Chapter 1 - St Patrick should've paid more attention
Hermione Granger was freezing.
The surprisingly good Cappuccino from the vendor on the windy platform did nothing to heat her up, but it calmed her nerves. A little.
The darkened intercity train suddenly came to life before her as it opened its automatic doors for the passengers to embark. Joining the throng, Hermione stepped up into the nearest carriage and chose a seat facing the direction in which she'd be heading. As her fellow travellers stored their bags and chatted amicably about the next day's national holiday, however, the fretting witch sipped her drink and prayed to Merlin she was doing the right thing.
"Fáilte go dtí Iarnród Éireann," the recorded voice announced over the tannoy. Welcome to Irish Rail.
The announcement continued with details about the forthcoming journey. Not understanding a word of Irish, Hermione slipped on her headphones and selected a playlist from the music app on her mobile phone. But each song reminded her of him and tears pricked her eyes as the train sped towards the Irish midlands. Five stops — she had five stops before she'd reach the town Pansy had mentioned and, from there, an hour's bus journey to the village where he now lived.
Hermione now owed Pansy Parkinson a debt of gratitude she didn't know if she could ever repay. The Slytherin hadn't been forthcoming with any information regarding him for almost a year and Hermione had used everything in her arsenal to break down his Secret Keeper's walls. She had tried asking nicely, followed by a healthy dose of demanding, before throwing a large dollop of bribery into the mix. But Pansy would not budge. Even the night Hermione collapsed at her feet in a pool of tears didn't sway the stubborn witch.
One week ago, however, her office was invaded by the demanding Slytherin who barged in without permission and turned the pining Gryffindor's miserable world upside down.
Hermione had cried herself to sleep the night before — again — and had resorted to a variety of glamour charms to make herself presentable to her pupils. She didn't want Headmistress McGonagall questioning her teaching abilities; her mentor was already concerned about her state of mind outside of the classroom, so it went without saying that the elderly witch was keeping close tabs on the young History of Magic professor.
"Granger!" Pansy had demanded, marching across the room. "Take note, I'll only say this once. He's in Ireland."
"Wha-what?" Hermione stumbled, grabbing her chair and collapsing down heavily into it. "What did you say?"
"Are you deaf! I said he's in Ireland. Muggle Ireland, to be exact. Fuck! That's three times I've said it!"
"Why—"
Pansy sat down in front of Hermione's desk, placing her designer handbag on the floor — checking first to make sure it was clean. Then, pursing her lips, she sighed heavily, raising her eyes to the glass paperweight that held some parchments in place before looking up to face the trembling Gryffindor.
"I have been Draco's Secret Keeper for a year and I fully intended to have his location die with me. But I can't do it anymore."
"Why not?" Hermione whispered, afraid to raise her voice in case the Slytherin before her suddenly changed her mind and ran out of the door.
"Because of your bloody best friend! He's — I don't know — he's made me weak and I-I hate it!" Pansy practically snarled. "Damn Harry fucking Potter for doing this to me!"
Hermione couldn't help but smile. "You've fallen in love with him, haven't you?"
"Yes!" The other witch spat. "You don't know what it's like for me! I can't… I didn't want this!"
She stood abruptly and began pacing the room.
"We purebloods are not supposed to have feelings; we're brought up not to care. But you… you bloody Gryffindors have all the emotions. And know what to do with them! I don't know what—"
She stopped ranting and took a deep breath, turning back to face Hermione.
"Harry had a meeting in our Department recently and I had to attend in McLaggen's place because the twat was off sick with some infectious disease a Muggle he'd shagged gave him. I hope it fucking falls off… Anyway, after the meeting, Harry asked me to have lunch with him in the cafeteria. Girl's gotta eat, right? Lunch turned into dinner, then lunch the next day… and the next. It went on for a week before we… well, I'm sure The Brightest Witch Of Our Age can put two and two together."
Hermione smiled weakly, nodding at Pansy's comment.
"He had to travel to Germany on Friday," she continued. "He won't be back until Wednesday at the earliest. It's been… quiet without him around. I got used to the fucker. And I-I… I fucking miss him, alright? It's horrible. And I hate it!"
