HELLO HELLO!

This chapter is near and dear to my heart. I suppose the rest of Part I is...honestly the whole story is, but for some reason I really like this chapter? The next few chapters are going to be good fun!

I'm going to try to update at least once a week for the rest of the summer, and try my best to write as much as I can so I can stockpile some chapters and keep a weekly posting schedule? I'm going to try, no promises, but again, I shall try.

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.

Friday, December 9th, 1977

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Quidditch Pitch

Winter was in full effect. Icicles carried on the night air, whipping against Hermione and battering her warming charms; practically rendering them useless. It was a clear night, the stars hiding in the darkness.

Hermione's right arm was sore from hours of swinging her bat as she flew about, hitting the bludger again and again with a satisfying crack upon impact. Other Quidditch players had milled about earlier—undertaking various drills—but that had been hours ago, and she was now alone.

The wind had taken liberties with her thick braid, teasing some curls from it, and they were left at its mercy. Sweat beaded across her hairline, and caused her clothes to stick to her; the bracing cold harsh. Shivers ran across her body.

Draco had promised to meet her at Dusk to train, but he'd volunteered to assist Josiah after their Defense class finished (with the intent to pry some information from the man's brain for tips for their upcoming examinations) and it had taken longer than expected. The young wizard was quite proficient in his teaching. The second best DADA Professor they'd had during their schooling—after Fabian Prewett of course.

Fatigued, Hermione decided to end her drills for the evening. She soared down to the pitch, hopping off of her broom with ease. She laid it beside her. With some quick wandwork she froze the bludger as it hurtled towards her. She returned it to the ball case, which was a few feet away on her left. Hermione's quads and glutes protested as she squatted before it and did up all the metal and leather latches.

Hermione straightened out, and heaved out several laborious breaths as she stretched her muscles. It was a good kind of ache, one that she oft found herself craving.

Hermione tucked her wand back into the holster on her left thigh, and hands on her hips stared at the ball case. I am not carrying that on my own, not with my exhausted arms. I'd probably pull something. It was a hefty, thick case; made of metal and canvas.

"Wingardium leviosa," She muttered under her breath, fingers pointed at the case. It obediently levitated a couple feet off the ground. She slowly bent at the waist and scooped up her broom.

Hermione headed for the storage room in between the Gryffindor and Slytherin changing rooms—all the equipment, spare brooms and various paraphernalia were stored there. The pitch's grass was frozen stiff underfoot—a thin layer of snow caking the earth—and it snapped as she strode across it, broom hanging limply in her left hand. The case bobbed up and down as it trailed behind her.

"Lumos," Hermione whispered as she pried open the creaky door with vertical, worn wooden planks held together with horizontal, rusty metal bars. The end of her wand lit up against her leg, providing just enough light for her to see what she was doing. She propped her broom up against the door frame.

The storage room was just big enough to stack the various cases on the left side, its ceiling only a foot or so taller than she (most of the male Marauders had to bend down as they fetched items). The right side was a line of vertical racks where the spare brooms hung from their metal foot handles; some of the lettering for the makes and models had long since rubbed off, the only thing remaining was their faint impressions.

Hermione levitated the case over to join its siblings. She didn't tarry; she left the dusty room without a moment's hesitation. The door groaned riotously, and Hermione's arm muscles twinged as she removed the large metal padlock from where it hung limply on the metal ring on the door; it was a hasp door lock. She quickly locked the door, and the padlock clicked into place.

"WHAT A TIME TO BE ALIVE!" Boomed from behind her. Hermione stiffened, hand on her wand as she cautiously turned around. It was none other than Lysander Smith.

The Ravenclaw had a bottle of Firewhisky in hand, and he was taking generous swings from it, necking the amber liquid as if it was water and he a parched man in an overbearing desert. His straight, blond hair was damp, and sticking up crazily. Lysander was wearing a loose, long-sleeved cotton shirt that was open at the chest, exposing his toned torso as it obeyed the wind's whims, his emerald green trousers clung to him like a second skin, and neon purple socks donned his feet.

Hermione made an attempt to side-step sneakily to her right and into the warmth of the Gryffindor changing rooms. Alas, she was spotted.

"Miss Potter! Why don't you step into my office!" Lysander slurred, gesturing to the wide expanse of the pitch as he stumbled towards her. Hermione froze mid-step.

"Hello, Smith," Hermione said, smiling tightly as he stopped far too close to her for comfort. She remembered she'd left her broom by the storage room; she stretched out her hand, summoned it, and it slapped into her palm. She tightened her gloved hand around it.

