Hermione leaned back against the creaky chair with enough force that, for a moment, she worried it would tumble backward. Fortunately, she was met with only the groan of her weight shifting upon the old wood and the slightly precarious upwards tilt of the two front legs as they briefly left the ground. It was an obvious enough warning to be a bit more gentle with her antics. In her grip, she still held onto the parchment and it's odd unexpected invite. Never, either before or after the war, would she have expected to receive some sort of request for her presence in the place where she assumed she'd never be welcomed. Her memories of Malfoy Manor were vivid and crystal clear, filled with the cold disinterested gaze of the manor's madam and the horrifying terror she'd experienced beneath her sister. Just the idea of stepping foot onto the lands where blood purity had been the major driving force to her torture-that and His demand for The Boy and her faction-was enough to cause a few beads of sweat to trail down the surface of her forehead. She wasn't hot, far from it, but the chill… the discomfort… the sudden budding of emotions she had thought long gone and inconsequential to her survival was enough to inspire a choking stifling sensation in her chest.

She took a deep breath, then another, before she moved her pecked at and red marked hand to rub down the length of her face in flabbergasted disbelief. Why would the Malfoy family find her interesting enough to invite to any particular revel, Autumn themed or otherwise? They had made it rather clear that her impurity was enough to inspire great acts of prejudice toward her person. In actuality, she'd been rather lucky thus far in avoiding this particular family and any others that had been disillusioned by His propaganda. Granted, blood prejudice was an aspect of wizarding history that hadn't just cropped up upon His inspiration to rule. It had been around for ages, dating back to Merlin, she supposed, not that researching such dark aspects of history had been her cup of tea or anything. It was just that such ideals had been there before Him and had only strengthened during His warlord activities. Surprisingly, His reign hadn't actually inspired the spree of hate she'd been expecting. Again, no one had actually approached her about her status as a 'mudblood' since her youth and the only discomfort people seemed to feel around her was due to her undesirable status six years ago and perhaps the oddity of her still breathing form-if she had expected to hang from the gallows for her crimes against Him during her Hogwart's tenure than certainly others had thought the same.

These thoughts did not bring her comfort, however. Post-war political change or otherwise The Dark Lord and His followers had been a rather vocal and very visible collective, taking on various jobs in His ministry to ensure His indisputable authority. She'd seen a few of them once or twice in a column skimmed in the Daily Prophet so there was no doubt that those very powerful people would also be among those collected in any capacity near any Malfoy affair. That was dangerous for her, wasn't it? No matter what sort of illusion He thought He could weave she wasn't so naive as to think every wizard and witch in Britain found her worthy of her humble St. Mungo's station. Certainly not Lucius Malfoy and definitely not any of His most trusted.

Furthermore, if He was at this gathering to make some formal announcement of great importance than… she would be there as well. It was more than just navigating pure-blood aristocrats. It would be navigating every ferocious, tenacious, killer He'd ever employed and there was no doubt in her mind that any true reveling to be had would be soiled as soon as she was spotted by one madness-stricken Bellatrix.

Or, was she still off her rocker? It wasn't like she'd heard much about the woman or what He had done with her once the war was over and the Ministry rearrangement took place. Politics had no place in her world and so long as they weren't dragging Muggle-borns off to never been seen again she'd mostly left the intricacies of rule to those who had won the war. Not that she'd had a choice in the matter.

Either way accepting such a preposterous invitation would only spell disaster for her later, or at least an extremely uncomfortable time no doubt filled with less than subtle digs at her character and losses. With a soft sneer, she dug into her robes, as her head dropped onto the palm of her open hand in a manner that clearly expressed her agitation and disappointment. She'd been scratched up and pecked at for this? No wonder the bird had seemed so adamant about causing her distress if one considered the disposition of those who had sent it in the first place. Yet, when she felt the familiar warmth of her wand the overall sense of exasperation started to lessen. She still had her magic, she still had her life, she was something here, a great potioneer of worth and not even some ominous invitation from the enemies of her past could destroy what she'd managed to obtain in His world of supposed equality wrapped up in traditions and blood.

