Hello! Welcome to my Dramione Travel AU! I've been thinking about this story for a while, it's fundamentally an exploration of morality and recovering from trauma, all with different locations as the background. Thank you for reading!

London calling to the faraway towns
Now war is declared and battle come down
London calling to the underworld
Come out of the cupboard, you boys and girls

The Clash - London Calling

May 1, 1999

Hermione Granger considered herself to be a rational person.

Of course, this moniker was not something she thought without reason. It had been a description of her for years; since age eleven when she had gotten off the Hogwarts Express and entered the castle that would give her everything she had ever dreamed and destroy her beyond imagination.

How things had changed in eight years.

But something that would never change was her reliance on rationality; her understanding of how point A moved to point B and so on. She was the logical one, the child who could solve Snape's potions problem to get to the Philosopher's Stone. She was the brains of the annoyingly coined Golden Trio, as her exploits with Harry and Ron on the Horcrux Hunt were now well publicized.

Hermione Granger was logical, that much could be expected.

Like the sun rising in the morning.

Therefore, even though she was currently screaming in the Minister for Magic's office, she considered her reaction to be a rational response to what was being suggested.

"Kingsley, you must be off your rocker! I cannot believe you're even suggesting this to me. Have you lost your bloody mind?"

Her once mentor sat on his desk, appraising her with a firm neutrality on his face. Though she had been shouting for a good five minutes, ever since she had first heard his ludicrous suggestion, the new Minister had not flinched once, perhaps hoping she would run out of steam.

This had so far not happened.

"No, Hermione," he answered, his low voice only betraying slight irritation. "I am not out of my bloody mind, as you so put it. I know it may seem like an extreme suggestion…"

"Extreme?" Hermione hissed, clenching her fists at her sides. "Kingsley, it's not extreme, it's mental! You cannot expect me to spend eleven weeks with… with him!"

"I do not expect anything," Kingsley responded, his tenor remaining steady. "That is why I'm asking. That is why I invited you here to discuss this today. I thought after your initial agreement, perhaps we could negotiate the particulars."

"Negotiate the particulars?" Hermione nearly shouted. "Negotiating the particulars means coordinating portkey times, sending me the finalized itinerary. It does not mean adding a second member to the tour, let alone that member being…"

"Hermione," Kingsley interrupted, his voice suddenly sharp. "I understand that this may come as a shock to you, especially so soon before you leave."

"I leave in two days, Kingsley. Did you deliberately leave this so late so I wouldn't have the chance to back out?"

The accusation was out of her mouth before she could regret it.

It was a valid question; was it not?

No matter the implication that one of her oldest allies had deliberately duped her.

Kingsley's reaction was miniscule; his eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed. The change was so slight that no layman would have noticed.

But Hermione had fought a war at this man's side. This was no stranger.

And she was no layman.

Kingsley spoke, his voice shaking slightly as he attempted to remain calm. "I did not leave this to the last minute in an attempt to deceive you or make you feel trapped. I left it this late because the Wizengamot only met this morning and the motion was passed."

"Did you know it was on the table?" Hermione demanded, disbelieving that there was no way she could have been told beforehand. "Did you know that they were voting on it today?"

He paused before admitting the truth. "Yes, I did."

Another flash of betrayal. "Then why could you not have at least forewarned me! Merlin, Kingsley, I've already packed for Vi…"

"I did not expect it to pass," the wizard exclaimed, frustration triumphing for the moment. Kingsley stood from the desk and marched a few steps forward. "I'm not… Hermione, I did not expect the old families to feel so passionately about Great Britain's representation on the world stage. I thought they would consider you to be… enough."

Hermione's blood went cold as the word hit her with the force of a Stupefy.

Enough.

With trembling fingers, she reached her right hand across to the sleeve of her jumper. Rolling it up slowly, eyes not leaving Kingsley's, she slowly revealed her forearm, where the word etched into her skin shone as blood red as it had the day it had been carved.

Mudblood.

"Of course, they don't believe I'm enough," Hermione hissed, her head pounding, tears suddenly prickling at her eyes. "It doesn't matter that I'm a war heroine. It doesn't matter that my side bloody well won. To those… people, I will always be a filthy, little mudblood."

Kingsley flinched, and she saw regret flash in his eyes. "Hermione, that's not what I meant."

"Yes, it is, Kingsley," she retorted, bringing her sleeve back down. She hated seeing the scar. "Otherwise, they would be thrilled to have me as the sole representative of wizarding Great Britain. Who would they rather above me? Harry? You know he'd never go…"

She stuttered off, feeling cold once again. Without permission, the tears began falling down her cheeks.

