Chapter 1: The Beginning
There is a fine line between beginnings and endings. Hermione knows this because no matter how hard she tries, she cannot pinpoint the exact moment when everything had changed. It is like floating through the chasm between the realm of sleep and dreams, mocking and intangible.
She is frustrated.
She is frustrated because Hermione Granger's world is built upon the brick and mortar of dust-covered facts and well-educated hypotheses, leaving no room for not-knowing in the folds of her temporal lobes.
So, when does everything change?
Is it when a mother makes the ultimate sacrifice for her own child? Or when doubtful whispers fade to shame with the certain return of Lord Voldemort? When his decrepit, decaying body falls at the feet of the Chosen One?
Perhaps it is when the adrenaline of battle abandons them to the burden of their thoughts and comfort of other survivors as they bury those who had not been so lucky. Just barely adults and they have all become gravediggers in one way or another.
She sees this in the students she pass by. The evidence of war and its horrors etched into the lines of their faces, only to be softened by the slow remedy of time. Even then, she cannot dismiss the nagging suspicion that the theft of their innocence has left too big of a hole to ever fully heal. She thinks that —
"Hermione." Ginny's gentle urging frees her from the trance of her thoughts. Hermione blinks once. Twice. And it is then that she realizes Ginny had been calling her name for a while now. She is holding the sliding door open to the empty compartment on their left, eyeing her expectantly with unveiled concern. "You okay?"
She responds without hesitation.
"I'm fine," Hermione assures through an automated smile. She gingerly sits down on the worn velvet cushions across from the pretty redhead as the doors shut with a resounding squeak. "Just thinking."
She knows that her grin is too big and her voice too bright, but Ginny doesn't say anything because she understands.
It does not escape her attention that Ginny's body stiffens as if hit with a Full Body-bind — eyes locked straightforward and glazed over — when they overhear the conspiratorial sniggering of some fourth years watching their prank unfold down the aisle. Yes. She understands all too well.
She thinks this is why Ginny chooses to laugh and tease her instead when she says, "Save the thinking for Hogwarts, 'Mione, or you'll have none left in that brilliant brain of yours for your N.E.W.T.s."
She is relieved with the course of their conversation and relaxes her false smile into a genuine one. It seems that neither of them are in the mood for a complete breakdown today, and Hermione is perfectly okay with that. This, she can handle. She has to.
"I'm not the one who has Head Girl duties on top of running the Quidditch team."
"Ugh, I know! But you can bet I'm not gonna let that stop me from wiping the pitch with Slytherin butt. The other houses don't stand a chance!"
Ginny pauses, and Hermione can see the trademark Weasley Gleam of Mischief in her sparkling blue eyes. She is glad that even death and war cannot destroy it. Subdue, maybe. But never destroy. Years and summers spent in the company of the Weasley's have taught her to try and prepare herself for anything and everything, so she does. Try to, at least. The girl continues.
"We do get our own private dorms, though. So no one can interrupt Harry and I when he comes to visit, if you know what I mean." Ginny's perfectly groomed eyebrows wiggle up and down with a fervor that makes Hermione laugh uncontrollably.
"EEEWW! Ginny!" She screws her face up in disgust at the insinuation and frantically covers her eyes in an unsuccessful attempt at erasing the mental pictures that invade her mind. "I know you two are together and all, but Harry's like a brother to me, so I would appreciate it if you kept the explicit details to yourself! Thank you very much."
"Oh, come on! You can't really tell me that you wouldn't have used your perks to full advantage with Ron if you were Head Girl last year," she goads, crossing her freckled arms as if that proves how right she was.
"No! I would never!" Hermione adamantly protests. But the giggles that she fail to contain within her pursed lips weaken her case. As their tittering subsides, Hermione sighs with a tired, months-old acceptance. "Besides, Ronald and I have decided that it would be best for us to just remain friends. You know how it is, Ginny. I'll always love him, but last year changed us too much." It had changed her too much.
She looks down and away, and this time the sigh came from the youngest Weasley.
"So I shouldn't get my hopes up in having you as my sister-in-law, then?" Ginny appears disappointed by the lack of change in the ex-couple's decision, a major improvement in reaction compared to when she had first found out. Hermione thinks that Ginny might have been more affected by the breakup than she had herself and smiles affectionately at the thought of how badly she must want Hermione to officially be part of the family.
