Hermione woke in a haze of sunlight, the dream still playing out like a fuzzy television in her mind. Mr. Malfoy had taken up Bellatrix's blade, looming over her with that sneer she still remembered so well. His hand gripped her wrist, iron-tight, pinning it to the floor. But before he could touch the knife to her skin, another man appeared.
Sirius.
She tried to remember what he'd done to save her, what he'd looked like, but the dream had already faded in her waking moments. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and yanked the sheets over her head, sinking into the smell of the man who'd once slept here. That she remembered from her dream, at least. His smell, washing over her like a current. It had tugged her away until she was safe from Mr. Malfoy's clutches.
"Hermione!"
She startled, eyes flying to the bedroom door. Ron's bellow was unmistakable, but he wasn't supposed to be back until at least…Hermione glanced at her watch.
Merlin's Beard—I've slept to midday! Panic rushed through her, only briefly mitigated by remembering that it was, thank Godric, Saturday. Still, though, her boyfriend finding her naked in a dead man's bed (a dead man she was suddenly dreaming far too much about), was reason enough to panic.
"Hermione, you home?" Ron yelled, louder this time. Footsteps pounded up the stairs.
Ripping off the covers, Hermione grabbed her wand, first righting the bedding and then silently summoning her clothes from the day before. She yanked them on, stumbling into her skirt and chucking the stockings beneath the bed. Those could stay there.
"Come on, 'Mione, I've got something you'll like!"
She ran to the door, steadied herself with a sharp breath, and stepped nonchalantly into the hall. Ron stood in front of her own bedroom's door, one hand high on the frame in some attempt to look suave. Her foot came down on a creaky spot, and he spun towards her.
"Hermione?" he said, frowning slightly. "What are you doing coming out of that room?"
"Oh, nothing," she said easily, stepping forwards until she stood on one side of the stairwell's entrance. Ron crossed to the other side, watching her from the distance. "Thought I'd check if he had any Muggle clothes for the donation bin."
"Really?" He sounded perplexed, and she fought not to roll her eyes.
"Well I didn't think you fancied wearing a dead man's clothes. If they even fit, that is." She smirked, gaze sliding up his lanky frame.
Ron blushed, then his mouth curved into a grin. "Suppose so."
They watched each other. Ron fidgeted. Hermione reckoned she ought to kiss him. That's what a girlfriend wants to do, wasn't it? When her beau returned from a work trip abroad. Maybe if he'd remembered to tell me, I would be snogging him silly right now. She cleared her throat. "You have something to tell me?" she said primly, choosing to let him solve their awkwardness himself.
His eyes lit up. "Yeah! Follow me." He bounded down the stairs, not even waiting to see that she followed.
She did, of course, catching the door to the kitchen before it could swing closed in her face. Harry sat at the table with a steaming mug and white saucer covered in crumbs.
"Afternoon, Hermione," he said cheerfully.
She narrowed her eyes at his word choice before she smiled. "I am allowed to sleep in every once and a while. Even if it is against my nature."
"Here," Ron said, turning her attention to where he stood at the counter. Her eyes dropped to the white box sitting atop it. "Got these straight from a Paris café this morning." Ron flipped open the lid, revealing rows of shiny, pink macaroons. Two were already missing.
"Ron," she said, swallowing the lump creeping into her throat.
"I know they're your favorite, so I thought I'd, you know…be a good boyfriend and all that." He trailed a hand over his hair, smiling at her expectantly.
Harry was looking between them, his posture suddenly stiff as he realized Hermione was not smiling back. "I'll, er, go—got a letter to write," he mumbled, chair raking back with a screech. He slipped past her. She'd deal with his forgetfulness later.
"Ron," she tried again, trying her best to keep the fury from her voice. Shouting never helped, even if it did feel bloody good. "Do you really think I want macaroons?"
His hand flopped back to his side. "Yeah? They're your favorite sweet, aren't they? I know it used to be sugar quills, but it's not like I was going to bring those back from Paris."
She stared at him. Hard. Waiting. While his face burned redder, he had apparently not yet put together what Harry had in seconds. "Ron, is there something you forgot to tell me?"
