DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this twisted so-called "plot".
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There was a two-storey house in Truro, surrounded by pine trees and spindly undergrowth. Its slanted roof was dusted with snow like powdered sugar. Colours had lost their potency, as though they'd been overlaid by grey, white, and black films – the sludge on the surrounding road, the tall street lamps, the house's rough walls, the grim sky, the fake poinsettia flowers on the windows, the wreath hung on the front door...
A winter's day
In a deep and dark
December
Hermione was not allowed the luxury of being a rock or an island. She was sitting at the kitchen table in that two-storey house, picking at a hangnail while Uncle Jack stood by the stove scrambling eggs and whistling an egregiously lively tune. It sounded like Shake, Rattle, and Roll, but she couldn't be sure. Aunt Malorie and mum were at two ends of the table not looking at each other, and dad was boring holes into the sports section of the paper. Young Jeremy was glued to the telly in the other room. The blaring clamour of Christmas themed cartoons wafted into the kitchen and wrapped around Uncle Jack's whistling in a very distressing way.
Her thumb was bleeding.
"More eggs, Hermione?"
She smiled thinly and shook her head. "No, thank you."
Uncle Jack resumed his whistling as he scraped the entire lot of eggs onto her plate. She poked at them listlessly with her fork – she wasn't hungry at all.
"A YEAR!" Aunt Malorie burst out, "A WHOLE YEAR, EVIE!"
Mum groaned. "I'm sorry! I've said I was sorry a hundred times! The whole move was very spontaneous and–"
"THAT'S NOT THE POINT! You moved away, packed up your house and disappeared without a word! Not one call, or email, or letter–"
"We'd just been so busy!"
"Too busy to send one line?" Aunt Malorie shrieked, "I mean besides the stupid Oh, we're moving to Australia for good thing you left me with! A whole year! You could have been dead for all I knew!"
Mum's expression betrayed her anguish. Hermione wished so badly that she could own up; that she could just admit that it had all been her doing... to avoid exactly that possibility that her aunt had feared.
"I'm your sister! Did you stop caring about that? And I've been a jolly good sister to you, haven't I? Not like Jack's useless little –"
"Hey, hey!" Uncle Jack spluttered, "Why are you dragging Pat into this?"
"Why shouldn't I? She's been mooching off us for years now!"
"Mooching? You told her to move in!"
"YES! Three years ago, right after she'd been laid off! I was being nice! I didn't expect her to make it a permanent–"
"She's my baby sister!"
"She's an unemployed, thirty-two year old wastrel!"
Well, fantastic. It was Christmas Eve and Hermione was caught in the middle of a raging domestic. Fan-friggin-tastic. She looked at mum, who was massaging her temples, and dad who –
Oh dear god.
Dad was barely holding in his laughter.
Hermione looked away at once. His laughter seldom remained just his own...
"Hulloooooooooooooooo!"
A pitchy voice perforated through the argument in the kitchen as the front door slammed shut. Consequently, there was pin-drop silence in the kitchen when Pat made her entrance.
As she shuffled in, dragging her chunky high-heeled boots she droned, "Oh, you lot're here."
She offered Hermione and her parents a reluctant half smile before helping herself to some toast. Her hair was tightly permed, her makeup was smeared, and her dark blue dress was horribly crushed.
"Where have you been the past two days?" Aunt Malorie demanded.
"Nick's place," she replied indolently.
"Who's Nick? You've never mentioned him before?"
"Nick's the bloke from the pub, in'he? And ya won't hear me mentioning him again." Pat began shuffling back towards the kitchen door. "Bloody mediocre shag, he was."
"Patricia! Watch yourself!"
"Why?" she shrugged uncaringly, "Just 'coz weenie little Hermione Granger's here? Not so little anymore, is she? I'm going to bed, ta. Don't wake me unless the house is, like, burning down."
She left, and Aunt Malorie turned her fury back onto Uncle Jack. "You see! You see that! How are you okay with having her here, having her around our young, impressionable son! You tell her, Jack. You bloody well tell her to clean her act up or I'm kicking her out!"
And that's when dad's self-control caved, and he burst out laughing.
She woke to a suitably white Christmas, getting a fragmented view of the world outside from her cot by the frost covered window. It was barely light outside – a cold blue hue – and everything was so quiet. But that was owing to the silencing charm she'd cast on Pat, who was asleep on the next bed, sprawled like her arms and legs were trying to touch all four corners of it. Her snores reminded Hermione of Fluffy, the three-headed dog.
