The Fixer-Upper Club

By Charli Petidei

Summary:

Since the war, Hogwarts castle has been left in a state of disrepair, not unlike some of the students within its crumbling walls. When Hermione decides to return for an eighth year of studies, she finds herself setting out on a restorative journey that might just fix more than a few broken windows.
The one where Hermione and Draco rebuild the castle, themselves, and each other.

Winner of Overall Favourite, Best Hermione Characterisation, Best Draco Characterisation, Best Supporting Cast, and Runner-Up for Best Intimate Moment in the Dramione+ 50K Classic competition 2021.


Hi new readers! Welcome to The Fixer-Upper Club!

This story was originally posted on AO3 for the Dramione+ 50K Classic competition and now I'm cross-posting it over here! I was totally overwhelmed by the incredible response to this fic, and every bit of support means the world. I will be aiming to upload one chapter a week, but the entire fic is already available on AO3.

I have so many thank yous: to Klawdee Bennet for making the incredible art for this fic, to Leilah Moon for being an endlessly supportive friend, to the 50KC competition organisers for hosting this whole thing... And finally to all the readers that stuck with me all the way through and kept me going. You are all incredible!
I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me but are the property of J.K.R. and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story is rated M for sexual content, adult themes, and language.


Chapter 1: 'I Killed Voldemort, Hermione'

As Hermione Granger remembered it from her third year at Hogwarts, the door to the Muggle Studies classroom lay beyond a showroom full of Muggle artifacts. They had adorned the stone walls in display cases, bright and eccentric, a testament to the triumph of non-magical invention. Vacuum cleaners, cameras, TV sets, computers, telephones, and in pride of place, a gleaming black Hackney carriage.

To anyone else, anywhere else, they would be hardly worth a second thought. But to Hermione, in a place where her Muggle home felt about a million miles away, they had been priceless.

And now, as she peered into the once-familiar room, she could see nothing but smashed glass, warped metal, and scorched plastic. She blinked, a heavy feeling settling into her chest.

"Blimey, that's a mess," Ron murmured from somewhere behind her.

He wasn't wrong.

Hermione gazed dubiously into the gloom, struggling to find a trace of familiarity in the destruction. For a moment she thought she could see a corner of the Hackney cab's licence plate, but it was buried under such a layer of dust and debris that once she looked away, she proved unable to find it again.

"It was all Muggle stuff in here, wasn't it?" said Harry, apparently more to himself than anyone else. His voice was almost a whisper. "They… just destroyed it all."

Scenes of destruction weren't all that uncommon around the castle these days, but Hermione didn't think she'd seen anywhere quite as bad as this. Most of the damage done during the Battle of Hogwarts had been incidental, a side effect of the tornado of hexes unleashed within its walls. But looking at the scene before her, it was clear that whoever had caused this damage had done so coldly, methodically, and deliberately.

Her breath stuck in her throat, like a physical pill she could never begin to swallow.

As if reading her thoughts, Harry nudged her arm. "Hermione?"

"I'm fine," she said quickly. Issuing herself a stern reminder not to let anything ruin her first day back at school, Hermione straightened her shoulders and turned around to face the boys with an optimistic smile. "Well, this is it."

Ron peered doubtfully into the wreckage. "Are you sure? It looks like Grawp had a tantrum in here."

Her smile faltered. "I'm sure the Professors will get round to clearing it up eventually. It's probably not a priority compared to some of the other areas of the castle," she tried matter-of-factly, hoping she sounded more certain than she felt. With another look back into the wreckage, she spotted Headmistress McGonagall through an open door on the other side of the Artifact Room. "I'll, er, see you both at lunch?"

Harry gave her a goofy thumbs' up, and Ron stepped forward to peck a kiss onto her cheek. "See you at lunch."


Once she'd managed to cross the distressing threshold, the Muggle Studies classroom revealed itself to be in a much better state than its entranceway. It was a small relief, she thought, as she slid onto the nearest stool and upended the contents of her bag onto the desk. As quills, parchment, and ink bottles rolled every which way, she looked up to greet her teacher with an earnest, "Good morning, Professor," as if she hadn't just walked through what was essentially a warzone.

