A shadowed figure walks down a road lit only by the end of a wand, falling snow illuminated in the magical glow, dark trees black against the light.
The smell of salt on the cold air.
The sound of the sea just barely registering with the wind.
Intertwining.
In the night.
Hermione walks with measured step, one foot in front of the other, steady, precise. Her black cloak wrapped around her, arms pulling towards her middle, resisting the cold.
Always so very cold.
Her head is bare and the snow, falling just a little bit faster now, melts on her shoulders, her nose, her eyelashes, but sticks to the wild curls around her face.
A halo.
Created by frozen moisture and the illumination of a wand.
An echo from weeks earlier.
She knows when she passes the wards and the anti-Apparition line because there is a warming about her feet, a slow and steady pull at her middle. Something at the back of her mind wonders why the wards allow her through, why there is no warning of her arrival.
Later she will puzzle over it.
But at that moment, it is enough that Severus said they would.
Two hours ago.
When she finally went to him.
After five days of Draco's absence, a meeting with the Ministry Board, and a quiet conversation with Minerva over tea.
Events.
Leading her to this place.
Hermione emerges from the woods and into a clearing, the house rising up from the ground in a mass of shadowed stone. A considerable estate, it has been refurbished in the last several years to stand as it once did, before the war, before Lucius even.
Restored to its glory.
A magnificent place with the warmth of its owner.
Ice, with no hope of thawing.
Hermione makes her way up the long drive, eyes focused on several lit windows, irritation, anger, gliding about her nerves with precision at their light.
She walks around a fountain, water frozen in animation, the boy's mouth spitting a stream of ice, the girl with the bucket, receiving it.
The details catch her eye, though her feet keep moving.
One step. Another. Stopping, at the threshold.
A moment.
The wind whipping curls across her face, the bite causing her to shiver even as she holds herself still.
Pulling her anger towards her, irritation towards her.
When she climbs the steps the large wooden doors open and he stands there, a swirling presence, grating, fingernails against her skin.
The light from inside highlights his hair, but is swallowed by the black trousers and shirt he wears, his shirt sleeves rolled up so she can clearly see the scar, glimmering a dull red, where the mark once was.
Face shadowed.
She stops four feet in front of him, meeting hooded eyes with her own, chin tilted slightly, gathering herself.
Hermione starts to speak before he can say anything, the first words that come to mind, a rush of nonsense.
"Do you know I had an interview this week with one lovely Rita Skeeter regarding my relationship with the youngest Minster of Magic ever in Wizarding history? I honestly thought that after fourth year and the small fact that Harry is married and has three children, we would be past that but I guess I'll have to keep wishing."
The man in front of her does not move.
She thought she would get a smirk, get something.
Face blank, staring at her.
She continues, a frazzle of words, irritation coming through, trying for something.
Anything.
"I also corrected over two hundred student parchments. I took over twenty points away from Slytherin for defiling a student's entire bag of books and assignments, took ten from Hufflepuff for generally being stupid, gave twenty to Ravenclaw for answering questions correctly and five to Gryffindor for standing up to the Slytherins who defiled the books."
She takes one step towards him.
"I visited the new baby twice, both times having to sit through tea with Ginny and Molly, both of whom I love dearly but who do nothing but talk about my lack of matrimonial bliss. In addition, they are going to name the baby Fred, which is appropriate of course but I very much wish they would come up with their own names rather than naming their kids after dead people. Perhaps something normal, like Brian or Michael, or something exotic like Xavier. Xavier Potter has a nice ring."
Another step. A small voice in the back of her mind telling to be quiet, to stop blabbing, but anger, uncertainty, irritation, nerves, pushing her on.
"I also met with the Ministry Board who wished to know how much progress we have made. When I told them that we've barely made any progress at all, I had to lie and say that we were working on it every day, that progress was just taking longer than expected and I would give them a report on our progress by Monday, which is two days from now. Minerva and I had tea and a nice chat so I could explain why you were no longer at Hogwarts, and why I didn't know where you were or when you would be back. Oh, and then there was the mention of a certain spell that is no longer supposed to be used on Hogwarts' property, verbal or otherwise. Quite a sight, seeing me trying to explain that one."
Another step.
