Invitations
The narrow, rickety staircase swivelled toward the Head's Common Room. There was nothing extraordinary about that. However, the ensnared First Year anxiously yelping as he was swept across the air was more uncommon by this time in the academic year. Hermione watched, forced to wait for the steps to come to a juddering halt before she could help him. Wide-eyed, the boy's cheeks reddened in mortification as he was approached by the Head Girl. His foot was lodged firmly in the vanishing step. Hermione raised an eyebrow, not unkindly, and offered her arm to him. Not quite understanding, he gripped her wrist.
"Carpe Retractum," she said clearly, pointing her wand toward the boy's ankle.
Perhaps he would take note of the spell, she rather suspected this might not be first or last time he would end up in this position. His clasp sweaty on her forearm, he looked down at his foot, now free, before returning to Hermione. Apparently realising he was still holding on to her, he stepped back, almost toppling down the stairs.
"Do you have History of Magic right now?"
He nodded nervously, his hand now clutching the bannister to avoid falling down. Hermione smiled. The boy was a Hufflepuff, though she couldn't help but recognise a touch of Neville about him. The early years, of course. She recalled them fondly. Simpler times. She pointed him in the right direction, only realising when he hesitated that not only was he quite likely to get lost again but also wary of receiving a detention for his lateness. Determined to deliver him safely, and to deprive Filch of an unnecessary extra pair of hands, Hermione opted to walk with him to the classroom.
Classroom 4F was peculiarly loud. Suspiciously so, for what even she knew to be a slightly dull class. Not that she would admit it aloud, of course. Standing in the doorway, she paused, the rather chubby boy tucked behind her as if afraid of what had puzzled her. From her position, she could see Professor Binns' head curled over on his desk atop a dusty yellowed book. So deeply asleep was the Professor that a spectral dribble extended from his mouth to the table top, where it failed to leave a puddle or mark. Oh dear. The students fell into an urgent hush as they noted the Head Girl at the door. Stepping into the room, the First Year made his way to his seat, and sat down. His footsteps were the only thing that could be heard in the chamber. The blackboard behind her was empty. Apparently, the lesson had not even begun. Every eye in the room on her, she stepped forward and asked what they were currently studying. No keen answer was forthcoming. No textbooks on the tables either. The boy, Thomas Emeric, as she had found out, rose his hand to speak. Apparently, his escort had done some good to his confidence.
"Miss, we've finished the Gargoyle Strike of 1911. We don't know what happens afterwards."
Afterwards? Brain beginning to whirr, she recalled only going backwards after the wildcat strike. Yes, she knew they meant next in the curriculum, but she couldn't recall going beyond 1911 in the five years of class they'd had. Yes, the Goblin Rebellions were perhaps never more important than today, but so were the foundations of what had only come to an end last year. She nervously glanced toward the door. There was no one there, and Professor Binns hadn't stirred. She knew she should wake him, or fetch a different professor, but really what harm would it do? It was one class. It was educational. Very much so.
"Just Hermione is fine. That's a good question. Perhaps, as a one off, of course, we could map out the events that bring us from the Gargoyle Strike to the present day?"
The class was bewitched, even the Slytherins, as she charmed the chalk and began. The tale was spun with ease, vivid in its intricacy. The failure to improve working conditions and subsequent limitations on unionising occurred on a backdrop of worsening economic conditions worldwide. The historically typical emergence of extremist beliefs, such as those of the Acolytes, surprised the world. The division of Wizarding society, and the fall of Grindelwald. The lacking response to repair the very socioeconomic issues that resulted in the rise of the Global Wizarding World, in Britain and beyond, leading to the subsequent radicalisation of Tom Riddle and the recruitment of Death Eater sleeper cells across Europe entrenched in the very same principles of Social Darwinism. The cult of violence in open war, and the repeated failure to address the root causes, before the return of Voldemort. The students were absolute in their focus, for perhaps the first time in living memory. A timid hand rose again. Thomas. Perhaps he wasn't as shy as she'd pegged him for.
"So, Miss, how have the causes been addressed now? To stop it happening again?"
Silence. Evidently his classmates were as intrigued by the sudden boldness of the boy as he himself was, if the Gryffindor red of his cheeks and neck was anything to go by. It was a good question, a valid question, and one that couldn't be answered with any affirmative response. Damn. They were only eleven. It wouldn't do to frighten them.
"It's been less than six months. We haven't made much use of those months so far. What would your ideas be?" As her head shifted to take in all of the students, she saw a familiar redhead at the entrance to the classroom, "Pair up, and write a parchment on what you think has to change to address the causes we discussed."
Arthur Weasley stepped into the classroom, barely registering the snoring Professor Binns at the desk. He looked over the class, who were keenly settling down into their task, discussions focused with a sprinkle of awe. The young witch had a certain flair for commanding an audience, one Arthur hadn't quite expected her to hold.
"Well, you certainly kept them out of trouble. I meant to ask; would you mind helping me out in Muggle Studies on Saturday? Are you feeling well enough now? I'd like to show them Muggle technology so a second pair of hands would be great."