McGonagall wasn't exactly known for smiling, but her eyes were warm as they met Hermione's for the first time in several months. "Welcome back, Miss Granger," she said. "I am pleased to see that your enthusiasm for taking as many N.E.W.T. classes as physically possible has not waned. Six subjects, was it?"

"Seven," Hermione corrected automatically, then blushed. "I was going to do six, but I thought Muggle Studies would be excellent to add to my repertoire, just in case I wanted to apply for any Ministry jobs, you know. It's only one extra essay a week, and I wouldn't have to do too much research, so…"

McGonagall's lips twitched in amusement.

Hermione began setting up her desk, pulling out her quill and spare quill and placing them neatly beside a crisp sheet of parchment. She started to write the date at the top of the page and then froze suddenly, stricken. "Professor?" she asked quietly. "Who… who will be teaching Muggle studies this year?"

McGonagall met her eyes in an unspoken moment of grief. Hermione had no idea how she'd almost managed to forget about Professor Burbage, and the memory was like a knife in her gut. For what seemed like the hundredth time since the war, the threat of tears prickled under her eyelids.

It was with a slight crack to her voice that McGonagall answered. "It may be rather fortunate indeed that you have elected to take this class, Miss Granger. The allure of taking up a post as a Hogwarts Professor is not what it once was, and there are certain roles we have struggled to fill. I myself will be standing in as Professor of Muggle Studies until a suitable replacement is found, but it has been many years since I last resided within the Muggle world." She considered Hermione over the top of her spectacles. "If you do not begrudge sharing them, your experiences may be invaluable to me during this time."

Hermione nodded silently but was prevented from responding further as the other students started to arrive, a steady hubbub of chatter filling the air. It was just as well really, she thought. She had known that the war-torn wreckage of the castle and the not-yet-forgotten treatment of Muggle-borns would have affected the school's ability to return to normal, but she was shocked that the situation was dire enough to force McGonagall into taking up a new subject. There had been dubious murmurs in the Prophet after McGonagall's summer announcement that she would continue to teach Transfiguration during her tenure as Headmistress, and now for her to add Muggle Studies to her list of responsibilities? Incredible as she was, Hermione couldn't help but wonder how the woman was going to cope.

She was interrupted from her thoughts when someone she hadn't expected to see in this classroom in a million years strolled past her and headed for a desk in the corner. It was so unbelievable to see Draco Malfoy walking into a Muggle Studies lesson that for a second she was sure she had been mistaken, but as he settled himself against the stone wall on the opposite side of the room with a familiar scowl on his face, she had no choice to admit that it was definitely him.

What was he doing here?

Even just looking at him was enough to fuel a spark of anger in Hermione's chest. No matter how often she reminded herself that he wasn't worth the energy, that he was nothing more than a cowardly school bully who never managed to stand up for himself long enough to avoid becoming a pawn in Voldemort's game of homicidal chess, she couldn't help herself. For sure, she (and the rest of wizarding Britain) knew that he had had his misgivings and regrets – his trial in front of the entire Wizengamot in August had ensured that – but some feelings just didn't go away, no matter how much time had passed. Hermione's forearm twinged acidly where the word 'Mudblood' remained etched into her skin.

She'd heard, of course, that Malfoy was one of the many other students in her year who had chosen to come back to Hogwarts after the war. She had grudgingly accepted that she would have to put up with him in Potions, but she had never expected to see him here, not in her safe place, pulling a copy of 'Gladougal's Guide to Mighty Muggles' out of his bag and neatly inking the day's date at the top of a fresh roll of parchment. It simply wasn't believable.

She clearly wasn't the only one who thought so, as there was an obvious surge in the classroom chatter at his entrance. He must have been aware of the sideways glances he was getting, but he steadfastly ignored them all, determinedly setting his quill down and folding his arms on the desk, staring straight ahead, his chin set. A new feeling settled in Hermione's belly, one she had never thought she would associate with Draco Malfoy.

It felt kind of like respect.


"McGonagall's teaching Muggle Studies," Hermione told Harry and Ron over lunch. "I don't know how she's going to manage, what with that, and Transfiguration, and Headmistress duties, and all the castle repairs still going on…"

"Maybe she's nicked another time-turner," Ron joked.

