn't stop meddling if her life depended on it.
With a sigh, she turned to face him. "You can't be here." Never mind the Ministry. She didn't want him there.
He looked at the rows of shelves that stretched across the room. "Because I'm a Malfoy? So were you until recently."
"Malfoys are allowed," she said with the sweetest smile she could muster. "Death Eaters are frowned upon."
A shadow crossed his face, but no Malfoy had ever failed to successfully hide any hint of emotion under a heavy layer of casual self-importance. "A youthful indiscretion."
She walked to the desk in the corner, hoping to put some distance between them, but he followed close behind. "What do you want, Draco?" Leaning back against the dark wood, she put down the folder on top of a stack of documents.
"You'd know, if you bothered to read my letters. I want Bradford Cottage back."
Located at the edge of the Malfoy estate, Bradford Cottage had been his wedding gift to her. They had lived there until Scorpius was born, when the lack of space had forced them to move to the Manor. They had been happy there. Happier than at any time since.
"Bradford Cottage is mine," she said simply.
"You don't live there, you never visit. You have no use for it save to say you own it." There was steel in his tone, but Hermione Granger was not easily intimidated.
"I wouldn't say I have no use for it," she said nonchalantly. "I may decide to use it for firewood on a chilly evening."
"You're being petty," he accused. She was. So was he. When it came to dealing with one another, pettiness came all too easily to both of them, and it was a habit that was hard to break.
"I can be as petty as I please," she said stubbornly. "Bradford Cottage is mine and you can't have it."
Draco moved until he was standing only a few inches from her. "I can have anything I like," he said, lowering his voice. Under the room's flickering light, his grey eyes seemed almost transparent, and standing this close to him she could smell the combination of soap and mint that always reminded her of him.
"Not everything you like." Her hand in his chest, she pushed past him. Choosing a random row of shelves, Hermione started looking for what she had come for. The exact location of the item was written down on the papers she had brought down with her, but she wasn't about to go back for it.
"You can either sell it to me or I will sue for it," came his voice from behind her. "And I will win."
She turned on her heels. "Sue? On what grounds?"
Draco shrugged. "What does it matter? I'm sure my attorneys can come up with something. That's what I pay them for." Hermione paled when he picked up a small golden box, turning it with interest between his hands.
"Touch nothing, Draco," she ordered, taking it away and returning it to its place. Half of the contents in that room would kill them instantly, and those were the relatively harmless half. She was about to move away when he grabbed her wrist, pushing her against the shelf. The impact made some of the artefacts rattle behind her, but just then she had more pressing concerns.
"Nothing?" He smirked, letting go of her hand. His body was warm against hers and the soft touch of his fingers on the nape of her neck sent shivers down her spine. He leaned down, kissing her with a gentleness that broke her heart.
"We can't keep doing this," she muttered, trying to ignore the distracting effect of his hands on her body.
"I'll stop when you stop."
But they didn't know how to stop. They were the ship caught by the sea in a storm, and there was no end in sight for either of them but the cold still bottom of the ocean. She had tried so hard to stay away. To keep him away. It was what Ginny could not understand, and what she herself forgot when his mere touch set her skin on fire. They could do nothing but tear each other to pieces, and they were good at it.
They took turns being petty, childish, demanding and unreasonable. A never-ending game of touch me, don't touch me, go away, come back, don't leave me, I can't stand the sight of you, I hate you, don't go. They pulled back and pushed away, and cried in the dark like children, sobbing over their inability to glue a vase back together with water.
Her body answered to his familiar touch with a will of its own, and a part of her wanted to give in and lose herself in him, but there was no forgetting that what drew her to him was the echo of something she could never get back. It only made her hate herself afterwards, and Draco had enough self-loathing for the both of them.
"Enough," she said out of breath, pushing him away. "We're not doing this again. We're done."
She could've imagined the hurt expression that flashed across his face, but there was no mistaking the smugness that lingered. "When have lions become cowards?"
She took a deep breath, trying to still her racing heartbeat. "Next time you come here, I will have security escort you out," she said. "You can have Bradford Cottage back. I do not want it. I want nothing else from you. We'll see each other when you pick up or drop off Scorpius and we will be civil, but that's the extent of it. We're done, Draco. You and I are done."