She got out from under the covers, jammed her feet into her warm, downy slippers, and softly trod downstairs. The silence trailed behind her; heavier than her shadow, colder than the air.
In the living room, the medium sized, haphazardly decorated tree was planted in an enormous pile of presents. Hermione felt herself smile involuntarily as she sat down beside them and began pulling out those that came from her friends, undoubtedly delivered by owls overnight.
There was quite an assortment: A Weasley jumper, a hamper from George, earrings from Ginny (dangling silver quills), a mug from Luna featuring a red and blue whatsit, a gorgeous (and indisputably expensive) bejewelled strap for her watch from Theo, a sprig of dittany from Neville, firewhiskey (but of course) from Seamus, (and wrapped around it, a flyer: FINNIGAN'S PUB GRAND OPENING ON NEW YEAR'S EVE! COME ONE, COME ALL!)
Her hand paused over two gifts wrapped in red paper dotted with animated golden Chinese dragons and, without a warning, she felt teary. Harry and Ron. She missed them with a sudden fierceness. Ron had sent her a big box of mooncakes shaped like curled up cats. And Harry...
She gasped.
Harry had sent her a jade pendant. A little cluster of Hellebores, just like the ones that comprised the wreath she'd placed on his parents' graves last year.
xxx
When the rest of the house awoke, they went through the paces. The hugs, the wishes, (Aunt Malorie stood stonily at the side, Pat sniffed grouchily into her coffee,) and the gift exchanging. After that, Hermione sat on the floor with Jeremy, helping him set up his brand new race car track. Behind her was a towering stack of books that her parents had carefully picked for her. She smiled as the young boy ooh'ed and aah'ed over the series of loop-the-loops they'd set up, and her fingers floated up and gently touched the pendant she'd strung around her neck.
She even ate breakfast with her cousin right there on the floor, foregoing the awful icy atmosphere surrounding the grownups in the kitchen.
In the afternoon, Pat went back upstairs for a kip, and Uncle Jack took Jeremy out to build a snowman. Hermione made to join them but mum stopped her.
"Come here for a minute, will you?"
She suppressed a weary sigh and went to join her mother on the living room sofa. Dad sat himself down on the coffee table in front of him, with an envelope in his hand.
"Hermione," he said with strange seriousness, "We sold the house."
She blinked rapidly as his words sunk in... and a lump formed in her throat. "What?"
"The house... The Hampstead house. We sold it."
"You..." she whispered, "You sold... Oh god, you really aren't coming back, are you?"
"No, dear," mum replied kindly, and took her hand. "And obviously, you aren't going to live there..." she stopped and eyed Aunt Malorie who was watching them closely, "We got a tidy package for it, see. Prime property and all that."
"That's... nice," Hermione croaked.
"So here," Dad said, "For you." He held out the envelope.
Her hands were trembling as she flipped open the flap and pulled out a –
"Holy shit!"
"I told you we got a good deal," mum grinned.
"Why – are you – you're giving this to me?" She gaped down at the cheque in horror.
"Yes."
"I can't accept this!" she cried, "It's too much!"
Dad frowned. "What do you mean you can't accept it?"
"It's too much! How can I – How – I can't –"
"Can't accept money from your parents? Are you serious?" Dad asked incredulously, "You're still our child, not even out of school yet... what on earth do you mean you can't accept it?"
"I just..." She couldn't breathe. It truly was a monstrous sum. "It's..."
"Look my darling," mum placed her hand on Hermione's hair, "You're going to start living out in the real world now. You'll need to get yourself a place to stay, set things up... I want you to want for nothing while you're figuring things out. And I know you'll figure things out, little genius that you are. Let this be your safety net. Let me take care of you–"
Like I wasn't able to before. It was unsaid, but Hermione heard it clear as day. She looked from one parent to the other, welling up and breathless, and they smiled at her. Kindly, like they always had. Like she hadn't derailed their lives completely. Like it wasn't entirely her fault that there was a bitter woman sneering at them right then.
She didn't deserve them. They were – they were so –
Like always, mum knew right away that she needed to be held. She let a few tears seep into her mother's shoulder... drew in a long breath... and said, "Thank you."
xxx
That night her DA Galleon carried a message – will b back on 29 afternoon.
