Hello everyone! Welcome to the Lisbon chapter of True North. A couple CWs before you read the chapter.
CW - Alcohol abuse. Alcohol abuse/alcoholism is a theme of True North, but there is an explicit discussion of it between Hermione and Ron this chapter. Please skip if that is a trigger for you.
CW - Colonialism/Imperialism. Draco and Hermione have a fairly explicit conversation about colonialism this chapter. Colonialism is not a theme of True North, which is why it isn't in the tags above. But please be aware. It is when they are at the Belem Tower (Belem Tower is mentioned before the conversation begins). Please be aware and skip if that is a trigger for you.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Feel like running, feel like crack
Feel like going out and smashing windows
I'm smashing windows
And in a black, black hole deeper than death
I would wait for you there just give me the breath to say it
Back together
Wolf Alice - Lisbon
May 12, 1999
Hermione burst through the fireplace at number twelve Grimmauld Place, stepping out of the green flames while brushing ash out of her hair.
"There's our world traveler! Back from Vienna with style."
She looked over at the smiling faces of Harry and Ginny, sitting at the table expecting her.
"Hey guys," she replied, walking over as Harry stood up to wrap her into a hug.
"Missed you, Hermione," he murmured into her hair, before letting her go as Ginny advanced, waiting her turn.
"It was only a week, Harry," she chuckled, feeling touched at the sentiment.
"We're trauma-bonded, Hermione. It felt like longer."
She laughed, as the group sat down at the table, Ginny setting a tea in front of her. She sipped in gingerly, the hot liquid burning her throat on its way down.
"Chamomile," she noted.
Ginny nodded. "Figured you might like some stress relief."
"Hmm?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "From what? I was just on vacation."
"From Malfoy, obviously."
Ahh, Hermione thought. Right into it, then.
"The papers covered the whole trip," Harry explained, brushing his hair out of his face – again – as he leaned back in a chair. "Seemed like a veritable piece of theatre."
"Imagine living it. I kept forgetting my lines and director's cues."
"Your dresses were incredible," Ginny said, shooting her a wink. "Your shoe choice was inspired. Wherever did you get them?"
"I don't know why you cursed me to balancing charms the whole week, 'Gin, but I will get you back at some point."
Ginny laughed again, while Harry looked over Hermione, a familiar expression of concern dancing across his face.
"But how was it? Really? With Malfoy."
Hermione pursed her lips, considering her answer.
"It was… alright."
"Alright?" Ginny guffawed. "Hermione, there was this one picture of the two of you dancing on the front page of The Prophet. We got to watch you spin on an infinite loop – when did Malfoy become a good dancer? It Looked better than alright."
"What are you implying, Ginny?" Hermione asked, feeling her chest constrict.
"Nothing, Hermione. Just that it looked like you two got along. You certainly made for the perfect tabloid couple."
"Was it really alright, Hermione?" Harry asked, the worry in his voice easily recognizable to her, having received a fair amount of it since age twelve. "Was he… was he alright?"
Her body stilled, as she forced her face into an expression of neutrality. How could she explain how Malfoy was? How the trip was?
How could she easily articulate the barriers they had demolished, while she simultaneously constructed an inner wall? A final defense?
"He was," she said slowly, testing the waters, considering how the words tasted in her mouth. "He was alright."
Harry's eyebrows raised incredulously. "Was he, really? Did he… did he say anything?"
She shook her head, as the memory of the last night flashed through her mind. "Nothing."
The lie hit the air, and she could not find it within herself to regret it.
Ginny breathed an audible sigh of relief. "That's good. I was worried… maybe a couple beers in…"
"No," she reiterated, thinking back to the parties – the parties, this was about the parties. "He was a perfect gentleman. Remarkable dancer. The whole thing – it was just unnerving."
"What do you mean?"
"He was just so… put together," Hermione whispered, unsure if that word was adequate. "It made me understand why the Wizengamot wanted him for the trip. Charming, charismatic – he recognized vintages with the skill of a sommelier and spoke with the voice of a politician. He wasn't… he wasn't Malfoy."
Ginny's eyes softened as Harry's brow furrowed. Hermione sighed.
"I'm not explaining it well. It just felt like he was suddenly a different person – one I enjoyed spending time with but couldn't recognize."
"Well," Ginny interjected. "It's not as if we ever knew him. Not really."
"But we did," she murmured. "Remember what Sirius said to you, Harry? If you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals. And we did see – with stunning clarity – how he treated his inferiors. That's who he was. That's who Draco Malfoy was."
"Exactly," the redhead said quietly, as if she was just considering it herself. "Was. I'm not starting the Draco Malfoy fan club over here, but we're not fourteen anymore. And if he really was fine for the whole trip, then perhaps he's changed enough to be tolerable."
"Maybe," she muttered. Harry continued to say nothing.
Ginny clapped her hands together. "But enough about Malfoy! The world does not revolve around him, as much as I'm sure he would love it to. Tell me about the trip! Did you take any photos?"
"Oh, yes!" Hermione exclaimed, grateful for the shift in conversation. She reached into her purse and pulled out a handful of polaroids that she had tucked away for safe keeping. "Look at these."
Ginny reached across and took a few, as Harry leaned over to glance at them as well.
"These are gorgeous, Hermione," Ginny smiled, as Harry grinned. "I don't think I've seen you with that big of a smile in years."
She flushed. "Thank you. It… we went to a palace called Schönbrunn and explored the garden."
"We?" Ginny asked, her voice suspiciously neutral.
"Malfoy and I," Hermione continued. "We… we explored the city together. It was pleasant."
The redhead nodded, glancing down at the photograph again.
"Did he take these, then?"
Hermione felt tension resume in her core, feeling somehow that the photographer's identity should remain private.
"Yes, he… he offered."
"He has a good understanding of lightning," Ginny mused, eyes tracing over the photograph, as Hermione's gaze drifted to Harry.
He was looking at the photo with an unreadable expression, furrowed brow, tight lips. He met her eyes briefly and she raised an eyebrow expectantly.
He did not answer her unspoken question.
May 15, 1999
Draco walked into the Leaky Cauldron, glancing at his watch as he passed through the door. A few minutes late, but he knew they would not mind.
He was wrong.
"Oi!" a familiar voice shouted at him from a back booth. "What's this, then? I thought you'd come back with a better sense of time management. They do not like the tardy – those Austrians."
Draco rolled his eyes as he slid into the booth. "Good to see you too, Theo."
Blaise was chuckled at the other man's side as he glared vociferously at the new arrival.
"You're gone for one week! Did you forget what clocks are?"
He waved down Tom while ignoring Theo's ranting.
"Double firewhiskey, neat," he said to the old bartender. He shot Draco a dirty look but went back to prepare his drink. With only probation at the trial, Tom had no grounds to not serve him.
As much as he obviously did not want to.
He set it down in front of Draco, which he promptly downed. Signaling to Tom, he ordered another.
Blaise raised a single eyebrow. "You're week was that good, huh?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "It was certainly something."
"Looked like a blast," Theo muttered, still angry about Draco's apparent tardiness. "Witch Weekly, The Prophet, no one could get enough of this damn victory tour. If I never have to see you twirl Granger again in my life, I will die a happy man."
"Draco probably feels the exact opposite," Blaise added before Draco smacked him right over the backside of his head.