Harry grinned. "I think a lot of the Professors are doubling up this year. Slughorn tried to convince me to join his Alchemy class. Oh yeah, and I heard Flitwick's on Ancient Runes."

"Mm," said Hermione, chewing her lip. "Things are definitely going to be strange this year." And then, after a pause - "Malfoy's taking Muggle Studies."

Ron inhaled some of his pumpkin juice and Harry dove underneath the table to avoid being drenched in the ensuing coughing fit. "He's what?" asked Harry in disbelief, upon re-emergence.

"I said, he's taking Muggle Studies," Hermione repeated, as Ron apologised profusely to a young Ravenclaw who had taken the brunt of the pumpkin spray. "He didn't say a word, just turned up, listened, and left as soon as it was over. Really weird."

"That is weird," Harry confirmed. He frowned, his face creasing into an expression Hermione knew all too well – wondering what Malfoy-conceived evil plot could possibly involve attending Muggle Studies.

"Weird?" Ron scoffed. "Bloody nuts, if you ask me. How's he going to cope with writing his first essay on the merits of the Muggle sewage system?"

Hermione ignored Harry's amused snort. "Well, he wasn't bothered by McGonagall's opening speech. She made it pretty clear that she wouldn't tolerate anything less than the utmost respect. Malfoy just…took notes," she explained.

Harry turned in his seat to search for Malfoy's distinctive white-blonde hair at the Slytherin table. The student in question was sat alone, picking half-heartedly at his food. "He looks pretty awful, don't you think," Harry surmised. "All skinny and pale."

"He's always been skinny and pale," said Ron insightfully.

"No, Harry's right," Hermione said with a frown. "He's…gaunt. And sort of…empty, behind the eyes. Like how he looked towards the end of sixth year."

"And we all know what he was up to then…" Ron said darkly. He and Harry exchanged a look, and Hermione turned her attention back to her lunch, wondering if perhaps she shouldn't have brought it up.

The next time she looked over towards Malfoy, he was gone.


She thought about it more later, curled up on a sofa in the Gryffindor Common Room with Ron and Crookshanks, absent-mindedly watching a particularly animated game of Gobstones between two roaring third years.

As much as she detested Malfoy, she was finding it hard not to sympathise with him. Shunned by the dark side and despised by everyone else, he had no true friends or allies left at Hogwarts. None of the other Slytherins from his year had returned to school, and having seen him sitting alone, without the familiar shadows of Crabbe and Goyle at his side, she couldn't help but wonder if he was lonely.

Ron cut through her thought process by placing a hand on her knee and squeezing gently. "What homework are you thinking about right now?" he asked with a grin.

For some reason his assumption annoyed her, despite the fact that any other time, he would probably have guessed correctly. "Just some Muggle Studies stuff," she lied.

"Speaking of Muggle Studies, he's not bothering you, is he? Malfoy, I mean," Ron said suddenly. "You know if he were to even look at you wrong, I'd-" he illustrated his point with a menacing thump of a fist against his palm. "You know."

"I know," Hermione said, grinning. "He's not bothering me, I promise."

A loud roar and the fetid stink of Gobstone goo from the corner alerted them to the fact that a victor had been crowned, and they laughed as a short, freckly third year paraded around the Common Room to the dismay of his opponent, crowing victoriously. Crookshanks sniffed as if in disgust and leapt off Hermione's lap before stalking away.

"It's going to be a good year, isn't it?" Hermione asked Ron suddenly. "I mean…a better year."

"Yeah," says Ron. He squeezed her again, and she subtly wiggled herself out of his hold to stand up from the sofa.

"I'm off to bed," she announced. The mild disappointment in his eyes made her cringe internally, but it only took a second for him to relax into one of his goofy grins again, bidding her goodnight with a soft kiss to her hand.

Hermione couldn't explain the itching discomfort that had crept up her leg from his touch, and even less so why it had been happening more and more frequently over the last few weeks. But she determinedly brushed the thought away as she climbed the stairs to her dormitory.

It would get better. It was going to be a good year.