She'd vanish this invitation away and with it the tight knot of remembered despair in her chest.

"Hermione?"

Her wand hovered over the parchment but the familiar sensation of flowing ability didn't warm her body or appear from the tip of the wood. She'd been halted, stunned from her moment of finality and concentration by the dreamy quality of the voice that floated over to her table. With a soft breath, she lifted her tired gaze of rich brown to view the violet cloaked wizard that stood with tilted head before her table of falsified-privacy. She blinked once, then again before she narrowed eyes and tried to peer past the darkness of the hood that cast their face in shadow. It only took a moment before she found her voice but it felt like an eternity to summon up her courage.

"E-excuse me?"

It was unusual for anyone to feel so painfully familiar to her. She'd mingled amongst strangers and work associates for years yet had only heard such wistful tones within the privacy of her fractured dreams. For an instant she was stunned into silence, unaware that the intensity of her staring might have been considered rude in more prestigious circles. Yet, she was in the Leaky Cauldron, a pub to be clear, and there was little prestigious about the place. It's dark and dank nature was very in tune with it's given name and the thick phlegmy cough of the patron at the table nearby left a lot to be desired.

Yet all of that was ignorable in the face of the moment and the unspoken implications that it brought. The scroll was soon crushed as she slapped both her hands upon it and her fingertips twitched as the cloaked figure effortlessly turned on their heel to depart from her table and approach another without so much as a word to her strained exclamation. Her throat felt tight and her voice was nothing more than a strangled sound of anxiety as the realization that they were leaving washed over her like a metaphorical freezing bucket of water. She didn't have the nerve to call the figure back and demand their name. She barely had the ability to move her legs, which felt weak and numb beneath the rotted wood of her pilfered table, but luckily she wouldn't need to.

Instead of stalking right out of the pub the figure at the other table wordlessly grabbed a chair with fair-skinned and feminine fingers. The man who had been nursing his foggy glass of murky liquid looked up briefly, but whatever complaint he might have had died upon his tongue as the figure lifted a slender fingertip and held it up in warning. His mouth shut abruptly, and the hard frown that his thin lips created was soon directed toward her table once the figure, and their stolen chair, made their way back to her position. The obnoxious screech of the legs against the floor was enough to gain the brief attention of a few patrons, including dirty-cough-man, but soon enough their focus returned to other matters like their half-filled cups and slurred conversations.

She bit her bottom lip, tense and silent as the figure adjusted the chair and promptly-though gracefully-took a seat in it.

"You were very difficult to find." The figure whispered contemplatively as if Hermione weren't truly capable of responding and perhaps she wasn't. "I've searched for a bit, I thought you might have left Great Britain, you see. But… the Wrackspurts. I felt them here and I haven't for a long time."

The urge to stand up abruptly quickly came and went though she couldn't deny the newfound nervous energy at how absurdly looney the entire idea of Wrackspurts were. She wanted to slam her hands down on the table again. She wanted to yell at how positively ludicrous something that could not so clearly be defined by practical logic and proof actually was. Yet magic, in and of itself, was often impractical. As impractical as unprompted chance visits and so-called fate. There was only one person she knew that could so passionately believe in the impossible and illogical and succeed thoroughly on wistful thinking and eccentric phrases.

"I've been here." Because there was nowhere else for her to go. "I've been here, Luna."

"Then I'm glad I've found you."

The parchment complained as it was crunched within her tight grip, held firmly between her wand and hard pressed thumb. "You lived. You really lived?"

Furthermore, she'd looked for her?

There was no immediate response. Instead, Luna flicked her hood back with but a twist of her wrist-utilizing swift wandless magic to generate the breeze that did so-revealing tumbling bleach-blonde hair and the same gentle smile she'd worn throughout her youth. Very little had changed about her friend, other than the small square-framed glasses that perched perfectly balanced on the bridge of her nose. Yet her eyes, behind the silvery gray dwelled the twisting shadows that she was sure they all carried after reality and maturity had been forced upon them during the war. Her demeanor hadn't changed, not really, but the child-like innocence and near flighty nature seemed absent in exchange for Luna's own odd sense of gained wisdom. Though there was no denying that Luna had always been that, even if she'd been strange in her display of it.