His brow furrowed as his eyes dropped back to the box. Then his mouth popped into a stupid O. "Shite, Hermione. I am so sorry. Paris, right? I forgot to tell…and Harry was too caught up with floo-calling Ginny…" He crept towards her, arms outstretched, but Hermione sidestepped away.
"I'm your girlfriend, Ron," she snapped. "I don't want macaroons or a hug! I want you to consider your girlfriend's feelings before deciding not to tell her about a pre-scheduled trip to bloody Paris!"
"I didn't decide not to tell you—"
"No, you just forgot. Just like you do everything about me now."
Anger flashed over his already scarlet face. "I already apologized for being late to your birthday."
"This isn't about my birthday, Ronald!" she seethed, marching towards the center of the kitchen only to spin back around. "This isn't about France!"
"It's not?"
"No!" she nearly cried, grabbing on to the back of a chair. "Well yes, I suppose that's part of it, but it's—it's…all of it, Ron." Her voice cracked. She looked down at her hands, letting her curls shield her face from his searching eyes. "Sometimes I feel like you've moved on without me. With work, with Harry, with your family."
"Mum always wants to see you."
Hermione shook her head. Molly had been so distant since Hermione refused to let her help with her memories and nightmares. Or maybe Hermione had been the cold one. Either way, there was always an…aloofness when she visited the Burrow. Especially without Ginny there, or without Fred to lighten the mood.
Two hands found her shoulders, and Hermione let herself be pulled into Ron's chest. She breathed out, slow and shaky, until she forced her body to relax. "We could go to that pizza shop for lunch," he muttered, smoothing his hands over her back. "The new one in Muggle London."
She quirked a smile. So he remembered that. "All right." Better to brush their spiff under the rug than let it fester. Maybe pizza really could solve anything.
"Want to get Sirius's things for the donation bin first? We can drop it off on the way."
"No," she said, a little too firmly. Luckily her voice was muffled by Ron's shirt. His smell was of sweat and coffee, and a little bit of cheap cologne. Her nose wrinkled. "Couldn't find anything worth giving up."
After a pleasant (albeit annoyingly pleasant) lunch out, Hermione returned to Grimmauld Place while Ron headed off to deliver the macaroons to his family. Though they were her favorites, Hermione couldn't bring herself to eat what felt like a placating gift. She gave a brief hello to Kreacher, who didn't even look up from polishing the silver in the dining room, then wandered up to Harry's room on the third floor.
The door stood open. Harry sat up against his headboard, flipping through what looked like a work report. That would have been a Quidditch mag a year ago, she thought with a sad smile. Perhaps even longer than that—they had stopped being teenagers long before their seventeenth birthdays.
She rapped gently on the frame, and Harry looked up. "You're not here to row, are you?" he asked, hesitant despite his small smile. "Because I am sorry for forgetting to tell you."
Hermione tossed her hair back and crossed over to the bed, nudging his legs away so she could plop down. "Ron told me over lunch that you were busy organizing a last-minute floo-call with Ginny," she said, watching her bare feet dangle in the air beyond the mattress. "At least you had a good excuse for being scatter-brained."
Harry rubbed sheepishly at his already ruffled hair. "Still bad form."
"Well at least someone was being a good boyfriend," she huffed. "What did you have to talk to Ginny about, anyways?"
His hand stilled, and her best friend got that pinched little look he always did when he was trying to keep a secret. Hermione grinned, climbing onto her knees and scooching closer. "Harry," she warned, trying to sound commanding.
"It's nothing."
She snorted. "Tell that to someone who hasn't known you since you were eleven."
Harry set down his report with an exaggerated sigh, then held her gaze. "You can't tell anyone. Not even Ron knows yet."
She crossed her fingers. "Promise." He stilled looked wary, though, and she held up the second hand as well. "Come on, Harry. You know you're dying to spill."
"Oh, I'm the one dying here? You're bad as Ginny," he muttered. As soon as he said the witch's name, red splotches bloomed on his pale cheeks. Hermione poked his leg, waiting, until he finally sputtered out, "I'm gonna ask Gin to marry me."
