Four years later...
Close to midnight, Hermione apparated home to her flat in Muggle London. A flat which still belonged to her parents, although they couldn't remember it nor could they remember her. She kicked her heels off and ripped the Maid of Honor sash from her body. Luna's bachelorette party hadn't gone according to plan. Ginny had subtly taken over and while they were supposed to have had a civilized five-course meal at a Michelin-star restaurant, they'd ended up at a crowded and loud nightclub, Tequila and Sambuca shots lining the bar. Parvarti, Lavender, and Ginny had done a terrific job of batting their eyelashes, proudly presenting Luna and her Bride-to-be sash to the bartender to score free drinks. Hermione couldn't blame the girls for sabotaging the night she'd planned but she'd resented being dragged along, even if it was to celebrate the upcoming marriage of one of her best friends.
At some point, she realized she was actually enjoying herself until… until she saw a shock of blonde hair. Hair that didn't belong to Draco, but was the same rare tint; similar enough to make her throw herself into the sweaty throng of people in search of him. After ten minutes she found herself outside the club, gasping for air. She must've imagined it, the way she imagined it at Diagon Alley when she was getting ice cream at Fortescue's; the same way she had imagined seeing his grey eyes driving on the road in Muggle London.
For years, Hermione had seen him everywhere.
Apologizing to the girls she'd left the club. Work emergency, she'd said. A nursing residency was rigorous, after all, especially when she was trying to find a muggle way to retrieve her parent's memories by working closely with Alzheimer's patients. A magical solution didn't seem to exist but perhaps if she combined magic and science something would come of it.
Stripping her dress off, she turned the shower on, testing the water waiting for it to run hot.
Hermione's head snapped around, her eyes darting through the open bathroom door to her room. She thought she'd heard something, someone in her apartment but the only sound she could hear was the running water. The night had her on edge. Releasing a deep breath, she placed her palms against the tiles and bent her head directly under the showerhead. Her wet hair stuck to her shoulders and the water rolled over her. She closed her eyes wishing she wasn't alone. She hated it when she was alone, especially when she wasn't truly alone and yet she still felt it wholeheartedly. Her mind always wondered when that was the case.
Turning the shower off she watched as the water drained.
It was just tonight, she told herself; seeing that shock of white-blonde hair had pulled her back into long-forgotten memories. Not that long ago really but still, it seemed a lifetime.
Draco Malfoy was a lifetime ago.
He belonged to an age where her existence felt like it belonged to him. She told herself she'd been young, so very young. Only four years later and she had aged as if she'd lived already for far too long.
She thought of calling Ron or Harry or Ginny. She wanted to but she couldn't let them know. She still had her secrets and these thoughts, these were perilous thoughts, ones she couldn't share with them; those which had no place in her life now, the new Hermione, the I'm-okay Hermione. Wrapping her arms around herself she felt a chill run through her. She'd been standing in the shower for far too long.
She couldn't be alone tonight. It was too dangerous. She knew what she needed and that was dangerous too. Sitting on the edge of her bed she took a moment to calm herself. When she felt better she redressed, her hair still wet and soaking her shirt. She went to her fireplace. It was late but she didn't care. She'd wake him if he were asleep. It was always late when she went to see him anyway.
Grabbing a handful of floo powder she looked into the fire and called out her destination.
When she opened her eyes she was at the entrance of the Manor which was so familiar to her; the grand columns, the expensive ornaments, and chandelier, the eerie echo of a palace barely inhabited, except for one man.
In the middle of the large foyer was an elaborate staircase, gilded in gold and parting the mansion into two separate wings. Covered in darkness, Hermione made her way by the little moonlight streaming through the windows. At the midway landing of the stairs, she turned toward the right-wing and made her way up further. It sounded simple, this architectural design but this was a house of magic and she'd gotten lost before.
One day, becoming frightened, losing herself in the labyrinth, she'd yelled for him and he'd found her huddled in one corner of the room, crying. Thankfully, tonight, she saw a faint glow emanating from one of the rooms at the end of the long hallway. Her heart was beating furiously as she stepped into the light and saw a figure standing, hunched over the fireplace, leaning on the mantel with one hand, a drink hanging loosely in the other.
"Hello, Theodore."
His dark eyes stared ahead at the fire as if she hadn't spoken and the flames began burning more brightly, changing color.
