Hi! Just cross-posting to FFN. This was my submission to the HP AU fest over on AO3.
READ FIRST: The italicised segments ending each chapter are excerpts from Hermione's best-selling romance novel, eerily familiar in content… hypothetically, you can skip them if you'd like.
Lots of snapshot scenes/jumping ahead in time. Hopefully, everything makes sense in the end. Not beta'ed and (slightly) rushed editing to make the deadline, so if you see errors, they are all mine. Drop a comment, and I'll fix them.
Enjoy! :)
Hogwarts
4 February 1999
"Were you just talking to Malfoy?"
No.
"Is that a peacock quill?"
Found it on the floor.
"Are those love bites on your neck?"
Random hookup. Don't even remember his name.
"You look flushed — are you alright, Hermione? What's wrong?"
No, but she says 'nothing' and moves on.
The art of lying is like painting a mural: detail is key, techniques are all different, but whether graffiti, fresco, or mosaic — the piece grows bigger with each wall she puts up.
So much of Hermione's life she's kept hidden. What would her parents have said about the Triwizard Tournament? About the Troll? That was her first lie, she traces back.
Maybe that's why secrecy is second nature. And why an abandoned classroom witnesses the fall of an empire, eight years of hatred dispelling like fog as an old desk scrapes flagstone flooring.
"Tell no one of this—"
"Wouldn't dream of it, Malfoy."
Whispered because he's bitter, and she's broken, and if Draco Malfoy can kiss her like the world ends tonight, perhaps the universe isn't so definite after all.
They speak the same language, fluent in lies and obscurities while Harry and Ron only learned the simplest words.
Apologies, on the other hand, do not exist in his vocabulary. Remorse comes as " Piss off, Granger," spoken ten minutes before he pushes her against a wall, stifling her pride by stealing each breath.
"We can't keep doing this."
But the sin is poison, and his version of arsenic smells of expensive cologne and makes her knees buckle.
To snuff that familiar tug, she takes her quill and perches it atop blank parchment in hopes that new words and worlds might let her forget this one.
She writes to stay away from him.
"What are you doing?" asks Ginny, finding Hermione in the Gryffindor common room come Friday night.
"Finishing an essay," Hermione lies, folding the parchment ever-so-slightly, so its content stays hidden. "You look nice."
"Ravenclaw is having a party tonight. Wanna come? Terry Boot is going to be there."
"Hm, is he?"
She and Ron broke up over the Christmas holidays, and Ginny now believes pairing Hermione off with any boy who returned for Eighth Year will mend a broken heart.
Well, almost any boy.
Ginny presses, "He grew nicely over the summer, don't you think?"
Hermione holds back her comment.
She doesn't want nice. She wants dark circles that match hers and hate; then, she doesn't have to pretend that being back means being better.
In a way, Draco is familiar. Not like Ron or Harry, but he's his own version of nostalgia — of when enemies meant harsh words and house rivalries, not dead loved ones and war. Exposure breeds acceptance. She maintains both distance and self-control, the latter dangling by a thread whenever the former gives way.
"I'm going to stay in tonight. Thanks for the invite, though."
Ginny groans, giving it her best. "Hermione, I'm worried about you – "
"I'm fine. Go. Have fun."
Ginny accepts defeat, exiting the common room while calling out a request for Hermione to join the soiree after finishing her essay.
"Maybe," Hermione lies again. "Have fun!"
Her essay. The many essays.
About drunk dukes and spiteful lords. The Healer, in love with a medi-witch ten years his junior. A Headmistress, seduced by a werewolf. Best friends falling in love between bedsheets.
Scratch that. She lit that draft ablaze months ago.
Hermione crafts stories, as if filling blank parchment can distract from the note burning a hole inside her schoolbag, the handwriting like perfect calligraphy.
Meet me tonight at midnight.
She writes her fantasy and glances at the clock.
Another night of content might do this draft some good.
Hermione's Flat
29 October 2001
Does one moment define adulthood?
Is it when you blossom at thirteen, doubled over from a new pain in your abdomen? Or maybe at fifteen, watching your best friend cling to the body of a dead classmate. Perhaps eighteen, when you make love to your best friend for the first time, or nineteen – when you do the same thing with your worst enemy and learn that love isn't a prerequisite at all.
Surely this is the textbook definition of adulthood: her own flat in London, a Ministry job she can be proud of, respect from friends, peers, the general public.
Hermione sighs, sitting at her writing desk but unable to fill the pages. Writing this scene has been like pulling teeth, and she wonders if maybe she needs to venture out tonight. To a pub or to see a film or for a walk. A date.
No .
She's happily single. She doesn't need Ron. Certainly, doesn't need Draco, the boy who called her names and made it abundantly clear where they stand. What they are.
"This means nothing, Granger."
But nothingness aside, their consistency borders on impressive. They've never gone longer than a month without seeing each other.
"I'm tired of being your mistress," is always her protest.
"I'm not married."
"Yet."
She doesn't know if he's single or has another woman waiting. They don't run in the same circles, and to say she keeps up with Pureblood society is laughable. She checks the paper, asks around (albeit not directly about him).
Anyone with a shred of dignity would digress. They'd leave the toxic situation with a man who doesn't see them as human enough to display.
But maybe she likes the chaos. Their fire generates regrowth, and his ice scalds her burns.
Hermione's heart races, pleasant memories causing an ache behind her chest. She picks up a quill as thoughts intertwine within the realm of madness, so engrossed in her book's storyline that she nearly misses the tapping at her windowsill.
She opens her window, recognizing the owl in an instant and taking the letter tied to its thin leg. Each loop of cursive lettering is a red flag waving, signalling her inevitable downfall.
I need to see you.
The letter hardly constitutes a courtesy call. Exactly one minute later, her floo erupts to signal her late-night, impromptu visitor.
She runs to her sitting room, fuming.
"Are you mental?" asks Hermione, slamming the letter into Draco's chest when he walks up. "You didn't even give me time to reply."
What if she had company over? What if she was busy? What if —
"Are you?" he asks.
Hermione needs to finish the manuscript. It's due next month, but that secret won't slip from her lips, now or ever.
"No," she whispers. "I'm free."
"Perfect," says Draco, closing their distance by means of his lips pressing hers.
She never gives many excuses, allowing him to take her, use her, however he pleases.
There's never much of an introduction. Small talk and words of affirmation are non-existent; no dinner dates, no handholding.
But when his tongue brushes hers, it's blissful amnesia.
She forgets that she's supposed to care.
She forgets everything.
Especially when his head settles between her legs.
Sara allowed her fingers to entangle the mop of light hair as their breathing turned from ragged to steady.
"You should go," she whispered.
Her small bedroom is no place for a governor's son, even with all traces of Magic vanquished.
"Is that any way to say goodbye," said Philip, brushing a curl from her face. "Given such a phenomenal hello."
"If people find out…"
But no option existed, so her voice faded to black.
No one could learn her secret: sleeping with a No-Maj, sure to discover her powers. Threatening their livelihood, with nights spent swathed in enemy fingerprints.
He interpreted her worry as modesty. "No one will ever know. Don't you trust me?"
She never could. But hatred for one another's kind was no match for the powers that be after what they'd just done.
"Of course, I do," she lied.
Like an hourglass, Sara waited for that last grain of sand to drop, signalling their overdue end.