Don't ask her how the following two days passed. She'd freeze into a corny Roy Lichtenstein painting with a speech bubble that said 'It's been hell!'
Books and endless games of 'Guess Who?' with Jeremy. Uncomfortable meals and suffering through hours spent in Pat's company while the woman kept asking her why she didn't have a boyfriend. Was she truly thirty-two? Hermione hadn't met such an irredeemable airhead since she'd shared a dorm with Parvati and Lav–
She snuck into her parents room on the night of the twenty-sixth, (after a particularly grating supper during which her aunt and uncle had gotten into a row over whose turn it was to do the dishes,) and they'd opened Seamus' wine and she'd told them about her past few months at Hogwarts. Academic stuff, mostly.
On the twenty-seventh she pulled dad aside while mum and aunt Malorie were busy with their sniffy posturing.
"I'm going to Diagon Alley. Come with?"
His fine brown eyes turned round. "Jesus. Yeah. Absolutely."
She'd been thinking a lot about what he'd said about hating himself for not getting more involved in the magical part of her life, and it killed her that he'd been hurting. But his delight (following complete horror after his first experience of side-along apparition,) at standing in the middle of the busy, riotous, colourful shopping area cheered her up immediately. She took him to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and introduced him to George, (who gave him a Reusable Hangman, gratis,) and to Flourish and Blotts, and Fortescue's. They went to Gringotts where she got all sorts of ugly sneers from the Goblins, and opened her very first magical bank account.
Then she slipped her arm through his, and led him to the southern end of the alley, to the narrow shop, once shabby, but now spruced up and tidy. The freshly painted gold lettering atop the door – Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC – glinted even in the low winter sunlight.
"Oh, I remember this place," Dad breathed in awe.
A little bell tinkled as they entered. The interior looked just as she remembered: cramped, dark, with floor to ceiling shelves piled with slim boxes.
"Ah, Ms. Granger. Took you long enough."
He materialised from the shadows like a spectre, fragile and wizened in overlarge navy robes.
"Mr. Ollivander," Hermione nodded, "How are you?"
"Alive, my dear," he rasped, "I consider that a great accomplishment as each day passes. And I see you've brought your father along! Lovely to meet you again, sir."
They shook hands – his looking more skeletal and paper-thin than ever against dad's large, sturdy, leather glove encased one.
"Now then, Ms. Granger... I suppose you're finally here to replace that wand you've been carrying?"
"I don't understand, Mr. Ollivander. It was working just fine, until recently. Obviously, it's no longer loyal to – to –"
"It isn't. Of course not. But it will not answer readily to you either; not when it knows your history and the part it's played." He held up his hand as Hermione made to interrupt. "Let me amend that – not when you know the part it's played. I suppose, up until recently, you haven't let yourself think about it, have you? Wands are highly sensitive, Ms. Granger. They know where your heart is. The wand is not rejecting you. You are rejecting the wand."
Her stomach twisted with an overwhelming sickness. "I thought," she mumbled, "I thought I had gotten past that. That I was strong enough to –"
"Let me stop you right there. This isn't about mettle, dear girl. It's far more visceral than that. The Cruciatus curse leaves deep, deep scars. I would know."
He held out his frail hand expectantly. Hermione reached for her pocket... paused... dipped her fingers in... paused...
(Dad was leaning against a shelf and watching her vigilantly.)
...she placed Bellatrix's wand in Ollivander's grasp; he immediately shuffled away and put it inside a small cabinet, and – and –
And.
It was gone from her sight, and her life. Her shoulders caved. She closed her eyes for a brief moment. And when she opened them once more, Ollivander was back in front of her, wearing a small smile.
"How do you feel, Ms. Granger?"
"I don't know."
"How do you want to feel?"
"Like myself."
His smile widened, and something in his eyes, shrouded behind a layer of cataract, sparkled.
"Then I suggest we go back to the moment that started it all: Vine wood – from the same tree as your original wand – dragon heartstring core..."
The moment the slim stick of wood touched her fingers, that murky little shop lit up with the light of a billion stars.
Since Theo didn't know exactly where Aunt Malorie's house was, Hermione had to go to his flat to fetch him. As instructed, she apparated straight into the sitting room of his and Malfoy's place.
"Theo," she called, though the room was empty, and waited.
Some time passed, and he didn't show.
