Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of his fellow characters, or the world that he lives in. I am willing to bet that you don't either, because if you did, why would you be reading what I had written?
Warning: This story is one of those veela fictions. It may be terrible, it may not be. I have no way of knowing just yet, but if at the end of this chapter you are hitting your head against the wall in agony because I have officially butchered every character trait so far, I am truly sorry. If you aren't doing so, do be so good as to let me know!
Oh yeah: Also, things may get a little (only a little) M-rated eventually. I'm not sure yet. But I'll give you warning if it happens, and I'll change the rating at that time.
And now I'll stop prefacing.
Her heels, clacking angrily down the stone halls, should have been enough to warn him.
Even if that hadn't worked, the muttering of the portraits around him should have been a clue. By the time she had reached the door, they were all practically shouting at him to watch out.
But still, he refused to pull out of his notes, scrawling revisions carelessly across the margins.
She didn't bother to knock, stomping in with angry clacks of her standard-length work heels. Everything was always standard-length with her.
He didn't look up, and her angry puff of air gave him a final, useless clue.
For a moment, there was silence, but then…
"Draco Lucius Malfoy, if you don't acknowledge me in the next ten seconds, I will not be held accountable for my actions."
He had been expecting shouting. Astoria usually shouted.
Today, however, her voice was cold.
He looked up. Stared at her blankly. Waiting.
She sighed, and though the anger did not leave her eyes, her voice was weary as she spoke; "It's time that we talked."
Hermione was rather put out.
Alright, she was furious; ear-steaming, cheek-reddening, seeing-spots furious.
She sat on the bench outside of her apartment building, letting the rain soak through her cardigan and drip down her ruined stockings. It was easier to make it look like you weren't crying when there was water pouring down your face. It was easier to pretend that you were simply wet from the sky's tears, not your own.
Hermione hated crying. She hated it more than the weather, more than this miserable day, more than this miserable life. Crying was like her body admitting defeat, and she was in no way admitting defeat. It was just that she couldn't control these sobs. The tears just kept flowing, and her breaths just kept gasping in.
It had been years since she had allowed herself a good cry. Now it seemed she couldn't make herself stop.
He had done it again.
After all those stupid council sessions, all that god damned time she had put into fixing them, he had thrown it away like it all meant nothing.
At least she had her apartment. He could keep the house. She didn't want the house, didn't want the garden or the stupid pergola that kept falling over. The cat was dead, the owl was his, and she didn't want any of it. He could keep all the memories too, for all she cared. Clearly, they only managed to hurt her.
She just wanted her stupid heart back, if that was all right with him. If he would just give her back that one thing, she would be fine.
The rain was turning into drizzle before she started shaking and realized that she was, in fact, cold.
But her stupid apartment key was back at the house and she wasn't going there now. Or ever.
She sat in the drizzle, wondering what exactly she was supposed to do.
Her apartment was warded so well that without the key she wasn't getting in any time soon. Harry would probably go get it for her, but he was off doing something, she didn't know what, for the ministry, and he wouldn't be back all week. Neville and Hannah were still on their honeymoon, and Luna was off in the tropics somewhere. Ginny would gladly give her a place to stay, but she would also want to talk; talking was the last thing that Hermione wanted to do.
Gringotts was closed and her purse was in the apartment. She couldn't very well buy a room for the night without any money. The ministry was shut down by now, at least the part she had access to.
Hermione was beginning to regret not taking that security-clearance promotion.
She forlornly debated going back after all, barreling past his apologies and disapparating as fast as she could.
It appeared to be her only solid option…
And then the strangest thing happened.
A raindrop, hurtling to the ground with his brothers, got caught in a gust of wind. Just one little raindrop, curling sideways, whirling in the gust that shouldn't have been.
It splattered against her neck, rolled under her collar, tickled its way down her spine.
She shifted uncomfortably, wriggling her back to dissipate the water, and as she did so, the object in the pocket of her robes bumped against her thigh.
Hermione froze, remembering exactly what was there, and beginning to think she might have a clue what to do after all.
"I don't need a time turner, Minister. I barely come to the office during normal hours."
"Trust me on this Hermione; you're going to need it for this job. I know you've had experience with them, and you know the rules."
"So what? Ellen and Michael are both just as certified as I am, if not more so. They know the restrictions, they follow them as diligently as I do."
"But the point is, Hermione, that they won't break the rules to do what it right. And you, my dear, will."
"What exactly are you saying, Kingsley?"
"You'll see soon enough."
The time turner was warm in her palm, and Hermione stared at it. Would she dare?
A week ago, she had been back at the house, having a fairly good week with Ron. They hadn't been fighting much; she'd been helping him repaint the kitchen.
The key to her apartment had been under its mat a week ago.
She could just go in, dry off. Get a good night's sleep and clear her head.
