Author's Note: This is a story with a love triangle featuring both Hermione/Sirius and Hermione/Lucius. If you do not enjoy both these ships, you will likely not enjoy this story.
If you need to know the endgame before reading (which I do not recommend since it's a big spoiler, but I understand those who will want to read depending on the endgame pairing), feel free to PM me.
Please view the story on ao3 for additional characters, tags, and author notes.
Hermione sat on the cool stone bench, one hand curled beneath her chin, the other picking absently at the hole in her stocking. She slipped her finger beneath the black, sheer nylon, scratching at her calf and debating whether or not to repair it with magic or just vanish the damn things into nonexistence. Stockings, Hermione thought bitterly. It's the year 1998, magic exists, and every witch in the Ministry of Magic is expected to wear stockings like it's the hallmark of Wizarding professionalism. Harry and Ron and every bloody man in the Ministry gets away with perfectly comfortable trousers, while I'm stuck with itchy, hot, inexcusably easy to tear—Hermione snagged the nylon on her fingernail and ripped upwards. The hole split open, disappearing beneath the hem of her grey robes.
She stared at the tear for a moment longer, then shook her head. With a flick of her wand and a murmured Reparo, her skin disappeared beneath the nylon.
Her attention returned to the room she'd been sat in for the past half hour of her lunch break. The Death Chamber was always empty, save for the occasional Unspeakable coming to fruitlessly experiment. Though those instances were always scheduled far in advance, and posted in the morning memo that flit through the Department of Mysteries' administrative office. Today, she was left alone. Alone in the unwavering chill. Alone in the pleasant dimness. Alone with the silence and her thoughts that filled it. Alone with the Veil, and the itch that someone stood just on the other side.
As an Unspeakable herself, albeit a junior secretary, Hermione had open access to the Death Room. Of course, she'd never asked for explicit permission to go inside, but plenty of her colleagues had seen her going to and from the chambers. No one said anything to the contrary. One in particular, Gareth Greengrass, always shot her a knowing smile when he passed her in the hallway leading to the room. Maybe he too had once sought the room's quiet. She never asked, though. And no one asked her. Though Hermione had been thrilled when she received her position the August after Voldemort's defeat, the job itself was…unexpectedly menial. Hermione wasn't opposed to being placed in the administrative office, especially after her sharp-tongued boss Ms. Culpepper was adamant that it was only temporary until a research position opened up. That conversation had taken place four months ago. Four months of filing reports and redacting information and waving off memos with a bored flick of her wand.
At least she had her lunch hour.
Not that she ate lunch during it—that was better suited to a quick bite in her cubicle, though ever since she began visiting the Death Room, she had hardly an appetite at all. No, the hour was better suited to more important things, like staring at the Veil, and wondering how she'd gotten here. Her job. The Ministry. The end of the war and all the pain and confusion and grief that came with it. Sometimes she plunked her bag down on one of the benches and cried silently for an hour. Other times, like today, she just fidgeted and thought. Wizards didn't have therapists. The Veil became hers, she supposed. At least the Veil didn't ask questions, like the few people she'd tried to talk to.
Hermione knew they just wanted to help her, but she just didn't know how. How anyone could. Molly had tried to smother her, Arthur had gotten all earnest and nervous, and Harry just tensed up, so unreasonably guilty that Hermione ended up comforting him instead. Of course, she had tried to talk to Ron—he was her boyfriend, after all. But those conversations always ended in red faces and bickering. It was better, this way. She didn't bother the others with her trauma and nightmares. They didn't walk away miserable for not being able to help. Besides, everyone else had their own share of pain. No one needed hers added to their pile.
With a glance at her watch—a delicate, gold piece given to her by Ginny after the young woman insisted she'd never wear the birthday present herself—Hermione rose from the bench. Her knees creaked, and her bones popped as she stretched out her back. It was time to get back to redacting a rather complicated report destined for the press office. Not that there'll be anything interesting left, once I'm through with it. Hermione always had tight instructions when it came to such matters. Though the report on the magical potency of comatose brains had been rather riveting, she knew any true breakthroughs wouldn't make it to the public for some time.