"I had to listen to her tell me that this curriculum is important, what we are supposedly doing, and that she strongly encourages me - she used that word, strongly - she strongly encourages me to focus on this. Then she told me that she has the greatest confidence in us - me, in fact - and that I have never let her down on an assignment and I wouldn't on this either. All the while I sat there sipping her tea, not knowing where you were, not knowing what we are doing, not knowing a bloody thing and having to make it all up because hell, Draco Malfoy has decided to disappear from the world and I don't bloody know where he is."
Her eyes are blazing now, arms coming from around her middle to be held rigid at her side. Anger taking precedence over everything else she feels standing before him.
"To top it all off I have to find you, which means going off on a wild goose chase because for some reason the Malfoy Manor is unplottable, because the same Mr. Malfoy that I cannot locate has paid a small fortune to make it so no one can find him if he doesn't want to be found. So I spent an entire day trying to find Severus, figuring that he is probably the one person that would know how to find you, but instead of being in his nice cozy house in the middle of Muggle London, I finally find him on some coast on the very northern tip of the continent, and when I do find him he laughs at me, says something rather vague about a family binding spell, and a bloodstone, and how I am royally Queen Elizabeth screwed and then, only then Draco, does he tell me where you are."
She is panting now, her hand with the wand shaking at him.
"Now it is snowing and it is freezing, I haven't eaten since this morning, my head aches and I can no longer feel my feet nor my fingers and all I want is a nice cup of tea, a fire, a book in my quarters, with my things around me, and I decidedly do not want to be standing here, in the middle of bloody nowhere, in front of your bloody door, waiting for you to bloody say something."
Silence.
Except for the soft sound of snow falling.
And then.
"I suppose you would like to come in," he drawls, the tall form standing back slightly, no longer blocking the entrance.
Hermione growls, actually growls, and then raises her chin even further in the air and with the posture of the Queen of England, walks past Draco Malfoy and into his home.
For the first time.
Ever.
Draco closes the door behind her.
Her anger is still moving around her in whirls of magic and she turns on her heel, barely even giving her surroundings a glance in order to watch the man before her.
He looks tired.
The thought banks the anger, gentles it, though her chin remains firmly in the air and her eyes still flash.
He walks past her, towards the open door at the end of the massive entryway, not saying a word, only to stop and turn, looking at her with a slight smirk on his face when she does not immediately follow.
She huffs at him and follows, mumbling decidedly unpleasant things under her breath until she steps into the Malfoy library and all thoughts flee.
"Oh wow," she says, slightly breathless, looking up at the walls of books before her. All thoughts of her frozen appendages, her throbbing headache and her empty stomach is forgotten in the very real appreciation of what she sees.
She takes another step into the library, tilting her head back to view the full expanse of the room, walking slowly towards one wall, fingers reaching out and gently, so gently, touching one of the leather-bound spines.
It warms under her touch.
Draco watches from across the room, watches her fingers trace the leather spines of the books, the line of her throat catching the light from the fire as she tilts her head backwards, cheeks bright, eyes now soft, very very soft, apparent even from where he stands.
Control. So very precious.
Splintering as he looks on her.
"I thought you wanted tea, not to stand there agape like a complete Muggle."
The words harsh, meant to cut.
Hermione doesn't even register them, nodding absently as she continues to look at the books in front of her. "Please, tea would be wonderful," she says.
Draco looks down at the delicate porcelain tea set already in place, one of his mother's, meaningful, important to him.
All he can imagine is picking up the perfect white tea pot and smashing it against the wall, and how the pieces would fly every which way, the sound would crash through the room, hot tea splattering, scalding.
He snaps his fingers, a house elf popping into presence immediately.
"New tea, and sandwiches."
A cold voice.
The house elf bobs his head and disappears, almost immediately reappearing with what Draco requested. He sets it down in front of his master waiting, somewhat nervously, not having seen his master in such a mood in a long time.
Draco waves a hand and the house elf disappears.
Hermione vaguely feels the darkness rolling off the man across the room in great waves, but only vaguely; not even the caustic way Draco speaks to the house elf is enough for her to turn from her perusal of the books in front of her.
Not until that caustic voice is directed towards her.
"Why are you here?"
Words hanging in the air.
They bring Hermione straight back to the present.