"Touchy," Blaise muttered, rubbing the spot he had hit. "Merlin, if you thought that was bad, wait until you see Pansy…"
"Is she still coming tonight?" Draco asked, as Tom placed the next drink in front of him.
"Not only is she still coming, she's already here."
Draco's head whipped around at the familiar voice. He could not help smiling as he stood up and wrapped one of his oldest friends in a hug.
"Hey, Pans," he muttered, as she held onto his shoulders. "It's good to see you. How was Paris?"
"Tiring," she drawled, slipping into the booth, resting her head on Theo's shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her back. Her black hair fanned out across his shoulder as she checked a manicured nail. "I spent the whole time arguing with Manuel about the design of the spread. The editorial board had accepted my proposal for a darker theme until someone decided to go trapezing across Europe dressed like a fairytale Prince with one of the most famous women in the continent on his arm. Dark is out. We're doing a light theme. Glittery."
The disgust with which she said the word was masked by the raucous guffaws that overtook Blaise. Wiping tears from his eyes, he turned back to Draco.
"Here that, Draco? You've cursed Witch Weekly's fashion spread for June to be glittery. This is your legacy. Consider that."
Draco rolled his eyes, taking another sip of firewhiskey. "I'm sorry for your loss, Pansy."
"I appreciate the recognition of fault," Pansy answered, as Tom knowingly put a glass of red wine in front of her. Taking a sip, he felt her dark eyes consider them. "Your wardrobe on the Vienna trip was quite stirring. Where on earth did you buy that silver set from the opening ceremony?"
"Milan," he answered curtly.
"Inspired," she replied. "But what I particularily enjoyed, from the eye of a fashion photographer…"
"This'll be good," Theo muttered.
"Was the care with which you matched your partner. Draco, what vision! What curtesy… what aesthetic masterpiece!"
"You done, Pans?" Draco drawled, his heartbeat beating erratically.
"And what was even more interesting," she continued, ignoring him as if he had not spoken. "Was the attention you took to ensure her prominence. You matched, beautifully, but your pieces were muted. Secondary. You were complimentary to her – Hermione Granger as the centrepiece."
Theo and Blaise were shaking with suppressed laughter.
Pansy took another sip of wine before eyeing him knowingly. "The two of you were visions on the front page – every day, I might add – but the care you took to make sure she shone… I just think it was gentlemanly. I'm impressed."
Draco pursed his lips, finishing his drink again before sighing softly and looking up at his friends – the only people, minus one, who knew everything.
"I'm fucked, aren't I?"
Theo and Blaise both nodded vigorously, while Pansy observed him for a moment.
"No, Draco," Pansy continued, leaning forward with an intensity in her gaze. "You have been fucked since fourth year. You're just realizing it now."
"And what should I do with this realization?"
Blaise shrugged, clapping him on the back.
"You have ten more countries to figure it out."
May 20, 1999
This was a bad idea, Hermione thought, as she sat down at the table across from a sheepish-looking Ronald Weasley. She had not seen him since the Ministry gala at the beginning of the month. This was the longest she had not seen him since their breakup – but after some high-level intervention from one Harry Potter, they had agreed to go to lunch.
Supposedly, so that he could apologize for his behaviour.
"Ron," she said, her voice measured as she took a seat at the table. They were at a restaurant in muggle London – a quaint Italian place, so that they could air their grievances without fear of reporters.
"'Mione," he smiled at her, unaware of the way her body flinched at the nickname.
You let him call you that.
"It's good to see you," he continued, as she drew her lips into a thin line. "I… I'm sorry that I didn't reach out earlier."
"I know," she muttered, picking up a menu. "Harry told me."
"Meddlesome Chosen One, that man is," Ron joked, as Hermione glanced at the fish options.
"You should be glad he meddled," she muttered. "Would have had to do a lot more groveling otherwise."
"Yeah," he said quietly, taking a sip of water. "I… I know."
"So, is there anything you'd like to say for yourself, then?" she started, deciding on the trout and placing the menu down.
"Right into it then?"
"Honestly, Ronald," Hermione muttered angrily. "What did you expect me to say? Did you expect me to make it easy for you to waltz in here and apologize?"
"Well… not exactly."
"You caused a scene," she continued. "You're lucky it didn't make the papers. You implied that I could not take care of myself. You acted like I had some sort of choice in this – not that it was mandated by the Wizengamot. You… you acted like a petulant child."
"I know," Ron continued, having the good sense to look bashful. "I… I had had too much to drink…"
"You always have too much to drink," Hermione murmured.
A pause.
"Makes it easier," Ron mumbled, taking another sip of water.
"What? Acting like an idiot? That's not a good enough excuse, Ron."
"No," he answered. "The… the gala. The memorial. It made it easier when I wasn't… wasn't really there."
Hermione pursed her lips. "We all had trouble."
"I know," he continued, frowning. "I know that we all fought this war together, and we all lost people…"
"We all did, Ron."
"… but sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who still struggles," he said, a rare glimpse of vulnerability in his eyes. "Even… even Harry, fuck, he died and he seems fine. And you… you're fine. And here I am, unable to even think about it… or Fred… or the battle without a few beers in the system."
"Ron," she whispered, her voice softer than a moment before. "If you… if you think that we all still don't suffer, then you really aren't looking hard enough. We just… we just don't use twelve beers to black out from the world."
"What vice do you use to survive, then?" Ron asked, and Hermione felt his desperation as tangible. And for a moment, this was no longer the man who had humiliated her, but a broken shell of her best friend.
And she understood him with perfect clarity.
"I don't survive."
June 1, 1999
"Sorry, I'm late!" Hermione exclaimed, rushing into Scot's office.
The Department Head waved his hand dismissively. "Not late until the Portkey leaves, Miss Granger."
She took a deep breath, nodding. Goodness – she had sprinted from the Atrium, thinking that she was going to miss the allotted time slot. International portkeys were such a pain to rearrange, especially one that was supposed to land in the Portuguese Ministry.
"Granger," another voice drawled. Hermione looked up to meet Malfoy's eyes. She had not even noticed he was in the room. "Good to see you."
"You as well," she responded, her voice unnaturally formal. She had not seen him all month, not since they had returned from Vienna. He looked almost identical to the new version of himself now implanted in her short-term memory – fighting desperately against the image imbedded in long-term.
Scot clapped his hands together. "I hope you two enjoy Lisbon. I haven't been in many years, but it's truly a spectacular city. If you stand on the coast and squint, you can see New York!"
Hermione forced herself to chuckle, while Malfoy's expression remained stone-cold. Evidently, he had not found Scot's joke very amusing.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. "A minute to go. Where's the portkey?"
"Oh, yes!" Scot exclaimed, gesturing to a quill on the desk. "That's your one. You two have better be going. The Portuguese are certainly more… southern than Vienna in their opinion on tardiness, but you cannot redo a first impression."
Malfoy chuckled under his breath, as Hermione shot him a look.
Reaching forward, making sure her bag was firmly over her shoulder, she placed her index finger on the quill. Because of the size of Portkey, Malfoy had to enter into her personal space to access it as well.
Her hair was tickling the side of his arm.
"Sorry," she muttered, trying to shift flip it over her shoulder away from him.
"Don't worry about me, Granger," he replied, his voice low. "I've survived worse."
Hermione couldn't help the burst of giggles that escaped her mouth as the familiar pull on her naval appeared.
Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy had certainly survived worse than each other.
While not surviving at the same time.
Sunshine. That was her first real impression of Lisbon. In the hour since they had arrived in Portugal and had been taken to the hotel by a ministry official, all Hermione could think was sunshine. Granted, it was the middle of the day and June, but it was still striking.
It was not that Great Britain had no sun – of course it did, as everywhere did. But this blazing heat, light as far as the eye could see, reflecting off tiles and gleaming – this was glorious.
The hotel was on the coast. One side of the building had a view of central Lisbon, the other had a few of the Atlantic. Unlike in Austria, this hotel was not only for magical occupants. They had met the owner, a Squib named Alice, who catered to muggles and wizards alike.
Leaning over the balcony, Hermione felt the sea breeze on her skin, as salt spray bathed her in mist. She had left her hair down; feeling it blow around her face. Taking a deep breath, she allowed herself to just feel the sun.
A level of peace she had not felt in years.
"Granger? You there?"
Hermione glanced over her shoulder back into her hotel room.
"Out here!"
From the open connection door between the two rooms, Malfoy walked out, joining her on the balcony. As he appeared in the doorway, she was momentarily stunned. Had she… had she ever seen Malfoy like this before?
He looked relaxed. Wearing khaki shorts, a light blue button up with the arms rolled up past his elbows, his normally coiffed hair moving in the wind. He was normally so pale – alabaster porcelain – that she had somehow assumed he would look washed out in the light. But like the tiles lining the buildings of Lisbon, he had a gleam to him that was somehow soft and welcoming.
And glorious.
He leaned across the railing, taking in the view as she had been doing. But now, she could not look anywhere but him.
"You sure you aren't going to burst into flames?" she asked drily, her heart skipping a beat as his arm brushed against hers. What was that?
"I'll have you know, Granger, that the Malfoys are originally from the south of France. Your northern sensibilities are getting the best of you."
"It's possible for you to tan?" she asked, chuckling.
"Not only possible, but sometimes I do. You've spent too much time in Scotland."
"Scotland is lovely."
"It is. But it's not Lisbon in June."
Hermione smiled, turning back towards the Tagus. In the distance, she watched a sailboat make its way through the waves, flowing and ebbing with the current, allowing it to choose the direction.
"It's a breathtaking view," she remarked, as the water sparkled in the light.
"Can't disagree. Something tells me I have the best view in the world."
She chuckled, glancing back at him. He was eyeing her – his expression indistinguishable.
"What time is the welcome gala tonight?" she asked.
"Seven. We have a few hours yet. Would you like to…"
He trailed off and closed his mouth sharply, leaving her in cold silence that felt unnatural in this heat. She allowed her gaze to wander back to the ocean, desperately ignoring the stunted awkwardness that had reappeared, lying in wait since their last night in Vienna.
Would they ever acknowledge it in the light? Acknowledge the screams that haunted them in the dark? She was not sure she had the capacity – every morning, she woke up with the full expectation that at least in the daytime, she could continue the charade that she had discussed with Ron.
If you think we aren't suffering, you are not looking hard enough.
And not just the war, Hermione thought, as the silence between her and Malfoy stretched out longer. Them. The last night in Vienna had felt like a fissure, cracking down fault lines that had always been there – would always be there.
Whatever relationship she was forming with Malfoy in the context of this trip was built at the cross-section of tectonic plates. And even as she enjoyed the small moments, she could not yet be rid of the knowledge that the earth could shift at any moment, sending her tumbling into the abyss.
"I think I'd like to rest," she said quietly, ignoring the blankness that appeared in his eyes. "We can… we can meet up before the gala if you… if you would like to match. I'm wearing light blue."
He nodded curtly. "Of course, Granger. And that sounds perfect, I can wear grey. Complimentary."
He disappeared back into the building and into his room. Hermione heard the lock click from within as she considered what he had said.
What was grey without specks of blue? Her eyes drifted back to the ocean.
What was ocean blue without the grey undertones?
The sailboat floated by.
Was complimentary the right worked?
Only shades away.
She knocked on his door, shifting nervously. She had spent the afternoon sitting on the balcony, watching the waves and the ships. It was a fun game she had invented – trying to imagine where all the boats were going. Were they local, carrying families and lovers for an afternoon trip? Were they headed to huge international ports, half a world away, the sailors returning home with stories of Lisbon, of bright colours and sunshine?
What would she say of Lisbon when she returned home?
Eventually, she pulled herself up to prepare for the welcome gala. Her dress was soft blue, like the ocean in the sunlight, the fabric cascading down her body like waterfalls over silver sandals. She had braided the top portion of her hair, before letting the rest fall over her shoulders in waves.
She was feeling quite inspired by the natural beauty surrounding her.
"Coming," she heard him say from the other side. A few moments later, the door opened.
And for the second time in one day, she found herself stunned into silence by Draco Malfoy.
She had known he was going to wear grey. He had told her himself. But what he had not told her was that he was going to look like a bloody Greek god. The colour was somehow warm and neutral, of the smoothest silk falling over his body. His normally hooded eyes were peppered with silver flakes, so intense that she wondered briefly if he had charmed them. His eyes were immaculate – with the depth of the Tagus; she could get shipwrecked in them.
Eyes that were suddenly boring into hers.
"Granger?" he asked. "Did we lose you?"
"You…" she stuttered, feeling her cheeks flush. As the colour rose in her cheeks, she watched realization cross his expression, replacing his confused smile with a dastardly smirk.
"You have a thought on my appearance?" he asked, his voice smooth, steady, taunting – flirtatious.
A challenge.
She made a noise in response, untrusting of what could possibly come out of her mouth.
"Yes?" he asked again, raising an eyebrow, his silver-flecked eyes twinkling.
"Bugger off, Malfoy," she muttered, forcing her gaze down as she felt herself flush again. Gods, her body was the true Judas in her life – traitorous.
"Why would I do that?" he murmured, taking a step towards her that made her feel faint with proximity.
"You really are enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Enjoying the fact that a beautiful woman thinks I'm handsome? I believe I am, Granger."
She was so embarrassed that she hardly noticed how he had described her.
"I did not say that."
"Perhaps not with words," he said, holding out his arm for her to take – which she did, shivering as she wrapped her hand around the crook of his elbow. "But there are many ways to tell someone what you think of them."
She groaned. "Yes, I think you look handsome, Malfoy. That's not about your person."
"Not yet," he muttered, but before she had a chance to retort, she felt the familiar pull of apparition as they whisked away.
The welcome gala was outside – something Hermione normally would deplore. However, on the rooftop of the Ministry of Magic with the sun setting over the Atlantic Ocean, she understood the allure.
They were announced by Senhora Paredes, the Minister for Magic. She reminded Hermione of Ginny – fiery, with a quick wit and sharper tongue. Malfoy had informed her after the announcement that she was the youngest female Minister in Europe, a fact that warmed Hermione to her immediately.
The bottle of wine they split certainly helped Paredes's case.
She could feel her skin flush with the red wine, or perhaps it was the continuous embarrassment of being caught ogling Malfoy. But who could blame her, her slightly tipsy brain demanded, as she watched Malfoy schmooze his way through Portugal's elite. He was charming – that much was certainly true.
And goodness. Hermione may feel increasingly conflicting emotions about the man, but she was not blind.
