Hermione poked the pastry Valerie had brought her gingerly, bracing for an explosion or fart noises. Valerie seemed nice enough, but it took a special kind of person to apply for a job at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Her hunger eventually made her brave enough try a bite, and she was pleasantly surprised when her only reaction was a moan of delight. Valerie was clearly an angel. If the pastry turned her hair green, it would be completely worth it. She wiped a few crumbs off her notebook and returned to her practice essay on the use of unicorn hair in potions. George had been amused by her request to use his office to study for her N.E. . He had extorted three hours of assistance creating his new voice-changing potions in return, but Hermione thought he was secretly glad of the company. He didn't spend much time in the office, but when he was there he was surprisingly serious about his work, and they worked on their respective tasks in companionable silence. Hermione had decided that the dark and musty library at Grimmauld Place wasn't exactly ideal for studying. It was too quiet and the blood-purity-or-death vibes were a little distracting. The laughter and loud bangs echoing through the joke shop reminded her of Hogwarts, without all the baggage carried by the real thing. She half-expected Ron to come beg for her help with an essay.

When she looked up from her book to see Theodore Nott standing on the other side of the desk, it almost felt natural. They had barely interacted at Hogwarts, but there had been a few times when their paths had crossed at the library. She remembered in third year he had once asked for a book she had left discarded on the table. Not in a friendly or derisive way, just with a matter-of-fact attitude, making a simple request within the bounds of library etiquette. Of course, after Voldemort's resurrection, no Slytherin would ever risk making such a polite request of a Muggle-born in public.

'Are you working here now?' Theodore asked. 'It looks even worse in the daylight. Like a litter of pygmy puffs exploded in here.'

'I like it,' Hermione insisted. As she said it, she was surprised to discover it was true. The room had cosy lived-in armchairs instead of stiff desk chairs. Bright shades of orange, pink and green clashed in ridiculous ways. Every inch of surface was filled with little toys and curiosities. It was a room designed by people who were passionate about fun and comfort. It reminded her of the Burrow or the Gryffindor common room, but without any limits or sense of propriety. Much better than Grimmauld Place, so traditional and fancy and horrid. But she supposed Theodore Nott had grown up in a place like that. She cut off that thought before it could lead down a dark path.

'To what do I owe the honour of your presence?' she asked with a little too much bite.

'Have you had lunch?' he asked. 'There's a nice Italian place down the street.'

'No,' she lied, resisting the urge to glance at the pastry crumbs in the bin.

Twenty minutes later they were seated at the restaurant waiting for their food. They had only exchanged the bare minimum amount of words necessary to find a table and place their order.

'This place had a really nice review in the Prophet,' Hermione said.

'Your name hasn't been in the papers much lately. Why is that?' Theodore asked.

Hermione remembered the double spread in the Daily Prophet a few days ago, ranking which of the Death Eater progeny was most likely to become the next Dark Lord. She had tossed it aside without reading it. 'I have an arrangement with the press. They don't print any unsubstantiated gossip about me, and I don't go digging through their journalists' murky ethical practices. There's enough dirt out there to take half of their staff down.'

'Then why hasn't anyone gone after them yet? They've pissed off some pretty powerful people in the past.'

'People with reputations to protect. For some baffling reason, wizards love the Daily Prophet. Neither "reformed" Death Eaters nor heroes of the light could afford to be seen attacking the press. The public would crucify them. I, on the other hand, have no particular need to stay in society's good graces.'

'So you're blackmailing them.'

'Only to stop them printing anything untrue. If they can prove it, they can print it. I honour my word and they honour theirs.'

Prove was the operative word. She wasn't exactly being discreet meeting with her long-lost brother in a public restaurant, but even if they discovered the truth they would need evidence, and Lucretia Nott had covered her tracks well. It would become public knowledge eventually, but right now she was enjoying the calm before the storm.

Theodore rolled his eyes at the word 'honour'.

'Or if you'd prefer the Slytherin translation, we can call it mutually assured destruction.'

He laughed. 'So you speak Slytherin?'

'No,' she said quietly. 'Harry's the one with the talent for parseltongue. I've just read a lot of Muggle books. Politics, ethics, philosophy. The libraries of the Wizarding World are somewhat lacking in that department. Not surprising, really.'

'Do you have any books to recommend?' he asked.

'Sure,' she said with a challenge in her eyes. 'I'll send you a list.' She stared him down, waiting to see if he would baulk at the thought of being expected to go out and find a Muggle book for himself. He just sipped his glass of wine calmly.