"You're back," he murmured. "Again."
She walked deeper into the room and saw it was a kind of living room, large and well decorated, but devoid of any living. It was cold and empty, like its proprietor. Her eyes didn't want to linger too long on Theodore Nott. He was shirtless, wearing silk navy boxers, his night robe hung loose on his frame.
"Yes," she said clearing her throat. "I am."
He raised the drink he was holding to his lips and finished it. Placing the empty glass on the mantle above the fire he finally turned his frame to look at her. "I can't keep doing this," he said pleadingly.
"I know," she whispered. "But..."
She stepped close toward him, close enough for him to step back, to make him uncomfortable… to torment him.
"Please."
He ran a hand through his hair frantically. She observed him while he thought. He was taller than Draco. His eyes were dark, much darker than at first glance and his hair… his hands… his cologne… to anyone else, Theodore Nott was nothing like the boy she loved and yet the two were so similar. So similar that in fact she wondered where one began and the other ended. Had they always been so alike, perhaps from their childhood when they were once almost like brothers? Had Draco picked up Theo's habits and mannerisms or had Theo picked things up from Draco? The quiet way they both spoke… the empty expressions which gave nothing away… the way his hair fell in his face if he didn't style it back… and there was one more commonality; one she'd just begun to notice.
The way they both looked at her… different and still the same.
Theo swallowed. "This is the last time," he said and she could hear in his voice how little he meant it.
She nodded quickly. Her tongue flicking out to lick her lips. "Okay."
Theo walked past her and out the door. She followed behind down the long corridor. Empty frames still hung on the walls from the first time she'd come to Nott Manor, and she realized then that he would never replace the portraits he'd taken down. He wanted nothing to do with his heritage, his lineage, with himself. He only wanted to be alone, completely and utterly alone, without a soul. Except for hers.
He always allowed hers into his home.
Stepping into his bedroom, she closed the door behind them. She watched as he walked over to the bedside table and drew his wand from his robes. Taking a deep breath, he placed the tip at his temple and closed his eyes. After a few seconds, he began to tug ever so gently. A silver stream of memory caught at the end. Carefully, he placed it in the small pensieve on the table near the large armoire.
He gestured to her to come to him. She approached slowly as he moved to the side giving her space. He never moved far and she could always feel the heat of him next to her as she gripped the sides of the table and bent her head down, vanishing into the memory.
Hermione felt the familiar tug and then she was no longer in Theo's bedroom anymore. She was in a place so familiar to her she knew its paths like the wrinkles on her palm.
A young Draco was sitting down at a table in front of her next to Blaise Zabini.
She smiled warmly at him wishing he was truly with her, that this wasn't just a memory of him, that he could be more than just everyone's memories.
He spoke suddenly with an edge to his voice. "He's in the library again, hovering about. What do you reckon he wants?"
Hermione followed Draco's line of sight. He was glaring at Viktor Krum.
"Who cares?" said Blaise exasperated. "Did you see how he fought that Chinese Fireball?"
"He's an arrogant arse if you ask me," retorted Draco with a scowl.
Blaise was rolling his eyes, and Theo gave Viktor a cursory glance as if weighing whether Draco's statement was true or false.
Theo shrugged seeming to reach a conclusion. "Nothing like Professor Lockhart though, now he was an arrogant arse," he commented as he saw a gaggle of girls whispering nearby. "Krum just seems to want to be left alone."
Draco threw him an accusatory glance as if he'd been betrayed. "Like hell he wants to be left alone."
His eyebrows furrowed as his gaze moved from Viktor's to Hermione, the Hermione then, studying at another table. Draco's eyes lingered on her and she couldn't believe she'd been so absorbed by her books that she'd never noticed him watching her.
They both watched as Viktor stood from his own table and walked over to hers.
She remembered this… this was the day he'd finally mustered enough courage to ask her to go with him to the Yule Ball.
Draco's frown grew deeper. "What the hell do you think that's about?"
Blaise raised an eyebrow, a slip of a smile on his face. "Why don't you go ask them?" he teased.
But Draco was so distracted in his own thoughts staring at her, he hadn't registered Blaise's quip. "What's that?" he murmured after a minute, turning to his friends absentmindedly.