"Senhora Granger," a voice asked from behind her. She turned quickly, splashing the wine from her glass as she was greeted by the Portuguese Head of DMLE, a man she had been introduced to briefly at the beginning of the gala – Tiago Pereira. He was young as well – early thirties. It seemed that Minister Paredes had inducted a new generation of politicians into her cabinet; a move that Hermione respected, never having been much of a fan of the 'old guard'.
"Senhor Pereira," she smiled at the man. He was taller than her, with tan skin, thick dark hair pulled back behind his head, and his robes of deep purple. He was watching her from beneath hooded eyes, lashes so think she could almost imagine the softness.
"Senhora Granger," he repeated, bowing slightly. "Would you do me the honour of a dance?"
"A dance? Absolutely," Hermione replied without hesitation. Dancing with ministry officials was an unspoken expectation of her role on this trip. However, not all the officials she had danced with in Vienna were as attractive as Pereira.
He gave her a wide smile, taking her glass to put on a nearby table. He held out his hand, which she took as he led her onto the dance floor. The sunset had given way to the night sky, stars smattered above Lisbon.
The moon glowed bright, reflected by the ocean.
Tiago spun her once before catching her in arms to begin the dance. She could not help but smile at him.
"It is an honour for you and Mr. Malfoy to visit Portugal on your trip," he said smoothly.
"Thank you, Senhor Pereira," she replied.
"Please, Senhora. Call me Tiago."
"Tiago, then," she smiled. "When I saw Lisbon on the list of cities, I was thrilled."
"Lisbon is a fascinating city, Senhora Granger," Tiago continued, spinning her again. "Did you know it was almost entirely destroyed?"
She raised an eyebrow. "No, I did not."
"Yes, in 1755. There was a catastrophic earthquake. Lisbon is old – there is culture here, deep rooted history. And in one day, the city was destroyed. Shattered. Left in ruins."
"But," Hermione wondered aloud, looking over across the illuminated cityscape. "It's so beautiful. And old."
"We rebuilt it," Tiago continued. "We repaired what we could, honouring the past, and created a new city on the ruins. What you see today of Lisbon is remnants of both – destruction and creation – combined to create wonder."
"I'm sorry for the city," Hermione murmured. "Such widespread destruction… I would not wish upon anyone."
"But you know of destruction, do you not, Miss Granger? Great Britain has seen losses far more recently than Lisbon."
"I suppose so," she murmured awkwardly; flashes of the war broke through the barrier in her mind, as red wine turned to blood splattered across the rubble.
"And your rebuilding process, Miss Granger?" Tiago asked softly, his attention laser focused on her. "How are you faring?"
It was unclear to her in that moment whether Tiago was asking about the country or her soul. However, as it stood, the answer was the same for both.
"We are no Lisbon yet, Tiago. Maybe one day."
"No one heals from an earthquake in a day," he continued, twirling her once more. "But time can rebuild more than history. It can rebuild the self."
Before Hermione had a chance to respond, she heard someone clear their throat behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, her gaze fell on Malfoy, who was standing directly behind them.
"Senhor Pereira," Malfoy said smoothly. "I must ask to borrow your dance partner for a moment, if that's not too much trouble."
"Not at all, Senhor Malfoy," Tiago replied, leaning down and kissing Hermione's hand as a parting gesture. His lips were soft as silk. "But if find yourself preoccupied; I will happily take her off your hands again."
"I find that doubtful," Malfoy responded, his voice suddenly cold, such a contrast with the warm air, as he pulled Hermione away from Tiago, spinning her around until she landed comfortably in his arms.
"What was that about?" she asked Malfoy, her brow furrowed as she noticed the tension in his jaw. He was looking over her shoulder – avoiding her eyes.
She was now aware what that meant.
The truth.
"He was trying to fuck you," Malfoy said bluntly, as Hermione's mouth popped open. "I didn't like it."
"He was… he was not trying to fuck me," Hermione spluttered, flushing a brilliant shade of red.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Don't get all virginal on me, Granger. It's beneath you."
She frowned. "I am not virgi…"
She slammed her mouth shut before the wine-caused confession hit the air. But it was too late.
Malfoy's jaw tensed again.
"Then I'm even more disappointed in your inability to tell when a man is trying to fuck you."
"Gods, Malfoy," she groaned. "Can you stop saying it so bluntly?"
"If you open your bloody eyes."
"And even if you're right," she continued, a thought crossing her mind. "How is it any of your business who I choose to spend my time with?"
There was a pause. Hermione could practically hear Malfoy grinding his teeth.
"Because, Granger. We are here as representatives of Great Britain to rebuild continental ties. Not to sleep around."
"Still not your business," Hermione muttered.
He murmured something under his breath that she did not catch. Perhaps it was the wine, or the star-smattered sky, but she could have sworn that he said:
Make it my business.
They left the gala quite late, making their way back to the hotel wine-drunk and exhausted. As they stumbled up to their rooms, Hermione felt her gaze drawn back to Malfoy.
She couldn't move on from what Tiago had said about earthquakes and rebuilding. Biting her lip, she considered Malfoy for a moment.
We are no Lisbon, yet. Maybe one day.
"Malfoy," she said slowly, wondering if she was going to regret this. He glanced up at her.
"Yes, Granger?"
"Would… would you like to explore Lisbon with me tomorrow?" she asked, allowing herself to taste the possibility. "We have all day before the dinner, and I… I think it might be nice."
He paused for a moment, that same indistinguishable expression appearing on his face.
"I would enjoy that, Granger. Might make being in my presence more tolerable."
She frowned. "It's not intolerable… it's just complex."
"Complex we can work with," he replied, opening the door to his room. "You sleep well, Granger. I'll get you a coffee in the morning."
She nodded, testing the waters of tolerability like dipping a toe in the Tagus. "I hope you sleep well, too."
He shot her a quick smile before a darkness descended on his face. She raised an eyebrow.
"Alright, Malfoy?"
"Granger," he started, hesitating, stumbling – the confident aristocrat nowhere to be found. "Don't put up your wards tonight."
Her mouth popped open as the topic – the last night in Vienna – was finally broached.
"Why… why wouldn't I put them up?"
"Because I deserve to hear it," he replied. "You don't need to hide your pain from me, Granger. We're past that."
"Are we?" she whispered, unmoored once again.
"We will be," he said quietly before disappearing into the room.
She did not put up the wards that night.
June 2, 1999
"Good morning, Granger."
She was ricocheted into consciousness as she bolted upright in bed. The light streaming through the window determined that it was morning – she had slept through the night.
Though an interesting fact on its face, that was not the reason she let out a small yelp.
No – that was because a fully dressed Draco Malfoy was standing at her bedside, holding a coffee in his hand.
"Malfoy!" she screeched, pulling the bedsheet up to her chest. "What are you doing in here?"
"Waking you up, Granger," he replied, putting the coffee on the small table. "Come on now, we have a city to explore."
"How did you even get in here?" she asked, looking over to the open connecting door between the suites.
"Door was unlocked," he replied. "Besides, it's almost nine. Figured it's time for us to go. I have something I want to show you."
"Something you want to show me?" she asked, still focused on the unlocked door. She had not locked the door when she had not put up the wards.
"Yes, so get dressed and get some caffeine in your system."