"Why, Hermione?" Lysander asked, teetering over her, Firewhisky bottle barely clasped between his fingers, threatening to slip and smash onto the ground at any moment.

"Why what? I'm afraid I don't follow," Hermione frowned. He huffed out air, and the distinct smell of liquor was pungent as his hot breath washed over her face. "You are going to catch a cold," Hermione murmured, noticing the gooseflesh covering his skin as he shivered. The liquor coat he wore, numbed his senses.

"Why did you kiss me? Then leave me, and pretend like it meant nothing," Lysander said sadly. His free hand came up, fingers hovering next to her cheek but not quite touching her. "It wasn't nice."

Guilt shot through her. No, it hadn't been kind. Hermione worried her chapped bottom lip between her teeth, the frigid wind slamming across her.

"No, it wasn't…" Hermione agreed.

"I like—I like you a lot, Hermione," Lysander declared, the words a jumbled mess, and he butchered her name (he put too much emphasis on the vowels). He took another swig of his Firewhisky. "So…why, why wasn't I good enough?"

Hermione never thought she'd feel grief over Lysander Smith's feelings, but she'd always seen the confident, shiny exterior he showed everyone. This was different, this hurt to witness. It hurt to be the reason he was dull and chipped around the edges. Though, she idly wondered if she was wholly to blame, or if something else had guided him down the drunken path tonight.

"I was in love with someone else," Hermione said quietly. She warily placed a hand on Lysander's shoulder. He stiffened.

"Lupin," Lysander grunted, eyes unfocused as he stared meaningfully into her face.

"No…"

"Who then?"

"Did something happen, Lysander? What's really going on?"

"Was rejected. Always rejected. Vance says I'm too cocky."

"Emmeline? You fancy her then?"

"Fancy you more."

Lysander's face inched closer to hers, grave as he asked again, "who were you in love with?"

"Doesn't matter—it didn't work out," Hermione lied; it slipped off her tongue effortlessly.

The wind changed direction, and the distinct smell of mint, the distinct smell of Draco tickled her nostrils. She hazarded a glance about in her peripherals, and sure enough, he was standing in the open archway that led to the Gryffindor changing rooms, shrouded in shadow. I wonder how long he's been eavesdropping, Hermione thought wryly.

As if sensing he'd been caught, Draco languidly strolled onto the pitch. Lysander didn't notice him until he was right beside the pair. An easy smile twitched across Lysander's features as he folded back out to his full height, leaning back as he appraised Draco.

"If it isn't my favourite Potter," Lysander chuckled. He pointed sharply in Draco's direction, "fuck off, Smith." His voice got softer, shriller as he mocked the words Draco had once hurled at him.

"You're sloshed, mate," Draco said simply, not rising to the bait. His jaw was taut, wired shut with irritation.

"Do you know who she's in love with? Do you like him better? Is he good enough for your sister?" Lysander asked, quirking a brow as he spun on his heel. He polished off his bottle; he sulked as he realised he'd drained it dry. Without warning he bowled it into the distance. With wide eyes, Hermione vanished it before it could shatter somewhere out on the pitch, the glass getting everywhere.

Hermione looked imploringly at Draco, eyes flitting to the blond who was now blowing raspberries. Draco sighed, his nostrils flaring.

"No. He's a bit of a wanker to tell you the truth," Draco said, voice carefully even. There was a wooden pause before he tacked on, "how about we get you back to your Common room? Sound like a good idea?"

Lysander nodded, not looking at either of them. "Maybe."

Eventually the pair convinced Lysander to go with them, and they had more than a little difficulty getting him back to his tower without being caught or causing too much of a ruckus. Lysander woke more than one portrait on their way, and he had sloppily kissed his way across the scandalised visage of a young woman, who dashed from her oil painting to the next with a hand to her breast and fire licking at her heels.

The knocker must have taken pity on them, as the riddle was embarrassingly easy, and Lysander climbed into his common room without even a spare glance. However, he did raise a hand in farewell.

Draco brushed the back of his hand across her cheek, and when Hermione met his gaze he mouthed, 'the room'. Draco and Hermione silently meandered to the Room of Requirement. Draco created the space, and quietly took her broom from her before he entered.

A spacious bathroom: high ceilings, polished concrete floors, a marble vanity with a pair of sunken sinks and elaborate silver faucets, and there was a copper, clawfoot bathtub. A light stained, slim, wooden cabinet was tucked in the corner beside the vanity.

Hermione's broom clattered onto the floor as Draco threw it onto the far side of the room, she barely open her mouth to whinge when his mouth was on hers. It was possessive, overwhelming, a clamant wave that shoved her into the ocean's depths. His hands teased her hair out of its braid, throwing her hair tie somewhere over his shoulder.