His cold, hard stare was that of a stranger. "On second thought, Granger, you can keep Bradford Cottage." He sneered. "Consider it payment for services rendered."
She glowered at him, fighting the instinctive urge to say something snide back. There was no winning for either of them, and she was tired of fighting. Draco let go of the shelf and turned to leave. Just as she straightened up, the structure oscillated behind her and the box Draco had picked up earlier fell from its precarious position.
Time seemed to stand still for only a moment before the golden artefact hit the floor and burst open, sending its contents flying across the room. The silver dust hit her first and Draco next, and they were suddenly dragged out of the room by the violent pull of an unknown force.
Hermione hit the ground hard when they Apparated. She had barely time to register the presence of the pink flamingos staring curiously at her before a shrill voice yelled, "What is the meaning of this? WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS? Guards! Off with their heads! OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!"
For a moment she did not know what to make of the bizarre sight of Dolores Umbridge red in the face, pointing at them with a sceptre while wearing a Renaissance gown and a crown. Next to her, a very puzzled-looking Mr Weasley seemed to be trying to calm Umbridge down while she continued to call for her guards.
Draco helped her to her feet and they both stared incredulous as the gate of the nearby castle opened up over a moat and a battalion came marching out, armed with spears and shields.
"Run," Draco said, pulling her arm. They both dashed in the opposite direction, where the dark shape of trees was still visible in the dim light of dusk.
Hermione could not tell how long they had been running for, but she knew she could not keep it up much longer. She was so tired she could throw up, and her feet were dragging more and more with each passing mile.
Movement on the corner of her eye caught her attention and she looked just in time to see the white rabbit disappear behind a tree. A white rabbit. She stopped, glancing over her shoulder at the flickering lanterns swinging in the distance. It couldn't be.
"What now?" Draco muttered out of breath, grabbing her arm.
"This way," she said, starting towards the place where she had last seen the rabbit.
"You're going to get us both killed." But when running aimlessly in the dark, one direction was as good as the next, and he followed her anyway.
Hermione kept a fast pace, but she didn't run. Slower meant quieter, and if they couldn't outrun their pursuers, they could at least try to evade them. Everything was still and dark in the forest ahead. The witch was starting to wonder whether she had imagined the rabbit when the creature dashed out of a bush, startling both her and Draco.
Ignoring her ex-husband's muttered expletives, she quickened her step, careful not to lose sight of the rabbit again. The creature seemed intent in making sure they followed, stopping every few feet and looking back at the dishevelled duo.
With their pursuers closing in, the sounds behind them grew in intensity, which had the disadvantage of grating on Hermione's already frayed nerves, but the advantage of covering their own sounds. The rabbit led them down the side of a hill, to the shores of a lake. Without the trees, the moonlight reflected on the mirror-like surface was enough for them to see the surrounding area. The critter hopped to an ivy-covered scarp on the far side of the clearing and disappeared in the middle of the foliage.
Hermione was the first one through the narrow opening, quickly followed by Draco, who let the curtain of ivy drop behind him, engulfing the small cave in darkness once again. The opening was neither very high nor very deep, and it narrowed even further at the end into a small rabbit hole that was far too small for a human being to go through.
Hermione sat down, her back against the wall, feeling the sandy soil under her fingers. Draco did likewise, sitting against the opposing wall, and for several minutes neither spoke, both trying to get their breathing under control. Sounds came to them from the hill above, but none of the lanterns made its way down to the lake.
When the soldiers moved on, Draco was the first to talk, his voice strained by his effort to keep it even. "How does Umbridge have an army?" he asked.
"That wasn't Umbridge," she said, trying to find a different answer. Any answer.
"I saw her. That was Dolores Umbridge."
"That wasn't Umbridge," she repeated, trying to suppress the hysterical laughter rising in her throat. "It was the Queen of Hearts. It's Alice in Wonderland. It's Alice in Wonderland, and the Queen of Hearts is trying to kill us." She covered her mouth with her hands, trying to stifle the laughter that sounded too loud and high-pitched to her own ears.
"Hermione—" She could barely hear Draco. There was no space inside her brain for anything besides the fact that they were stuck inside whatever nightmarish scenario the cursed box had sent them to and there was no way out. "Hermione! Look at me." Draco sat up on his knees and pried her hands away from her face, but she could do nothing but laugh. It was all so ridiculous. They would die there and it was the silliest thing she had ever seen. "Granger!" The slap echoed between the stone walls of the small cave and for several moments there was no sound at all, and neither moved.