A strange stab of pain—followed by hot, swelling joy—burst through her chest. "Oh, Harry, that's wonderful!" Tears flooded her eyes, and she wiped hastily at her cheeks with the back of her hand. She pushed the blip of hurt far, far down to analyze later.
"Yeah?"
"It's not as if she'll say no to The Boy Who Lived," she teased, sniffing through her chuckle.
This time it was his turn to jab her the thigh. "Oi—this isn't a laughing matter, Hermione! I…" He fiddled with the edge of the report, paper crinkling. "I'm going to do it on Christmas."
"Why the floo call, then?"
"I wanted to get a ring, from that family jeweler in Hogsmeade," he said, and Hermione nodded. She'd walked past The Giddy Gem plenty of times, though none of the students ever had reason to go inside other than the occasional window-shopping. "Ginny and I discussed, er, getting engaged, and she wanted to pick the ring herself. She sent an owl saying we needed to talk—apparently the shop owner had the ring made early, but he refused to give it to her since she's still at Hogwarts. Said someone would try to nick it," he said, rolling his eyes.
Hermione frowned. "Why couldn't the owner just keep it in the shop?"
Harry flushed again. "It's, well…a rather expensive piece. More so than what The Giddy Gem normally keeps. The owner said he felt better if the ring didn't stay longer in Hogsmeade than it had to," Harry answered with a shrug. "I'll head up to the village today to get it, once I finish reviewing this," he said, tapping the report.
Hermione eyed it curiously, wondering what was so pressing it couldn't wait till Monday. She was loathe to take the topic off the happy news, though. "Harry," she began, reaching out to clasp his hand. "I really am so happy for you. Your parents, Sirius—they would have been so proud to see how you've grown."
Harry grinned, squeezing her fingers. "You think so?"
"I reckon they're looking down right now."
"Thought you didn't believe in all that?"
Hermione pried her hand free, smiling. She thought back to her dream, to the man who had seemed so real when he saved her. No one that vivid, that good, couldn't be at least a bit real. Even if it was mostly the magic of memory. "Maybe I'm beginning to grow too."
Ron found her well past dinner, curled into an armchair in the library. She'd been thumbing through a tattered copy of Hogwarts, A History, smiling fondly at the familiar pages. She'd smiled fondly at something else too—a name, written in elegant curved ink inside the front cover. "Property of Sirius Black III." Tiny devil's horns capped the roman numeral.
Hermione had to flip the page before her tears ruined the faded ink.
"Going to bed soon?" Ron asked, idling in the doorway. He'd already dressed in plain pajama pants and a white cotton t-shirt, which he fingered nervously. The whole bottom hem was a wrinkled mess. Good, Hermione thought as she gently closed her book. He deserves to be nervous.
They went to Ron's room, like they always did. And when they climbed onto the downy mattress, and peeled back the sky blue sheets, they made love like they always did. Slowly, like it mattered. But even after she came, and Ron not long after, Hermione couldn't help but label the coupling as inconsequential. Making love wasn't even the right term. Their sex was an act of habit at best, a habit formed after the war thrust them together without pause for deeper consideration if they ought to even be together. She loved Ron, of course. More than a friend, but not—not quite like a brother. Not like she loved Harry. Ron was warm, and he was familiar, and he wanted her. For a while, that was good. It was enough to be wanted.
But now, as she rolled over to face away from his snoring, she wondered if that was still true. Hermione didn't want to just be wanted. She needed, painfully, to love and be loved equally.
"'Mione, you good?"
Hermione unstuck her gaze from the lift across the atrium. They'd just come from the floo, the boys still brushing ash from their robes. Bodies and memos hurried all around her, voices flying past both ears so fast she couldn't keep up. Fortunately, the scramble of Monday morning left only an occasional lingering gaze on the trio. Not even Dumbledore's favorites warranted more when there was work to be done and places to rush off to.
"I—I'm good, Ron," she said, though a frown still played on her lips. A slender figure with a mane of platinum stepped lightly into the lift, but as the grates closed, the person turned. A woman stared out, unbothered as the lift began to clank and sway. "I was just reminded of someone."
