The Choice
By: Discord
A/N: Hermione returns to Hogwarts for her N.E.W.T.S, fleeing one boy who's lost his mind, becoming more confusing than Ron Weasley ever was, only to be cornered by another who's entirely forgotten he's supposed to hate her. As the oh-so-inspired title implies, this isn't a triad-fic. Hermione has to choose.
Climb aboard the angst train and get ready for Pining-Harry, Damaged-Draco and Clueless-Hermione. Reviews keep my attention focused and make me write faster, so be sure to leave one on your way out!
Chapter I – Hogwarts
Hermione stared at the open textbook, blinking as the page of advanced runes blurred into undecipherable gibberish before her. It was far too late – or early – to be studying, even for her, and the once-hero of the Wizarding World sighed, leaning back in her chair.
She sat in a corner of her former haven at Hogwarts, remodeled and repaired until its bursting bookshelves, cathedral ceilings, and multi-tiered, labyrinthine sections were unrecognizable. Only Madam Pince remained unchanged, cross and thin-lipped as ever, doling as much disdain for the library's fresh paint and still tingling cleaning charms as the girl belatedly preparing for her overdue N.E.W.T.S did.
The alternative was certainly worse – broken columns, ruined tomes, rubble and dust – reminding any who dared forget that Death Eaters had infiltrated the sacred grounds and laid waste to the castle just a few short months ago. Still, the absence of the library's impressive cobwebs and ancient windowpanes made Hermione's heart ache.
The young witch had helped with the school's reconstruction, rebuilding classrooms, house dormitories and even the painful astronomy tower, while Harry and Ron had undergone abridged Auror training. Hermione had been offered a place with them by the current Minister of Magic, but no part of her ever wanted to relive the fear and cold of hunting dark wizards. The plan was to round up the last of the stray Death Eaters – notably Augustus Rookwood and Walden Macnair – and even Neville Longbottom was keen to join the quickly-assembled brigade. When Shacklebolt had urged her to reconsider her refusal from across his impressive new desk, all she had seen were his wide eyes and whipping wand the night he had escorted her to the Burrow aboard a thestral. Not even Ron's constant cajoling could convince her, and the boys she had grown up with – now young men – had left her to mourn the loss of her beloved school alone.
Ron and Kingsley hadn't known Hermione's other reason for wanting to escape the Ministry and return to Hogwarts. As a public figure – the brains of the fabled Golden Trio – of course she wanted to sit for her N.E.W.T.S and encourage the more reluctant families to send their students back to Britain. The war was over. Life could return – needed to return – to normal.
But supporting the school and finishing her education were only excuses, ones easily brought out to satisfy the curious hordes of Daily Prophet readers.
Harry Potter alone knew the truth.
And he hadn't even been able to hug her goodbye.
Hermione rubbed her eyes and stifled a yawn. She should probably go to bed – she'd been trying to tackle the same page for over an hour. Madam Pince had left ages ago, knowing the small cohort of returning students were now adults and not subject to any House curfews.
Thumbing the book's corner, Hermione thought about giving herself fifteen more minutes before packing it in, just as footfalls broached the library's quiet.
She tensed and straightened in her seat, instantly awake. One of the strangest contrasts this fall semester had nothing to do with the school's altered architecture.
"Granger," a deep voice called, familiar in its pitch and accent but foreign in its absence of cruelty.
"Malfoy," she returned evenly without looking back.
He approached, circling around the table and taking a seat across from her without asking.
Not like it belonged to another. It was two in the morning.
"Advanced Runes?" A blonde eyebrow rose. "Don't tell me you're still working on your essay."
"Of course not," she kept her eyes trained downward. "I'm just getting in a bit of extra studying."
His exhale was almost a scoff. "Like the fourteen daylit hours aren't enough?"
Draco Malfoy knew exactly how much she read to prepare for her classes. The eight students who had been specially-admitted to complete their interrupted seventh year – Dean Thomas the only other Gryffindor – were housed in separate quarters with a small, central common room just before the staff hall. Malfoy was the only member of their unique group to have actually attended his seventh year – the two Ravenclaws, three Hufflepuffs, and Dean and Hermione hadn't been able to even set foot on school grounds due to their muggle connections.
She had assumed Malfoy was here by some court order, but he had touted the same line about completing exams she gave to everyone who asked. And he was studying. Extensively.
Hermione had started the year sprawled out in their common area doing homework, enjoying the ample light from its large window while telling herself working there counted as being 'social'. After an initial day of quiet industriousness, Malfoy had settled down on the couch next her, brushed aside some of her unfurled parchment, and began reading from Advanced Potion-Making without so much as a nod of greeting.
Hermione had taken a full minute to recover, mouth agape.
"You know," she finally managed, staring over as if someone had just cast Anteoculatia and he'd sprouted antlers. "The second edition of that has—."
"Yes, I'm aware of Borage's omissions and Snape's posthumous publication, Granger," Malfoy didn't glance up from his page. "They wouldn't sell it to me."
The words took a moment to matriculate, decidedly void of slurs and only slightly scorn-tinged. "Why not?" Hermione asked, confused. "Sectumsempra wasn't included in the final copy."
He frowned. "You think the spell Potter blindsided me with would be why?" The frown deepened as understanding dawned. "Ah. Right. I suppose it's unwise to give former Death Eaters access to new curses. That it?"
She felt heat bloom in her cheeks. "Oh, don't play the wounded bird," she had no reason to be embarrassed. His late defection didn't make him some misunderstood victim. "It's a reasonable assumption."
"Well, you're wrong," Malfoy snapped, lifting his gaze enough to glare. "Every purchase I made in Diagon Alley for the school year had to be preapproved by the Ministry."
His tone had sunk to its usual pout, and Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes.
"The nerve," she said wryly. "Sounds like all that reinstated power's gone straight to their heads."
This was the part where Malfoy would remember who she was – who they were – and reprise his role of Simpering-Spiteful-Knob. She waited, knowing he would snarl something horrid, rise stiffly, and stalk away, maybe flinging a hex over his shoulder as he went.
Instead, he simply returned to his textbook, sinking deeper into the couch cushions and leaving Hermione feeling like she'd been needlessly antagonistic.
Which was bollocks. Malfoy deserved every jab.
His uncharacteristic placidity hadn't abated as September aged around them, and now, feeling his unnerving stare from across the library table, Hermione heaved a gusty sigh and met his eye.
"What's wrong with you?" She asked.
He arched his brow again.
"You know what I'm talking about," she pressed, gesturing back and forth across the book-laden expanse. "Why're you here?"
"At Hogwarts?"
"Here. In the library. At my table."
A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Ask what you really want to, Granger," he said. "Go on. I won't tell."
Hermione scowled.
Malfoy waited her out, idly examining his impeccable nailbeds.
"Fine," she muttered. "Why are you pretending to be stable and not full of brain-addling prejudice?" She peered as if his face would give the answer. "Surely you know my influence doesn't extend to the Wizengamot. Being civil to Dean, Justin or the others isn't going to change any sentence lengths for you or your family."
"Easy," his smirk faltered. "You're the one judging unfairly now."
"Oh?" She crossed her arms, letting wide robe sleeves fall to her elbows. "Then care to correct me? What are you doing?"
Malfoy leaned forward in an undignified rush, propping an arm up and craning into the distance separating them. "Isn't it obvious, Granger?"
She blinked.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm trying to be your fucking friend, you insufferable swot," he muttered, pulling his hand away.