Kingsley's expression softened – no longer the Auror or the Minster. This was her friend. "Hermione…"

"Just why…" she whispered, holding her arms around her chest protectively, forcing herself to pull it together. "Why… him? There are other purebloods. There are other family names."

"Not like his," Kingsley answered quietly. "I know it seems unbelievable after the past few years, but the Malfoy name still holds sway across wizarding Europe. It's an old family. It's Sacred Twenty-Eight."

"So is Ron," she replied. "The Weasleys are as pure as the Malfoys."

He sighed. "You know it's not the same."

And she did.

Kingsley reached out to take her hand before seating them both in the chairs in front of the desk.

"I know that I'm asking a lot," he muttered, though he met her eyes with a fire that caused her to look away. "I know that I was asking a lot when I initially asked you to do the tour. But… it has been a year since the war. A year of rebuilding."

"I know," she muttered, staring at the floor. "I've been here."

"Exactly," he responded, his voice taking on a new intensity. "Here. Great Britain has made amazing strides in rebuilding our society, our infrastructure, our government. And we are finally at a point where we can look outwards. We may be an island, but we are not isolated. We need to show the other wizarding societies of the continent that we are back. That we have moved beyond the war."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Have we? I certainly have not."

He sighed, as not frustration but pity became evident in his voice. "Neither have I, personally. But as a society, we need to take steps forward. That is the entire point of this tour. For us to put our absolute best forward as proof of our rebirth."

"Our best?" she asked sardonically. "And according to the Wizengamot, the best of wizarding Great Britain is me and Draco Malfoy?"

Kingsley exhaled slowly, his breath sounding like a hiss. "You two are the perfect representations of two sides of Britain. You, the muggle-born war heroine who has proven herself time and time again on merit alone. Him, the son of a legacy of wizarding society that is still respected across the continent. Him, the image of redemption after being swayed to the dark side."

"Redeemed?" Hermione could not help but scoff. "In what world is Draco Malfoy redeemed?"

"You spoke at his trial, Hermione. Were your words not 'we must look forward, and accept that those without choices can choose correctly, if only we give them the opportunity'?"

"That was before you asked me to go on an eleven-country tour with him," Hermione bristled. "I… I meant what I said at the trial, I do not think he should have been locked away permanently…"

"And he wasn't," Kingsley reminded her. "Two years of probation. Was that not what you requested yourself?"

"I didn't expect his probation to be in my hotel suite," Hermione snapped. "Look, Kingsley. When I agreed to do the tour, it was because I understood the purpose. You're right – we cannot rely on isolationism. We need to rebuild these multi-lateral bonds. Just why do I have to do it with him?"

"Optics, dear Hermione," the Minister explained. "This is politics."

"I hate politics," she snarled. "Like the bloody gala tomorrow. Why do we have to dress up, drink champagne and pretend like we aren't commemorating the deaths of our loved ones? This is… this is traumatic. It's not a bloody celebration!"

"You already agreed to that," Kingsley reminded her, though she watched pain flicker in his eyes. He had lost people, too. "It's the one-year anniversary of the Battle. Britain needs the Golden Trio…"

"Stop calling us that."

"Fine," he responded curtly. "Britain needs to remember that you, Ron, and Harry survived. We need to be reminded that light triumphed over dark, and that we can rebuild. We need to remember that we won."

"And how does parading Draco Malfoy and I around Europe accomplish that?"

"It demonstrates unity," Kingsley explained, exasperation evident. "Two people from opposite sides of the war working together to rebuild our country. Hermione, please, think of the greater…"

"Don't you dare," she hissed. "I'm not spending eleven weeks with Draco Malfoy for the greater good. Do you not remember that he stood there? He watched me be tortured and he just stood there?"

Her voice finally cracked as she felt the full weight of Kingsley's request on her shoulders. Letting her head fall into her hands, she closed her eyes.

"Just… why him?"

Potent silence filled the room for a moment.

"Because he is everything you are not," he whispered. "He was on the wrong side. He comes from this legacy of pureblood supremacy. His name still holds sway in old wizarding circles. Hermione, we need both the worst and the best of us for this to work. We need to show Europe that we are a society united, ready to push forward into the twentieth century. What better representation could we have of moving past old prejudices than you and Malfoy working together?"

She flinched.

"Do I even get a choice?"

"You always get a choice, Hermione."

Raising her head from her hands, she brushed a wayward curl out of her face.

"And what does Malfoy have to say about this?"

"He's already agreed.

"He's agreed?"