Hermione was saved from dwelling too long on any of the events of her first day back, because over the following week, every single Professor seemed to suddenly start taking the advent of the N.E.W.T. exams very seriously. Even Harry and Ron, who were only taking five subjects compared to Hermione's seven, had become inundated with essays to write, forcing all three into spending most of their free time in the library.

Being back at Hogwarts after one of the craziest years of her life felt at times like an impossible adjustment to make. Sometimes it was like she'd never left, like when she was several chapters deep into a huge textbook, or watching Ron and Harry bicker over Quidditch tactics, or delayed from finding her way to class thanks to Peeves, moving staircases, or any combination thereof. But other times, it would hit her just how odd it was to be returning to school.

They'd gone from surviving on their own out in the wilderness with no contact other than the crackly sounds of Ron's old wireless radio, to having a school uniform, bans on magic in the corridors, and a 10pm curfew. All three of them (and likely most of the other returning eighth year students too) had become adults over the past twelve months, so the rules and restrictions of childhood seemed rather more oppressive than before.

On the other hand, Hermione thought to herself as she trotted downstairs towards the library, this time last year they had been constantly living in fear of being murdered at any time. All things considered, she wasn't convinced that she would trade the security of the castle's stone walls for a later bedtime.

"Watch it, Hermione!"

Ron's yell snapped her from her thoughts, soon followed by Harry grabbing her arm to prevent her from walking forwards into a hole in the floating staircase. Heart racing, she peered down into the gap, and her stomach lurched when she realised she could see all the way down to the dungeon floor, three storeys below.

So much for security.

"Better make a note not to use this stairwell until that's fixed," she commented, as the three of them skirted around the metre-wide hole to carry on down the stairs. "Imagine how dangerous it could be if there were people going both directions at once."

"We'll have to use the clocktower staircase from now on," suggested Harry. They reached the bottom of the stairs, the rubble of what was once a statue awaiting them. Harry grimaced as he sidestepped over an isolated marble bust. "I wonder how long it'll be before the castle is completely back to normal."

Hermione knew that all the Professors were working overtime to try and repair the damage of the battle, but the task was just enormous. Huge areas of the castle were now completely out-of-bounds, including the entire South Wing. Windows were broken, walls were caved in, and floors had become so fragile that the slightest footstep would send them crashing down. Even assessing the scope of the damage was one hell of a job, and mending it required even more mental, physical, and emotional energy. Many of their classmates, friends, and family had fought here, and far too many of them had died here. Sometimes when Hermione walked past a pile of rubble, or a shattered windowpane, it occurred to her that the wreckage was littered with memories.

"Maybe by Christmas?" Ron guessed, but with the huge amount of work to be done, and the strain of operating Hogwarts on skeleton staff alone, Hermione thought privately to herself that the Professors would be extremely lucky to manage that.


Once inside the library, Ron intimidated a couple of scrawny first years away from the nice table by the windows, and the trio settled themselves in for a study session. Hermione had a big Transfiguration essay to get started on and some charts to memorise for her next Arithmancy class, so she summoned a textbook, flipped to the relevant page, and proceeded to get stuck in.

She was halfway through a particularly dense chapter on conjuring theory when she noticed someone familiar entering the library. Malfoy's face was thin and worry-worn, a defensive frown laced across his features. As she watched, he made for one of the booths in the corner, pulled a copy of 'Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles' from his bag, sank cautiously into a chair, and started reading avidly. His quill wavered uncertainly above an empty roll of parchment, and Hermione wondered if he might be having trouble with the essay they'd been set for next week – an analysis of Muggle transport: public and personal.

Hermione realised all at once that one: she had been staring at Malfoy for a few minutes, two: Ron was watching her with an incredulous look, and three: one and two were most likely linked. Embarrassed, she ducked her head back down into her textbook, but realised soon after that she was still struggling to concentrate. She had of course written the transport essay in under half an hour, brimming with comments and suggestions about the various merits of bikes, cars, and planes. However she imagined the task would be a whole lot different for someone who had never even seen a petrol-powered vehicle before. Malfoy's frown deepened as he scratched out a line of ink.

Hermione suddenly remembered that she had seven N.E.W.T. exams to study for, none of which would grant her extra credit for being able to comment on the life and social habits of one Draco Lucius Malfoy. Resolving to put him out of her mind, she attacked her Transfiguration essay with renewed vigour.