"Aw, Gin. You know that you'll always be like the younger sister I never had no matter what, right?" She reaches out between them to grasp the girl's hand in reassurance. At her warm words, Ginny's face lightens up considerably before assuming a jokingly begrudged look.
Another loud exhale. Although, it is of practiced theatrics, Hermione notices.
"I guess," she melodramatically huffs.
And Ginny's petulant concession is so unbelievably childish that it makes her heart hurt. This is how they were supposed to be: juvenile and without a single care in the world, except for grades, of course.
But it is hard to ignore the consequences of war when they chase you in your dreams and haunt you with familiar sights, smells, and sounds. When a hooded innocent is a Death Eater, and the shrill shrieks of a prank victim two doors down is another one of your friends dropping dead or being Crucio-ed in the mud. The filthy, bloody mud. Her grin dwindles into another small but practiced smile, and she shakes her head clear of the dark memories.
Hermione eases back down into her seat and watches the Platform 9 ¾ sign grow smaller as the train begins to leave the busy noise of King's Cross station. Both girls are quiet for the remainder of the ride.
"Fucking hell, Goyle. If you don't stop pacing and sit your fat arse down, I swear to Salazar, I'll chop your legs off." The vehemence in which Draco growls his threat after three hours of simmering in silence startles the two boys.
Draco had been prepared for a negative reaction to his appearance this morning, but it is challenging to ignore one's rage when strangers are spitting and cursing at you from every which way. And worse when it is someone you know, which consists of half of the students on the train they are now riding.
It had taken six heavily bribed Azkaban guards to escort them to their private seats without anyone being hexed. Even then, it seems that the guards had been more than willing to turn a blind eye to the vengeful audience. Draco nurses a gash on his bottom lip from a lady who had managed to get a good slap in before being dragged away. The sounds of her screaming bloody murder still rings in his ears, making him wince.
He definitely has it the worst, he decides. Goyle and Theo are merely guilty by association to their fathers, so their verdicts are only to ease the people's minds about letting children of Death Eaters live freely. But the Malfoy's have a debt to pay to the wizarding world for their involvement in the war. He would think that the constant Daily Prophet coverage of the their trials over the past five months would warm the public up to their sentences: a repeat of seventh year at Hogwarts and enrollment in the new and improved Muggle Studies course as probation. Not to mention the hefty reparations from his family's vaults.
The stinging of the cut as he presses his lips into a thin, white line are proof that he is wrong. Draco Malfoy does not like being wrong.
The tension and general unease in their compartment is enough to suffocate a medium-sized Hufflepuff, but Draco didn't flinch. Or move. Or speak, until now.
Goyle pays him no heed and continues his tread across the narrow walkway. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and —
Theo chuckles at Goyle, who is currently sprawled out, face-down on the grimy carpet, taking to muttering obscenities at Draco after multiple fruitless attempts at getting back up.
Draco simply rolls his eyes at his companion's pathetic efforts to counteract his Jelly-Legs Jinx. How Goyle has survived this long without being able to cast such elementary spells, he does not know. Nor care, if he is being completely honest. The two have not been on good terms since Crabbe's death during the battle; although, the demise of Goyle Sr. probably hadn't helped.
He supposes that they were never really his friends, just lackeys that he had used to do his bidding and inflate his ego. Still, the three had known each other from way back when they were all pissing in their nappies while their fathers were plotting the Dark Lord's resurrection. So, forgive him if it had been difficult to remain unaffected by the sudden loss of his childhood mates/henchmen.
This is not the reason why Draco is undoing the curse, he tells himself. But rather, that Goyle's incessant flailing is encouraging the dull migraine he feels coming on.
"Consider that a warning, Goyle." He drawls irritatedly, pinching the space in between his closed eyes.
Goyle is on his feet now, and if looks could kill, his still wouldn't be as lethal as the poison in Draco's stare. It's a gift, really, the ability of which Malfoys can send grown men crying with a single glance.
The apeish boy seems to consider the pros and cons of challenging him even further and decides against it, indignantly plopping himself down into the seat farthest from him with an ugly snarl, which is ridiculous considering how compact the compartment was.
As the pressure in the cabin wanes, Theo speaks up for the first time since they had boarded the train.
"Well, that was fun." Theo remarks with an shameless amused smile. "But you do know that that's exactly the kind of thing that'll get you kicked out and into Azkaban, right?"
Draco scoffs.