Grumbling, she gestured for him to return to his own room, which he did without further comment. Hermione spent a minute sitting there, staring at the coffee on the bedside table.
She had not locked the door.
And neither, apparently, had he.
"So, what's this surprise then?"
Hermione asked him this as they traipsed through the neighbourhood of Chiado, part of the historic centre of Lisbon. She could not keep her eyes on one building at once, continuously drawn in all directions.
"Well, Granger. I'm not sure if you're aware, but you like books."
She snorted, the memory of their trip to the Austrian National Library still fresh in her mind. "Yes, very astute of you, Malfoy. You went to school with me for six years, and this is the best you've got?"
"And as someone who likes books," he continued, ignoring her, taking a laborious sip of his coffee. "I know of a location in Lisbon that may be of some interest to you."
"And that place is…" Hermione started before coming to an abrupt stop, outside a building on the corner of two streets. Her eyes danced up to blue tiling on the side of the building, until her gaze fell on the words by the doorway.
Livraria Betrand.
"As someone who likes books," Malfoy continued, watching her expression. "I felt you may be interested in the oldest operating bookstore in the world."
She could not help the gasp that escaped her lips, raising her hand to cover her mouth.
"Oh, Malfoy," she whispered. "Are you serious?"
"Absolutely," he said. "I… I did a bit of research on Lisbon before we came. If there's ever been a place more fitting for Hermione Granger, I could not name it."
She was not sure what prompted her to do this – perhaps it was sheer gratitude at the action, so simple yet so kind. Once again, she was reminded of the barely hidden derision with which Ron spoke of any academic endeavor.
She reached over and took Draco's free hand in her own – a gesture she was not unfamiliar with, given the amount they had danced in the previous month. But this was different; there were no cameras, no ballgowns, no lights. This was just her and him – two broken people on the streets of a once broken city, strangers to each other and the world.
And he had decided on this – for her.
"Thank you," she whispered. "This was so incredibly thoughtful."
"No problem, Granger," he answered, squeezing her hand and gesturing to the doorway. "Would you like to explore?"
"More than I would like to breathe."
There was not a second more of hesitation before she was in the doorway.
It felt as if she had fallen into her own personal brand of heaven.
"This is… infatuating," she breathed, her eyes wandering up the bookshelves that stretched on into infinity.
Malfoy chuckled from behind her. "Careful, Granger. Infatuation is the second most dangerous word in the English language."
"What is the first?" she asked, turning around and almost stumbling backwards. He was directly behind her – silver-flecked eyes burning into hers.
They stood for a moment like that – intimately close with his eyes tracing her face, as her breath hitched and she wondered, truly pondered, what they were doing.
Not just here, in this bookstore in Lisbon.
But within each other's fields of orbit.
She was off course.
"Maybe I'll tell you one day," he murmured.
He took a step back and the spell was broken.
Hermione led out the breath she had been holding.
"Want to carry on, then?" he asked, walking past her on his way deeper into the bookstore.
Her heart was hammering – unnaturally. Foreshocks.
Her earthquake was approaching.
"Lead the way."
They spent two hours in the bookstore before Hermione had finally decided to leave – lest she fall into a void of paperbacks from which she could never return. She ended up buying only two books – a tourist guide of Lisbon, and an English translation of Blindness, a novel by Portuguese author José Saramago, the man who had won the Nobel Prize for Literature the year prior.
A year burned into her memory for trauma and nothing else. And here was this author, receiving the highest honour for literature at the same time.
A speck of creation in the destruction.
"Where to next, Granger?" Malfoy asked her as they meandered their way through the streets. "Anything recommendations in that book of yours?"
She flipped through the travel book quickly, trying to spot something close to them on the map.
"It says that Alfama is not too far a walk."
"And what, pray tell, is Alfama?"
"It's the oldest neighbourhood in Lisbon," Hermione read. "Look at the pictures, Malfoy!"
He glanced over her shoulder at the buildings lining the page. "They do like their colour here, huh."
"Not every country can adopt grey with the passion of Great Britain."
He chuckled, a twinkling noise that fit the aesthetic of the streets surrounding them.
"Then Alfama it is."
Alfama turned out to be a collection of small cobbled streets leading into a maze of houses. Hermione could not keep the smile off her face as her and Malfoy descended a small staircase into the neighbourhood.
"We're going to get lost in here," Hermione whispered, glancing back the way they had come.
Malfoy shrugged, his eyes wandering up and down the houses. "Sounds fun."
"Getting lost? Not my fondest memory."
He rolled his eyes. "This is not some Department of Mysteries bullshit, Granger. This is exploration at its finest. Letting the street lead the way, not looking at a map. Allowing memories to create themselves. Besides, we won't be lost."
"How?" she asked. "We've been in here for a minute and I'm not sure how to get back out."
"We won't get lost because we have each other, Granger. Honestly, if you have no faith in me, just say that."
She opened her mouth to shoot back a clever retort, but after a moment, she closed it again.
They wandered in silence through the streets of Alfama, until seemingly from the heavens, haunting music began to waft out onto the streets.
"What's that?" Hermione whispered, inching herself closer to Malfoy before she could notice that she had.
"Fado," he answered.
"Since when have you spoken Portuguese?"
"I don't," he retorted, as the music grew louder. "The minister told me about it at the party last night. Said it was unmistakable."
Hermione listened to music enveloping the street once more. "Where's it coming from?"
Malfoy shrugged. "Bars. Houses. That's what the minister said."
"What does fado mean?"
"Untranslatable," Malfoy answered. "She said it would sound like mourning."
Hermione scoffed. "Untranslatable mourning. That's something I can relate to."
"Not everything is about the war, Granger," he said. "Many people mourn for all sorts of reasons – not just for the dead."
"How can you say that?" she whispered back at him, wanting to be quiet enough to not disturb the music. "How would you describe it then? What is mourning besides death?"
"Longing," he whispered, his eyes turning back to her. "Nostalgia. For what was, for what will never be."
"How can you be nostalgic for something that has not happened yet?"
He hesitated, so briefly that she almost did not notice it.
"When you've imagined it so vividly that the reality of its inexistence is soul-crushing."
"When did you become a poet, Malfoy?" she answered, strangely touched by his answer.
"I've been a poet longer than I care to admit," was his only response.
They walked through the streets in silence once again, the music their only guide.
"What's this?" Hermione asked as they approached a household with an old woman leaning out the front door. She had a small table set up with tiny shot glasses filled with a red liquid.
"Tourists?" the woman asked, her voice low and accented.
Hermione laughed. "Was it that obvious?"
She smiled warmly at them – an expression only a grandmother could offer. "The liquid is called Ginjinha. It is a traditional cherry liqueur. Would you like a taste? It is one euro a shot."
Malfoy laughed. "What is it, noon?"
Hermione turned back to the woman. "We'll take two." Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a few coins before passing them through the doorway. She smiled at them, before gesturing to the table. "Any one you would like."
"Starting out the trip strong, then," Malfoy muttered, reaching down and taking a shot glass as Hermione did the same. "Well, Granger. To Lisbon."
She raised her glass in a toast before shooting it back. "To Lisbon."
Sweet with hints of cinnamon – delectable and delicious. The cherry rushed down her throat as she felt sugar and history in her veins. Watching with interest, she saw Malfoy lick a remaining drop from his lips.
"It should be illegal for something to taste that good," Hermione whispered.