She turns slowly from the books, reluctant to get back to the reasons, to the anger she should have but which has completely left her in the presence of such knowledge surrounding them.
Such wonderful knowledge.
She walks with a soft step towards where Draco is seated, sliding her cloak off her shoulders and placing it on the back of the chair before sitting down. She notices that Draco has not poured for either of them and without thought she does.
It is strangely reminiscent, not of the time a week ago, but another time, sitting on the floor in front of a fire in the Burrow, tea in front of them, house silent around them. Draco had been in a mood then also, having just returned from a Death Eater meeting, his whole persona prickly, waspish, not wanting to discuss anything, staring silently in the fire.
Eyes cold and distant.
Haunted.
She had poured his tea and handed it over to him. When he had taken it, he had muttered a thank you, tagging on her name, her given name, Hermione, at the end.
It was the first time he had said her name.
So nonchalant.
So without thought.
A connector before there ever really was one.
Hermione hands his tea over. He takes it.
No words are spoken.
Hermione sips at the tea and then holds the cup between her palms, warming them, even as her toes tingle at the warmth from the fire, even as she ignores the cold gathering in her chest.
From his lack of words.
And the memory which still exists.
She finally answers him. "I am here because we have a job to do and I cannot do it on my own."
Silence.
Flames in the fireplace.
She looks over at the man sitting next to her.
On her walk to the manor, through the cold, her anger had kept every and all compulsion at bay, the pressure always at the base of her spine, the flare of cold in her chest, the feel of his magic surrounding her.
All in check because of her anger.
But now her anger is gone and she expects, almost wants, the assault of his magic.
But she feels nothing.
At all.
A void.
She looks away, hands grasping the cup, tighter, tighter.
He feels her eyes on his face, feels them scanning him, feels a distant plucking of his compulsion and inwardly smirks.
He has spent the last five days creating wards around himself. The spell, something Severus had taught him, is very much like the wards one puts on a room to protect it, but instead of creating it around a room, he has created it around himself, multiple layers, layers upon layers of magic that does not allow any f his magic, not even blood magic, to escape the tight control he has created.
A trick. From before, when having to face Voldemort.
A painstaking, painful way of isolating one's magic.
From anything.
And anyone.
When Draco does not say anything Hermione continues. "I've re-read the book, going over the details and there are a few questions I have that I hoped you could help me with."
Still no answer.
Frustration, now sparkling along her nerves.
She represses it and continues. "For instance, do you know where this book came from?"
Draco looks over at her then because it is a question he had also asked. A question he put before Severus three days earlier.
"It was given to Severus by my father." Words spoken in a neutral manner.
Costing him a great deal.
Though Hermione doesn't see it.
Her mind is already moving the information through her many filters, picking it apart, remembering something that Severus said earlier.
"A family binding spell," she mutters, to herself more to Draco, unknowingly biting her lip as she thinks on what that means.
She looks up, somewhat startled to see a pair of piercing grey eyes, hard silver, staring at her.
Cold, brilliant, flaring in her chest.
She looks away from those eyes, back to the fire. "The book is rather vague beyond the instructions on how to complete the spell, but Severus said something about a family binding spell? Is it possible this could be a family spell, your family?"
Draco honestly doesn't know. In addition to creating his personal, ward he also has spent the last several days trying to find more about the bloodstone and not having any luck.
He does not say this though, also looking into the flames and no longer at her.
Hermione's frustration grows and she actually glares at the side of his face, putting her tea down on the table between them. "Oh come on, what is silence going to accomplish?"
"No," he says, almost immediately.
Hermione narrows her eyes. "No, what?"
He looks away from the flames and back at the woman sitting across from him, meeting her gaze. On some level he notices the shadows under her eyes and a part of him wonders idly if he has ever seen her without shadows.
Thoughts, barely whispering in his mind and easily ignored.
"No, I do not know if it is a family specific spell. I have gone through several of the family tomes cataloguing the various spells created but I have not come across anything." He raises an eyebrow, "However, there are over a hundred different catalogs and thousands of spells, so it's possible I just haven't come across it yet."
Hermione's eyes widen. "Thousands of spells?"
Draco smirks, and it is an old smirk, something akin to normalcy.
It pulls at Hermione and she feels her chest tighten.