Hermione faltered. Not only was that class sprung upon her by McGonagall, but Zabini was there. It was a classroom though. Malfoy would be there. What? Since when did Malfoy's presence serve to make her safer? Well, he had so far. But it wasn't to be relied on. He needed to get out of her head. As if sensing her concern, Arthur spoke up once again.
"I'll be there, of course, and you might find it interesting to see how far they've come. An extra pair of eyes, that's all."
That was true. Seeing if any progress had indeed been made would be valuable, but the presence of Arthur Weasley didn't quell her fears. Out of excuses, however, she acquiesced. He ushered her out of the classroom once he had her agreement, and she realised that the parchments were unlikely to ever see the light of day again. Damn it. All she could hope was that she had made them think on it, perhaps a little more than they would think under Professor Binns' tutelage.
It had been a long afternoon, and Hermione was grateful to finally return to her rooms. She heard the familiar rush of water from the tap, and a soft waft of clary sage reached her nostrils. Harry was running a bath. Stress bathing was never a good sign. Quietly entering the bedroom, so as not to spook him, she noted an unfurled piece of parchment resting atop the chest of drawers. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the one and only, in need of a new Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement next year. She practically snorted aloud; no appointment would lend the absolute credibility to the administration like Harry. Credibility they urgently needed. How perfect, for the Ministry. Perhaps not so much for Harry.
It was true that he had always expressed a desire to become an Auror, when Voldemort was at large. His life was absolutely dictated by dark wizards, almost as though he may as well receive a salary for the constant fight to survive. That wasn't the situation now. Harry had survived, he didn't need the support of trained aurors in the field. The field was gone. He had a chance to thrive now. Away from that. Oh, Harry. Hermione brushed her fingertip softly over his name, fighting was all he had ever really known. She heard the water flow shut off, and a splash as he settled into the tub. Shrugging off her robe and walking over, she lightly tapped on the door, smiling softly as he asked her to come in.
She could immediately see the afternoon bathing was much needed. His strong brow was wrinkled, darkened eyes hooded as if he wished the light would go away. His jet-black hair was chaotic from running his hands through it, controlled only by the drenching he'd received as he submerged himself. Now sitting, lounged against the soft curve of the bath, water droplets scuttled down his neck: slow, hot and clear. All the way down his broad shoulders, hard and tensed. His chest too, resolute despite the heavy breaths he took. She waved her wand to shut out the light. The warm glow of the candles took hold. Harry visibly relaxed in the softened light. Instead of conjuring a chair, she knelt next to the bath, so she was at his height.
She reached out to guide his head to face her, fingers light on his hard jawline. He turned, placing his wet hand over hers. Their fingers intertwined as he shifted their hands to his chest, holding her against his heart. No one broke the silence, it was enough, in that moment. Together. Wand pointed toward him with her right hand, their eyes met as she spoke.
"Legilimens."
For a moment, she thought she had been unsuccessful, or unwanted. As if he had shielded against her. All she saw was herself, kneeling. A version of herself she didn't quite recognise: her eyes sparkling in the glow of the candles, her lips smooth and full, her slim fingers decisive on his. For a second, she wavered, ready to withdraw and try again. No. She was seeing herself. His mind, on her. Herself in his eyes. Overwhelmed, she pushed slightly further. Reading the scroll from Kingsley, the harsh pang of defeat in his chest. Inevitability and wretched acceptance. She pushed against it, urging it away and easing toward reinforcing a vague Scottish boy: "… two beaters, one snitch, one seeker." Yes. Relax Harry. Good. Then another weight of exhausted expectation, Ron asking where the Horcruxes are. Looking to Harry for an impossible answer. Determined, she pushed it back too, reaching out toward something unexpected. A birthday cake, large and sticky chocolate, green and pink icing. Unexpected joy. Then it was her again, beautiful to him, her hand still against his chest. Slow beats now, calm, at peace.
She withdrew gently, and saw his eyes had closed. Tired. She was too. Better though. Much better. His shoulders relaxed and he lent forward to press his damp forehead against hers. By the time either moved, the water droplets landing on Hermione's arm were cool and Harry's black hair was dry again. She reached to get him a towel, averting her eyes as he stood and wrapped it around himself, tying the Peshtemal firmly around his waist. Double checking the knot, then stepping out of the bath. As she turned, he wrapped his arms around her waist and held her firmly against him. Looking at themselves in the mirror, she felt his lips pressed against her temple as the candle flickered out.
She had looked… nice in his eyes, she pondered, as Harry bid her farewell at the library doors with a promise to retrieve her later after Quidditch. She pushed through, into the now-dimmed reading room. She felt almost appealing as she made her way toward her favoured table. Confident enough to barely falter when she encountered a lean frame with platinum hair sat in her seat. Again. Again, the chair opposite him scraped on the flagstone ground, more quietly this time. She took the hint, and settled in opposite Malfoy. She was beautiful, to one person at least. Interesting. Pushing aside the thoughts as best she could, she retrieved the Ministry papers from her bag and began.
