Hermione fills in Ginny about the set of basic press regulations she has drawn up as they shop in Madam Malkins for dress robes for the Ministry ball. Scathing articles about "Hermione Granger's feeble attempt at ajoke" had taught her that wearing last year's robes was acceptable from men but blasphemy for a woman (that particular article had been written by none other than Pansy Parkinson - one of the Prophet's favourite gossip writers and proof that Hermione had committed some terrible sins in a past life).
The dress shop is buzzing with parents buying Hogwarts gear and excitable eleven-year-olds point and stare at the two of them. Ginny returns to her new favourite subject the way Ron segues into Chudley Canon's chances in the league.
"Malfoy wouldn't object to a visit, you know. He's even almost friends with Harry."
It's been a week since they made plans to take down the Prophet, and Hermione has spoken to everyone with even the slightest connection, apart from him.
She sighs and casts a muffliato around the two of them. "Well Harry's more forgiving than most."
"Than any of us," Ginny agrees fervently. Hermione tries not to be offended; she knowsshe isn't as kind as Harry.
"It's strange," Ginny says. "Of everything, I still can't forgive Lucius giving an eleven year old the opening to the chamber."
"That wasn't Dr-Malfoy's fault."
"No," Ginny says. "And yet, that's what I think of. Though I also can't forget those half-naked pictures in Witch Weekly." Ginny smiles into the air. "Yes, that really does overtake any childhood crimes, doesn't it? Those mag-ni-fi-cent abs."
She only hums in reply.
"Really Hermione, I work with Quidditch players, so I see my fair share of hot bodies. And that one." She knows Ginny is exaggerating for her benefit, but God they were fine. Panties dropped, nation-wide. One of the Ministry secretaries had the full spread magi-glued to their desk for months. The heading was usual tabloid trash: Bad Boy Reveals All.
But she noticed that none of the pictures displayed the faded dark mark on his arm fully. There was always a hand covering it, or a prop, or he kept his body turned sideways. She couldn't know whether it was the editor's decision (bad boys are hot commodities, but prejudiced neo-fascists perhaps less so) or whether he had been honest when he spoke about how awful it felt on his body, years ago, when the two of them had spoken in a way she had naively assumed was honest.
Ginny turns serious, speaking to Hermione in a lowered voice between aisles of dress robes. "I always suspected you had a thing for him in seventh year, you know. You two seemed to watch each other, for all you never talked. But after graduation you didn't once mention him, or visit him, or anything. If you were crushing, your method of approach looks a lot like retreat."
"I started dating your brother after graduation, Ginny."
"And that meant you couldn't be friends with a beautifully-muscled bloke?"
Ginny is coming dangerously close to a secret she doesn't want to share. She rifles through robes for a distraction and finds a burgundy silk creation that would drape beautifully over Ginny's slim, athletic body. Ginny grins at her and mouths "later" but still takes the robes from Hermione's hands.
As Ginny talks to Madam Malkin about potential tailoring, Hermione vows that she will discuss Quidditch for the next two hours if it keeps them off the subject. Ginny barely spoke to Malfoy in their final year and Hermione had let her assume that she was the same. She couldn't bear to go back into it now.
See, in the first two months of Hermione's NEWT year she did hardly speak to Malfoy, and tried not to think about him. Thinking about Malfoy would bring back the Manor, and Bellatrix knifing prejudice into her arm, and staring up at their chandelier, screaming.
He was in all her classes except Defense, but he chose seats at the back and worked in silence. The professors didn't call on him, and he didn't talk to anyone, so she kept on ignoring him, and that was fine.
In the Gryffindor Common Room students complained about his eerie silence, saying he was hiding another malicious plot, and planned attacks on him. A year before she would have bristled and interfered - there was no bravery in attacking first - but this time around she was too busy not thinking.
The only person with anything interesting to say about Malfoy was the Headmistress, with whom she started having weekly tea. It was almost like Harry and Dumbledore, but with none of the saving-the-world and instead a no-nonsense approach to rebuilding, both the school and, Hermione began to realise, her own fractured life.
According to McGonagall, Malfoy quit Defense because he thought a Death Eater casting aggressive spells would likely end in panic attacks, and he offered to leave any other class where he caused distress. Apparently he'd asked that Hermione and Luna in particular be consulted. She'd told McGonagall it was fine - everywhere she turned there was a reminder of the war, he was only one more. (That had earned her one of the professor's stern looks, and a recommendation to have another biscuit, dear.)
So with all that mutual avoidance in place, she could have gone the year without any interaction.
But on Halloween, a party was planned in the Great Hall after the feast. Hermione wore startling red robes, cut at the thigh - Ginny's pick. Luna had given her dark, thorny eye make-up and fixed her wild hair with brooches of magical creatures. In the conjured full-length mirror, Hermione thought she looked, if not beautiful, then certainly striking. She looked, as Ginny said in an awed murmur, like a witch.She didn't look as beautiful as at the Yule Ball - she'd put on weight since July, and her body hasn't adjusted to it. But she looked fierce in the best way and she strode out with her friends, power in her step.