Draco's grip was almost painful as he clung to her curls, his kiss bruising as his tongue slipped into her mouth. Hermione's knees knocked together and fog rolled into her brain.

He broke the kiss long enough to gulp in air.

"Draco—"

Draco's mouth covered her once more, swallowing her words. He backed her up against a wall, every inch of him pressed up against her without abandon.

The kiss slowed. He pulled away, forehead pressed against hers.

"It didn't work out, hm?" Draco exhaled harshly, diaphragm expanding and contracting rapidly.

"You were listening!" Hermione exclaimed, finger jabbing into his side just below his ribcage. He winced. "So what was that? Some way of staking your claim on me?"

"No," Draco snorted crudely, averting his gaze.

"I couldn't very well tell him the truth, could I?" Hermione admonished, swatting him.

"Doesn't mean I liked seeing him all over you," Draco said, shadows crossing his face.

"You were jealous," Hermione realised, hands finding purchase in fistfuls of his shirt around his hips. He was half-dressed in his Quidditch kit, his skin guards, gloves and outer robes missing. She was going to ask about their absence when Draco scowled darkly at her. Draco's nails lightly scraped against her scalp.

"He wasn't even touching me," Hermione assured Draco. The wizard's unimpressed expression only deepened, lines carving grooves on his forehead.

"Fucking Smith," Draco said more to himself than her.

"I think he likes Emmie, plus, he probably views me as the girl that got away, the one that could have been…" Hermione trailed off. There was a point to her words, somewhere.

"Don't give a fuck. I don't care if Smith is heartbroken over my witch. I don't care if he pursues Emmeline or not—she has decent taste so I doubt she would seriously entertain him," Draco snarled, and his hands slipped from her hair down her body, skimming her curves as they dug into her arse and lifted her upwards until they were eye-to-eye. "I don't give a fuck."

"Lysander isn't that bad—" Hermione tried, but was swiftly silenced as Draco's mouth crashed against hers again.

Hermione and Draco divest each other of their clothing in a primal fashion: fabric tore, buckles (on Hermione's boots) snapped, and buttons lay in the graveyard of clothing around them. Draco shoved Hermione's bra up and over her breasts, and gave her just enough room to slip it over her head and to drop it on the floor. She is left just in her trousers and lacy underwear.

Hermione's nipples pebbled into hard buds. She pressed her front against Draco's hard, warm torso. She made room to reach between their bodies and unfasten his trousers. Draco hissed as her hand found his cock. She freed it from its confines; the silky, hard member filled her hand as she pumped it twice. Draco's trousers slipped down around his ankles.

"Fuck," Draco swore, head tipping to the ceiling. She clumsily unfastened her own trousers as she lazily pumped his cock. Precome leaked out of the tip of his cock, and her thumb swiped across it, gathering it on her appendage.

Draco took charge: she relinquished her hold on his cock, and it thudded against his abdomen. In a messy arrangement of limbs and with a lot of masterful adjustment, he helped her tug her pants off without putting her down. The affronting article of clothing was thrust almost clean off her body, the material hanging off of one ankle.

Draco pulled her tightly against him, her folds rubbing against the length of his cock. He teasingly rolled his hips back and forth, coating himself with her wetness.

"Need you," Hermione rasped.

"Say please."

"Begging is unseemly."

"You've done it before." Draco had the audacity to look smug, smirking cockily at her.

"Fuck you."

"That's the intention, sweetheart."

Hermione glared at him, she pushed at his chest, parting their bodies slightly. He watched her carefully. She found his cock, and guided it inside of her, impaling herself on it. She hissed deliciously at the feeling of him filling her.

"Fuck me," Draco moaned.

"That's the intention, sweetheart," Hermione mocked.

Draco ignored her, deciding to pull out and slam back into her roughly instead.

One of her hands found the wall behind her, the other gripped his shoulder. Hermione's back arched, her legs tightening around him. Draco was gripping her hips brutally as he drove in and out of her. Hermione's chest clenched, her lungs deprived of air.

There was nothing sweet about it; it was hard, and fast and full of need.

Hermione's leg twitched as Draco hit a spot inside of her that made her see stars. She trusted him to keep her upright as her hand skidded down his toned abs and down to her clit. She rubbed at it with abandon, severe flares of colour exploding across her vision. She stared at Draco in technicolour, his raven hair damp and hanging down on his forehead, his face red with exertion, sweat slick on his skin. A vein in his neck bulged.