Looking up, Malfoy drank in the resolute focus she managed. The same documents as last time, then. What held her attention so? She was confident, as she took each section and annotated them, making notes on a separate scroll. She had done this for years, of course, he had seen it. In classes. From across the Hall. Up close, it was hypnotic, the easy rhythm she fell into. Well-practised, he supposed. As she worked, her neck twisted slightly and her soft curls nudged forward with each turn of the page. He was so close he could tuck the tendril back behind her ear. No. He restrained himself. After five pages, she did it herself. Nimble fingers, gentle and graceful. He had to stop this. He forced himself back to the floating words in the essay he was reviewing. Something about Dittany. Yes. Dittany.
"Granger. What are you doing?"
She looked up, startled by his voice, low as it was in the dark alcove they sat within. Malfoy wanted to know what she was doing. She couldn't tell the truth, of course, but what to say? Reviewing Ministry policies. Yes, that would do. Vague, honest, reasonably interesting. Her response met with his satisfaction, apparently, as his lips curled into a shadow of the familiar smirk she'd grown used to over the years. He was clearly working on Slughorn's essay, if the books around him were anything to go by. Straining her eyes, she took in some of the words on the parchment. He surprised her. Again. By raising an eyebrow and twisting the paper around so she could read it more easily. His handwriting was sharply narrow in both spacing and loops, elongated pointed ascenders and meticulously cursive. She read along, nodding in approval at his points. Malfoy felt surprisingly comfortable with her reviewing his work.
"It's… it's good. Very good. I saw the green vapour puffs from the shredded dittany last lesson. Bottling it for children is an intriguing application. Wizards are far less adept at handling gaseous matter for some reason."
She surprised him. Intriguing. He wasn't the intriguing one, that was for sure. Inhaling vapours would be far easier for a child than dittany-based potions, more exact than the application of the leaf, less stinging than the essence droplets within the wound. He knew first-hand how difficult it had been for his mother to heal him as a young boy. He trembled slightly, remembering how he had vomited up potions as his mother sought to heal the gashes his father's whip had left on his thighs. He met her eyes, typical Gryffindor, brimming with concern at his faraway look. Typical her. Merlin, she was lovely when she was worried. Stop. Stop it. He reached out to take his essay back, brushing his hand on hers accidentally. Accidentally, yes. Maybe. Well, the touch was an accident. Truly. The slight lingering was… less so.
Hermione felt the glancing of his hand on her fingertips. It made her feel. Feel like a woman. She fought the urging blush that was no doubt gracing her cheeks. She wanted to look at him. Desperately. Did she dare? To look and absorb the confused dislike in his eyes? His hand was warm, dry and supple, slender. Different to the hands that had held hers hours before. They were there a second more than needed to take back his essay. Two seconds perhaps. Or was it all in her head? Their eyes finally met, and there was none of the rejection that she had anticipated. The very opposite: his glittering pale eyes were almost open, like a new book aching to be read. She looked away, back toward her papers, muddled and slightly uneasy. Her rhythm, lost. A heavy footfall saved her.
"Malfoy." Harry nodded toward the now elegantly reclined blonde man, "'Mione, are you ready? I can wait if you want."
For a millisecond, she rather did want that. No. Terrible idea. Hermione gathered her papers, diligently setting them neatly within her satchel. Daring to shoot Malfoy a half smile as she left, he surprised her one last time. He returned it, not with his lips, not in front of Harry, but with those maddeningly open eyes. Harry took her arm in his, and they strolled up toward their rooms. His hair was windswept, and his body free of the tension that had plagued him. Quidditch. It had always freed him. Always. In his other hand, was a wrapped cake. Rich, dense and with a luxuriating bitterness. Chocolate. Dark Chocolate. Professor Lupin's favourite.
Smiling fondly, she nudged her head against his chest and settled into a comfortable walking pace. Open, glittering, intriguing eyes. Stop it. Harry was telling her about Winky, in the Kitchens. She'd been baking something, something she would recognise. Curiosity piqued, they chatted about the Hogwarts' elves, numbers sadly depleted since the days of the Carrows. Eyes that made her feel something. Stop. Stop. Making their way into the common room, she saw Neville sat there, in the armchair. Taking a seat on the sofa, Harry began cutting the cake. She smiled as she realised where he had gotten the idea: the icing, the same as the memory of Hagrid's unexpected arrival. She grinned, and took the slice of cake Harry offered. Neville and Harry had both readily tucked into their own slices.
The same way Harry's hands had. Stop it. Stop it Hermione. Stop. She pushed the fork into it, gliding through the layers. Now dirtied with dense crumb, silky buttercream and the saccharine pink icing, she tasted it. Really tasted it. Resting it on her tongue, taking in the opulent flavours, before allowing herself to swallow. She hadn't had cake for a long time. She couldn't remember. When she finally looked up, eyelids quivering with pleasure, she noticed even more momentous joy on the faces of Harry and Neville. Joy that was apparently directed at her. Strange. Joy that didn't dissipate as she finished the cake, the type of happiness they had almost forgotten. Joy that she felt comfortable remembering, for the first time in a while.