A/N: So, the storyline for this little fic came from Diarycrux on Tumblr. I'm not sure if she actually expected anyone to write out her random 2:00AM idea, but I got it stuck in my head, and just had to get it out. It was unique, interesting, and I got inspired.

Also, thanks to alwaysxsaidsnape for reading over this for me, making sure I didn't do anything stupid, and helping with some of the plot points and dramatic devices.

She is the best Parabatai ever.

The quiet of the cathedral on the evenings when there is no service never ceases to amaze me.

Golden-glowing lights hang from the ceiling at even intervals, shedding small halos of illumination onto the pews beneath them; the setting sun bursts through the stained-glass windows, casting would-be shadows of brilliant colors everywhere they touch; even the walls themselves seem to burn from within, their luminosity almost too much for the eyes.

It is impossible to view this room in all its brilliance without being cowed into respectful silence. Even I am hard pressed to carry any semblance of attitude into the sanctuary.

Hands tucked into the sleeves of my robe, I make my way down the center aisle. My footsteps interrupt the stillness of the evening, but only slightly. In fact, it is almost as if the soft clip of my shoes on the polished tile adds an extra element to the church, offering up a tiny spark of life, evidence that someone is here to witness the beauty of this place.

Of course, there are always one or two members of the congregation who visit on these nights. An older woman kneels at the foot of the altar, forehead resting against clasped hands, flaming red hair falling like curtains to either side, shielding her, creating a private room for her grief. Her son has been diagnosed with cancer, and she is here often, praying for understanding, healing, a miracle, or perhaps all three. I have lit a candle for both her and her son every night since she received the news. As I pass her, I rest a hand gently on her shoulder, her frame shaking with silent sobs.

"Thank you, Brother Malfoy," she whispers, and I squeeze her shoulder a bit tighter in acknowledgment, but I do not require her gratitude. I do the things I do because I know they are right, they are what I have been raised to do, and they are what I have always done.

Sitting on the front pew of the left side is another 'regular.' Frank Longbottom has lost his wife to Alzheimer's, no longer remembering her husband, her son, or even herself most days. I know that Frank, too, finds solace in the church. He is the only one who comes every single night, and I can tell which nights he has visited his wife – the soft crinkle of a candy wrapper in the pocket of his slacks can be heard when he rises to his feet, and the lines on his face are tinted with more sorrow than normal. He nods tiredly at me as I move to the table laden with candles, and I return the small gesture as I pull the lighter from my pocket.

I do not often disturb the peaceful silence of the cathedral, but I am overcome as I light the same two candles I light every night for Mrs. Weasley and her son, and then move my wrist to the right, lighting another two – for my father and mother. The soft tenor of my voice, quiet and reserved, forms in my throat as I hum a simple hymn. I always pray for my mother and father. They thought the life of a priest would be hard for me, and I must admit to myself that it has not been the easiest path, but what is right is hardly ever easy.

The flames flicker just the slightest bit as I move away from the table, the bottom hem of my robe falling just above the ground. Continuing the hymn, I move back down the aisle, pausing to straighten a few hymnals as I go. The Latin, as it so often does, escapes me, and it is wordlessly that I make my way to the back, exiting to the east side of the Church.

Truthfully, it has taken several years to become accustomed to this life: the piety, the celibacy, the routines, and the seemingly never-ending prayers, but it is – above all else – a peaceful life, and I feel I have found myself here, answered some great calling. There are times, of course, when I doubt that I am worthy of this path, when the pressure of my father to remain true to the Church and my beliefs nearly suffocates me, but in those times, all I need do is throw myself further into my studies and everything rights itself once more. I had thought it would be a lonely life; I was barely even five-years-old when I knew this was the direction my life would take, and that I was allowed no other, not that I particularly minded. The Nott's, a family whose heritage has been tied to the Church as long as my own, had a son my age, Theodore, and he was promised to the Church, as well. I don't know if our parents thought having similar fates would forge a friendship between us, but that is not exactly how it happened.