Time passed fluidly until she started on the concluding paragraph, at which point she become aware that they must have been in the library for a fair while, because the sky beyond the windows had turned pink, and Ron and Harry were in fact no longer studying, but messing around drawing silly pictures in the corner of Harry's Defence Against The Dark Arts textbook.

Like toddlers caught stealing biscuits from the tin, they eventually noticed her disapproving gaze and grinned sheepishly at her. "Are you defacing library property or your own this time?" she asked with a smirk, already knowing the answer.

"…The library's," Harry admitted.

She levelled a quick de-inking spell at the page, startling Ron, who was halfway through a drawing of a mermaid with rather unrealistic breasts.

"Oh," said Ron disappointedly. "That was my best one yet-"

"Do you think Madam Pince would be pleased to see you disfiguring her precious books?" she scolded.

"We were hoping that Ron's flattering drawing of her might make up for it," Harry answered, pointing at another lewd sketch on the next page.

"Ugh!" Hermione groaned in disgust, erasing that one too, and aiming a pinching hex at Harry's arm for good measure. "You could try focusing every once in a while, you know. Shouldn't you be practising your Defence Against the Dark Arts?"

Harry waggled his eyebrows at her. "I killed Voldemort, Hermione."

Ron snorted with laughter and they all dissolved into giggles, but not before Hermione managed a hefty whack to Harry's shoulder with her Transfiguration textbook.


"Professor, do you need any help?"

Hermione had been on her way back to the Common Room when she passed Professor Flitwick attempting to levitate a huge chunk of rubble out of the centre of the corridor and back into a gap in the wall where it belonged. She couldn't begin to imagine how much it weighed, and the small wizard was trembling with the effort of the spell.

He looked up in surprise at her voice, and his charm faltered enough for the wreckage to fall with a thud that shook the floor all the way back to the grand staircase.

"Oh, Miss Granger, if you could-" His cheeks were pink, his white hair wisping out from underneath his hat, and he looked far more fragile than Hermione could ever remember him looking.

She raised her wand as he did, and the monstrous expanse of cracked stone and mortar began to hover back towards its rightful place. Flitwick murmured a modified Cementing Charm and she watched, entranced, as the wall reformed, expanding out to welcome the replaced masonry back into its midst. Mere seconds later, the only sign to suggest the wall had ever been anything less than intact was a faint hum of magic in the air.

"Thank you! Bit less drafty now, eh?" Flitwick chirped, but his voice cracked minutely as he spoke. Taken aback, Hermione stole a glance at him, and found him staring fixedly at their handiwork as if he couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes away. Something in his expression felt very familiar to her, and she wondered if he could possibly be remembering something from the battle. God knew the hundreds of explosions that had torn the castle apart replayed often enough in her mind.

"It's… It's not just about putting the castle back together, is it sir?" she asked softly. "It's harder than that."

There was a gentle pause. "As astute as ever, Miss Granger." He smiled sadly, his thoughts clearly far away. "People don't have to become ghosts to leave their imprints behind."


On Wednesday morning, ten minutes before her next Muggle Studies lesson, Hermione was packing up her belongings from yet another stint in the library. As she looked up from trying to decide whether to keep the second or third edition of 'Potions That Pay', she noticed Malfoy at the next table, scribbling furiously onto a dog-eared roll of parchment cross-hatched with corrections. Surreptitiously sneaking a glance as she walked by, she realised that it was the same Muggle transport essay she had seen him writing before – due in today. He must have been struggling with it – why else would he still be writing it so close to the deadline?

Before she could conjure up enough reason to stop herself, she paused by his desk. "You know Malfoy, if you ever need a hand-"

Malfoy jumped about a foot out of his chair and whirled around to face her. He was clutching his parchment to his chest so tightly that his knuckles were white, even as his cheeks flamed bright pink. "I don't need your help," he spat, and began shoving things into his bag, taking off as fast as his legs could carry him. Hermione noticed involuntarily that the wet ink from his essay had left an imprint on his collar.

Hermione could feel her cheeks burning. How could she have been so stupid as to assume that a couple of Muggle Studies lessons might make him start treating her like a fellow human being? He would forever view her by nothing more than her Muggle-born blood.