She slowly made her way across the room, feeling strangely nervous. Her hand dragged along the velvety top of the sofa as she passed it, and she dawdled by the small shelf that was full of antique ornaments. The hallway outside was similarly deserted, and as she crept down its length, the discomfort in her gut expanded.
Both doors at the end of the hall were closed, but through the one on the left, the sweet sound of piano music spilled out. It wasn't any piece she could recognise; rather, it sounded like a random sequence of chords, as though the player was performing practice exercises. The tempo increased with each round, so smoothly and expertly, that it infiltrated her heart rate and began pulling it along.
It was hypnotic.
Again – faster – again – faster – again – faster –
She placed the tips of her fingers on the door in the hope of absorbing some of those incredible vibrations.
"Hermione?"
She jumped back and spun around, squeaking a "Yes, hi," to Theo who'd just stepped out of his room.
He looked between her and Malfoy's door a couple of times, brows raised, and said, "That's not my room."
"Yes – I – wasn't sure," she blabbered, "I'd forgotten."
Theo gave her such a look as the piano music continued to spin around them, faster and faster and faster and faster...
"Riiiiiiight," he drawled, "Your confusion is completely understandable."
"Come on," she muttered holding her hand out for him to take, "We should get going. Dad's made something special for dinner, just for you."
He grinned widely, and with one last glance towards Malfoy's door, took her hand.
xxx
"Simply superlative, Dr. Mr. Granger. I am in awe... in deep awe... of your culinary gift. Why, I am just coming from France, where the best of the Malfoy family House-Elv–"
(Hermione coughed loudly.)
"–meals every day, but nothing came close to the sumptuous food you have blessed me with this evening. I'll remember these potatoes for years. And this gravy... Oh, this gravy! Mr... Dr. Granger... sir... I will dream about this gravy!"
"Please call be Robert," dad deadpanned. But he was grinning from ear to ear.
Mum shook her head, laughing. "You are the most supremely ridiculous young man I have ever met."
"Why thank you."
"Supremely ridiculously fit, I'll say," Pat added.
"Er..."
"So you're saying he isn't ya boyfriend, yeah, Hermione?"
"He is not," she replied tiredly.
"Mint."
"I do have a girlfriend though," Theo supplied hurriedly.
Pat leaned forward (her hair fell into her plate). "Well she ain't here now, is she, dah-ling."
A low groan went around the table, quickly followed by a fresh bottle of wine, (The previous one had been monopolised by Pat.) The kitchen was warm, the table was full, and Hermione's parents looked like their old happy selves again. She turned to smile at Theo, lovely wonderful Theo, for bringing his unique élan into her life.
After pudding had been demolished, they sat together around the living room fire.
"So what are we in the mood for?" Uncle Jack asked, standing by his fancy new cassette player. I have the latest Madonna album."
Dad baulked. "Well, shove it up your –ahem – don't you have any decent music?"
They went on arguing for a long time before good old Blur was playing softly in the room.
"I miss France," mum sighed, "We should go again."
Jeremy was asleep on her lap, and she ran a tender finger down his cheek.
"Take him to bed, Jack," Aunt Malorie ordered.
"I just sat down!" he bit back.
"Well he's too big for me to carry now, isn't he?"
Grumbling mutinously, Uncle Jack gathered his son from mum's lap and stomped upstairs.
Mum and dad tumbled down memory lane, remembering their holidays from years ago, but Hermione was distracted by what was going on on her right –
"So Theo..." Pat settled on the arm of the chair he was sitting on, "Tell me more about yourself."
"Um."
"Such nice hair. I love long hair on a bloke, ya know. You look like a Beatle."
"What? A beetle?!"
She twirled a strand of his hair around her finger. "Mhmmmm. Yeah."
"For heaven's sake, Malorie!" I've had enough of your bleeding sulking!"
Mum's unexpected explosion sucked all the air out of the room.
Come on, come on, come on
Get through it
Come on, come on, come on
Love's the greatest thing
Come on, come on, come on
"Excuse me?"
"I've had enough!" Mum jumped to her feet. "You're angry with me, yes, fine. Rightfully so. But I've apologised countless times, and I'm here now. Just let it go, will you?"
"I will not let it go! You've always been this way, haven't you?" Aunt Malorie's voice shook with emotion. "You live your life, you do what you want, and you don't give me a second thought!"