"Let go," she said calmly, the side of her face burning where Draco had hit her. He released her arm, sitting back.
"Better?"
She nodded. Then, realising he couldn't see her in the dark, she added, "Yes."
"Now explain," he demanded. "Where are we?"
Taking a deep breath, she thought back to the basement room where they had been arguing. "The box that broke," she started, "it was filled with Pulvis Morphei. The Ministry got it from Snape's things. It's rare…" She took another deep breath, trying very hard not to panic.
"What does it do?" Draco pressed.
"It makes you sleep. We're not really here. It's just a dream…" She dug her nails into her palms, finding some comfort in the reality of the feeling. "I've been reading Alice in Wonderland to Scorpius. That is why… That is why…" She couldn't finish.
"How do we wake up?" His tone didn't change and Hermione had to suppress the urge to scream. His calm served only to unnerve her further.
"We don't," she said, trying and failing to keep her voice steady. "Our bodies — our real bodies — they will dehydrate and starve and die, and we'll die with them." Magic wouldn't keep them alive. Neither would science. There was no way out.
Silence fell between them. Hermione hugged her knees to her chest, trying to ignore how much the small cave felt like a tomb. It was monstrously unfair. She had fought so hard for so long. She deserved her happy ending. But being cursed and cast into an alternative reality with no end in sight but a slow and probably painful death seemed like a fitting ending to what had been an altogether pretty horrible year.
"We can't use magic," Draco said, interrupting her morbid thoughts. "Is it because it is not real, or because it's a Muggle story?"
"I'm not sure."
She could not see him, but she knew him well enough to know he was still clutching his wand, useless though it was. Neither said anything for a few more minutes, but when Draco spoke again, even his restrained tone could not mask his frustration. "Muggle books," he spat. "Why couldn't you have been telling him the Tales of Beedle the Bard?"
"Right, this is totally my fault." She sat up straighter, self-righteousness replacing self-pity. "You should not have been down there. I told you you couldn't be there."
"I wouldn't have been if you had deigned to answer my letters!" Caution thrown to the wind, neither was bothering to keep their voices low anymore.
"Maybe you should've taken the hint and left me alone." Stubborn, arrogant prat who couldn't take no for an answer.
"You can't just refuse to deal with me." No, but she could try. "We have a child together."
She laughed bitterly at that. "Well, it doesn't matter anymore, because neither of us is ever going to see him again." And with that she broke down crying. Dying didn't scare her. Not really. Not anymore. She had come too close too often for it to bother her overmuch. But she could feel something shattering inside of her at the thought of never seeing her child again.
Draco let her cry without saying a word. He offered no comfort and she expected none. They had very few kind words left for one another. And if he too felt the crushing weight of the situation, he didn't show it, but waited in silence for her tears to subside.
"If it's a dream," he said at last, "can the creatures in here kill us?"
She tried to clear her mind, thinking for a moment before replying. "Jon Swift, 1726. He's one of the only two recorded cases of Pulvis Morphei being used in Britain. He died sixteen hours after falling into a deep sleep. He was young and healthy, and it was too early for it to have been dehydration or hunger."
"You're a clever girl, Granger." She could hear his smile in the darkness. "You know what that means."
Hermione knew what he was getting at, but she did not necessarily agree with it. "Even if events in here affect reality to an extent, there are no records of anyone ever waking up."
"Not everything is written down in a book somewhere." He sneered. "Even if there are no records of it, it doesn't mean it hasn't happened. It doesn't meant it can't happen."
"Draco—"
"No," he said. "Maybe there's no way out and maybe we'll die here, but I'm not just sitting around waiting for it to happen."
She rolled her eyes, aggravated. If only pig-headed stubbornness could break the blasted curse, they'd be out already. She had seen the research, she had read the data. Not everything was written down in a book somewhere, but enough was that she wasn't optimistic. It was a pointless argument, however. She had fought too hard and for too long, and she couldn't give up if she tried. Maybe they would die, but they weren't dead yet.
"Okay," she said simply.
"Okay what?"
"Okay, we'll try."