Kingsley nodded. "I spoke to him this morning after the vote was passed."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Did you give him a choice?"

The Minister sighed. "I explained that it may be prudent for him to acquiesce to the Wizengamot's wishes, considering he's still under probation for another eighteen months."

Hermione clenched her fists together in her hands as she mulled it around in her head – unable to come up with anything besides mild disgust.

"Could I… could I tell you tomorrow? At the gala?"

Kingsley pursed his lips but nodded.

"Please consider it, Hermione. If not for Great Britain, for your friends. We all need to move forward. You could be a catalyst for change – you have been every time before."

May 2, 1999

"Malfoy? Really?"

Hermione sighed. She was sitting at the kitchen table of number 12 Grimmauld Place. After the war, Harry had moved in permanently to his late godfather's home. With Kreacher in a better place after the discovery of Regulus's locket, the once dark and desolate home had a certain charm to it.

Especially after they had figured out to set Walburga Black's tapestry on fire.

Hermione was staring morosely at the kitchen table, the question of the trip front of mind. Ginny, who was home from Hogwarts for the week because of the gala, stood behind her, forcing her hair into tight braids at the base of her skull.

"Are you sure you don't want to leave it free, Hermione?" Ginny asked, after a particularly vicious yank to calm the curls had caused her to shout.

She shook her head, wincing at the sharpness. "It's too recognizable."

"Hermione, it's a gala commemorating you, Ron, and Harry. What are you expecting?"

"Room to breathe," she muttered, as Ginny knotted another braid. "Besides, it's not about us. It's about everyone. It's about the damn war."

Ginny sighed. "Are you sure we should even go? It feels… awkward. I don't want to be drinking champagne on the anniversary of Fred's death."

Hermione flinched; her own thoughts being echoed in Ginny's somber voice.

"I… I agree. But we need to show that we… survived, you know? That we are still here. Think of it as a celebration of life. That's what I'm trying to do at least."

"Fred would hate it if we all stood around sadly and wearing black," Ginny muttered, taking a few more strands of her hair.

Hermione tried not to yelp.

"But back to Malfoy," the redhead said, returning to the issue at hand. "Why on earth do they want you to go with him?"

Hermione nearly growled. "They think it'll demonstrate British unity."

"Seems like some nationalist bullshit," Ginny muttered, rolling her eyes, her fingers twisting Hermione's curls into plaits. "Merlin, Hermione. Has your hair always been like this?"

Hermione shrugged. "To my knowledge." She didn't have much more to say on the matter.

Her mind was too focused on the trip.

When Kingsley had first spoken to her about it, over a month prior, she had accepted the offer without hesitation. It seemed like a brilliant idea – an Evita of a trip to demonstrate to other wizarding societies that Britain had survived the Great War and would be able to move forward alongside them.

Politically, she thought it was a stroke of genius.

Personally, she genuinely wanted to go.

She had always wanted to travel, but growing up, especially with the war hanging over their heads, she had never had the opportunity. She spent almost all of her summers with the Weasleys. And before Hogwarts, not counting one trip with her parents to Arras, they had hardly left the country.

The memory of poppy fields filled her with overwhelming sadness.

Her parents. She couldn't help but flinch as they entered her mind. Her lovely, brilliant, lost parents. She had not seen them since the summer before the Horcrux Hunt. It had been two years.

She suspected she would never see them again.

Though she had known it to be a possibility, after speaking to a healer after the war, she had her greatest fears confirmed. Given the intricate and complex nature of the memory charms Hermione had used, there was no way to remove them without the possibility of greater damage. She could take away the charms and drive her parents to insanity. They may never remember her at all.

It was an impossible choice. Take the chance? Lose the possibility of reunion?

But at the end of the day, Hermione could not be selfish with them. Not with those she loved.

"Hermione?" Ginny asked, shaking Hermione out of her reverie. "Did we lose you?"

"No, sorry Gin," she responded, taking a deep breath. "I'm just… conflicted."

"About the trip?" Ginny asked, pushing a bobby pin into her hair. "Makes sense. I'd be surprised if you weren't."

"I see Kingsley's point," she muttered. "It's all I've been thinking about since yesterday. It is quite a statement for me and Malfoy to be shepherded around as state representatives. I understand the political angle, and that's what this is: politics. But why must I suffer? Haven't I suffered enough?"

"What are we suffering about today, Hermione?"

She could not help the grin that appeared on her face whenever she heard that voice. Turning her head slightly towards the kitchen doorway, she glanced over to where Harry was standing.

"My, my, look at you. Ready to be the Chosen One all over again."

