Ventured

A playground sparks painful memories in Hermione that lead to an unexpected encounter. Written for the prompt "playground".

The sunlight glittered on the chains of the swings in picturesque perfection, and I was blindsided by a memory of my father pushing me higher and higher while my mother watched and laughed.

It hurt. It hurt so bloody much I couldn't breathe.

I honed the image of their flat in Australia in my mind, cradling it, stoking its edges to that fine point where apparition is possible. I would find a way this time to kindle their memories. It didn't matter what they said they wanted — this wasn't them. My parents needed my help. They needed me to wake them up from the spell of protection I'd woven. It had been seven years, after all. Seven years of magical sleep was right and proper — all those fairy tales couldn't be wrong.

And I needed to do something right now or I would literally explode. The need surged through me, roiling and writhing and wild as a storm. With the telltale crack of apparition, I set my will in motion.

And then blinked hard.

How I ended up at The Three Broomsticks instead of Australia is anyone's guess. It must have been my blasted emotions, running roughshod over my intentions. I guess my subconscious decided that what I desperately needed so bloody much was a drink.

With a snort, I elbowed the door open and plunked myself down on a rickety stool. "Firewhisky. Double, neat."

"Bit early for that, don't you think?" The posh vowels dripped with bitter amusement.

I sighed. I would know that voice anywhere. I didn't even bother raising my eyes from the bar's edge. "Sod off, Malfoy."

"You should at least skip into oblivion properly at this hour. Or don't you know any better?"

Oblivion tugged something broken and hard inside me. Tears stung my eyes before I could stop them. "No," I breathed, ragged, "no, I clearly don't know better."

Malfoy paused for an endless moment, and then said, "One red currant rum for the lady." His presence was shockingly warm and solid on the barstool next to me. He leaned on his elbows, hovering over his own drink, not looking at me. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"With you? Why?"

I heard his shrug more than saw it. "Why not?"

I choked out a laugh. "They say war makes strange bedfellows."

His soft laughter slid over mine. "Getting ahead of yourself there, Granger. Let's just start with a drink."