Their guttural moans filled the room. Draco tilted his hips just the right way, and she toppled over the edge at the same moment that he spilled inside of her.

Afterwards, they shakily made their way over to the tub, kicking off the remainder of their clothes. Draco stepped in first, holding out a hand to help Hermione climb in on her trembling legs. Draco sat down, legs extended out in front of him, his arms resting on the lip of the tub, leaning against the tub's wall. Hermione slotted out in front of him, hair to the side as to not stick to his chest. She sagged against him, eyes fluttering shut.

"I love you," Hermione muttered after some time, a hand rubbing at Draco's muscular thigh. He was like a lithe, sleek panther. Draco looped his arms around her ribcage, and rested his chin on her shoulder.

"I love you too," Draco replied, and their breathing aligned, perfectly in sync.

"You don't need to feel threatened or worried about Lysander," Hermione said, exhausted. She knew they would have to shower soon, don their dirty clothes and head back to the Gryffindor tower, but at that moment she wished for nothing more than to fall asleep in his arms.

"Logically, I know that…something about him just gets under my skin," Draco admitted. He rubbed his cheek against her neck, his light stubble sending jolts through her body.

"Do you know what happens to him after we graduate?" Hermione asked, the thought occurring to her. She hadn't heard his name mentioned once by anyone in the future, his fate a complete mystery to her.

"Nope. I shall only repeat this once more, and then I don't want to talk about Smith anymore. I don't give a fuck." Draco said curtly.

"Okay, love. No more Smith talk," Hermione relented with a sigh. She couldn't help but wonder what the future held for the boy. Draco quickly distracted her as he nibbled on her earlobe, sending her into a fit of giggles.

When Hermione trusted her legs to hold her weight properly once more, the pair stood up in the tub. Draco picked up the detachable shower head as Hermione examined the assortment of soaps and products the room deemed fit to provide.

Hermione chose a couple. She faced Draco once more to ask his opinion when the wizard turned on the water, and a jet of frigid water hit her on the chest. Hermione gasped sharply and hurled a bottle at him. He deftly caught it with his free hand.

Laughter ricocheted around the room as they splashed each other, fought for the shower head, slipped about and soaked the bathroom floor. Eventually they called a truce, and set about lathering each other's bodies. Hermione hummed cheerily as she scrubbed Draco's back.

Draco informed her of his unofficial lesson with Josiah. "He gave me some extra practice resisting the Imperius curse, even if I have a natural immunity to it due to my Occlumency skills."

"Does he know that?"

"No."

They finished showering as they chatted idly. Draco threw Hermione over his shoulder as they stepped out of the tub, dripping everywhere, his feet causing the surface of the small pools of water to ripple.

Draco summoned two dark towels from the cabinet, their doors banging as they open and closed forcefully. He held them to his body with one hand as he lowered Hermione to the ground. He handed her one, and rubbed himself dry with the other before he secured it around his hips. Hermione absently dried herself off, and then fastened the towel around her chest.

Hermione stepped into Draco, and he wrapped her up in his embrace, a hand rubbing comfortingly up and down her back.

"Christmas Holidays are in a few days," Draco reminded her errantly. Hermione nodded.

"James was trying to convince Lily to come spend a few days with us, but she said she missed her family and that distance only makes the heart grow fonder," Hermione mused aloud.

The Marauders had been in the Viaduct courtyard when James made his offer. They occupied a few stone benches beneath a broad tree, seeking shelter from the elements as snow gently cascaded down around them. James's and Lily took up one bench all by themselves, whilst the other five members were spread out over the two benches beside them. James's head was in Lily's lap, and her fingers combed through his wild hair. Lily affectionately shook her head as she reluctantly refused him.

"This is going to be the first Christmas in years that Peter is going to be spending with us," Draco added. Hermione flinched at that. Their fellow Marauder was spending more time with them as of late, and one could be tricked into thinking it was just like old times. Any trace of mirth or levity in the room drained out in one fell swoop.

"Lyall is apparating in from Wales," Hermione said, shifting the subject. Peter was a topic she gladly avoided these days when she was alone with Draco; as if willingly pulling the wool over her eyes would change the future.

The past few Full Moons Hermione had battled with Vixen as she'd 'playfully' chased Wormtail around the Shrieking Shack. Once, she caught him in her paws, and it would have been so easy to open her jaw and swallow him whole.

The Unbreakable Vow of course, forbade her from doing so, and she'd experienced more than one skull-splitting migraine as a result. Vixen took her sweet time before she released him: Wormtail squeaked and twisted in her paws, his little body hot as he panted and panicked.