Hermione raised her wand and conjured her Patronus, requesting Professor Grey take her classes for the day. His positive reply came back almost immediately. He was rather taken with the young professor — a fact Hermione would never consider taking advantage of. Until now.
"Come on," she announced, standing up and walking around to where Pansy was still pacing. "Let's get out of here."
As they walked towards the village, Hermione assured Pansy that her best friend felt exactly the same about the pureblood heiress — having heard all about the best thing to ever happen to Harry when they last met up for lunch.
The witches bonded over breakfast tea and scones at Madam Puddifoot's, peacock feather quills at Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, the latest designer fashions at Gladrags Wizardwear, and lunch at the Three Broomsticks. Over afternoon drinks, Pansy revealed the secret of Draco Malfoy's whereabouts and Hermione hatched her plan.
"I honestly have no idea why he left, Hermione," Pansy had admitted as she sipped her wine. "It was the day after his trial ended; he arrived at my apartment with an envelope. He didn't say much but, as I was making coffee, he picked up a photo I had of both of us at the Yule Ball. Don't get me wrong; the only reason I had the picture framed is because I thought I looked good in it. There's a crowd in the background and Draco isn't even looking at the bloody camera! Anyway, when I handed him his coffee, he asked if he could have a copy of the photo so I made one for him there and then.
"I told him about my new job and how my community service was going. He didn't say much but, when he got up to leave, he hugged me and told me to take care. I was stunned, Hermione! Draco Malfoy does not do public displays of affection — even to a fellow Slytherin."
Hermione refreshed their glasses as Pansy continued.
"He asked me to open the envelope after he'd left, which I did. It had an address and a short note saying he hoped we'd meet again but, for now, he hadn't the heart to live amongst his kind. The address was just two words and would change on the parchment if he moved or—"
Pansy took a deep breath. As a witch, and a Slytherin, it was unheard of to reveal another's secret but she chalked this down to exceptional circumstances and Harry fucking Potter.
"Castleford, Westmeath."
"Do you know of it?" Hermione asked, her heart thumping.
"I've never heard of it," Pansy replied. "I did look it up; it's in the midlands about fifty miles from Dublin heading west. That's all I know."
"Thank you. I don't—"
"You may not know how to repay me now, Hermione Granger. But, don't you worry, I'll think of something."
"Táimid ag druidim An Muileann gCearr." The announcement alerted Hermione to her surroundings. We are approaching Mullingar.
She watched the passengers rise from their seats and retrieve their bags and luggage — her weekend bag was shrunk into the top pocket of her denim jacket so all she had to put away were her headphones. Disembarking from the train, Hermione followed those who'd also stepped onto the platform towards the station, stopping a member of staff to ask where she'd get the bus to take her to Castleford.
"There's one every half hour," Mick — according to his badge — replied as he directed her to the location of the bus stop. "You can wait in the station; it looks like rain."
Hermione thanked him and sat down by the nearest window. She spent the time there biting her lip and concentrating on the people who came and went from the station, making up names and occupations for each of them. Her favourite was Margaret, the coffee shop owner, who was having an affair with Tuesday morning Book Club's chairperson's eldest son — despite him being in college studying for the priesthood.
After ten minutes, she saw a small bus approach the station.
"Miss!" Mick called over. "That's your bus."
Hermione stood and thanked him before making her way out of the station, walking quickly across the carpark as Mick the Meteorologist was correct in his weather predictions.
A few minutes later, sitting just behind the bus driver so he could let her know when her stop was approaching, she was being jostled along the narrow Irish roads and heading towards her destiny. At least, that's what she hoped.
Castleford was basically rectangular in shape, with two roads stretching out from each of the four corners. The centre of the village had a large green with a playground and benches scattered around the rather ugly water feature. A large plaque commemorated some long-forgotten siege of somewhere and bunting was flying from every available pole and tree. Dozens of people were on the green watering large flower pots and erecting gazebos as the holiday fever began to fill the air with laughter and camaraderie.
Hermione stepped away from the bus that had stopped in front of the only hotel in the village. She felt sick with nerves; he was nearby. Draco Malfoy was within walking distance.