He glanced over at her. "I can think of many things that should be illegal to taste."
She flushed under his intense stare, as his head tilted infinitesimally to the side. He frowned slightly, before reaching his hand up towards her face.
"Malfoy," she started, confused, before he brushed his fingers up her chin, just ghosting over her lips. She froze upon feeling his hand on her – in the privacy of the labyrinthine neighbourhood. No cameras, no tour, just them.
Letting memories create themselves.
Without breaking her eye contact, he brought his fingers back to his mouth, and licked off a single remaining drop of the liqueur.
"Missed a spot, Granger."
The afternoon blurred into evening as they explored the old town. Eventually, they made it back to the hotel before going to a dinner with the cabinet. It felt repetitive to her, in a way, similar to the parties they had attended in Vienna. Conversations blurred as wine was consumed, and before she knew it, they were back at the hotel, ready to fall into bed.
She said goodbye to Malfoy quickly, before returning to her own room. Standing in front of the connecting door between the two of them, she considered locking it.
But eventually, she returned to her bed with the wards not up and the door unlocked, falling into a restless sleep.
She dreamed of cherry-tinted lips and longing.
June 3, 1999
They strolled along the Tagus in the morning, the light sea breeze doing as much for their level of consciousness as the coffees in their hands.
"Do you ever want to live on the water?" she asked Malfoy, as they both watched boats go by.
He shrugged. "I'm not against it. I guess it's never something I've given a large amount of thought."
"I would love it," she whispered, as their journey down the Tagus took them closer to the mouth of the Atlantic; where river and ocean collided in waves.
"Move to the seaside then, Granger. Let the water sweep you away."
Oh, how sometimes she wanted to.
They continued down the Tagus until a fortification came into view. Sitting on the riverbank was a large tower, sandstone in colour, with decorative carvings across the exterior.
"That must be the Belém Tower," Malfoy mused. She gave him a quick glance.
"More information from your Lisbon research period?"
"Absolutely," he continued. "It was used as the symbolic gateway to Lisbon for nautical explorers and tradesman. 16th century, I believe?"
She scoffed. "Sounds colonial."
He glanced over at her. "I don't know what that means."
The honesty of his admission stunned her – though she should not have necessarily been surprised.
Hermione sighed. "It was a period of history where powerful muggle nations, mostly European, sailed around the globe and conquered other places, enslaved their people, and took the territory for themselves."
"And the Portuguese were… colonial?"
"Everyone was colonial," Hermione explained, as they reached the tower. "Great Britain was probably the worst. The sun never sets on the British Empire."
"So, muggles just went… and conquered other muggles? Why?"
"Money," Hermione explained. "Racism. Territorial expansion. Christianity."
"That's ridiculous," Malfoy frowned, looking up at the bastion. "And completely senseless. Why would they ever do that?"
Hermione gave him a look, unsure if he was being sarcastic or merely uneducated.
After a moment of silence, she landed on ignorance.
"Wizards don't have much of a leg to stand on."
He rolled his eyes. "I know we just had a war, but this senseless conquering… for what purpose? Just money?"
"Not just money," Hermione frowned. "But pure racism. Imperialism. Eurocentricism."
"It just seems a silly reason to hate another person. Where they are from. What they look like."
Hermione could not believe what she was hearing. "It's the same principle as blood supremacy. It's about a group of people viewing themselves as superior and killing, enslaving, and conquering those they deemed inferior."
"But… they're all muggles. They're all the same."
"And we're all wizards and witches," Hermione continued, feeling frustration set in in her bones at the sheer ignorance radiating off of the man at her side. "Or am I not, because I'm muggleborn?"
"Granger, that's not what I said…"
"Can't have it both ways, Malfoy," she snapped, as tension enveloped her – an elastic threatening to snap. "You can't look at colonialism and not understand why it happened after supporting Voldemort in the war. It's the same hate, vile hatred, just muggle not magical."
"No, it's not," he retorted. "This seems… this is about profit. The Dark Lord was not trying to profit."
"In what world?" she snarled. "And what does it matter if the outcome was the same? Gods, are you really this dense? The fact that you cannot see the parallels… all human societies have war and hatred – magical or muggle. This cannot be incomprehensible to you when you were a part of the Death Eaters. Same hate. Different contexts."
He considered her for a moment, not arguing immediately as she had expected. He pursed his lips.
"I just don't understand the context," he said. "I… this history is foreign to me. I just don't get it."
"So read a book, Malfoy," she replied. "If you're having trouble with this, I can't imagine what you'll think of Berlin next month."
"What do you mean?"
"Look it up yourself."
They passed the rest of the day in tense silence. Neither spoke much. Hermione stewed in fury, as the Malfoy she expected – the Malfoy she had known, had once again appeared, so close to the surface that a mere conversation about colonial architecture could bring him out again.
Malfoy looked thoughtful for the rest of the day, and she wondered briefly if he was genuinely considering what she had said. The two Malfoys in her head and memory were battling – trying to establish dominance. This new man had been winning, but now… she was not so sure.
They stumbled through drinks with the Minister of International Magical Cooperation and the dinner that followed. Hermione wondered if all the officials could see the unspoken anger emanating off her body.
It was not her job to explain to Malfoy the horrors of colonialism. Not when he had been high in an organization that touted the same values. Magical or muggle – vile hatred and opportunism, two sides of the same coin.
She was tired. She was angry.
She was not Malfoy's teacher.
If he really cared that much about improving, the way it had seemed he did, in quiet moments where he was kind, where he took her to the bookstore, where he apologized and cried for the way he had acted – if he really cared, he would improve himself on his own time. Using his own energy.
Because she, certainly, did not have the energy for this.
When they returned to the hotel that night, Hermione did not say goodnight before storming into her room. Without much more consideration on the matter, she raised her wand and cast the wards while locking the door.
He would not hear her scream again.
Her trauma was hers to share.
He had not earned that access.
June 4, 1999
"You put the wards up last night."
This was how Malfoy greeted her in the morning when she opened the door to the hallway, hoping to sneak out and get a coffee before he woke up.
Unlucky for her, he was standing on the opposite side of the door – one arm raised as if he were about to knock.
She frowned. "I did."
"Why?" he asked, something bordering anger simmering in his voice.
"Why?" she asked, disbelieving, feeling the leftover fury from the previous day rise in her chest once again. "Because I wanted to. Because what I go through every night is private, and I get to choose who I share it with. You have not earned it, Malfoy."
"Who earns trauma, Granger?" he burst out, running a hand through his hair. "That's a ridiculous statement."
"Not trauma," she answered, as she considered the implication of the term. "Trust."
He froze, and Hermione swore he paled in the light. She felt powerful – in control.
A feeling she had missed for years.
"I know that we've fallen into this weird truce, Malfoy," she said, her voice steady. "And that we've figured out how to dance, and chat, and tour cities. But it… it's a mirage. It's not us. We are seven years of war, and violence, and hatred. We are not Alfama fado and liqueur and rebuilding… we are not Lisbon."
"Granger," he said, his voice quiet, and his eyes pleading. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said about colonialism, I've been thinking about it…"
"I'm glad that you've been thinking about it, Malfoy," she interrupted. "But it doesn't necessarily change the fact that for half of your lifetime – you lived it. You were the colonial seaman, sailing to the New World without a care for those you deemed beneath you, with power and glory as your final goal. That's what you were – are. A few trips abroad have not changed my opinion of you."