"Yes, Malfoys have been around for a very long time, thus the term pure-blood."
Hermione does not resist the urge to roll her eyes. "Honestly." A pause, and then somewhat timidly, "Can I see those catalogs?"
This time the smirk is definitely there, along with a raised eyebrow and the slight, ever so slight warming of ice grey eyes. "All of them?"
An exasperated sigh.
"No. Just the ones you haven't gone through," her tone clearly belying the fact he is being an idiot and did he really need to ask that question.
A moment.
Grey eyes and brown, meeting across a table laid out with tea things, fire between them.
A moment.
Flame flickering, magic flaring, underneath a ward, underneath a firm control.
Just there. Barely.
And then gone.
Draco stands up and walks to a massive desk, a pile of rolled parchments on one corner. He picks through them, pulling from the pile four thick rolls, gathering them under his arm and going back to where the witch is sitting.
He hands them over.
She looks up in question.
"This where I left off," he says as way of an explanation.
Hermione takes them, the parchments heavy and weighing her down, uncomfortable in her chair. She slides to the floor, on the carpet in front of the chairs, arranging herself in a cross-legged position, and unrolls the first parchment.
Draco watches her for a moment, lost in a memory.
Absently he summons parchment and quill and deposits them in front of her with a flick of his wrist.
She looks up in surprise, and then pleasure, giving him the briefest of smiles before bending back down to what is in front of her.
Memories.
He wrenches himself from them and pulls out his own parchments to work on.
For a moment, the briefest of moments, he recognizes his desire to go sit next to her, on the floor, in front of the fire.
Memory.
He sits himself at the desk.
Hours.
The ticking of a clock.
The reappearance of house elves with hot tea and more sandwiches.
Flames in the fireplace.
The distant sound of wind through the trees outside the home.
A quill, scratching against parchment, pausing, scratching some more.
The steady drum of fingers tapping a desk top.
Until finally Hermione looks up with blurry eyes, spells revolving around and around in her brain.
"Did you find anything?" she asks, the first words spoken in a long time.
Draco looks up from the parchment he is reading, tiredness not as obvious in the sharp lines of his face, but still there, on the edge.
"No, nothing at all."
Hermione puts a hand on the small of her back and stretches backwards, hair, which at one point was fastened behind her head, now a mass of curls falling down her backside.
Draco looks away.
His wards vibrating at the sight.
"Well, perhaps it isn't a Malfoy spell," she says, once more in a normal position, leaning against the chair, legs clad in Muggle jeans in front of her. She stares absently into the fire, finger tapping against her lips, "Perhaps we don't even need to know the origin of the spell." She shakes her head then, muttering, "No, we need to know the origin."
She looks over at Draco, expecting him to make some remark about her just wanting more work, but he is not looking at her. In fact, he doesn't even appear to be in the room with her, his eyes distant, looking out the black window, the reflection of the room clear.
Hermione feels that tug, somewhere around her chest, in her belly, a warming, as she notices the less than perfect hair, evidence that he has run a hand through it more than once in the last little while.
White glinting in the fire light.
She looks down at her hands, the fingers curling in on themselves. Eyes closing for a moment.
Just a moment.
When she opens them she is immediately caught by Draco's gaze.
Again.
The tug becoming something sharp, insistent.
He looks away and stands, hand running through his hair again.
"I'm going to bed. Brinky will show you your room," he says.
But Hermione doesn't hear him, doesn't even realize the words are said, her eyes on the hand which had run through his hair.
An elegant white hand.
Without a familiar red stone.
"Where's your ring?" the question asked, before she can even think to stop it.
The air, so still, so normal, so devoid of anything horrible, freezes, changes. Magic, just contained, throbbing.
Throbbing.
Draco does not move from behind the desk, eyes piercing her, echoes, memories.
Something within Hermione is cowering, cowering, backtracking, falling away, moving away, even as another part relishes in the sudden presence of Draco's magic, in the sudden filling of the void she has felt since she walked into the manor.
"The ring," he says, voice calm, quiet, deadly, "is of no importance to me any more."
Words.
Shattering.
Draco walking from the library, steps silent, Hermione watching him, the fluid grace, watching him, opening the door, leaving, closing it behind him.
With a click.
That echoes.
In the re-established void.