The option was so tempting, yet Hermione hesitated.
This was not a toy; this was a time turner. Risky stuff to be playing with for a good night's sleep.
Another gust of wind curled up off the pavement and splashed Hermione roughly in the face.
She took a deep breath, and turned the hourglass over.
"You're not exactly being fair about this. I've been busy," Draco ran a hand through his hair for what felt like the thousandth time.
"That is only a half-truth, and you know it. I am fully aware that you have been avoiding me, and I am also fully aware why," she sounded so resigned now, slumped in the chair, all the fight of their argument drained from her voice.
He looked at her, the girl he had known would be his since he was seventeen, and for the first time in six years, he felt a hint of doubt.
She looked up at him, her beautiful blue eyes so defeated that for a second he thought she was reflecting his own thoughts, but then she spoke and the moment shattered with her words: "I know she's been pressuring you to give me the ring. And it's not fair of her, Draco, I know it's not. However, it's been six years of this. I am not getting any younger, Draco. That might sound silly to you, but I know what I want. I thought you were waiting until I turned twenty-one, which I understood, I really did. You were right to wait, but now I'm not so sure that your reasons were as you said. Did you ever want to marry me, Draco?"
"Of course I want to marry you Astoria," he wanted his words to be emphatic, assured, just as they had been every other time she had brought this up. It would be so easy to fix this; the ring was in the wardrobe upstairs, he was planning on proposing any day now. He had made the commitment to her, he just hadn't told her yet. Somehow, though, their earlier arguments whirled through his head, and the insecurity came back.
She heard only unsureness, saw only his downcast eyes.
"I won't waste your time, then, Draco. I'm sorry we can't make this work."
"Astoria! No, listen…"
"I'll gather my things. You can come over to retrieve your own. No - I'll bring them to you at your office tomorrow. I don't want you back at my house."
He wanted to call out to her, tell her what she meant to him, tell her that he loved her.
Instead he just watched her walk out of the room, shutting the door softly behind her.
She hadn't been able to sleep, not well anyways. Even knowing that there was no way that her past self would be there, Hermione tossed restlessly in her bed, worried at being caught. Time turners really did a number on restful sleep.
By seven, she had given up.
A hot shower and several strong cups of tea later, and Hermione was feeling slightly more herself. She was also immensely regretting her decision.
Nothing to do about it now but straighten up and go back to reality. But when the bed was made and the dishes washed, Hermione had difficulty convincing herself to go back.
Why not take the afternoon off? It had been a long time coming, after all.
Her cardigan was a bit worn after last night's escapades, but she pulled it back on and snuck out, carefully locking the door and replacing the key.
It was a sunny day, dry, without a cloud in the sky, which was rather unusual for London. Hermione smiled up at the sun and stretched against it, feeling the familiar warmth on her skin.
Perhaps she should go south again; spend the winter in France. Hermione missed the sun.
She wandered up the street aimlessly, feeling surprisingly light, despite the discoveries of the previous day.
Her resolve was set now, and as she walked, Hermione found herself realizing a peculiar thing.
For two years now, she had blamed herself. They had married too young; they had not dated long enough. Ron wanted a wife who stayed at home; she wanted a career. When he had asked her to pick out the house she had decided on one that he would like; she had never told him what she wanted.
The surprising fact was that all of this was not as true as she had led herself to believe. They had only married three years ago; they had known each other long before. She had told him what she wanted, and he had told her what he wanted; neither one of them had bothered really listening. She had put her career on hold for him and he hadn't even noticed. It was not as much her fault as she had surmised.
Perhaps it was no one's fault.
And it was with this realization that her feet turned toward the ministry, deciding then and there that enough was enough.
A soft knock pulled Draco from his thoughts. He had not been able to manage work all morning, waiting anxiously for…what, exactly, he wasn't sure.
Astoria clacked smoothly into the room, her face more a mask than he had ever seen. She had been crying; he could see the tear stains on her cheeks.
Gently, the box was set on his desk. She stepped back, clearly unsure of where to put her hands. Astoria settled for wringing them together.
She was biting her lip in that way that drove him crazy, blinking at him with those enormous, timid eyes, and he wanted so much to tell her that he loved her.
His mouth stayed glued shut instead.
She sighed, a silent parting sound, and nodded briskly.
And then she turned and left.
Hermione marched up to the front desk of the Wizengamot Administration Services Marriage Offices and smiled briskly at the witch behind the counter.
"I'm here for the papers," her voice was not a shaky as she had anticipated it to be.
The witch smiled and shuffled through a desk drawer, "Vow renewal, Mrs. Weasley?"
Hermione locked her jaw resolutely, "Divorce."
The witch looked shaken, but handed over the paperwork. Hermione nodded briskly and walked determinedly onto the lifts once more.