His jaw was tense again, and he was looking over her shoulder, refusing to meet her eyes.
"Granger. Please. Let me prove to you that I'm not that man anymore."
"You had years of chances, Malfoy," she muttered. "I'm not sure I can forget that yet."
"Ever?"
"Or ever."
He sucked in a breath.
She sighed. "Just… let me think about it. Let me tour Lisbon myself for the rest of the trip. We can dance at the galas and chat and fulfill our purpose. But give me some space to consider… everything. You owe me that."
He nodded tersely, causing relief to fill her chest.
"Fine, Granger. I'll give you your space. But just… consider that perhaps people are not as black and white as you make them out to be. I can… I have changed. There's grey to me."
Silver-specked eyes.
"There never was before."
Hermione wandered her way back to Alfama alone, considering her conversation with Malfoy that morning. She felt off-balance, as if her rational side and how she felt were at war with each other, no side coming out victorious.
She was so tired of war.
In a way, she understood what he had been saying that morning. There was grey to him – beautiful grey eyes gazing at her under the stars above Lisbon. But there was also monochromatic separation. There was still the man who had watched her be tortured on his drawing room floor.
But they were bleeding together – colours melting into shades that blurred in her conception of who he was.
She walked past a church before finding a set of steps. Unsure where they were leading, but positive the destination could not be more treacherous than her thoughts, she decided to climb.
At the top, she came onto a terrace with views over Alfama and the Tagus. A breath-taking find; the walls were tiled with blue and white as the sun beamed down on her hair. Like a woman transfixed, she walked over to the edge, leaning over the side until she could see Lisbon sprawled out below her.
How had they rebuilt this city? She found herself wondering. It had been a thought at the forefront of her mind since her discussion with Tiago.
An earthquake had demolished this whole place, taking with it the lives of thousands. But Lisbon had rebuilt, over centuries, creating the place she was standing above, reveling in its beauty.
The very possibility of rebuilding was tantalizing to her; they could rebuild Hogwarts, an ongoing project. They could rebuild their society, mend its patchwork demolition.
She could rebuild herself, she considered, thinking of her nightmares and the daylight. Create a new Lisbon on her rubble.
From the Miradouro da Graça, as she later learned the terrace was called, she conceptualized what it meant to rebuild.
For this was not the same city that had crumbled under the earth in 1755.
This was a new place – forged in destruction and built through creation.
Not the same – you cannot recreate what was lost in between the tectonic plates.
But what could Hermione create instead?
June 7, 1999
Hermione had avoided Malfoy for the remainder of the trip – taking the chance to explore Lisbon on her own. But as she wandered the street, she understood what Malfoy had been saying about feeling lost.
Because she certainly did now.
The wards went up every night. They acknowledged each other at the dinners. To her great anger, Tiago had asked her out for a drink, which she had refused.
She did not want to give Malfoy the knowledge that he had been right.
That was if they ever spoke again.
The final night of the Lisbon week was the concluding gala. Hermione was nervous as she dressed in her hotel room. She would be forced to dance with him tonight, to have him hold her, spin her in a circle. Smile for the cameras. Pretend. Always pretend.
The walls were closing in on her relationship with Malfoy. There were nine more weeks after this. She would have to make a choice – she would have to decide who she thought he was.
She wondered briefly if Kingsley would take her off the trip.
But that was a foolish, errant thought.
No – this choice was hers alone.
She knocked on the connecting door between their two rooms with inherent trepidation. After a few moments, he unlocked it.
After having seen Malfoy dressed to the nines more frequently in the past month than she ever thought she would, it surprised how much he still surprised her. Dressed in black robes, he was art of contrast. Blonde hair, pale skin, silver eyes. Silver eyes boring into hers.
"Granger," he said curtly. Formally. With distance.
She flinched.
"I wanted to see if you were ready."
"I am," he replied, looking over her dress. "You look lovely."
The way he complimented her… it was stunted. Disconnected. Nothing like the compliments she had received from him lately.
As if he was forcing himself into neutrality.
Her eyes snapped back to his.
And there it was, as recognizable as the sun in the Lisbon sky.
He was occluding.
She glanced down at her dress. Deep red, off the shoulder with full sleeves. She would not have to glamour the mark tonight. Nothing special, certainly not the most extravagant dress she had worn on the trip so far.
But he could not look at her without forcing everything down.
As he held out his arm for her to side-apparate, she allowed herself to consider for the first time, what he was trying to hide from her.
The goodbye gala was just as raucous as the final event in Vienna. All the members of the Ministry were here, with friends and family, drinking wine and champagne as they danced across the floor.
Since arriving, Hermione had drunken several glasses of red wine. Her lipstick was deep red, so there was no fear of staining.
After her obligatory opening dance with Malfoy, she had found herself passed around various ministry officials, until she sat down at a table, allowing her eyes to wander around the room.
However, like magnets, she was always drawn back to him.
Why was he occluding? She wondered. It was obvious to her that he was… his very stance was more stilted. Nothing like the relaxed man she had wandered Lisbon with, or the broken shell she had seen in Vienna.
He was nothing. Numb. Neutral.
She hated it.
"Is this seat taken?" a voice asked as she glanced up. Jumping to her feet, she smoothed out the silk of her skirt.
"Minister Paredes," Hermione exclaimed at the arrival of Portugal's magical leader. "Of course, take a seat."
"Thank you, Senhora Granger," Paredes responded, shooting her a smile as she took a sip of wine and sat at the table. "I saw you sitting alone and thought I would offer you some company."
"That's very kind, Minister," Hermione said. "Apologies for my lack of party spirit. It's been a wonderful week, just long."
"I understand," she answered. "These international trips, they can drain a person."
"Definitely," she replied, as she watched Paredes's gaze shift to Malfoy.
"Your partner does not seem to have felt the exhaustion yet."
Hermione shrugged, unsure if it would be helpful to announce that severe Occlumency was the reason for Malfoy's ability to stomach the party.
Paredes regarded the man for another few moments before turning back to Hermione.
"Do you know Malfoy well?" Paredes asked, as Hermione took a sip of wine.
"Not particularily," she replied, the tang of the wine still on her tongue. "We went to school together."
"At Hogwarts?" Jane asked.
Hermione nodded. "All seven years – well, six, I suppose."
"You were in the same year, then?"
"Unfortunately," she answered before she could stop herself.
The corner of the Minister's lips quirked at the comment. "Unfortunately? How so?"
"We were in rival houses," she explained, hoping the schoolyard rivalry excuse would deflect the Minister's interest.
It did not.
"You speak with too much passion for that to be the case," she mused. Hermione felt the intensity of the gaze and let her eyes drift to the Minister's robes. Ginny would love this woman – deep burgundy with a gold trim.
"We did not like each other in school," Hermione continued, taking another sip of wine to calm her nerves, her eyes downcast.
What vice do you use to survive?
"And do you like him now?"
The bluntness of the question surprised her, and the Minister chuckled at the expression on her face.
"My apologies for overstepping, Senhora Granger. But I merely find myself intrigued by your arrangement. I have more knowledge about your war than perhaps some of my colleagues do. I read the transcripts from Senhor Malfoy's trial."
Hermione froze.