Harry snorted, while adjusting the cufflinks on his wizarding robes. Hermione had to admit that he looked quite dapper. The deep navy he had chosen for the occasion contrasted beautifully against Lily Evans' eyes, and in the year since the war, Hermione had finally convinced him to buy a pair of glasses that had not been repaired a minimum of five times.

"And don't you dare forget it," he laughed, walking into the kitchen and giving Ginny a quick peck on the lips. To no one's surprise, it had taken Harry and Ginny all of two days to get back together after the Battle of Hogwarts. Even with Ginny finishing her final year and Harry in Auror training, she had never seen either of them so happy.

Harry wrapped his arm around his partner, as Ginny tried not to let him move her arms and hands, still working ferociously with Hermione's hair.

"Nice braids, Hermione! Ginny, you're doing a wonder with them."

"It's magic," she faux whispered. "There's no other way I could possibly tame this beast."

"Hey," Hermione frowned, glancing backwards at them. "It's calmed down since school."

"Calmed down, Hermione. That does not mean calm."

Harry laughed. "But what's this about suffering? Is this about the Malfoy thing?"

Hermione couldn't help the surprise that appeared on her face. "Did Kingsley talk to you?"

Harry nodded, going over to the pantry and taking out a butterbeer. "Talked to me earlier today. Thought maybe I could convince you."

"Are you going to try?"

Harry gave her a look of utter disbelief. "Why would I waste my time? I am the Chosen One, if you have forgotten."

"I can't wait until this gala is over and I don't have to hear you say that again."

"Anniversaries happen every year, Hermione. You will never be free of this."

She couldn't help but chuckle. "But seriously, Harry? What do you think?"

He paused, pursing his lips, taking a few moments of thought before continuing.

"I mean, I don't think it's a bad idea."

Had Hermione been holding a drink, she surely would have dropped it.

"I would never have guessed you would be my ultimate betrayer. Judas!"

He rolled his eyes. "Look, I know that the idea of spending eleven weeks with Malfoy sounds hellish…"

"… an understatement …"

"But I get the argument," Harry conceded. "It's quite a… striking image. You and Malfoy? I'm… of course, I still hate him. I can't imagine that I ever won't. But we need… we need to move on. We need to achieve neutrality. Imagine how peaceful that would be. Neutrality. And even though the war's over, there is still this giant fissure between us and them, you know?"

"Because they fought against us in a war, Harry."

"I know, Hermione," Harry sighed. "I just feel tired of fighting everyone all the time. Did it long enough. We all did. There are more important things. Don't do it if you don't want to. I'm never going to ask you to do something you don't want to. I just see Kingsley's perspective, that's all."

Hermione couldn't help but gape. "Next thing you know, Ron's going to be telling me it's a right good thought."

Ginny burst out laughing, her chuckles reverberating at the base of Hermione's neck. "And then hell will have frozen over."

Harry smiled, taking another sip of butterbeer. "No, I doubt Ron will be on board. He's… protective of you."

"He's not my bloody boyfriend."

The words came out sharper than intended, and she could almost feel Harry and Ginny exchange a look.

"I know," Harry replied after a moment, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "But he does still love you. And he hates Malfoy. Are you planning on telling him?"

Hermione sighed, resting her hands in her lap. "I… I don't know. I haven't made up my mind."

Harry gave her a pitying look, before handing her the butterbeer to take a swig. "Either way you go, you'll always have my support. I do think you're not considering one massive potential benefit."

"Which is?"

"Think of all the historically important rivers you could push him into. The Seine, the Danube, the Tiber…"

Hermione did not think that she would ever get used to these Ministry galas.

They were camp affairs, much too extravagant for her sensibilities. As she, Harry, and Ginny all entered the Atrium of the Ministry, she was once against overwhelmed by the sheer opulence of the place.

"They really don't give a damn about money, do they?" Ginny muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Not with all those seized Death Eater accounts, they don't," Hermione responded, but she understood the reaction.

It was extravagant.

Over the top of the atrium, thousands of fairy lights were floating, illuminating the hall with a warmth Hermione would have never thought possible. The central fountain, rebuilt after the horrid Magic is Might edifice had been torn down, now was just cascading waterfalls, falling from thin air only to repeat the gesture, the water shimmering in the light.

Ahead of them, what seemed to be hundreds of people were flocked together, dancing and drinking, robes and ballgowns flowing together in a river of colour. Music hummed over the hall, coming from seemingly nowhere and everywhere. Hermione heard laughter, boisterous and full, mixed with lively conversation.