"That's not–"
"You didn't tell me when you moved away, you didn't tell me when you were pregnant for the longest time, you – you won't even tell me where your daughter's going to school!"
"I told you, it's a –"
"Boarding school for gifted kids! Sure! What's it called, where is it? What –"
"Oh, alright calm down, Malorie," dad interjected with a forced smile, "Truth is, Hermione here is a witch. She goes to a secret school to learn magic."
Theo laughed extra loudly.
But all that accomplished was setting Aunt Malorie's temper on fire. "YOU KEEP QUIET, stupid, preposterous arse!"
"Don't you talk to him like that!" mum barked.
"I will do as I –"
"No! He's my husband! And just because your marriage has gone to the dogs –"
Aunt Malorie burst into tears.
Hermione stood up, grabbed Theo's arm and dragged him outside, to the back garden. They settled on the small bench under a fir tree, and Hermione cast a quick, wandless warming charm around them. For a fairly long while, they sat in silence. The evening was so still that the voices from inside had nothing to block them from blearing out to where they were sitting.
"Wow," Theo breathed, by and by.
"I'm so sorry," Hermione murmured.
"Nah, I'm sorry. I was supposed to make this less uncomfortable."
"Oh, god, this wasn't on you!"
"I know," he sighed, "And it was far too... explosive... for me to dissipate."
"Yeah," Hermione rubbed her eyes tiredly, "It's been building up all week. Yeesh. Families."
He laughed. "Honestly. Your mum and aunt won't stop fighting. My dad's a sadistic psychopath locked up in prison..."
"Show off," she grinned.
He poked her with his elbow, and then slid lower on the bench so he could rest his head lightly against her shoulder.
"I wish Draco was here," he said.
She stiffened at once. "Am I not good enough company?"
"You goose. He'd keep Pat busy. What a fucking nightmare she is."
"She really is. But you're saying that Malfoy would go for her?"
"No," Theo snorted, "She would go for him. I mean, he is much better looking than I am."
"Not a chance," Hermione scoffed.
"You know I can always tell when you're lying."
"Oh, shut up." She was glad he couldn't see her face.
"I bet your cheeks are cherry red right now."
Stupid Theo. She jostled his head.
"Ow!"
"Are you okay?" she whispered to mum the next morning over tea.
They were sitting out on the back porch steps watching dad and Uncle Jack play cricket with Jeremy and a few of his friends.
Mum shrugged dolefully, her face scrunched up in a sad grimace. "She's been stewing in resentment for years... I had no idea..."
"HOWZAT!" yelled Uncle Jack.
"No ball!" Dad intoned crisply.
"What?!"
"No. Ball."
"The fuck it was!"
All the young boys burst into a mad cackle.
Hermione and mum took delicate sips from their respective cups.
"She's refusing to leave her room. I knocked for ages, and... nothing." Mum sighed.
"Oh."
"If it wasn't for Jeremy – he really adores your father, doesn't he – and the fact that I really want to see you off, I'd be at the airport right now."
Hermione swallowed, and set her cup down. She hated her aunt then, so much. Mum took her hand in hers and squeezed it.
"Some of dad's mates from school are having a get-together tomorrow. Will you come with us?"
"I've promised my friend Seamus I'll go for his party tomorrow night. And I've to stop by the Burrow first – Ginny's orders."
"I see." Mum exhaled heavily.
"LBW! Clear as day!"
"No, sorry. Not out."
"Rubbish!"
"Who's the umpire here, eh, Jack? Huh? Who? Not you."
Ginny squealed and hugged her tightly the moment she stepped through the front door of the burrow, early in the evening on the last day of the year.
"Finally!" she exclaimed, and she proceeded to follow Hermione around the room as she greeted the rest of the Weasley family. Charlie was home as well, lounging by the fire.
"Tell me," George asked as he pulled her into a loose, one-armed hug, "Did Ron, by any chance, give you a box of mooncakes for Christmas?"
"He did..."
"Ha!" he barked, "That's nine so far! Useless twatbiscuit. We're drowning in the stuff here!"
Hermione was dragged upstairs soon after by Ginny, who pulled her into her room and slammed the door shut.
"My family is driving me barmy," she claimed, "They're being so–"
"Oh, please," Hermione cut in, "You have no idea what I've had to deal with–"
"Pshaw," Ginny jeered, "I'm so looking forward to getting shit-faced tonight."