But as they descended to the Great Hall, the three of them were swamped inside a huge crowd, and suddenly, she felt herself fracturing. She turned away and purposefully lost herself in the swarm so Ginny wouldn't drag her back. Picking her way through students and corridors she ended, without meaning it, at the kitchens.
She entered them with a breath of relief. She was absolutely stuffed after the feast, but food had become a way of coping that at least made sense.
Yet inside Draco goddamn Abraxas Malfoy was sat instructing three house-elves, looking every inch the pureblood. Looking like everything she had spent a year in a tent running from.
With a nod to the elves she said, "You always did prefer servants to friends."
If he had returned with an insult, that would have been it, she reckons. They would have lashed at each other until one of them left, and then back to mutual invisibility.
But instead a flicker of unease crossed his face. He looked shocked to see her there - and in thatdress, as if he was surprised she could look good. He wore plain school robes, unsuited for the party, and, considering the food in front of him, it was likely he'd missed the feast too.
She thought of Crabbe, Malfoy's last sycophantic friend, and how being on the side of cruelty didn't mean deaths came easy. She wondered whether he would have had someone to sit with at the feast, if he'd gone.
"I didn't mean that to come out so…"
"Honest?" he suggested.
"I've been known to place honesty over people's emotions."
"Honestly," Malfoy said, with a wry twist of his mouth, "I think the world could do with more of it."
She let that lie in the air: a compliment from Draco Malfoy. How the power of Wizarding Britain had shifted.
She took an apple from the counter opposite him. "Well. I've learned to lie better now."
"Ah."
"What can I say in my defence? War makes dicks of us all." That shocked a laugh out of him. She found herself watching the line of his pale neck. "Before you say you're actually quite funny, Granger,that piece of wisdom was Ginny's. I'm still not fun."
"Useful though," he said. "You're useful, and you're fair."
He offered her a chocolate tart from the spread before him. She shook her head - she only ate what she made. It was part of her compromise with the elves: she wouldn't forcibly set them free and they would let her use their kitchens to cook. Mostly it was piles upon piles of pasta, and cookie dough made on mass. The elves looked almost physically hurt by it, but she didn't have the time or the skill to do better.
Malfoy sighed, putting the delicious-looking chocolate tart on his own plate. "At least you usually have an opinion."
That was… not what people usually choose to praise. Her intelligence, yes, her actions in the war, even her looks, on very rare occasion (though maybe more, considering this dress). But opinionated, bossy: those were words said about her, and used to mean interfering mudblood girl.
"Haven't you heard, Malfoy? Everyone's tired of your opinions. We found the right one."
"I highly doubt you're out of opinions, just because you won this particular fight."
This particular fight, like it was some argument won in a pub. She'd forgotten who she was speaking to. She turned to go; she didn't need to eat, really, and there were better places to hide from a party.
"That's not what I-" Malfoy raked a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. "I'm not questioning its importance, Granger. I just meant - everyone out there assumes everything is sorted. That the world is fixed. That there's no more fighting to do."
"Maybe we're just tired."
"Laws haven't changed, the media is still anti muggle-born. The same purebloods are still in charge of the Ministry. They're old buggers, but I doubt they're tired."
She began to speak in protest, but he waved his hand. "I'm not talking about Kingsley. But most of the rest of the Wizegamot kept their heads down under the Dark Lord, and now there is a convenient power vacuum for them to step into."
"I'm sure you'd just love to fill it."
"No." Malfoy's response was sharp. "I think we've learned I'm not to be trusted with power by now." He sounded angry and scornful and disappointed. Probably annoyed that no one would let a Malfoy ooze his way to the top, anymore.
"They'll try to sideline you, Granger, for what you are. Even though everything is supposed to have changed." She wondered if he was mocking her.
"I know what it is to be up against prejudice Malfoy. I think I've had enough practise."
"I had practice at being powerful, and I was still terrible."
"You had practice at being a powerful douchebag, Malfoy. And you excelled."
He tilted his head in acknowledgement. She read it as: well played, Granger.
"I should go-"
"Yeah," he replied quickly. "Parties to attend, drinks to enjoy."
Doubtful. When she drank at the first victory party the lack of alertness sent her into paranoia. She started checking the exits, then aggressively questioned everyone about their loyalty to Harry and finally sat in a bubble of protegountil she passed out. Only the next morning when Harry came to find her and enclosed her in a hug did she realise that she had instinctively cast all the protections she had used on their tent around herself. It took the combined efforts of Harry, Ron and Bill to break through four different wards to find her.
So she wasn't a big drinker, anymore.
"You won't go to the party?" she asked Malfoy then, even though the answer was obvious.
He lifted a glass of firewhisky and toasted her. "I hope you win against them, Granger. You lot deserve it. Even if Weasley is a prat."
Author Notes:
Weekly update has arrived, and with it our first interaction between Hermione and Draco. Let me know if you'd like more of that flashback style to their Hogwarts year!
I'll be posting again next Friday. Apologies that this one is a day late - I *had* written this yesterday, but drinks with my friends in the evening continued into the morning...
Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and favourited - this is my first proper fanfiction story, and I appreciate all the support.