Disclaimer: I don't claim to own these characters. All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., and Pushkin.
A/N: This fic is inspired by Alexander Pushkin's masterpiece, the novel-in-verse Eugene Onegin. It's my favourite piece of fiction ever, and I urge you all to read it, but not right away if you don't want spoilers. This fic will be about 6 chapters. The next chapter will be up soon. There'll probably be a 3-4 week gap after that - I'll try my best to stick to this timetable.
I hope you all enjoy this first chapter. It would be great to hear from you in the reviews. This really is a labour of love for me, even though it's quite small scale, so I hope it comes across.
Correspondence
Chapter One – The End
One more day.
She drags the next tome towards her, the late morning sunlight winking off the dust motes in the air. She holds her hands to the sides of her face in an attempt to focus only on the text, blinkering herself against all other stimuli.
The peculiarities and purposes underlying the legal designation of non-human magical beings recommend themselves to-
There's probably a more recent book on this subject here, she thinks suddenly. She half-rises from her seat before she stops herself. She's like a fidgety child today, unable to set her mind to any one thing in particular. She tries again to focus on the words in front of her.
The peculiarities and purposes underlying the legal designation of non-human magical beings recommend themselves to further examination within the context of early modern-
She finished her final Hogwarts examinations less than a week ago and will be boarding the Hogwarts Express tomorrow morning for the very last time. Her mind whirls with a mixture of anticipation and dread. Anxiety has been building within her for days, stoked by the knowledge that her remaining minutes and hours in this wondrous castle are dwindling.
She reasons that there is more than enough time today to do almost all of the things she wants to do, like spend time with Ginny, Luna and Neville, visit Hagrid, and wring the last few precious drops of knowledge from the library's formidable collection. Her thoughts inexorably turn to the one thing she ought to do, but certainly doesn't want to do. Or is it that she wants to, but ought not to?
After a night tossing and turning in the now too small bed, at dawn she sought refuge in the library.
The peculiarities and purposes underlying the legal designation of non-human magical beings recommend themselves to further examination within the context of early modern Wizarding property law as set forth in the treatise on House Elves by pre-eminent seventeenth century scholar Cepheus-
She slams the book shut and bolts out of her seat. She swiftly returns the books to their proper places and exits the library, deciding that it's not too early to head down to lunch. Yes, the noisy, boisterous activity of the Great Hall would be welcome.
She breezes into lunch a few minutes later, her dress and hair streaming slightly in her wake. She makes a beeline for the Gryffindor table, diving into its raucous activity with rare gusto and carrying on several conversations at once as she helps herself to sandwiches and salad.
Despite this deliberate plate-spinning, her thoughts and eyes still find time to wander. She jerks her attention back to her friends with increasing force, even initiating a parlour game that quickly spirals out of control.
Ginny Weasley's freckled face is screwed up in serious thought, glossy pink lips pursed. She takes a sip of pumpkin juice and nods.
"You'd rather have sex with a Flobberworm than a Blast-ended Skrewt?" asks someone in disbelief.
"Yes, I've decided I would. Don't ask me to show my working unless you all want to lose your lunch," she adds with a grin.
"Too late," Hermione says with a chuckle. Her eyes scan the hall before she manages to snap them back to Ginny.
"So are you coming down to the lake with us now?" Ginny asks. "Or are you heading back to the library?"
The light glints off something at the edge of her vision and her stomach swoops. "Though the library does call to me," she manages, trying to conceal her quickened breathing, "I've decided that I'd like to spend the afternoon lazing in the sun with you lot."
Ginny cackles in delight and throws her arms around her friend. "I have a ton of relationship quizzes from Witch Weekly saved up for just this occasion. Wait till you hear them – they're hilarious."
The group rises from the table a few minutes later and sets off for the castle grounds. As they pass the other house tables, Hermione can't help but pick out one voice from the cacophony.
The speaker's tone is detached, as always. She drinks it in. "- see the point in lingering. McGonagall has been ever so obliging, permitting me to Apparate home directly after the leaving feast tonight. She can't wait to see the back of me. She doesn't even try to hide it any more. None of them do."