"Now that we can agree on."
She threw herself on Ginny's bed and groaned. The past week's stress had wreaked havoc on her back muscles.
"I have nothing to wear," Ginny lamented.
"There's a small black suitcase in here," Hermione said, pushing her beaded bag across the bed, "My uncle's sister Pat is an absolute cow, who gifted me a pile of her old dresses for Christmas..."
She drifted off to the sound of Ginny's low murmurs of "hmm... not bad," and "ugh... who would wear something like that?" It was that disquieting sort of sleep where she knew she was dreaming: There was a washed out quality to the world around her. Voices echoed. She dreamt about being back in Australia, sat on the beach at dawn...
Mum jogged past her – "Hello, sweetheart," she called – and Hermione watched her till she was nothing but a spot in the distance. Then she leant back on her arms, tipping her head back and closing her eyes against the harsh light of the sun.
"Hmm... not bad."
She smiled as she heard Ginny settling down beside her. She opened her eyes when a similar noise came from her other side, to see Theo plopping down on the sand with a grin.
"It's good to be back," he said.
"It is," she agreed.
For a while, nobody spoke. They listened to the wind and the sea and the endless birdcalls: The sound of pure tranquillity. People came and went like shimmering ghosts –
Neville informed them that he'd buried his Remberall here years ago and had come to collect it.
Harry went by on a broom.
Dad brought them lemonade, but a blink later, both he and the glasses had disappeared.
"Oh no," Theo groaned, and Hermione jumped when she saw Malfoy and Mandy in their midst. "Fucking Bowtruckle," Theo grumbled... Hermione blinked again, and...
Mandy was gone.
Theo and Ginny were gone.
It was just her and Malfoy. He was standing tall in front of her and she was swallowed up by his shadow. Inexplicably, the sun was setting, and he was a pillar of paleness against its warm, russet hues.
"Don't you have better things to do than listening in on other people's conversations?"
"I– I–"
She floated into a standing position and backed away. Back back back back back at a dizzying speed until Malfoy had been replaced by the ruins of Ozymendias.
"Hermione, we have to go," said Ginny.
But where was she? There was only sand and sea and 'two vast and trunkless legs of stone'...
"Hermione, come on."
"Hey, wake up. We've to be there in half an hour."
She sat up, rubbing her eyes. It was completely dark outside, and Ginny had lit all the lamps in her room. She was standing in front of her mirror, holding Pat's slinky, wine red dress with a feathery trim against herself.
"I don't need half an hour to get ready," Hermione muttered grumpily.
"Your hair sure does."
Hermione wailed, "Can't we just leave it like this?"
Ginny gave her a highly imperious look. "Nope!"
xxx
Half an hour later, her hair was pin-straight and falling down her shoulders and back in an entirely unfamiliar but extremely pleasing way. She'd put on Pat's halter dress, black and floral... short... and she couldn't deny she felt a kick of joy that it was her looking like that.
George let out a wolf whistle when she walked into the sitting room, and she rolled her eyes, even as she felt her face turn hot. He was wearing a purple Dragon-skin coat and a gold scarf that matched his ear perfectly.
"You're an eyesore," Ginny told him.
"And you look like you belong on Muriel's head."
They continued to bicker as Hermione and Ginny put on their cloaks. Just as the three of them stood poised before the front door, Hermione pulled out her wand – her wand – HER wand – from her bag to cast a snow-repelling charm on herself. They stepped out into the icy night, walked three steps down the garden path, and spun into non-existence.
Finnigin's pub was located between a grimy pawn shop and a menagerie. From the outside, it looked quite innocuous; a simple wooden door on a brick facade, but the interior was a whole other story.
It seemed that they were the first to arrive. Warmth enveloped Hermione the moment she stepped in, and she quickly removed her cloak and handed it over to the large coat rack that extended an arm out for her. It was fashioned after the old taverns of yore: A low ceiling, rough stone walls, and chunky wooden chairs around large tables. The shelves behind the bar were filled to their limit with bottles, flanked by two enormous casks. There were candles on every table, and strings of lights with real fairies criss-crossed around the ramparts. It looked seedy in a deliberately exotic way.
On the largest wall, framed by two half-pillars, was Dean's masterpiece. Hermione excused herself from Ginny and went over to take a closer look. It was exactly how he'd envisioned it: the pastel extravagance of Toulouse-Lautrec... but with leprechauns. They danced across the length of the wall; frenzied, profligate...