Who could have guessed they were commemorating a war?

It seemed no one else held her qualms, however.

Ginny picked up a glass of champagne from a tray floating by. "Do you think I underdressed?"

Harry laughed, kissing the crown of her hair, nothing short of adoration in his eyes. "No one shines in their room but you."

"Ahem," Hermione interrupted, raising an eyebrow, a smirk on her lips.

"And you, Hermione. Merlin, you witches never let a man off easy…"

Hermione laughed at Harry, but she agreed wholeheartedly. Her younger friend was stunning – thee was no other word for it. Ginny was wearing a strapless ball gown of light blue fabric, with her hair up in a high ponytail. It was difficult to tell where Harry's eyes spent the most time, staring at the hollow of her neck, or at her leg peeking out of the thigh high slit.

Hermione picked up a glass of elf wine floating by. "Come on, let's get this over with."

Ginny chuckled. "I know you hate these publicity events, but you have to admit it was fun to dress up."

"It would be if I could breathe," she grumbled, taking a sip of the drink. "Why did I pick an outfit that feels like a 17th century torture device?"

"Because you look absolutely smashing, that's why."

Hermione chuckled at Ginny's statement, but she couldn't say she did not love the gown. A deep burgundy skirt that flared across the ground, with an open, lace covered back.

However, her favourite feature of the dress was the arms.

They were covered, red fabric to her wrists.

She could not have anyone staring at her scar tonight.

Taking another sip of the wine, she tried to settle her nerves. But as she made eye contact with Kingsley across the room, she felt overwhelmed again.

"Why are we here?" she said quietly to Harry and Ginny as they approached the crowd. She could hear the din of whispers increase at their arrival. "It's… this is not a celebratory day. It's… we should be in mourning."

Harry pursed his lips. "I think there's a way to do both, Hermione. Sure, this is a bit… overkill for my taste, but I don't think we should be standing silent in black either. We are allowed to celebrate that we won. We are allowed to honour lives lost by living."

Harry wrapped Hermione in her arms for a quick squeeze. "I understand how you feel. I'm bloody uncomfortable as well. Later, once we get home, would you like to stay at Grimmauld Place for the evening? I asked Ron as well, I thought perhaps we could all light a candle…"

"I would love to," Hermione answered quickly, feeling relief at the prospect of private mourning. "I… I think we should do that. It's important."

Harry nodded, and for a moment, Hermione could see the war-ravaged orphan she had grown up with, and not the confident Auror he was turning into.

He would always be both.

"But we must suffer through these events," Harry said, finally picking up a flute of champagne. "And therefore, we must be drunk. Always be drunk, Hermione. That's all there is to it—it's the only way."

"Baudelaire?" she asked, chuckling, finishing her glass. She felt light-headed. "You're quoting Baudelaire?"

"I'm not quoting anything. That's just the only way we're getting through this goddamn gala."

Hermione made the rounds the best she could. She forced herself to engage in small talk with some ministry officials, she took a shot with Professor Slughorn, she gave Minerva a fond hug before she was whisked away into the crowd once again. After a half hour or so, she found the Weasleys, giving them all a quick hug. She held on to George for a moment longer, hoping to communicate something more, something to painful to speak aloud. To show him she recognized loss, as she felt it, too.

Her face had felt wet, and she knew he understood.

Ron had requested her first dance, and knowing there way no way around it, she had acquiesced.

Things with Ron had been – complex, to say the least. After the final battle, they had attempted a relationship. It took less than a month of screaming and fighting until good sense emerged victorious and allowed them to recognize that perhaps, they were better off as friends.

Truly, it had seemed that everyone else was more upset about the breakup than they were. Molly had cornered her at the Burrow to demand why they were no longer together. Apparently 'incompatibility' was not an acceptable answer to a woman who had been expecting their relationship since age eleven.

Since then, they had been awkwardly wading back into the ocean of friendship. It was not easy – not after the weight of expectation, of their own and others, that they were something more. But they could not be. Truly, what had she been thinking when she had thought that dating Ronald Weasley was a good idea?

An idea of a starry-eyed fourteen-year-old.

Now she was a traumatized adult.

He grasped at her waist, fumbling her through a turn in the waltz, stepping on her foot. She winced, and he flinched.

"Sorry, 'Mione," he muttered, chuckling slightly. "You know I've never been a good dancer."

She could smell firewhiskey on his breath. "It's alright."

"How have you been?" he asked, his voice only slurring slightly. "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages. How's that… whatever you're doing? At the ministry?"

"I'm interning in the Department of International Magical Cooperation," she answered smoothly.