The touch of a hand to her bare arm feels like a bolt of electricity. "Hermione, are you alright?" Ginny asks.
No. She wants to scream to whoever will listen. She hasn't been alright for weeks, months.
"I'm fine," she says at last. "I'm just going to miss it."
Ginny gives her arm a squeeze. "I know."
She allows herself to be steered away from the Great Hall and into the sunshine outdoors.
She dreams that she confesses everything, laying bare every excruciating detail. He watches impassively as she unravels before him, looming over her in a way he never has in reality. Suddenly, a pale hand is at her throat. His fingers flex and squeeze, she struggles to breathe but can't move, can't look away, can't bear to miss this even as he's hurting her, slowly wringing the life from her.
"Are you still listening?"
"I think she's asleep."
"I'm awake," Hermione says softly. She squints as the sliver of dazzling blue sky expands to fill her vision once again. "Must have nodded off." She sits up and turns to look at Ginny, who is lying on her front, leafing idly through a magazine. A little way off, Neville is filling out a sheaf of forms and Luna is making a daisy chain out of nettles.
"What have I missed?" she asks, sitting up and picking a few blades of grass from her hair. Goosebumps appear on her bare arms as she recalls the face from her dream.
"Nothing much, except for the Giant Squid," Ginny responds. She glances at her watch. "We're supposed to be playing the House Unity match at half-past three. Oh, here, let me."
Ginny crawls closer and takes up Hermione's weighty mane. She divides the hair into sections and begins plaiting them. "Doing hair the Muggle way is fun."
Hermione squeezes her eyes shut and tries to focus on Ginny's voice and deft fingers. She sees him behind her eyelids.
"Has he written to you at all? Even under some stupid pretence?" Ginny asks nonchalantly. She adds, "I keep asking Harry but he's next to useless, you'd think he didn't see Ron every day."
Ron. She hasn't thought of him in days. "He hasn't, and I think it's for the best," she sighs, "Until he sees that it wouldn't have worked, it's just going to keep hurting him. He'll come round eventually." Ginny's hands have stilled their work. "Has something happened?"
"Not really-"
"It's okay, you can tell me."
"Mum's under the impression that he's been seeing someone," her tone is apologetic. "You know Mum, though, it's probably wishful thinking on her end."
"Good for him," Hermione murmurs, disgusted that her guilt has lessened. She catches Ginny's eye. "I mean it. A part of me hates it, of course, but that just further proves my point. We were too possessive of each another, that's not how it should be."
Ginny nods but Hermione knows she doesn't truly understand.
"And have you thought about it? Going out with someone else, I mean?" She ties off the braid and runs one hand down it, admiring her work.
Hermione takes too long choosing her words.
"There is someone, isn't there? Who is it?" Ginny's eyes go round in surprise.
"No, no, there most definitely isn't." The other girl's grin is wider than the Cheshire cat's, and part of Hermione is desperate to divulge the truth.
"Ginny, come on, you know me. It's just thoughts, silly, stupid, insane thoughts." You have no idea how insane, she thinks. She fixes her friend with a her best serious look. "You say I think too much about everything, why would this be any different?"
Ginny seems unconvinced, but lets it slide. She tidies the magazines into a haphazard pile. "You'll probably end up meeting some silver fox at the Ministry anyway."
"A silver what?"
Ginny smirks. "Oh yes, he'll be an older gentleman, with some deep-set lines but a nice head of hair. He'll be your mentor and initiate you in the workings of the MLE and you'll be oh so grateful for everything he does for you. You'll have intellectual debates into the wee hours about stupid points of law. And then one night you'll decide that you're sick of talking and just start going at it-"
"Ginny, that's-"
"-on top of a pile of dusty scrolls!"
"That's ridic-"
"-in the Ministry archives!"
"The Ministry doesn't ha-"
"-whispering sweet nothings about House Elf liberation!"
Hermione finally breaks, as Ginny intended, collapsing into laughter.
"It's funny because it's true," says the younger girl after a minute, which just sets Hermione off again.
They part ways a while later. Hermione makes the excuse that she wants to visit Hagrid on her own, which is partly true. But the closer it gets to dinnertime, the more the familiar sickness seeps back in. She thought she had all day and most of tomorrow to make a decision. But now he's leaving early, forcing her hand. Hagrid's seems like the perfect place to hide, for a time.