Clutching her wand and slinging her tote over one shoulder, Hermione began her ascent up the amphitheater-like rows, her kitten heels clacking satisfying against the stone. At the top, she turned back towards the dais. The archway stood there, silent as ever. Hermione didn't believe in a true afterlife, biblical or Wizarding. Supposedly, that's why the Veil had always been silent to her, unlike Harry or Luna. The tattered fabric between the ancient stones blew faintly, shifting in an unseeable wind.
Gripping her wand tighter, Hermione turned back around. Just as her fingers closed around the handle to the door, a whisper drifted from behind.
"Hermione."
Hermione whipped back around, but the Veil was no different. Silent once again. With a tight frown, Hermione yanked open the door and stepped into the black, marble hallway that would take her back to the rest of the department. Ridiculous, Hermione thought as she marched down the hall. She had just been spending too much time in the Death Room, her brain had started playing tricks. She had visited the room daily for nearly four months, and not once had the Veil spoken to her. Not that she expected it to—not that she wanted it to. Death was something far away from this world, something she wanted absolutely nothing to do with for a long time. Hermione Granger did not believe in an afterlife, and she certainly did not believe that someone over there wanted her.
Even if that voice, she now realized as she came to a sharp halt, sounded eerily like Sirius Black.
Words swam before her eyes as Hermione tapped one last phrase with her wand. Opaque ink spread neatly over the letters. She smiled at it dried in seconds.
Done—she was finally done with the report. At least her part of it—another Unspeakable would go over her redactions, then it would fly off to some disappointed reporter at the Daily Prophet.
Hermione glanced around as she collected her half-finished lunch and the book she'd idled through during the slow morning. The other secretaries had already left, leaving the grid of mahogany and glass cubicles blissfully quiet after a day of chittering. When she first arrived in early August, Hermione had hoped to become friendly with some of her coworkers. But between her status as a war heroine, and the gossip still surrounding her as one third of the Golden Trio, her fellow secretaries had mostly kept their distance. Some were nervous to speak with her, she supposed. Hermione had her name in the paper since fourth year, after all. Others, she guessed based on their hard eyes and false smiles, hated how easily Hermione had received her position. Even in the secretarial division, every witch or wizard in the Department of Mysteries had worked tirelessly for their job, both in Hogwarts and beyond. Coming in with only her sixth year completed, and hastily taken (but well-earned) N.E.W.T.S., Hermione had a target on her back.
At least now, no one would be aiming curses at that bullseye. At least she hoped.
She walked briskly to the lift, relieved to find it empty. "Level Two, please," she said aloud, before bracing herself on the handrail. She'd made plans this morning to get dinner in Muggle London with Harry and Ron—some new pizza place she'd overheard two women in the Muggle Liaison Office talking about. The boys would still be in the Auror Office, of course—they tended to work later than even Hermione.
To her surprise, the lift doors slid open just one floor up with a mechanical clanking. A blonde-haired man stared back at her.
Hermione took an involuntary step back, knuckles tightening around her wand as she gazed up at the face of Lucius Malfoy. Gone was the gauntness and disheveled hair he'd worn at the Battle of Hogwarts, replaced by a shining mane and filled-out features. If Hermione hadn't seen him herself that day, she would have assumed the man's life had never even spiraled down the drain. She knew the truth, though. After a three-month stint in Azkaban (which he had obviously bought, despite Kingsley's best effort to fully sentence the Death Eater), Mr. Malfoy had returned to his manor for a two-year parole and house arrest period. Narcissa and Draco had already left by the time he got home, according to the Prophet. Off to America, off in hiding from their mistakes.
How though—and why—Mr. Malfoy now stood in the Ministry's atrium, catching a lift, Hermione had no idea.
To her surprise, Mr. Malfoy averted his eyes, a troubled look playing on his aristocratic face. "Excuse me," he muttered politely.
Hermione blinked, confused, before realizing she was blocking the entrance. "Sorry," she whispered, hating how squeaky her voice sounded.