"Right! Aren't you going on that trip? That … what was it? Victory tour?"

"I'm not sure what they're calling it," Hermione answered, as he spun her again. "It hasn't been officially announced yet. Kingsley is planning on doing it tonight."

"Look at you," Ron smiled at her, and for a moment they were twelve, laughing in the Gryffindor common room. "Internationally cooperating, or whatever. I'm proud of you."

"Thanks Ron," she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder as the music slowed. "I… I'm not sure how I feel about it."

"Why?" he asked, confusion evident. "I thought you were excited. That's what Harry said."

"I was," she murmured. "But Kingsley… he wants to add someone to the trip."

Ron laughed; loud, boisterous. "Well, that can't be too bad. Do you not want to drag someone along to all those museums?"

Hermione flinched as she felt the backhanded comment. It was always there with Ron – this idea that somehow her intellect was unappreciated, was eccentric, was something she did alone as the others laughed at her quietly.

Gods forbid she wanted to visit an art gallery.

"It's not that," she muttered, suddenly feeling quite small. "It's… I'm not a fan of the addition."

Ron pulled back, forcing her to look up at him. Concern broke through his tipsy eyes.

"Who is it?" he asked.

She bit her lip, unsure if telling him at all was a good idea.

"'Mione," he repeated. "Who are they putting you with?"

Hermione was certain that if she had not already had several glasses of wine, she would not have answered.

"It's Malfoy," she muttered.

"Sorry, it's who?"

The words came out a venomous hiss, and Hermione was suddenly aware that they were standing in the middle of the Ministry's atrium, with a hundred other guests around them.

"Ron," she whispered back, praying he would lower his voice. "It's… I haven't accepted yet."

"And you bloody well won't be accepting," he snapped back, pulling her flush against his chest. "What the fuck is Kingsley thinking? Placing you with that… that waste of space."

Hermione flinched; she had not heard Ron this angry since their breakup. "I… I think it's more complicated than that. He's thinking about optics, and magical unity…"

"Who gives a shit, 'Mione? He can't bloody well put you in danger like that…"

"Danger?" she asked, as she noticed wandering eyes begin to shift their way. "What danger?"

Ron gave her a look of disbelief. "From Malfoy."

Hermione laughed – and it felt good. The tension she felt in her limbs dissipated, replaced by unadulterated humour.

"Malfoy? Do you honestly think I'm in danger from Malfoy?"

Ron looked shocked. "Well, yes. He's a Death Eater, 'Mione."

"He only got probation at the trials. And besides, I could cast circles around him any day of the week."

"Care to test that theory, Granger?"

Hermione spun around at the low drawl; a voice she had not heard in over a year – he had not spoken at his own trial. But she would recognize that condescending tone anywhere.

Her skirt swirled around her, and suddenly she was face to face with piercing silver eyes.

Merlin almighty.

Had it only been a year? This was her first thought as she looked at Draco Malfoy. Because the man she was staring at looked nothing like the skeletal figure she remembered from the trial, and even less like the schoolyard bully who lived in her memory.

Dressed in black robes – what else? – Malfoy appraised her with mischievous eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He looked – grown. There was no other word for it. She supposed it made sense, time had passed, but she nonetheless was not expecting a man to be standing in front of her.

And certainly not a man that looked like this.

She had not been blind in Hogwarts – Malfoy had always been attractive. But this, this was beyond. This was a jawline that could cut diamonds, skin of alabaster and porcelain, white-blonde hair that in the past had been gelled back, but now lay with an offensive ease, a single tendril over his forehead.

Eyes the colour of a creek in the winter with the depth of the ocean.

He held up a flute of champagne.

"Care to dance, Granger?"

And a voice like music.

"Oi!" Ron bellowed from behind her, as she flinched at his volume. "Fuck off, Malfoy. You aren't welcome here."

He raised an eyebrow, his expression betraying nothing. "Interesting opinion, Weasley, given that myself and my mother were invited as honoured guests."

"Honoured for what?" Ron asked loudly, uncaring of the attention he was garnering. "For being Death Eater scum?"

"Ron," Hermione hissed, her head swiveling around as groups close to them glanced over at the ruckus.

"Merlin, 'Mione," Ron snapped, grabbing at her waist. "I need to get you out of here. What the fuck was Kingsley thinking? Forcing you to be with this son of a bitch?"

Hermione pushed him off her, hating the feel of his hands on her waistline. It felt invasive. Fury erupted in her chest.