She strides through the too-tall grass, picking her way towards the familiar hut. Like midges, scenarios and possibilities swarm about her, causing her fists to clench as she huffs in frustration. She looks over at the castle in the distance and realises that she was in this very spot some ten months ago, on the last day of August.
The day was hot, she remembers. The rebuilding of the castle had been completed weeks before and there was little left for Hermione to do beyond tidying classrooms for the new school year. She decided to take a break and visit Hagrid before she was overrun with homework. The heat rose in a visible haze across the grounds when she set off that afternoon. She recalls how her hair was piled on top of her head in an attempt to keep her neck and shoulders cool, and the pleasing sound of her sun dress as it swished about her legs.
When she reached the start of the slope down to Hagrid's, something made her look round. The lake glittered in the sunshine, but the scene was spoiled by a tall, hunched form in a black cloak standing on its bank. McGonagall had warned her he was coming back a day early. It was decided that his presence on the Hogwarts Express tomorrow would only invite complaints.
His pale face was turned away to the left. Hermione followed his line of sight to an Auror positioned some way off, identifiable by his robes. McGonagall had told her about this as well. A requirement of Malfoy's returning to school. It wasn't clear whom he was here to protect. She recalled the harsh faces of the sixth years who had survived the Carrows.
The Auror and his charge were locked in a staring match. She squinted, trying to see if the older wizard was someone she recognised, when his head swivelled briefly in her direction before turning back to his mark. And again. Her eyes flicked to the right, unwittingly stumbling right into Malfoy's gaze. She could tell he was looking at her because he had turned his entire body in her direction.
The Auror watched Malfoy and Malfoy watched her, but before long he turned his back on her.
She kept watching him for a few moments then. In the following days, weeks and months, she watched. At first she was waiting for him to slip up, to be the hateful boy she knew. But she quickly realised that she didn't know this person at all: the one who sat in the library every evening reading, reading, always reading; the one whom she was partnered with in Potions and who didn't utter so much as a word about it; the one who had actually made her laugh on occasion with his scathing critiques of their textbooks. When they passed each other in the corridors, he acknowledged her.
She had kept watching to see if it was all an act, long after she knew it wasn't. She kept watching right up until a few weeks ago, when she realised that she didn't want to stop.
That made her stop. It made everything stop.
In the present, Hermione feels eyes on her, but there's no one to be seen across the rolling lawns. She wheels around and nearly trips on the descent to Hagrid's. She places all her faith in a cup of tea and conversation. Afterwards she'll know what to do.
"Tha's good ter hear, that Harry an' Ron are getting' on well. Ha! Aurors. I knew they had it in them." Hagrid's eyes have been glistening since she arrived, over an hour ago. His sentimentality is a welcome respite from her own.
"They do miss it here, though. Harry especially," she offers. She squeezes the half-giant's massive arm. "I'm going to."
Hagrid sniffs. "Don't you start that now. You've got yer whole life to look forward to. I can't wait to see what you make of yourself. You know, I tol' McGonagall to tell them about how you helped me with Buckbeak's hearing – back when you were just a slip of a thing."
"In my recommendation letter? For the Ministry?"
"Yep," he said, grinning through his beard. "I remember you cartin' all those law books down here, making notes for me. You were made for the law, tha's what I told McGonagall."
"Oh, Hagrid." She blinks back a tear. "That means a lot to me. I'm still not sure if I'm going to take the Ministry job, though."
"Of course you're taking the job! Hermione Granger not work at the Ministry? Hmph! How're you going to become Minister if you don't work at the Ministry?" he asks, as though he's trapped her with his logic.
There's little point trying to explain her doubts, but she attempts it anyway. "I'm not really sure I'm ready to choose a career. With the war and my parents, I just don't feel... There's a university in America that offers advanced programmes in-"
"America? Why'd you want to go the whole way over there?" his bushy brows furrow in confusion.
Then his dark eyes fill with sympathy, "Ah, I see now," he takes a swig of tea. "I hear that the Americans don't put much store by blood and such. That they're more..."