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
Of course, he knows that. How dare Theo even suggest that he'd be thick enough to not understand the risks of being tossed into jail? Especially after the terms and conditions had been drilled into the three of them by McGonagall's sharp Scottish dialect, the only one in danger of not grasping the concept of 'don't screw up' would be Goyle.
"Draco, mate." He pauses when Draco looks up from studying his meticulously clasped hands, giving Theo his best mask of indifference, but persists when the menacing blonde doesn't rip off his bollocks for using his first name. He'd like to think that they've reached that part in their relationship given that they're stuck in the same rickety boat of second chances, trying not to drown in the sea of their past mistakes and beliefs.
Ha. Nice metaphor, Theo thinks. He should've become a poet. That would've really messed with his Dick Eater of a father's head.
It is when Draco's blasé expression breaks with an imperceptible twitch of his lips that Theo realizes he had just said everything aloud. Well, people have always said that he had no filter between his brain and mouth. He has no qualms about it lest it gets him into trouble. Merlin forbid he turn into a bloody, masochistic Gryffindor. He shakes his head.
"The point is, you can't pull shit like that while you're on probation, Draco. None of us can." Theo gives Goyle a pointed look at this and returns to Draco, who is still holding an even and emotionless gaze. "Just a couple of months of good behavior and we're free." Free from the sins of their fathers, he should say.
"Why, Theo, I didn't know you cared." Draco's voice is dripping with scorn but Theo only shrugs. The git.
"I'd just rather get through this together than alone. Wouldn't you?" Theo asks this like a man who already knows the answer.
Draco feels uncomfortable in the wake of the junior Nott's honesty. It unnerves him. Slytherins rarely admit these kinds of things to other people, especially if said other people are Slytherins.
He agrees with Theo, though he doesn't vocalize it. His pride won't allow it, not after all it's been through these past few months. He will do everything it takes to survive this because he can't afford not to. This is why Draco Malfoy decides to steal some fresh air to clear his heavy thoughts. And this is why, before he exits the claustrophobic compartment, he stops. With his back still facing his two housemates, he smirks and speaks in a tone that is quintessentially Malfoy.
"Don't be such a fucking pansy, Nott."
He leaves a confused Goyle and an apparently satisfied Theo for the loo, but not before hearing him shout, "I'm not the one who was fucking her, Malfoy!"
Multiple heads at the Gryffindor table look up at her curiously when she drops her fork and knife in alarm. Despite the luxurious Great Feast that lay in front of her, Hermione had been absentmindedly chewing on what little food was on her plate, thoughts occupied by Harry and Ron's wellbeings at Auror training, when an enthusiastic Hufflepuff had tapped her shoulder.
The clang causes the small girl to jump slightly, but she continues with an eagerness that Hermione can feel even before she turns around.
And she almost chokes on her peas when she does.
Long golden curls are pulled back, revealing a face she remembers from late nights trying to tune out obnoxious gossip and the sound of scandalized giggling. But the eyes. Oh dear Merlin, the eyes. She could still see the death in those sapphire-blue irises. They are gazing expectantly at her now, pleading.
Help me, they had said. So she did.
But she is too late. Too late toolate toolatetoolatetoolate because the next day, they collect their dead, and skimming the list that is posted outside of the hall they are presently eating merrily in, she reads:
"Lavender."
Hermione does not know why the obnoxiously pretty blonde becomes nervous until Ginny softly touches her arm.
"'Mione." She rips her eyes from Lavender to give Ginny a questioning look, but all she sees is a pity that makes her feel weak inside.
This confuses and angers her until she returns her attention to her former dormmate, and she understands.
Even through the haze of fresh tears that she had not been aware of forming, she sees it now. The hair is too brassy and the eyes not vibrant enough. It takes her a couple of long seconds to recognize that this is some random underclassman and not Lavender.
"I'm so sorry." Hermione immediately apologizes, feeling guilty for frightening the poor girl. "You just… reminded me of someone I used to know. May I help you?"
Not-Lavender still seems anxious and unsure of what to do when Hermione notices the parchment and quill wedged between her tiny fidgeting hands.
"Did you want my autograph?" She can see the dimples that form when the girl grins unbearably wide and nods so fast it makes her curls dance. Lavender doesn't have dimples. Didn't.
Hermione usually despises her newfound and, if you ask her, misplaced fame that comes with being a 'war heroine' and Harry Potter's best friend. However, she decides to make an exception for scaring the child.