Bloody Malfoy, she thought venomously, and took the long route to class to make sure she wouldn't catch up with him.


She was still fuming when McGonagall collected the class' essays with a flick of her wand (including Malfoy's, who was still bent over his desk writing at the time). She then went on to introduce them to the next topic – the Muggle educational system.

Hermione's mind immediately went to her school days. She'd always had plans for her education, even as a ten-year-old. She was going to go to university and get a degree (or three) and make a difference in the world. She'd had no idea that eight years later, it was a different world she would be hoping to make a difference to.

And yet as McGonagall set about explaining what 11-year-old Muggles do instead of going to Hogwarts, Hermione found herself hit by a sudden sense of grief for the Muggle future she would never have. Of course, without Hogwarts, it was true that she never would have met Harry and Ron, or formed S.P.E.W., or fought in a war… but who knows what she had missed out on instead?

She would be in her last year of sixth form right now. Off to university next year.

She surfaced from her thoughts in enough time to realise that McGonagall was now talking about Muggle careers and the existence of jobs that the wizarding world simply has no use for. Firefighters, scientists, dentists… She felt a pang in her stomach at that.

It was simply baffling to imagine receiving this lecture without the life experience or home background she had had. It must be ludicrous to the other students that Muggles would require specially trained individuals to carry out tasks that even the most primitively educated wizard could accomplish with a spell or two. Hermione wondered how her parents might feel to know that they could be replaced by any old wizard with a wand and a basic understanding of dental anatomy.

As the hour drew to a close, McGonagall cleared her throat.

"Your next essay is a creative assignment of sorts. I would like a foot of parchment from each of you, reimagining your life as it would be if you were born a Muggle."

An immediate rush of gossip followed her words, and McGonagall had to raise her voice to be heard above the din. "I would like you all to think very carefully about this task. You have one week."

Hermione had never heard of an essay like this one being set, and unease immediately settled into her stomach. She wasn't sure how easy it would be to think about how different her life would be if she had never set foot in this castle. The curse scar on her forearm began to itch.

As the class started to file out, the only person who Hermione thought looked even more taken aback by the essay title than herself was Malfoy. She smirked softly to herself.

Serves you right, she thought. Have fun pretending you're not still a bigoted prick with this one.


Hermione spent most of the evening up in her dormitory in fits of giggles. As she and Parvati were the only Gryffindor girls to return as eighth years in September, McGonagall had decided to move them into the same dorm as the seventh years. Though she'd initially been reluctant to share with strangers, she soon realised one of those 'strangers' was Ginny, so perhaps it wouldn't be all bad. Since then, she'd realised that it was actually wonderfully refreshing to have a group of girls to hang out with when she'd had enough of the boys.

The cause for most of the giggles that evening came about thanks to a bottle of magical nail polish that one of the seventh years had brought from home. It was supposed to change colour according to the wearer's mood, but the colour-guide had been lost somewhere between King's Cross and Scotland, so the girls were taking turns applying it to one another's nails and guessing what the resulting colour might mean. Hermione was pretty sure it was a load of rubbish, but her scepticism was far outweighed by her enjoyment in guessing what Ginny's bright-green-with-white-polka-dots nails might say about her emotional state.

"Ooh, mine have gone lilac! What do you think that means?" Parvati squealed suddenly, thrusting her hand in front of Ginny's face.

"I heard somewhere that lilac means 'first love'," suggested a seventh year named Flora with choppy blonde hair and yellow nails.

Parvati snorted. "The only thing I've fallen in love with at Hogwarts is the lemon meringue pie."

There were enthusiastic noises of assent around the room at this. "What about you, Ginny?" Hermione asked, smiling. "Does your love extend only to pastries, or do you think maybe Harry has a chance?"

Ginny scratched her nose nervously, a faint red hue settling over her cheeks. "He may do," she murmured coyly, as the other girls cooed in delight.

"You're very sweet together," decided another girl. "You have my full support as long as he never ever spends the night in this room."

Ginny flushed pink from her neck all the way up to her hairline.

"A Silencing Charm is a girl's best friend," whispered Parvati, and Hermione was fairly sure that the subsequent raucous laughter must have been audible all the way down in the Common Room.