The three took off towards a relatively deserted lift at the end of the row, stopping in line between a tiny wizard carrying a ginormous jar of giggling pickles. How or what that was, Hermione didn't even want to know. She glanced sideways at the other lift, but of course the blonde she'd been looking for was nowhere to be seen. "Ron, Harry," she began, turning to face her friends. "Do either of you know why Mr. Malfoy would be at the Ministry?" They met each other's eye, though at least Harry had the decency to look surprised. "Well that was clearly a yes," she huffed. Behind her, the lift opened up, and the little wizard shuffled in. Ron and Harry began to follow when she grabbed their sleeves, hauling them back. "We'll take the next."
After a minute, the grate finally opened, and they stepped inside. Hermione slid the grate shut with her wand before the others in line could join too.
"Level Two," Hermione said, before either of the boys could call her floor. "Now I want answers, and I'll follow you to your cubicles if you plan to ignore me."
"We aren't exactly sure," Harry began slowly. She caught him glancing at Ron, as if confirming. "Just…rumors we heard from some of the aurors."
"You saw him?" Ron blurted out.
"Would I be asking if I hadn't?"
"Dunno…maybe you heard rumors too. Unspeakables get up to all sorts of…well, unspeakable stuff."
"Well I can assure you, my department has nothing to do with why I saw him at the Ministry on Friday."
"He didn't hurt you, did you?" Harry asked.
She shook her head—better to leave the detail that she'd shared a tiny compartment with the man unsaid. Both her friends knew she still had nightmares. If either Harry or Ron found out he'd been inches from her, well…Hermione didn't want the Ministry's newest aurors locked up before they'd even finished training. "Just saw him across the atrium," she said simply. The lift groaned to a stop, and the three stepped out into the thankfully deserted hallway. "Well?" she asked, crossing her arms.
Ron threw up a privacy charm. "You know how the git just got off with a few months in a cell, then house arrest?" She nodded. "About a month ago, Harry and I overheard that the sentencing had been amended. Dunno why. But the DMLE decided to let him out for work. Tracked, magic-less, and wand-less, of course."
"Work?" she asked, her voice dripping with disbelief. "He's a Death Eater, not some rehabilitated teenager!"
"No," Harry agreed. "But he is one of the highest profile dark wizards in all of Britain. Out of the ones still alive, anyways. I'm guessing that they wanted to set some kind of example of him. You know, to show that even an evil git can get slotted into place in Kingsley's new Ministry."
Her eyebrows lifted. "Like they do with celebrities?"
"Huh?" Ron gaped.
"Muggle celebrities. Sometimes if they've had a lot of bad press, they get sent to pick up garbage or volunteer with the homeless. It's supposed to give them a positive re-brand, though in this case, I'm guessing more of a…warning, to the others. Play nice or get a sentencing that's not paid-off by a mountain of galleons."
"Reckon he was giving the DMLE information too, in exchange," Ron said, scratching his chin. "Now that his wife and the weasel are off cowering in America, it's less dangerous to talk."
Hermione looked at him appraisingly, and Ron flushed. "Ronald, was that an informed hypothesis?"
"Hippo—what?"
Ah, how quickly her surprise faded. Hermione just shook her head. Harry cast a glance towards the lift, where Neville had just clambered out. The boy—no, man, as clearly seen by his shockingly tall, filled-out frame—had started his own auror training not long after Ron and Harry.
"Better get going," Harry said, with a gentle squeeze on her arm. "You won't go looking for the git, will you? Even if he doesn't have magic…" Harry let the threat hang there. What would he even do? The thought drove the image of a blade to her mind.
"I wont," she said quickly, smiling at both of them. "Promise."
She bade Harry goodbye and gave Ron a chaste kiss before scurrying back towards the lift. No, Hermione thought as she greeted Neville and stepped inside. I won't go looking for him. But that doesn't mean I won't keep my eyes out for a certain blonde head. She was restless, and she was bored, and she was desperate for a solvable puzzle. If the Veil wouldn't give her one, and if her dreams were too hazy, then she'd just have to find out what Mr. Malfoy was really up to.