"You spoke bravely," Paredes continued, eyeing her expression. "About morality and choices, and the sins of our fathers. But nonetheless, he stood by and let you be tortured, did he not?"
"I do not wish to speak about this, Minister," Hermione whispered. The word mudblood burned under blood-red silk.
"And I do not mean to upset you. I understand your trepidation with Malfoy, I understand why you may not like him."
"But?" Hermione added, understanding the undertone of the conversation.
"But you have been staring at him for an hour. I found myself curious."
Hermione flushed again, as her gaze wandered back to where it had been the whole night: on Draco Malfoy, dancing beneath the Lisbon sky.
"He is allowed to prove you wrong," Paredes continued.
Hermione flinched. "Is bluntness a known characteristic of the Portuguese?"
The Minister chuckled. "Perhaps not, but it is definitely a known characteristic of me. You do not become Minister for Magic at thirty-five if you are tepid. In fact, you hardly get anywhere at all."
"Thank you, Minister," Hermione interrupted, suddenly feeling quite overwhelmed. Panic rose in her throat like bile. "But I would request a reprieve from this conversation."
Paredes bowed respectfully, inclining her head as she considered the British witch.
"Passion is a characteristic of the Portuguese, Miss Granger. And in that regard, I believe we relate."
"What did Paredes say to you?" a voice whispered in her ear.
Hermione spun on her heel. She had retreated to the shadows after her conversation with the minister. She felt the familiar anxiety creep through her body and had been holding onto the wall away from prying eyes, gasping for breath.
"Malfoy," she whispered. Because of course it was him.
Who else could it be?
He had found her in her hiding spot, in the dark where she had quartered herself off from reality. Where she could feel trauma in peace – or if not in peace, in private.
And he had found her here, ripping her back into the world she was forced to inhabit.
The world that had destroyed her.
"Granger?" he asked again, his silver eyes tracing her face. He was still occluding. "What happened?"
Hermione took a deep breath, but instead of filling her lungs with oxygen, it spluttered down, meeting her chaos tears as they threatened to overflow.
"I can't," she whispered, her voice fragile, as she felt the tears start to wander down her cheeks.
He pursed his lips. "We need to leave."
"No, Malfoy! The party… we have to stay at the party…"
"We don't have to do a damn thing," he hissed at her. "You're on the brink of a panic attack in front of Portugal's elite. If I haven't earned your trauma, they certainly haven't. We are leaving now."
Before Hermione could argue further, Malfoy had taken her hand and apparated them away.
They landed in her hotel room, and the sheer relief at the privacy caused Hermione to lose it.
Tears burst forward like a dam breaking, sobs wracking her body as she tried to hold herself together. What was threatening to break her today? The trip? The war? The nightmares? Malfoy?
All and none, at once.
She felt now familiar arms wrap themselves around her shaking frame, until she was flush against his chest. The thought that she should shove him away crossed her mind, but it disappeared with the wind as she realized how safe she felt.
But that was wrong, was it not? She should not feel safe in this man's arms. She should not feel safe with Draco Malfoy. He should not have been the one to save her tonight, to protect her from the world.
But he had.
And she did.
And here they were.
He is allowed to prove you wrong.
She reached her trembling hands up to the front of his robes and grabbed on like lifelines. She felt his hands tighten their grip on her back, holding her together when she was coming apart. Like a city during an earthquake, she would shatter.
And he held her quaking infrastructure up.
Ron had never seen her cry like this.
Harry had never seen her cry like this.
She only cried like this on her own, in the moments when it was all too much, when the dead outweighed the living and the bodies crawled out of their graves in her mind. When she could not believe all that she had lost at age eighteen. When she woke up screaming.
When she remembered that her parents were gone.
It all rushed through her mind as she considered that Lisbon had cracked her open, leaving her raw and vulnerable and broken. And here was Malfoy – holding her together.
He is allowed to prove you wrong.
If only she allowed it.
Once the tears had dried themselves up, and she tasted salt on her tongue, she pulled her face out from his chest and looked up at his expression.
"Why are you occluding?" she whispered, as the kaleidoscope of silver remained neutral.
He tensed, his arms flexing around her back.
"Because if I break like you, Granger, you will never put me back together."
"And I can be?" she asked quietly. "Put back together, I mean."
He nodded slowly.
"I believe you can be."
She let out another quiet, wayward sob as she took a step back, his arms letting her go as a chill set into her frame. Rubbing tears out of her eyes, she glanced at him.
He was still occluding, that much was obvious. But one solitary emotion had managed to break through.
Fear.
"Are you alright, Malfoy?" she asked.
He shrugged.
"One day I hope to be."
"What destroyed you?" she whispered before she could stop herself.
He paused.
"Expectation."
She nodded. That one she understood.
"Thank you for getting me out of there," she said quietly. "I'll send a message to Paredes apologizing."
He waved his hand dismissively. "They got us for a whole week. Sue us for taking the last hour for ourselves."
"I'm not sure how I'll be able to sleep," she murmured.
"You've surprised me before, Granger. I'm sure you'll be okay."
Her eyes were downcast, staring at her toes just peeking out from beneath the silk.
And then insanity struck.
Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps it was the onslaught of emotional vulnerability. Perhaps it was Paredes. Perhaps it was the shock that she had felt safe in his arms.
Safe in the arms of her enemy.
Safe in the one place she shouldn't.
I can think of many things that should be illegal to taste.
Or perhaps it was a combination of all of the above that prompted her to ask the following question.
"Will you stay with me tonight? To help me sleep?"
The words hit the air, crossing a barrier that had been constructed between them. The request shifted where they stood when it came to each other – and with the force of city walls crumbling in an earthquake, she watched their relationship change.
Irreversibly.
And then his Occlumency walls shattered.
She saw burning in his eyes, pure longing – it made her breathless to consider why. He let out a small gasp, as if he expected her to recant the offer.
But she didn't.
She knew what she was willing to give.
The choice had been made.
He stared at her for a few more moments, waiting for her to laugh, or say it was a joke. But when she did not, when she stood strong in her bout of insanity, eventually he nodded.
"As if I could refuse you anything, Granger. Just wait a moment so I can change."
He disappeared into his own room, and Hermione, not considering what monumental wall she had just torn down, changed out of her dress into shorts and Harry's shirt. She would not let regret change her mind – she would allow instinct to guide her way; a sailboat in the Tagus. Her feet in Alfama. A moment later, he reappeared, wearing pajama pants and a cotton t-shirt.
"Come on then, Granger," he whispered. She nodded, slipping under the covers of the blanket and pulling herself over to meet Malfoy as he waded in.
Like dipping toes in the Tagus.
He pulled her towards him, resting her head on his chest as he slowly, methodically brushed her hair out of her face.
Like she was precious. Like he cared.
They lay there in silence for a few moments until she finally spoke.
"Malfoy?"
"Hmm?"
She took a deep breath.
The city walls crumbled, never to be rebuilt.
She found she did not mind.
"You can prove me otherwise. If you'd like."
There was a pause.
"I'd be honoured, Granger."
They fell asleep like that, tangled in bedsheets and each other. And when Hermione woke up in the morning, the consequences of her actions hit her with startling clarity.
She had not had any nightmares.
And she felt it; that indescribable feeling that fado articulated in music.
Nostalgia for something that had not happened yet.
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Chapter 4 - Berlin will be out on August 12th