"No one is forcing me to do anything," she hissed, trying to keep herself quiet as she felt the attention on them increase. "Kingsley gave me a choice, and I have not decided. You're the only one trying to get me to do something I don't want to do."

Hurt appeared on his face, breaking through the mask or rage. She felt regret.

She quashed it.

"What am I forcing you to do, 'Mione?" Ron asked, his voice cracking under the weight of firewhiskey and her anger.

She took a deep breath.

"Leave with you."

Not allowing her a moment longer on him, she turned to Malfoy, her body running on adrenaline.

She held out her hand, taking the champagne flute and downing it in one go. She placed the empty glass on a tray floating by, before giving the blonde man a small curtsey.

"I would love to dance, thank you," she replied curtly, as she slipped her arm through the crook of his elbow. She did not turn back at Ron as Malfoy led her away, even as he shot a condescending smirk over his shoulder.

"Stop it, Malfoy," she muttered, suddenly self-conscious as the gazes on her turned from interested to incredulous. She caught Harry's eye from across the room, one eyebrow raised, before Malfoy took her hand and spun her around.

She caught herself on his shoulder, as he slipped his hand around her waist to the small of her back.

"Stop what?" he asked, before beginning to lead her in a waltz.

She took a deep breath as her heart hammered in her chest. "Provoking Ron. You knew that would set him off."

He shrugged, spinning her again before pulling her flush against his chest. Unlike Ron's awkward wobbling, this felt – secure. Graceful.

"Are you a dancer, Malfoy?" She couldn't help but ask.

He nodded. "It's a part of pureblood education."

Pureblood.

She tensed in his arms as the implication of the moment hit her full force.

She was in the arms of Draco Malfoy – the man she had not seen since his trial for his war crimes. The man who had bullied her mercilessly for years prior.

The man who had introduced her to the slur carved into her body.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, as she felt blood pound down her arm to her scar, covered by the ballgown.

The forearm of her left arm – the arm now wrapped around Draco Malfoy's neck.

Panic overtook her momentarily.

"Well, 'Mione," he replied, his voice a taunting whisper. She flinched as irritation focused her mind.

"Don't call me that."

"You let your Weasel King call you that."

"I hate nicknames," she muttered, averting her eyes from his piercing expression. She glanced over his shoulder and once again saw Harry, now standing with Ginny.

Ginny looked like she had just won a bet.

Harry looked like he might intervene.

"You don't like nicknames?" he asked, his voice no longer hard. "And you let Weasel call you that?"

She glanced back at him. His eyes were focused on hers, a simple curiosity reflected in them.

"I don't let him," she grumbled, looking away again.

"You don't stop him."

"Look, Malfoy," she snapped. "What I do in my relationships is none of your business."

"I just thought I should confirm your name given that we are now… coworkers? Travel companions?"

She scoffed. "Not yet we aren't."

He raised an eyebrow as his hand moved to her waistline. His eyes flicked down to her dress.

"What a vision you are," he murmured, his voice lacking its usual sarcastic bite. "A true Gryffindor."

She flushed under his gaze, not liking the intensity with which those silver eyes were tracing her body beneath the gown.

It felt unnatural.

It felt intimate.

"Malfoy," she snapped, as his eyes met hers again, breaking the spell. "What… what are you doing?"

"I thought I was dancing," he responded, raising an eyebrow.

"No, I mean… with the trip. Why did you agree to do it?"

He did not answer her for a moment. As the silence grew more pronounced, she felt the eyes of the rest of the gala on them. And of course, they would be – Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, dancing. Into what universe had they hall fallen, tripping over the edge of the rabbit hole?

It was only a prelude of what was to come.

"It's a chance to rehabilitate my name," he said finally. "It's a chance to be part of something monumental."

"A key point of motivation for you, it seems."

He shot her a glare, but otherwise ignored the comment.

"Forgive me for wanting a second chance," he muttered, now avoiding her eyes. "We… all of us need a second chance. So, does Great Britain. I… I'd like to be a part of it."

Hermione stared at him as her heart pounded in her chest as something occurred to her.

Draco Malfoy could not look her in the eye when he told the truth.

"And me?" she asked, feeling the effect of the champagne she had so quickly downed. "What about me?"

He glanced back up. "What about you?"

"The trip, Malfoy. Eleven weeks with me. You hate me."

"Never said I didn't, pet," he responded, spinning her once more. "But it's not about you or me, is it? It's about something bigger. Something more. Isn't that your whole Gryffindor honour, or whatever the fuck? And here I thought Slytherins were the self-motivated ones."

"It's not about me, Malfoy," she muttered.