It was almost too much to bear.
Plucking up her Gryffindor courage — most of which she'd left behind at Hogwarts — she walked into the hotel and straight up to the reception desk. Tapping the bell at the counter a few times, she waited for someone to arrive.
"Hello," a friendly voice piped up behind her. "Sorry, it's a bit mad here at the moment. They're all getting ready for the parade. Are you checking in?"
Hermione turned to find a plump middle-aged lady coming towards her with a towel wrapped around her head.
"Em… I am. Hermione Granger."
"Ah, yes. I wasn't too sure what time to expect you," the Molly Weasley lookalike continued. "Pardon the towel, by the way. We're all having our hair dyed for tomorrow — raising money for the local hospital. Now… where are we?"
As she checked the register for Hermione's name, the young witch bent down and pretended to tie the lace of her Converse. She took her bag from her jacket pocket and enlarged it to its regular size before standing back up.
"Ah, there you are. Room seventeen."
Molly's long lost twin handed Hermione a key with a scarlet tassel hanging from it and pointed towards the stairs.
"Straight up, turn right, and walk all the way to the end. I'm Marian, by the way. Come down when you've settled in, first drink's on the house."
"Thank you, I will." Hermione smiled warmly before climbing the stairs.
Having unpacked her small bag, she sat heavily on the edge of the large bed and wiped a stray tear away from her cheek.
"Where are you?" She whispered to the empty room.
But there was no answer to that. Not yet, anyway. All she knew was Draco was here, in Castleford.
There was the nagging fear that he had someone in his life; that he could be happily in love with a Muggle called Patricia who was a professional Irish dancer, bred pomeranians, and preferred to be called Pat.
If that was the case, then she'd just pack up and return to Hogwarts where she'd live out her years in quiet solitude with her seven cats and a collection of doilies.
A few minutes later, Hermione found herself amongst a large group of laughing women who — like Marian — were having their hair dyed in various shades of green for the next day. Her hostess kindly introduced her to them as she poured a pint of Guinness for the hotel's newest patron — whether Hermione wanted one or not.
So, as she sipped the creamy pint and prayed to Merlin she'd get used to the acquired taste, Hermione met Marie (Mah-ree), Marie (Mar-ee), Mary, Maureen, Maura, and Margaret (who liked to be called Peggy). Okaaaay!
"Now, Hermione," Marie (Mar-ee) asked, having assumed the role of chief interrogator as she towel-dried her grass coloured locks. "What brings you to Castleford? The only attraction here is the fishing and you don't look the type."
"Well…" She began, licking the head of the pint from her top lip. Hmm...not bad. "I'm here to visit a friend… from school."
"With that accent you certainly didn't go to St. Mary's," Marie (Mah-ree) piped up.
"No, I'm definitely English," Hermione laughed. "My friend is also English and went to school in Scotland with me. He—"
A chorus of oohs and aahs followed that comment, much to Hermione's embarrassment. She hid behind the next mouthful of Guinness and felt her cheeks burn.
Marian, whose hair was now a shocking shade of lime, thought for a moment. "I'm guessing you're in your late teens, hmm?"
"I'm actually twenty two," Hermione replied.
"Nearly right." The landlady passed off her estimation of Hermione's age as close enough. "And you went to school in Scotland… the friend — the male friend — you're looking for also went to school in Scotland… with you… but lives here now. Hmm… doesn't have hair the colour of mashed potatoes, does he?"
One really isn't supposed to drink Guinness through one's nose but Hermione Granger certainly gave it a go.
"Wh-what?"
"Of course!" Peggy exclaimed, nodding at Marie (Mar-ee) and Marie (Mah-ree). "Sure who else would it be?"
"You think?" Maureen raised an eyebrow. "Jesus, if I was twenty years younger!"
"And the rest!" Maura elbowed her friend. "Didn't he go out with your Katie for a while, Mary?"
Hermione's stomach plummeted to her Converse.
"No," Mary whispered conspiratorially. "They're just friends. Katie introduced him around when he arrived first — about a year ago, I think. She fancied the arse off him but he wasn't interested."