"Nothing mate," smirked Blaise. "Nothing."
Draco began drumming his fingers against the table. His eyes staring hard at the parchment he'd been working on. "He really ought to be more careful with the type he consorts with," she heard him mumble. "Wouldn't want him sullying himself with a Mudblood."
Theo and Blaise ignored him and continued on with their homework. She watched as Draco continued to stare down at the table, a withdrawn expression veiling his face. Just then she sneezed and his head snapped up to glower at her as though she was purposely trying to distract him, or perhaps infect him with some sort of Muggle illness. She wriggled her nose and his frown faded, replaced with something else.
Hermione smiled. Because she recognized that look. She knew him in death much better than she'd known him in life.
She tried to touch his hair and run her fingers through the strands the way she used to but her hand moved through him like an apparition.
She bent her head down, the tip of her nose hovering over him but she couldn't catch the scent of citrus, spice, and freshly cut grass.
Like most ghosts, he had no smell.
She surfaced from the memory, a tear slipping.
Staring into the pensieve, she blinked trying to compose herself.
"Here."
Hermione turned away from the metal basin. Theo was holding a glass of firewhiskey out to her. She politely refused like she'd done every other time she'd come here. No matter, he was never deterred, he always offered and he always took to drinking it instead.
Except for the first time she had arrived at his doorstep—after the funeral, the funeral without a body—dripping wet, he didn't offer her anything to drink. He let her in and wrapped something warm around her. Then he gave her a memory, to comfort her, to assuage his own guilt, but really, he'd only acquiesced because she had refused to leave without seeing Draco again and he wanted above all else, for her to leave.
"How is the future Mrs. Scamander?" he asked suddenly, sneering at the name.
Hermione was taken back by the question. They never spoke about Luna. He never asked and after awhile the name felt like acid on her tongue. Something that could burn through the volatile relationship they'd developed, whatever that relationship was, she still didn't know.
"Happy," she answered. It was the truth. Luna was very happy.
She saw his pale face in the firelight of his room and wished he'd go into the sun more.
"You know it's not too late Theo."
His lips tugged into a melancholic smile. "It's four years too late, Granger."
"You could tell her…"
He raised his eyes to meet hers and in a severe tone, rasped, "I will never, ever, tell her."
"I don't understand why you choose to be miserable," she clipped.
Theo suddenly laughed, an incredulous, contemptuous laugh. Almost as if they were back in Hogwarts and he was making fun of her. "Look at you, Miss Fucking-Sunshine, telling me not to be miserable. You're pathetic Granger, coming here— to me of all people—just to see a glimpse of him…"
The glass in his hand was empty again and Hermione wanted to hold him and cry.
"My own memories aren't enough sometimes," she admitted.
His eyes began undressing her. "This needs to stop," he whispered fearfully. "I don't want to see you again."
"I saw you at Diagon Alley two months ago," she countered, pointing out that either way he'd see her again, at least, from time to time. He couldn't escape her or the pain.
Theo shrugged as if those random chance meetings were of no consequence.
"And then at the Memorial Ball," she whispered.
His eyes snapped to hers and they danced across her face and she knew he was remembering what he'd said to her when he'd caught her alone. That terrible, terrible thing he'd said. And she could tell he was livid that she hadn't just pretended it had never happened the way he was pretending.
"I was drunk," he retorted angrily.
Hermione gave a tired sigh. Walking up to him, she grabbed the empty glass from his hand and vanished it. "You're always drunk," she reproached.
Theo stepped into her and dipped his head, his lips brushing her ear. They lingered there for a moment before he spoke, his words barely audible.
"Get out of my house you stupid, stupid girl."
She clenched her teeth and began to leave. There was no talking to him when he was like this… and he was almost always like this. Drunk or hostile, sometimes both. Rarely ever, was he anything else, except when he was, and then that was worse.
"Wait," he suddenly called out in a frightened voice.
Her hand was on the door handle and she was afraid to let go because that voice, it sounded so desperate. "Will you come back?"
Without turning around to look at him, she whispered to the wood, "I always come back."
A/N: Hope you're enjoying the time jumps. I know it would've been far simpler to let the whole thing play out but I'm trying to do something different and far more challenging. It's also a little experimental to see what works in a story. I will try my utter best not to disappoint anyone. Have a great weekend :)