She got out on level 3, thinking that it would be best to leave the documents in her desk for when she would need them in the soon-to-be-future. Slipping behind her receptionist's back, she pushed the papers into a folder at the back. Not, however, before signing the lot of them.
Unfortunately, lunch hour was ending in the offices. The voices of her employees began to travel down the hall from the lifts. Hermione slid back through her door and danced around a potted plant before she could be seen. She snuck through the main office with relative ease, but as she neared a lift Michael rounded the corner, nearly bashing into her. She ducked inside another lift, dodging out of sight. He walked on, kennel blind as always, and Hermione fought the sigh that threatened to escape her lips.
Being in a lift proved to be rather problematic. To her horror, a large group from the Beast Division clamored in after her, forcing her to the back. Bowing her head so as not to be recognized, Hermione waited until the lift cleared and the doors clanged shut once more.
She was descending again it seemed, and Hermione's heart raced as she neared level 3. What if the person calling the lift was Michael, realizing what he had seen?
She continued down and let out a sigh of relief.
"Level 2, Department of Magical Law Enforcement," the speakers announced cheerily, and Hermione dashed out in a panic when a familiar head entered. She had forgotten in her haste that the minister tended to make his rounds after lunch. He was preoccupied, ruffling through some papers as his chief of staff muttered rapidly in his ear.
Kingsley's guards filed in after him and soon he was surrounded. Hermione breathed a sigh and hurried down the hall in relief. If the minister found out about her use of ministry property she was sure to be in for it! Hermione groaned to herself. This was becoming nightmarish. She vowed to never again use time turners for personal gain.
How was she going to get herself out? The lifts were clearly too risky. There was a stairwell at the other end of the hall, but to reach it Hermione had to pass by the Hit Wizard's offices. Someone was always out and about there, ready to dart off on some unknown mission.
She took a deep breath, steadied her shaking hands and hurried briskly down the hall, head up and eyes confident. One turn done, then the next, and Hermione felt herself nearing freedom.
Luckily enough, the next corner brought more relief. Apparently it was still lunch hour for this half of the Hit Wizards offices. There was only one woman in the hallway, someone Hermione found vaguely familiar, but who wouldn't have bothered remembering her, even if they had spoken. The woman walked briskly past, tears visible in her eyes. She was not paying any attention to Hermione.
Thank Merlin for small favors.
Hermione hurried down the hallway, toward the stairs that promised freedom. Just as she was about to reach them, she heard a door open.
It was now or never. She barreled through the door to the stairwell, sprinting up three steps before daring a glance backwards.
The door behind her snapped shut, but not before a pair of familiar grey eyes had caught her own.
Draco growled into his hands.
He felt, as usual, like a coward.
He didn't like feeling like a coward. He had finished with that feeling.
With a sigh, he leapt to his feet, ready to race after the girl he was supposed to marry, if only she would let him ask.
In three strides, he was at the door, yanking it open, racing out into the hallway.
Her heels were clicking far off, and he turned toward the noise, ready to race for the lifts.
The screech of a door hinge caught him in confusion; this was Astoria, she wouldn't have gone for the stairs. Would she?
He whirled, ready to call out to his girl.
The eyes that stared back at him weren't Astoria's, though.
They weren't even blue.
They were brown, like the color of honey, the color of warmth.
Somewhere very deep inside of Draco, somewhere he hadn't known existed, a little piece of him snapped.
The door closed heavily and her eyes were gone, but the reaction that they had caused was far from over. He began to shake, his mind whirling as his body collapsed, his knees giving out under him. He ducked his head against the world, fighting the urge to race to the stairs, chase those honey eyes until they would look into his again.
Draco was not unaware of whose eyes those were; they were Granger's eyes, he had known it at once. Granger, with her insufferable intelligence and irritating hair. Granger, who was always right and refused to be called otherwise. Granger, with her stick-in-the-mud ways and prim little attitude. He hated Granger, despised her with every fibre of his being.
Every fibre but the one that was snapping outwards, yanking his body against itself as he fought to keep from going after her, pulling her to him, touching…
No.
It was Granger, the irritating Golden Girl.
She did not deserve these thoughts, this…desire.
He wrestled with himself, growling at the ground.
Finally, the urge passed, and he collapsed against the floor, panting.
She was gone, that was good. Granger was too far away to chase after now. He was safe; she was safe.
He shuddered at the thought of where his head had gone, what he had wanted to do. She was a mudblood!
And yet, as he pulled himself to sit against the wall, he found himself wincing in pain at the loss of her.
He ran a hand through his hair again, any remaining gel becoming useless at the motion.
What the bloody hell was this all about?
And then he saw it in his palm, the one that had just emerged from his ruined hair.
The thing he had never expected, always assumed would never appear on him.
A single, blonde something that made his heart plunge into his stomach.
A downy something that settled, weightless in his hand.
A feather.
Draco was seriously screwed.