"Is he… you know…" Marie (Mar-ee) nodded her head frantically in that typically Irish way of expressing oneself.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I hope not." Marian blessed herself. "What a feckin' waste that'd be! God himself didn't make Danny O'Malley only for him to be wasted like that."
Hermione was temporarily forgotten as the menopausal Grindylow-like women, with their various shades of green hair, sighed like lovesick schoolgirls over this Danny O'Malley who may, or may not, be gay. And had hair like a potato.
A phone ringing brought them back to their senses and Mary apologised profusely for the noise as she rifled through her handbag for the vibrating culprit. In her haste to answer her smartphone, she managed to turn the device off so the next few minutes were spent in hormonal contemplation as Margaret — aka Peggy — talked her through the process of how to slide her finger across the screen and not stab at it. It was then Mary remembered she had a picture of Danny O'Malley somewhere in her phone from her daughter's twenty-first a few weeks before. Once Margaret — aka Peggy — had found and opened the file, and everyone had looked at the numerous snaps of the birthday girl posing with half of Westmeath, Mary pointed out the picture in question.
There he was.
Danny O'Malley.
Draco Orion Malfoy.
Hermione swallowed and, in keeping with the festivities, began to turn a rather unhealthy shade of green.
A second pint was put in front of her and, before she could protest that she hadn't eaten and didn't want to get drunk, Marian's eyebrow arched in a rather Slytherin manner — the one that meant don't fuck with me and do what you're told.
Pansy had that one down to a tee.
"There's eatin' and drinkin' in that," she informed the lightweight. "And you're not going anywhere until we hear more about your friend."
Hermione grimaced. "I guess I'm having another pint so."
Prompted and cajoled by Marian, Marie (Mah-ree), Marie (Mar-ee), Mary, Maureen, Maura, and Margaret — aka Peggy — Hermione explained about her formative years in the remote boarding school and the rivalry between her dormitory and his one. She was very careful with her explanations and used the long gulps of Guinness to form the words in her head before speaking. It was quite easy at first; until the fourth — or was it fifth? — pint. By then, she was pouring her heart out and it was only by the grace of Merlin that the seven shades of green were equally as drunk — including the landlady — and didn't notice her slip-ups.
"So this Pansy one? She kept his whereabouts secret all this time?" Mary tried to keep up.
"Yep."
"And only told you because she's in love with your best friend?" Peggy added, looking for confirmation.
"Yep."
"Well, thank God for small mercies," Marian piped up. "Now, here's the thing. A girl doesn't just turn up in this place looking for a boy she went to school with for nothing..."
"Nope." Hermione interjected, picking up where Marian was purposely leaving off.
"So he means something to you, I take it."
"Yep." Hermione slid her empty pint glass across the bar. "He means—"
She didn't get to finish that sentence. The door opened and Mary's husband Mick — not the one from the train station — walked in, alongside her son Michael. Right behind them came the love of Hermione's life; he whose hair looked like mashed potato.
Marian's slight cough and less frantic nod over Hermione's shoulder should have alerted the very drunk Gryffindor that something was up, but it didn't. All she heard was the chorus of hellos from the equally drunk ladies and the amused greetings from Mick and Michael. She was in the process of trying to turn on her bar stool, whilst balancing her — which number was it? — pint, when Peggy spoke up.
"Not working tonight, Danny?"
"No, Peggy. It's my night off. And the pints in here are worth the walk across the Square."
Pfft. It's a rectangle, not a square.
The blood that had pooled around Hermione's Converse earlier was now joined by the rest of her life-giving liquid. She inelegantly spun on her stool and wobbled in front of the three men. Mick was about to say hello when she stumbled forward and poked a finger right into Draco Malfoy's chest.
"He missed one," she slurred.
Draco was speechless. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Hermione Granger in front of him. Here. Where no one was supposed to find him. Although a tiny part of him had always hoped...
"P-pardon?"
The audience around them was captivated.
"I said…" Hermione began again, stabbing even harder. "Legend has it St. Patrick got rid of all the snakes from Ireland. He bloody missed you!"
Draco didn't get a chance to reply; he barely had time to catch her as she passed out in front of him.