"No need to…apologize," he said stiffly. Hermione stepped to her right, allowing the man to stand beside her. "Level Two," he said quietly.
He's headed to the DMLE too, she thought, swallowing down the heartbeat in her throat. As the gears began to whirl, and the lift began to climb, Hermione couldn't help but glance at the man. He was supposed to be locked up inside that foul manor, rotting away in his ornate prison. And yet he stood next to her, alone, and apparently unaffected by the turmoil swirling in her head.
Mr. Malfoy cleared his throat, then shifted slightly. A flash of copper caught her eye, and her gaze slid down to the hem of his robes. Beneath the emerald-green fabric, an anklet of sorts encircled the leg of his trousers. Though she couldn't be sure, Hermione thought she heard a faint hum emitting from the metal.
"Oh," she breathed out, flushing when she realized she'd spoken aloud. Like a muggle tracking device. Probably a magic dampener too. Maybe Mr. Malfoy had just come to get the anklet checked, or to get it strengthened. Though why in Merlin's name he'd be left alone, she had no idea.
As the lift rose higher, Hermione tried to ignore the prickling licking up her spine. She still had dreams of that day at the manor. Still dreamt of him, standing there, watching Bellatrix's blade carve a word in her skin. She'd dream of him tonight, Hermione realized with a shiver. Tonight, he'd hold the blade, smiling as she screamed.
When the lift finally opened on Level Two, Hermione had all but pressed herself against the back wall. "A–after you," she said, her eyes on the back of his head. No more stuttering, she vowed, holding her chin higher.
Mr. Malfoy's fingers twitched, and his head tilted slightly towards her. "Good day, Miss Granger."
Hermione waited until his footsteps disappeared down the hallway until she ventured out. A few Ministry workers eyed her curiously, though if it was because they'd seen her with Mr. Malfoy or because it was her, she couldn't be sure.
Thankfully, Mr. Malfoy hadn't gone down the hallway leading to the Auror Office. The polished, parquet floors gleamed up at her with a warped reflection, which Hermione kept her eyes glued to as she hurried. Finally she reached the golden plaque proclaiming the Junior Auror offices, and she threw open the door.
To her surprise, the room was empty. The cubicles were similar to her own—all frosted glass and rich wood—though papers strewn about the desks would normally have her fuming. Harry and Ron each had a cubicle by the door, across from each other. Both were empty.
With a frown, Hermione made her way back into the hallway. Maybe they left early? Decided to meet me at the restaurant? Her eyes flew to the auburn-haired Proudfoot striding towards her.
"Hello, Granger," he said, bowing his head. He bounced on his feet, as if she'd caught him off-guard. Though he smiled, his lips were thin, and his forehead crinkled further.
"Proudfoot." She eyed the unmarked file under his arm before her gaze flicked back to his. Dark blue eyes stared impassively back at her, though she figured that was due more to his work than her surprise presence. "I was supposed to meet Harry and Ron here. Have they already slipped down to the floo?"
"Afraid not—at least not the ones in the atrium. I've assigned some of the new aurors to a case in France." He glanced upwards, calculating the time. "Should be gone another…twelve or so hours."
She tried to keep the dismay off her face. It sank to her stomach instead. "Oh, was it a last-minute assignment?"
He studied her for a moment before giving her a tentative smile. "Afraid not."
"Right. Alright, I'll just be, er, going then. Have a good evening, Proudfoot." She spun around and stalked off before his pity had time to be spoken.
Grimmauld Place was immutably dusty, hopelessly drafty, and far too big for any three nineteen year-olds to properly share. And yet it had been her home after the war. A house, anyway. Hermione was yet to determine if the place could be a true home. Some spaces had been seeped with too much pain to sustain real comfort.
Kreacher dished her out leftover roast, which she accepted without complaint. Harry treated the elf well, despite his role in the war. Hermione supposed it was only because she had insisted so vehemently, back when they moved in last summer. No one had wanted to fight, then. Not when the war and their wounds were still fresh. The fighting and bickering had come later, once they'd settled into their new lives. Hermione thought that maybe they all fought on purpose, just to give themselves a taste of normalcy. Only, when they fought as children, it had been trivial things. Now, when the only subjects to bicker over were Ron's fondness for fire whiskey, Harry's new habit for rolling cigarettes, or her desire for a bedroom separate from Ron's, fighting wasn't so gratifying.