Theodore and I get along well enough most days, but there are times when I cannot stand to even look at him, and such sinful thoughts only bring me guilt later when I am giving my confessional.

Father Lupin doesn't understand, but he is much older than we are, and I don't expect him to. We may all be wedded to the Church, but generation gaps still exist, and there is a silent competition between Theodore and I that the adults do not understand. Theodore isn't even aware of it, I'm fairly certain, but he is just so bloody perfect in everything he does. Never late for morning prayers, never stumbling over the Latin phrases, never having to do penance for anything. I do not fail often, but every time I do it feels like a travesty. If my father were to hear about my mistakes, I do not think even God could save me.

There I go again – my thoughts impure and riddled with doubts.

A sigh passes over my lips as I look over my shoulder at the sanctuary before stepping out of the door to head to the gardens. The Church is right in the middle of the city, so it is not a large plot, but the rose bushes smell so much sweeter at night, and I cannot sleep unless I have visited them. My steps falter as I see another form already seated on the bench I so often claim as my own.

Theodore.

Apparently, I won't be granted my solitude tonight.

"Honestly, Theodore, I know you're in love with me, but do you have to stalk me to my favorite –" The snarky comment withers and dies on my lips, tasting as bitter as they should. I know better than to taunt the other Brothers of the Cloth, let alone make accusations of perceived affection where none exist. It doesn't matter, though, because it is not Theodore who is here to chastise me for my wayward tongue (though if I had a pound for every time he berated me for using the Lord's name in vain, I'd be far wealthier than I already am…or my family is, rather); sitting on what I have come to think of as my bench is a young girl. I can tell immediately by her attire that she belongs to the school across the way. Her uniform is crisp, ironed to perfection, and the burgundy shades of her skirt are vivid in the light of the setting sun.

"Well, that is certainly not a way I've ever heard a priest talk before."

Her tone is flavored liberally with amusement, and I find myself powerless to stop the sharp wit that so often finds me on my knees in contrition before God.

"Seems to me you've been spending your time with the wrong priests, then. All the good ones are equal parts wit and faith."

Oh, surely I am going to go to hell for this.

She laughs. It is, quite possibly, the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.

"Maybe you're right, Father…?"

"Oh, I am not a Father. Not yet." I take a step closer to her, inclining my head towards her in a nod. "Brother Malfoy, and you are?"

She stands up off the bench, slim fingers brushing at the material of her skirt. Unruly, chestnut hair frames her face in curls that seem to have a mind of their own. It isn't until she moves closer, a hand outstretched before her, that I am taken aback. Her eyes are so bright, so expressive.

"I'm Hermione Granger."

I take her hand, the warmth of her skin a stark contrast to the coolness of the night. Her grip is firm, confident, as if she fears nothing and no one in the world.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Granger. What brings you to the gardens this evening?"

She turns from me, and I think she is about to simply walk away, but she only takes a few steps towards the nearest rose bush. For a long moment, the only motion is the gentle wave of stray hairs pushed by the wind, and the bottom hem of her skirt fluttering in time with the breeze. My own robe billows about my feet, a few strands of my hair brushing along my forehead; but then she moves.

I can't help but think of how innocent she looks, here in the garden, hands outstretched to pluck a single rose from amidst the thorny branches. This must have been how Eve looked, plucking the apple from the Tree of Knowledge. So beautiful, so enticing.

So forbidden.

Bushy waves tumble over her shoulder as she tilts her head, and I cannot stop from moving closer, wanting to see her face, to see the intelligence flaring brightly in the deep brown of her irises - intelligence and a curiosity that burns as bright as the flames of the candles I've just lit. Her lips quirk up on one side as she studies the rose, fingers lightly grazing the petals, releasing more of their intoxicating fragrance into the air between us; and I have the most peculiar sensation that I have just opened a door into a world that is far different from the sheltered life I have known within the confines of the clergy.

"Tell me, Brother Malfoy," she says, voice soft yet clear, the rose spinning now between her fingers – a dizzying array of red, "do you believe in God?"