"We've not done anything like that!" Ginny protested, but her nails almost immediately began changing to a pinky-red colour that matched her blush, and this sent the girls into hysterics all over again.

"What about you, Hermione? I bet you and Ron were up to all sorts last year," Parvati said suddenly, turning the conversation around with a wiggle of her eyebrows that made Hermione laugh despite her mortification at the new subject matter. "I heard some interesting things about a tent-"

"Gross you guys, that's my brother!" Ginny wailed.

Hermione grinned at her, grateful for the excuse not to talk about her sex life. Well, if you could call it that. She didn't know exactly what rumours Parvati had heard about the previous year's tent escapades, but she and Ron hadn't even kissed at that point, let alone tried anything of that nature. And in truth, that status had barely changed in the months since.

They had kissed, of course. But as for anything more than that… Well... Any time they'd ever gotten close, she had frozen up and asked Ron to stop. He always stopped, always listened to her, never pushed for more than she was willing to give.

But Hermione wondered how long he would truly be willing to wait.

She would feel ready eventually. She was sure of it. It was just a matter of waiting for the right time.

Right?

She glanced down at her nails and decided not to think about what it meant that they had turned white.


It must have been well past midnight when Hermione awoke with a start. At first there seemed to be nothing but the sound of wind outside the window, Crookshanks snoring from his spot at the foot of the bed, and the odd hoot from the direction of the Owlery, but after a moment, she realised that she could hear noise coming from the next bed.

She listened for a while, unsure what she could be hearing, until it suddenly dawned on her that it was the sound of someone crying.

It was very soft, as if they were trying not to disturb anyone, but the shaky breaths were so heart-rending Hermione that couldn't ignore them. She slowly pushed the covers back and slipped out of bed.

Parvati.

The sobs continued as she tiptoed across the room towards her bed, bare feet driving squeaks from the floorboards. "Parvati?" she asked softly. The cries stopped abruptly.

A shaky hand pushed back the drapes, and then Parvati's face appeared, blotchy and tear-stained. Her lip trembled ashamedly.

"Are you okay?" Hermione asked, unsure quite what to say. It seemed to be the wrong thing, because Parvati's face crumpled, but when Hermione clambered onto her bed, she surged forward to bury her face against her chest, and burst into fresh tears. With no idea what to do, Hermione settled for stroking her hair and her back as the younger girl sobbed out her grief into her nightshirt.

The two of them had never been the closest of friends, but there was a special kind of kinship that had sprung up between them since their return as the only eighth year Gryffindor girls. And so even though Hermione didn't know when Parvati's birthday was, or what her favourite colour was, or why she would be crying alone in the early hours of the morning, she knew that she would hold her as long as she needed it.

Time passed by unobtrusively as Parvati's sobs slowly faded. Hermione didn't want to pry, but after a while, Parvati leaned back, eyes blurred with tears, and looked up at her.

"I miss her so much," she choked out. "Lavender."

Hermione's heart jolted.

Parvati and Lavender had been inseparable. They had gone to every class together, eaten every meal together, and spent every night gossiping together, long after Hermione fell asleep. Hermione thought back to the last time she had seen Lavender, and the image of her mangled body in Fenrir Greyback's hands stung her eyelids as if she was seeing it all over again.

"I'm so sorry," Hermione whispered inadequately, and then they were both weeping, clinging to one another like it was the only thing that could help. She couldn't stop remembering the curse she had fired to fling the werewolf away, remembering how Lavender had barely moved, remembering how she was too late.

"Stay with me?" Parvati asked, an indeterminable amount of time later, and Hermione nodded without even having to think as she pulled the duvet around them. It was quiet except for the sound of their other roommates softly snoring.

Hermione settled herself into Parvati's bedsheets, finding her hand clasping hers. And she prepared to go back to sleep, in the bed of a girl she barely knew, in a school that was recently a warzone, in a world still aching from the loss of its families and friends.

She took a long, deep breath, and closed her eyes.

Just as she was about to drift off, she heard Parvati's voice. "I don't think the nail polish was lilac," came the whisper. There was a vulnerable pause. "I think it was lavender."