'Are you taking your N.E. in May?' Hermione asked, referring to the first of many special sessions to be held for the senior classes affected by the war.

'Yes,' he said.

'We could study together sometime,' she suggested.

'Sure, if you think you can keep up with me.' She chose not to dignify that with a response. She had always suspected he was smart from their shared classes, but beyond that she knew nothing about his academic talents. Their study session could be illuminating.

They ate their meal leisurely, making small talk about the quality of the food. When they were finished Theodore ordered another glass of wine. Hermione considered him thoughtfully. 'What is it that you want to ask me?'

He tapped his fingers against the table. 'What makes you think I have a question?'

'You've been trying too hard to stay on my good side. I've given you a few openings for a snarky comment and you've ignored them. That makes me suspect you have a big strike prepared.'

He went to take another sip of his wine and checked himself when he remembered it was empty. She predicted that he would regret that act of weakness and try to re-establish his confidence with a bold question.

'Do you want to acknowledge your parentage?'

'Yes,' she said firmly. 'I want to acknowledge the Grangers as my parents. As for anyone else, there's nothing to acknowledge. They made their decisions and I'm sure if they had the chance they would disown me from beyond the grave.'

'But did they really…'

'The letter your mother left was very clear. Leaving me that property in her will wasn't some kind of gesture of love. It was a bribe to protect her name, and she had only negative feelings about my existence.'

'I can believe that,' Theodore said. 'I didn't know her, but that is the Pureblood way of doing things. What about Snape? Potter shouted from the rooftops about his soul full of unicorns and rainbows after the war.'

She turned her head away to look out the window.

'He disliked me. Not just in a distant house-rivalry way, or because of blood purity. He really disliked me on a personal level, from the day we met. I'm glad he never knew the truth.'

After that they both chatted about Quidditch teams and politicians for a little while, without really listening to any of the actual words they were saying. Hermione wanted to be alone, but their relationship was too fragile to leave things on a bad note. As they stood up to leave, she realised it would take more than a few fake pleasantries.

'I won't acknowledge them, but that has nothing to do with you. You're my brother, and I won't try to deny that.'

He just nodded, and reminded her about her promise to send him a list of book recommendations.

Later that night, Hermione walked into one of the empty rooms at Grimmauld Place, holding a jar.

'Aduro,' Hermione whispered. A little bluebell flame appeared in the jar, flickering gently. She stared at it as though hypnotised for a few moments, then whispered the spell to extinguish it.

'Aduro'. Again. 'Aduro'.

She repeated the pattern until her voice became hoarse. She gave in when she almost set fire to the curtain, but managed to correct her mistake with only a small scorch mark to show for it.

She put her wand away with a sigh.

The problem was that she was filled with anger, but there was nowhere to direct it. Lucretia Nott was dead. Thoros Nott was dead. Snape was dead. Voldemort was dead. Theodore Nott was innocent- well, he was a Slytherin, so he probably wasn't entirely free of sin. No one was these days. But he had no part in the volatile emotions eating her up inside. She needed a way to vent her feelings, one that wouldn't result in burning her home down to the ground. She had been so proud when she learnt that spell. She had sent the Grangers a ten page letter that day, and they had sent back fifteen. Even in her darkest, most dramatic moments, she hadn't been able to convince herself that they were capable of hating her. They had loved her. They had been good people. If they had known the truth it would have broken their hearts, but they were so good that they would have loved her anyway, even through the shock and horror. She wondered if Lucretia Nott had known that, had taken advantage of it. Or had she not cared at all? Was it just luck? She had no way of knowing. Sometimes she was glad that the Grangers didn't have to be told, that they already knew they had never had a daughter. And yet if she had the chance she would take it all back, come what may. She would take it back. She didn't want to be her mother's daughter, in that way or any other.

She thought about the sins of the parents for a while, then picked up a pen. She knew a very effective way to vent, a perfect distraction. But last time they had connected over their shared misery. What if that was no longer the case? What if he was happy now? She found it hard to imagine what happiness looked like for Draco Malfoy, but it was possible. And then he would have the upper hand. He could look at her note with haughty condescension and send back a humiliating rejection. She paced across the room, tapping the pen against her cheek. Now she had to know. It wasn't just about venting anymore, it was a burning curiosity. It had been two months since their last encounter and she couldn't even imagine what his life was like. She scribbled a short missive and sent it off with her owl. Then she sat in the dark wishing she could call it back.

Malfoy,

Holt's Bar, opposite the Diagon Alley entrance, at 7pm on Friday.

-HG