Hermione stabbed at a potato, wishing Ginny were here. She'd gone back to Hogwarts for her seventh year, and while she wrote often, it wasn't the same. Ginny injected laughter into any situation, even stirring up giggles from Hermione on her worst of days. Hermione figured she sometimes missed Ginny more than Harry even, seeing as Harry's work allowed him occasional trips up to Hogsmeade.
If only Christmas could hurry up already, Hermione mused, chewing on her thoroughly-stabbed potato wedge. They had plans to host Christmas in Grimmauld this year, since the Burrow was still finishing up its renovations. After the Weasley's home had been badly damaged during the war, Harry had insisted on using the Potter vault to pay for both the repairs and expansions. It took many a Weasley dinner of convincing, and many hints about an upcoming betrothal to a certain red-haired witch, but finally Molly had given in.
Hermione gazed around the dim kitchen, wondering if she ought to start thinking about Christmas decorations. It was only the twelfth of November, but a head start couldn't hurt. At least she could busy herself with something other than wallowing and pretending to read in the house's library.
After scrubbing her dishes the muggle way, Hermione started up the creaking staircase to the second floor. Her limbs felt too heavy as she climbed, the spot between her eyes sore from a long day at work. Realizing Harry and Ron had forgotten to tell her about their work trip didn't help the hurt either.
At the top of the stairs, Hermione looked down at her bedroom door (she had claimed a second floor bedroom, while Ron's was on the third), then turned towards the other side. Sirius's room sat on that end. She worried at her lip, fingers trailing over the curved end of the banister, before taking a tentative step forwards.
No one slept in Sirius's old room. No one even walked in, except for Kreacher when he half-heartedly cleaned. But something inside Hermione tugged her forward, urging her over the threadbare carpet and into the darkness within.
Hermione flicked on the light, and the brass sconces on either side of the bed switched on. Real flames flickered behind grimy glass, the gas lamps magically connected to the light switch by the door. Hermione's gaze drifted over the scarlet and gold bedspread, sunk in the center where Sirius must have once constantly sprawled. A quick check of the two other doors found a black-tiled bathroom and a walk-in closet, mostly empty save for a few robes and a man's muggle clothing. Hermione's hand lingered on the leather jacket, the smell of whiskey and tobacco and motor oil still clinging after all this time. She dropped her clothes on the closet floor and stepped naked into the bedroom. Her toes curled into the plush rug Sirius must have added later, smiling at the Primark tag sticking out the side.
With a wave of her wand, Hermione cut off the lamps and crawled into the bed. She curled beneath the covers, knees drawn to her chest, wand still clutched in one hand. The quiet was consuming, comforting. It reminded her of the Death Room, of her time with the Veil.
She and Sirius had been friends, but never close. He had seen her, though. Those grey eyes that often sparkled in the years after Azkaban had a way of understanding anyone they turned to. Sirius could listen with his eyes. He could understand without needing to hear one word. Sirius had seen her, and oh how she wished to feel that warm gaze again. To meet his eyes, to have a hand drop heavily on her shoulder. Pulling her closer into a chest of bone and beating heart. To be told in that low murmur that she would be okay, because he had been okay. No man like that deserved to be stolen by Death.
Hermione sank further into the mattress's crater, burrowing her face in the crimson sheets. The blankets hugged her and she hugged herself, but it wasn't enough. The tears began to leak out, hot and furious. "Sirius," she sobbed, her mouth pressed into the bed. Where are you?
Her sobs ended at some point, when the sheets were soaked and her throat raw with salt and snot. Sleep tugged at her mind, urging her towards the cliff she knew only led to nightmares. She was too tired to fight it and gave in to the lull of slumber.
And in the darkness between wake and sleep, she could almost hear his answer.
"Help me, Hermione."