"I can't believe this." Hermione leaned back in the chair, but she was slow and controlled and it barely groaned as she relaxed. Her gaze stung, blurry with the threat of tears she wouldn't dare allow to fall. Not here, at least. Yet the overwhelming sense of relief that swept through her was certainly enough to warrant a pinch upon the bridge of her nose. Perhaps this was another dream, just a twisted memory to give her hope for a less than empty future. If that was the case she didn't dare wake up, not until she thoroughly indulged in the unfurling possibilities presented before her.

Yet, for every indescribable emotion that tumbled through Hermione, Luna seemed to offer a calmer variation. Her smile widened, and her eyes crinkled in delight, but there was no threat of tears at their reunion only an indisputable sense of content.

She said she'd been looking for her, after all.

"I lived. You can believe that." Here Luna paused if only to slap her hand against the flesh of an exposed arm. "Yes yes, I'm certainly here. Say, take a feel!"

Without waiting for a response Luna reached across the table, eagerly gripping Hermione's trembling hands and pulling them away from the poor parchment she'd been torturing beneath her grip. Her wand tumbled to the table surface with barely a sound, something her mind acknowledged but didn't focus on. Instead, she focused on the sensation of another human-one she'd missed-touching her, spreading that real tangible warmth that only another living creature and not a heated potion vial, could provide.

She couldn't help the tear or two that escaped her then.

"Luna," She croaked, "Where were you?"

Luna kept hold of her hands, squeezing them tightly with an expression that seemed to be far away. For a moment they sat like that, holding hands and not thinking and for once, Hermione's curiosity was dampened, overwhelmed instead by their reignited comradery.

The moment didn't last for long, though.

"I was here, in England specifically. Mostly documenting Wrackspurts and other magical creatures. Then, when I was able, I looked for you. I had heard you were alive, around, but not where. It's difficult to hunt someone when you don't yet have the means. Why I thought of asking a werewolf for help but I figured that would be frightening for you. Still, they are so good at tracking, very actually. They would have found you. Quickly, might I add."

Hermione felt somewhat swept away by Luna's flowing speech. She took great care to pick out the important pieces-she was going to hunt her down with a werewolf?-but she still had so many questions. "He didn't harm you?"

"He?" Luna asked innocently with tilted head and a slow blink of her eyes.

"Volder-"

Hermione's speech was interrupted by the soft yet firm 'shhh' that came from across the table.

"We mustn't speak His name," Luna said cheerfully, but the nearly painful squeeze she gave her hands and the odd unusual chill of her words was at juxtaposed with her bright disposition.

"Yes yes, of course." Hermione tittered, nervous as she cast her gaze about the pub.

"Hmm… we were all harmed by the war. Yet, we were also children and He seemed aware of that." Luna's voice was carefully inquisitive as if she were curious about her own thoughts. They lacked the power of judgment Hermione's own tone might have held, but even she knew that the past no longer inspired just rage and indignation as it once had. She was complacent with life and not the only one.

"I took my N.E.W.T.s outside of Hogwarts when we were given the option," Luna said, yet left unspoken was the admission that they hadn't been allowed to return to Hogwarts, at least not to finish their education. She was aware of that much.

Still, she needed more- "You didn't say if you were-"

"-He doesn't care for us to dwell on such things." Finally, Luna released her hands which proved an unexpected distraction. She'd really enjoyed just touching her and her palms tingled from the lack of warmth. Still, despite her divided focus Hermione couldn't help but notice how ominous her words seemed. "It's probably best, I believe the Nargles may be drawn to misery."

Hermione gave a nervous lick of her lips before she blurted out, "I'm not!"

Luna appeared oblivious to her resulting cringe as some of the nearby tables cast their corner a withering look. Whether Luna noticed or not was up for debate. "Not what?"