When she pivots back, she is grateful that most of her housemates had the decency to at least disguise their interest in what had just transpired. Obviously, the fiery Weasley does not fit into this category. Hermione tries to focus on twirling the pasta on her plate to avoid catching her friend's knowing gaze.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Ginny cautiously prompts.
"No." No. She really did not want to talk about it. Because talking means thinking and thinking means remembering and the last thing she wants to do is remember.
"Hermione," Ginny sounds tired now. "You can't keep all of this in. It's — "
"No!" She says this a bit too loudly as a few students from other tables glance their way. The sympathy she sees on Ginny's face makes her blood boil.
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
"She just… surprised me is all." She hopes this is enough to placate her and it is because she drops it, albeit reluctantly.
"Alright." A nod. "Okay."
The breath that Hermione had been subconsciously holding slowly releases, and her body sinks further down into the newly-waxed benches. She picks up a delectable-looking treacle tart
— her favorite — but does not taste it as she tries to concentrate on anything but the war. Tries to not look at the spots on the floor of the Great Hall where she had seen the dying suffocate on life. Not on the rows upon rows of students in fear of seeing another ghost that's not really a ghost. So, she keeps her head down and her eyes closed and fights the urge to reach for her wand when she hears someone slam their goblet of pumpkin juice down across from her.
This is why Hermione Granger does not notice the pair of cold and observant, slate-grey eyes staring at the back of her head from the end of the Slytherin table.
He couldn't believe it. She's lost it. That fucking, know-it-all-Granger swot has actually gone and lost it. He had looked up at the clattering and saw it in her big doe eyes when she turned around to face the starstruck little bint.
She's broken.
Okay, so maybe she isn't completely nutters. Afterall, she hadn't clawed her eyes out or hexed any first years or done anything else he'd seen war survivors in St. Mungo's do. But she is definitely chipped somewhere in that big bushy head of hers. One would think that he would rejoice over Mud — Muggle-born Granger losing her precious mind, but watching it happen in front of him had only left him with a bad taste in his mouth.
Draco pops in a second and a third humbug to try to wash away the acrid tang, savoring the burn of the crisp, spicy peppermint.
"Preparing for a good snog tonight, Draco?" Theo inquires around his spoonful of butterscotch ice cream.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" One of his pale, arched eyebrows lifts, complementing his perfected sneer.
"Well, I know that no one is willing to even sit near us, much less snog. You would think that we were diseased mountain trolls with the way they're all avoiding us." The gangly boy looks slightly vexed at the large, vacant bench-space that separated the three of them from the rest of the Slytherin house.
"We're worse." Draco spits dully. "I'm an ex-Death Eater, and you two are Death Eater spawn. What did you expect, Nott? A bloody welcoming committee?"
"Didn't stop 'em last year."
No. It didn't. When Hogwarts had been ruled by the Dark Lord and his followers, the Slytherins and several students from other houses had nearly toppled over each other trying to kiss up to him, despite his falling ranks in the inner circle.
Not that he hadn't already been immensely popular with the opposite-sex, but girls — and the occasional bloke — were throwing themselves at him left and right that year. The desperation in their attempts to get in his good graces or, well, pants, had disgusted him. Although, now that they're social pariahs, perhaps he had been too quick to reject that blowjob from Valerie What's-Her-Face.
A magically-amplified cough interrupts Draco's line of deliciously lecherous thoughts. He raises his cool glare to the aged Headmistress standing at the gilded podium as the boisterous noise in the Hall falls to a hush.
"I trust you have all enjoyed yourselves thoroughly during this evening's festivities. The staff—"
A roaring belch reverberates along the ancient stone walls from somewhere along the Ravenclaw table, causing everyone to burst out in laughter. The first-year offender flushes ruby red, and Draco suspects the boy might have wet himself under McGonagall's terrifying glower.
"As I was saying," He is amazed by how quickly the crowd grows still in trepidation of the stern witch's wrath. "The staff and I wish each of you a successful start of term. Now, before your house prefects begin leading you to your dormitories, I would like to address the change in this year's attendance to resolve any incertitudes.
"For those do not know, there are a handful of eighth year students who have returned to Hogwarts to complete their magical education, and others who are here on official Ministry affairs."
Draco could feel the weight of a thousand pairs of eyes turn to scrutinize the Unholy Trio. He sees Theo's head dip down a fraction of an inch and Goyle's even lower at his left, but he refuses to submit to their condemnation. So, he forces his blank expression to face the one person who deserves to crucify him the most. Because if he's going to take shit from anyone, they're going to have to at least be able to back it up with evidence. And she has six years worth of it.