Hermione loved Peter, he was a dear friend. She'd allowed her guard down, and over the years he had weaselled his way into her heart. Metal gathered at the base of her throat when the thought of his betrayal crossed her mind.

Hermione never imagined she would be caught in limbo between hatred and love for Peter Pettigrew, but it was the undesired position she found herself in. She wanted to rip him limb-from-limb, but she also wished to curl up in front of a roaring fire with a cup of his famous hot chocolate and hold him and promise that it was all going to be okay. She wanted to remind him that they were his family.

"I hate how much I care about him," Hermione let the words pass through her lips. She was so tired of hating him; she was so tired of caring about him. Draco understood who she meant without uttering his name.

"I know," Draco said, voice breaking. "I wish we could change it, I wish we could stop it…"

"I tried to eat him you know," Hermione confessed. Draco snorted.

Draco toyed with the dripping ends of her water-laden curls. "I want to say I'm surprised, but that would be a lie."

"That's all they are, wishes. We can't do anything about it," Hermione said, resigned to their fate. She'd had years to adjust to the concept, but it was akin to knowingly allowing her brother and a person she considered a sister to be led like lambs to the slaughter.

"Sometimes I picture another universe, one where we save them," Draco said, the words flew out of his mouth as if they stung on the way out.

"Tell me about it," Hermione hummed. She pressed her ear to his chest, listening to his soothing heartbeat. And so he did, and it was magnificent.

Hermione's heart cracked wide open. It was naive, foolish even, but she half expected the events from last summer to all be a terrible dream. Hope had coated her insides, slick in her veins as she'd stepped off the Hogwarts Express.

Daylight streamed onto the open platform, the air thick with steam, the bustling swarm of wix around her impeding her line of sight. Cold air crept onto the platform, snaking its way in and amongst the crowd.

Hermione pulled her large, white, warm coat tight, the heat radiating off of the train warming her legs, and stood stock still as she searched the horde teeming about the platform around her. The other Marauders were gathered behind her.

A few feet away James whispered sweet nothings to Lily, hands curled around her ears before he kissed her deeply. Remus, Sirius and Peter set about offloading their trunks and retrieving all their possessions.

Midnight bounded off of the train, rubbed against Hermione's leg, and then scampered on top of Remus's trolley, purring at the wizard. He rewarded her by gently stroking her head with the back of his finger.

Draco put a hand on the small of her back, jolting her back into the present. He pointed out into the distance, the crowd parted like the red sea, and straight ahead was Charlus Potter, peering around as he moved towards them. He was alone.

Hermione knew Dorea was gone, but that didn't mean she hadn't imagined her there, waiting for them with open arms.

Something fragile inside of Hermione snapped. The racket around her faded, and she broke into a desperate sprint towards her Father, boots pounding against the concrete.

Hermione flung herself into Charlus's warm, hard chest. He swaddled her into his tender embrace. She was lost to the world around her.

Marlene and Mary had hopped off the train, arms looped together as they shared a private joke. Marlene spotted the despondent Marauders, and stuttered to a halt. The pair silently communicated, and wordlessly slipped through the herd until they had joined their friends.

Marlene placed a comforting hand on Draco's arm, and he pulled her into his side, a grim smile on his face.

"It's just the first…" Draco attempted, but faltered. Marlene squeezed his arm.

Mary was between James and Lily, a comforting presence. James smiled gratefully at her.

Sirius and Riley started intensely at each other, and the Hufflepuff's face crinkled with sympathy, and she appeared to be holding herself back from bolting across the platform, knocking down passerbys and flying into his arms.

Charlus guided Hermione over to the Marauders—she was neatly tucked into his side—and few words were exchanged before the group broke away from their friends. James proudly re-introduced Lily as his girlfriend to his Father. Charlus relinquished his grip on Hermione long enough to pull Lily into a hug—the crimson haired girl let out a surprised squeak before she hugged him back.

"How's my boy been? Behaving?" Charlus asked, his pearly whites on display as he smiled.

Lily shrugged, stepping back from the wizard, but she leaned in conspiratorially, "mostly, but he still gets into bits of mischief here and there."

"As it should be," Charlus nodded, he gently patted Lily's shoulder and bid her farewell before he turned to Draco and pulled him into a constricting hug, his hands bunching up in the fabric of Draco's shirt.

James spoke in hushed whispers to his girlfriend, quickly kissed her, stroked her cheek tenderly, and they unwillingly parted.

The Potter brood gathered their belongings (including Remus, Peter and Sirius), and pushed their trolleys off the platform. The absence of a crucial puzzle piece in their intricate tapestry bitter on the tongue.

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