"Egalitarian?"
"Tha's the one. Decent, in other words." He sighs. "No one knows their own mind better than you, 'Ermione, but I have to say, I'd hate ter see you run away from yer own country, yer own Ministry, because of slimy cretins like Malfoy."
A hot flush rises through her at the name. "Don't worry, Hagrid. I'm not afraid of people like Malfoy."
"'Arry wrote to me, says he hasn't said 'boo' to you all year. "
She nods. "He's...different."
Hagrid shakes his head. "He's a nasty piece o' work. I know you three feel some sort of debt to him for not giving Harry up, but that doesn't make all the bad things he's done go away. I still can't believe they let him come back ter Hogwarts."
"He was found innocent-"
"He tried to destroy it, Hermione," Hagrid rumbles. "He let Death Eaters into our home. My home. I know what you're going ter say. You're right. Dumbledore would've forgiven him, welcomed him back with open arms. Dumbledore was a great man. Harry's a great man that way too. Not me."
She pats his arm a final time and stands, brushing out her skirt.
"I'd best be off, need to finish packing before dinner," she lies.
"Always so organised," Hagrid chuckles, walking her to the door. "Well, then, I'll see you at the feast."
The sky is a moody grey when she emerges from Hagrid's. All the day's warmth has been sucked heavenwards, leaving a chill in the air. She forces herself to walk slowly in the direction of the castle. There's no point in rushing off if she hasn't made a decision yet. Or has she? She thinks for a moment.
No, she definitely hasn't.
She curses nonsensically under her breath. She's had weeks to work up to it, a hundred opportunities to say something or keep it to herself. She considers the missed chances. A note slipped into a pocket. A quiet word in the corridor. A bold declaration on the train.
What it all came down to, what would really make up her mind was knowing which was more selfish. Would it be worse to foist this unwieldy, disturbing revelation on him? Or is it worse to hide it away? It is, after all, the truth.
At times she's dumbfounded: how can he not know what's occurred? How can he be unaware of the thrilling agony he's inflicted? Does he think of her at all, even in the most banal instances? She is fairly confident that he no longer finds her insufferable, but there's no polite way to find out whether she still disgusts him on some deeper level. She doesn't know if that would help her decide. It may just push her to act out of pure spite.
She feels the rain begin to spit down, but her pace only slows further. Her legs have taken her the wrong way. Her route has been tracing the edge of the forest. She peers in through the ghostly trees but all is still. The rain increases to a drizzle and she stands under a tree for shelter. The thrumming rain lulls her and her mind drifts to places she hasn't dared to consider up to now.
She smiles. Naturally, she's researched the brain chemicals involved in this fiasco, but that only serves to make it feel more spectacular, not less. She never would have guessed it – that the most wondrous thing to happen in her final year of Hogwarts would take place entirely within her own mind and body, no trolls necessary.
When she comes back to herself, she realises that it is late. The feast is probably almost over, if it isn't already. She sets off at a run through the pouring rain, sandals squelching in the muck.
She's not quite sure what she's running towards, but she refuses to let herself off the hook that easily. Her hair and dress are soaked through before she thinks to cast a charm. She is halfway across the lawn when she sees a small figure in the distance, walking towards the school gates.
She can't tell if it's him. "Malfoy!" she calls once, but only once.
Her steps slow along with the rain. A weight lifts from her chest as the figure disappears from view.
"At least I tried," she fibs. She sighs and walks on. Relief begins to rise up through her bones. She feels her appetite stirring and wonders if the House Elves have any leftovers from dinner. She stops on the castle steps to clean her muddy feet, and almost skips into the entrance hall.
She immediately skids to a halt.
"You're still here," she gasps, not fully believing her eyes. The sickness in her stomach returns with a vengeance.
Draco Malfoy's gaze travels slowly from her rain-soaked hair and clothes to her sandalled feet, which are standing in a swiftly forming puddle.
Something tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I thought I would wait until the rain cleared before walking to the gates."
"Oh."
Hermione takes the opportunity to drink in his features for a final time, memorising the shape of his nose and the jut of his jaw.