So he believes he is justified when he thinks, what the ACTUAL FUCK?
Damn Gryffindor bitch isn't looking at him. She isn't even turned around for Salazar's sake! He bores holes into her cracked skull with his icy stare, fuming under his seemingly chilly demeanor as the Headmistress continues.
"Listen carefully because this will be said once, and once only. Under no circumstance will any behavior breaking school rules be tolerated. Those who do exhibit such will be met with grave consequences, up to and not excluding expulsion."
The lengthy silence is like a vacuum.
"That is all. Eighth years, please come to the front as I have a few matters to discuss with you. Everyone else, get a good night's rest to prepare for classes tomorrow. You are dismissed." With that, the well-fed students gradually shuffled out of the Great Hall, leaving those who had been dumb enough to return and those who had no choice, behind.
"You should go to bed, Ginny," Hermione advises when the ginger lingers as she gets up to see what McGonagall has to say.
"No, it's okay. I'll wait for you." She yawns halfway through her reply, and Hermione gives her the 'I-told-you-so' look that she's so famous for. This doesn't faze Ginny until the second yawn follows.
"Okay! Okay, fine! But you're telling me everything at breakfast tomorrow, alright?"
"Promise. Now, go! Before McGonagall scolds me for taking so long," she playfully chides.
Ginny retreats, and when Hermione begins making her way up to the small group forming around her former Transfigurations Professor, she is shocked and slightly dismayed by the lack of students returning to finish their schooling. There are only four of them, not including her: Justin Finch-Fletchley, Michael Corner, Susan Bones, and Terry Boot. She is mulling over the loneliness she feels without her two best friends at her sides when she finally notices him.
She had known about the Wizengamot's decision. Had even attended some of his trials as a witness to his coerced actions. It had been a common topic of debate among the Golden Trio this past summer, but all of the hours spent talking about him could not have prepared her for actually seeing him again.
He looks… good, she decides. Not as sickly as she had observed during sixth year and their short encounter at the Manor.
When she recalls his gaunt and shadowed face, it is from the impossibly polished mahogany floor of the grandiose parlor. He is the last thing she sees before she squeezes her eyes shut to escape the maniacal, bloodthirsty witch looming above.
Her left arm twitches.
Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't.
So instead, she concentrates on how different he looks.
He had always been unnaturally fair, but his skin, once ashen and sallow, is now a relatively healthy shade of porcelain. Even under the bulky school robes, she can detect the slight muscle he had regained from the times it diminished with the diet of stress and death threats. The pearly blonde hair she had grown to detest over the years is no longer lackluster from neglect, but lay neatly combed back with a precision she could only dream of having with her own unruly mane.
Hermione does not notice that she is staring until he is staring right back at her.
She is startled and feels more than a little embarrassed about being caught gawking at him, but holds her ground. What kind of Gryffindor would she be if she let herself get intimidated by a silly staring contest?
She uses this as an excuse to study him further, her innate curiosity getting the better of her.
His dark circles are not nearly as prominent as she remembers, but the light purple crescents still blemish his otherwise spotless complexion. The eyes that are currently unabashedly glued to her are stormy and pensive with thoughts she cannot read. But it is the lack of their usual malice and the intensity of which he is searching her face that makes her walk a bit faster to the impatient woman.
He had to applaud her for not backing down when he had returned her cinnamon gaze. It had appeased his aggravation towards her initial disregard, but his satisfaction was short-lived as he saw that same troubled expression cloud her petite features.
It was… disturbing to see Little Miss Perfect not be so perfect anymore. Draco didn't like that she had been knocked down a peg when it wasn't him who was doing the pushing and shoving. He may have to be on his best behavior this year, but that doesn't mean he can't have some fun. Hell, it might even help the bookworm get her shit together.
If Gryffindor's Golden Girl can go back to being the bossy bitch everyone knew and loved — not including him, of course — then maybe, just maybe he can pretend that they aren't all living in the aftermath of a war he had so ignorantly believed in.
She forfeits whatever game they had been playing and doesn't catch the smirk that is slowly spreading across Malfoy's face until he joins her in the sparse circle of eighth years.
a/n. Trying to make this as realistic and canon as possible without being epilogue compliant (thank Merlin!). So if you're into that, let me know what you think!
Reviews and constructive criticisms are extremely EXTREMELY appreciated!