"Miserable, that is." Hermione cleared her throat, "I've been doing… fine. I'm a potioneer at St. Mungo's."

Luna's gentle look never wavered and Hermione felt somewhat lightened by the smile that split her lips. She could tell the other witch was genuinely pleased with her progression despite the lingering darkness that blanketed them both.

Then Luna's gaze dropped to the crumpled parchment between her still outstretched arms.

"Ah, you too?"

"Me too?" Hermione allowed her gaze to follow Luna's own and soon her chin thumped against her chest as she remembered the accursed invitation in her possession.

"Oh."

"I have to admit I was surprised…" Luna's voice cut through the billowing fog of apprehension that had tightened Hermione's throat and with some effort she was able to lift her eyes toward the other witch and away from her current issue. "But I think it will be interesting."

"Really? How so?"

"What could He possibly be announcing that's so important our presence is required?"

There was heavy meaning in that phrase but something else stood out more so- "Required?"

"I assume so." Luna said casually, "Mine didn't seem to leave room for choice."

"But it says invited-"

"It's in the wording, really." Luna interrupted, her gaze steady upon the ceiling now instead of the odd face of displeasure Hermione had made. "There's no 'please' anywhere. It's sort of rude."

With a snort, Hermione pulled back her hands, if only to regain possession of her wand and the crumbled invitation. "What does He need me there for?"

Perhaps she'd been bothered by Hermione's mumble, or maybe by the bitterness that oozed from the words she spoke but soon Luna was focused once more on her position with tilted head and faraway expression.

"What?" She sighed, suddenly tired despite Luna's company or maybe because of it.

"Will you go?"

There was so much weight behind those words.

"Will you?"

Luna let the silence stretched between them while her hands, that were once still and flat on the table's surface, were soon preoccupied with picking idly at the length of her robes beneath the cloak. She took one breath, then another before she wet her bottom lip.

"Well," Luna murmured, "I didn't want to go alone."

Just in case there wasn't an option not to go at all.

"When is it?" Hermione conceded, careful to keep her anxiety from dripping through her words. She was not the only one afraid to go at the table and while that was somewhat comforting it did nothing to lessen her unease.

Luna carefully reached across the table and after only a moment of hesitation, she took care to cover Hermione's hands with her own. They held them together like that for a bit, Hermione merely staring at their combined grip upon the papers and Luna with her gaze directed toward the far wall, as if she were listening to someone else or seeing something only she could see.

It made Hermione feel just a bit jealous, at least Luna hadn't been alone. Her delusions had surely been enough to keep her company if they were in fact just delusions.

Yet, all too soon she was uncurling her fingertips along with Hermione's and without much resistance from her, she took the crumpled parchment roll from her possession.

Luna spread the parchment out completely upon the table's surface before she reached into the sleeve of her robes to reveal her wand. In silence, Hermione watched her mumble beneath her breath a spell she didn't quite catch and upon tapping the paper twice it split apart into two. Immediately Hermione leaned forward and over the table, her head barely inches apart from Luna's own as they hunched over the elegant copy of the first invitation and watched the words rearrange themselves into more details.

"They're so fancy," Luna whispered, though Hermione withheld her own comment.

After what felt like an unnecessary amount of fanfare and time the duplicate parchment was complete and the fancy wording that had once displayed the general invitation had now spelled out directions for broom-wielders, the appropriate Floo Network address, and of course the time that guests should be sure to arrive at the manor. With a grunt, Hermione fell back into her chair, and this time the thing teetered in more than just warning. If not for the swift flick of Luna's wand she might have found herself spilled out onto the floor. Granted, even that small humiliation would have been better than whatever she might encounter at the Malfoy revel.

"That's…" Luna paused, as if uncertain, once Hermione's seat had stopped it's magical induced correction. Her sentence was left unfinished as she took the parchment in both hands and turned it this way and that, an action that might have been cute if not for the ridiculous time constraint they were under.

"Tomorrow." Hermione confirmed, "We have to be ready for His revel tomorrow."