"Isn't it? If you're refusing to go on the trip because you can't move past the fact that I'll be there as well, that seems like a you problem, Granger. This trip is important, you know that's true. And if you can't put aside a schoolyard rivalry for the rest of society, then you're the selfish one."

Her eyes snapped up. "I wouldn't call not wanting to spend time with a man who let me be tortured a 'schoolyard rivalry'."

He looked away again.

They spun in silence for a few moments.

"All I'm saying, Granger," he muttered. "Is that we put up with each other for seven years. Surely, we can handle eleven weeks."

"Do you want to do it?" Hermione asked, feeling quite unmoored.

He shrugged. "I've always wanted to see Budapest."

She whispered her response. "Me too."

He met her eyes once again. "Then do the trip, Granger. Listen, you can be selfish for the rest of your life, as far away from me as you want. It's only eleven weeks. It's not a lifetime."

She bit her lip, as she observed him. His silver eyes were trained on hers, considering her. In the back of her mind, she realized that the music had stopped.

Malfoy dropped his hands and took a step backwards, giving her a small bow. Unsure what else to do, she curtseyed.

When she glanced back up, she noticed he was eyeing her, his eyebrows slightly pinched and his lips in a small frown.

"Yes, Malfoy?" she asked.

"Why… why is your hair up?" he asked, as if it was a frustrating Arithmancy problem he couldn't quite solve.

"My… my hair?" she repeated, confused.

He nodded.

"Oh, um… I don't know. I… I didn't want to be recognized as much."

He stared at her for another moment, shaking his head slightly, until his face melted into detached neutrality.

He gave her a curt nod.

"I'll see you later, Granger. Or maybe I won't. That's up to you."

Before she could respond, he turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing into a throng of people who all looked as flabbergast as she felt.

"Hermione? You alright?"

Startled, she jumped. "Oh, I'm sorry, Harry. I was just… focused."

He reached out and handed her another flute of champagne, concern etched in his expression. "On Malfoy?"

"Yes… no. On the trip."

"What did Malfoy say?" Harry asked, his voice lacking the harshness she expected. "Was he… nice?"

"Nice by his standards," she responded, giving Harry a look. "How… how are you so okay with this?"

Harry shrugged, shifting his eyes away from hers. She felt her heart drop.

Harry couldn't look her in the eye when he lied.

"No reason. I just… I don't think it'll be the end of the world."

She watched Harry, trying to decipher his coded nature, when she felt a pair of eyes on her. She turned slightly, making eye contact with the Minister for Magic, one of his eyebrows raised expectantly.

"I don't either," Hermione admitted quietly, as she sent Kingsley her answer.

A nod.

The rest of the gala had passed in a flurry. Kingsley had made the official announcement about the trip, annoyingly entitled the Golden Tour. Harry could not have helped himself from letting out a massive guffaw as Kingsley's voice echoed through the Atrium.

Hermione had tensed as confused eyes turned to her, amidst the loud applause as wizarding Great Britain learned the news.

And Hermione understood what Kingsley had been saying.

Everyone needed this.

She could not be selfish when it came to everyone's needs.

Ron had been taken home drunk by George, disappearing into the floo before the official speech, thankfully. Kingsley had spoken on the war, had thanked them all for the gallant bravery, and choosing to conclude on a somber note, the party had died down.

Hermione was waiting patiently near the exit for Harry and Ginny to go back to Grimmauld Place. She couldn't help but yawn. Goodness, she would have to invest in a large supply of pepper-up potions if she were to survive eleven weeks of galas.

One must always be drunk.

"Tired already, Granger?"

Malfoy had appeared beside her, on the way out himself. He smirked at her.

"You should know I drink an unhealthy amount of coffee," she muttered, glancing at her shoes. The tips of her heels were just peeking out from under the burgundy chiffon.

"And you should know I can't sleep without a glass of firewhiskey," he answered. Her eyes looked up in surprise.

"We don't have shared sleeping arrangements, Malfoy."

He shrugged, chuckling slightly. "I thought we were just telling each other facts."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sure we'll have plenty of time for that."

"Eleven weeks, Granger."

"Eleven weeks, Malfoy."

He laughed, a full-bodied affair she had never heard from him. "Don't sound too excited now."

She pursed her lips. "I'm simply thrilled."

He shook his head, still chuckling as he sauntered past her towards the floo.

"See you in Vienna, then."

"'Suppose so," she whispered, as he disappeared into green flames.

Her heart was pounding.

Merlin.

What had she gotten herself into?

Let me know what you think! This story will be 13 chapters, all about this length.

Looking forward to hearing your thoughts :)