They stand in silence for five seconds. She shivers, awareness of the cold finally reaching her overloaded brain, and throws an arm across her torso, grasping her elbow.
"So what are your plans for next year?" she ventures, certain that her heart's frenzied beats are echoing off the walls.
The rumour of a sneer appears on his face before she realises this was the wrong thing to say.
"I don't know what I'm doing yet," she blurts out. "I mean, I have an offer from the Ministry and I have to give my answer by the beginning of August, but..." She pauses.
"But what?" he prompts, raising one pale brow.
She shrugs and shakes her head, goosebumps rising on her arms as water from her hair slips down her back.
"It's silly. I'm just afraid, I suppose. Everyone's always said that I'm the smartest witch of the age, that I have a bright future ahead of me, but what if everything up to now – what if that's all there is? What if I join the Ministry and never do anything good or brilliant ever again?"
Draco shifts, causing his expensive summer cloak to ripple. "Why are you asking me?"
A dozen responses dance on the tip of her tongue.
"Because I know you will tell me the truth."
The well-worn smirk appears at last. "Coming to me for some tough love, Granger?" Her eyes flutter closed at her body's traitorous response to his words. "Do you want me to tell you that you'll be nothing more than an empty robe, making no further mark on the world?"
She nods jerkily, the fingers of her right hand gripping her left elbow, turning the rain-flushed skin white. "If that's what you think."
After an eternity, Malfoy shakes his head, looking out through the open doors. "Sorry as I am to say it, Granger, I don't think this is the last our world has heard from you."
Our world, he said.
"What of me?" he asks suddenly, eyes fixed on the four house hourglasses, emptied again until September.
She knows what he's asking. She returns the favour.
"I don't know what you might want to do with your life, what avenues are still open to you, but I am certain that your life will be meaningful, if you choose."
Words from dozens of advice columns whisper in her ear like meddling aunts.
The prose and poetry of hundreds of writers pool on her tongue like treacle.
Facts and theories from thousands of sources stream before her mind's eye, rightly drowning out the rest. Memories of her first-year textbooks sharpen in an instant:
Something cannot be created from nothing
and
Timing is everything
"The rain's stopped," Malfoy says, seconds or hours later.
Before she can prepare herself, he is striding over to her and extending his pale hand. She slips hers into his without hesitation and is shocked by its warmth. Grey eyes meet brown for no more than a breath.
"So long, Granger," he drawls.
He sets his shoulders back and strides out into the falling dusk.
The longer she stands in the draughty entrance hall, the sicker she feels. Her legs and arms are frozen in place, yet she feels she has run to the castle gates and back a thousand times. Her stomach clenches as nausea sweeps through her.
Is this what it's like? Being at war with yourself?
Is this how he felt? In sixth year? Last Easter?
She waits in vain to hear the pop of Disapparition that will release her. The signal that it's over, done, without being done.
Some time later, she bursts through the Hospital Wing doors. Her eyes naturally seek Harry's familiar shape tucked into one of the beds, but it is deserted.
"My dear, are you ill?" comes a voice from the office. Madam Pomfrey rises quickly from her seat to meet Hermione in the doorway. She casts several diagnostic spells and concludes by holding her papery, soft palm to Hermione's perspiring forehead.
Hermione shakes her head, feeling woozy. Her breathing comes in pants, and she collapses trembling into a seat by the nurse's desk. "I'm not ill, Madam Pomfrey, I'm- I'm in..."
The unspoken word throbs through her veins and she raises her dilated pupils to meet the Matron's concerned gaze.
"You're in need of a good night's sleep, young lady," says the older witch sternly. "Don't think we haven't noticed you running yourself ragged these last few weeks." She unlocks the floor-to-ceiling cupboard with a flick of her wand, drawing out a familiar blue potion bottle. She places it into Hermione's hand. "Leaving Hogwarts is hard for everyone, but I think you may find it harder than most."
"I can't, I can't, I can't," she whispers to herself, wringing her hands.
She is pacing in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room. The bottle of Dreamless Sleep potion lies unopened on the table.
"I must," she breathes. "For both of us, I must."
Summoning parchment and a quill, she throws herself to the floor and begins to write.