The artist himself sauntered over with his hands in his pockets.
"What d'you think?"
"It's magnificent," Hermione replied with a grin.
"Thanks!" he beamed, "I think it's turned out well. And it's got me drinks on the house for life."
"Wouldn't you get that anyway?"
"Alright," he revised, "Guilt free drinks on the house."
George joined them, murmuring a suitably amazed, "Not bad, Thomas." He examined the mural intently for a moment, and declared, "I want one in my shop."
"Sure," Dean agreed, "Not Leprechauns, surely?"
"No. Pygmy puffs. And garden gnomes. Pulling confetti out of their arses."
"George!"
"Come on, Hermione! Picture it. It'll be a thing of beauty. Incidentally, Dean... what did Ron send you for Christmas?"
"Um..." Dean scratched his head, "A box of some Chinese cake things–"
"Unbelievable! That half-sprung todger! Un-fucking-believable!"
Hermione broke away from them to walk along the wall, drinking in the rapt expressions of the mad dancers. They were so lost in their drunken delirium and jubilance... she wondered what that felt like. How freeing it must be...
"Hermione!"
His voice had her spinning around with a big smile. Looking quite smart in a blue shirt and black trousers, Theo waved her over from the bar. The pub had filled up while she'd been lost in her musings, flooded with faces she knew well, and not so well, some that she didn't know at all, and some that she vaguely recognised.
She rushed over and said "Hello," to him and Luna, (in floor length cherry red tasselled dress robes,) and offered what she hoped was a polite nod to Malfoy and Mandy.
"You look beautiful, Hermione!" Luna sang.
"Absolutely," Theo seconded brightly.
Hermione was just about to reciprocate with something equally complimentary, when suddenly, all the lights dimmed. A spotlight fell on the shelves behind the bar, which slid to the side to reveal the man of the hour, their host and sole proprietor of the establishment, Seamus Finnigan, decked in dazzling emerald green robes.
"Failte friends! Welcome to the grand opening of Finnigan's pub, the best fecking place for a pint in all of England. Make merry. Go wild. LET'S GET LEGLESS!"
The crowd roared, cheered, clapped, stomped their feet...
Cries of "Yeah!", "Brilliant!", and "Wooooh!", (and one "You glorious bastard!" – Dean, possibly,) bounced off the walls.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a glass was pushed into Hermione's hand, full of some pungent and dark liquid...
She shrugged, clinked her glass against Theo's, and downed the lot in one go.
There was something white hot and piercing assaulting her eyelids. The throbbing in her ears – she couldn't tell if it was the reverberation of drum beats or pulsating nerves in her temples.
Her head was a block of cement, and her body was a thin plastic bag filled with churning fluid.
It was awful.
She squeezed her eyes before peeling them open.
A white coffered ceiling hung above her; she appeared to be lying on a sinfully soft sofa, with a fleece blanket draped over her.
Where was she?
She sat up – oh shit, bad idea – and slumped, pressing the heels of her palms against her aching eyes. Burning hot bile climbed up to the back of her throat.
She groaned and dragged her hands down her face until they were cupping her throat. Swallowing made her realise how terribly dry it was.
Where was she?
Once again, she made an attempt to open her eyes. There was barely any light in the room; thick drapes hung over the windows, the fireplace was unlit, all the lamps where doused... but she could see enough to realise that she was in Theo's sitting room. The confusion that that recognition brought did nothing to help the state of her head. Because how on earth had she landed up here?
Again, she closed her eyes and tried to think back...
Finnigan's pub... the diverse array of drinks... music, loud thumping music... she remembered dancing with George, Ginny, Neville, and Hannah... practically inhaling a round of shots with Theo and... and?
All thoughts ceased when the scent of luscious, aromatic tea curled around her quite... quite... sensuously. She groaned again and opened her eyes. Tea. She could really use some tea. She cringed as she pulled the blanket off herself: Her dress had ridden up to her waist. Then, keeping a bracing hand on an arm of the sofa, she stood up.
Death, she thought, death to Seamus Finnigan. Her legs shook and ached, but she shuffled her way out of the room, one hand on her stomach, and the other grabbing onto the nearest bit of furniture at hand.
She staggered down the hallway, keeping close to the wall, moaning and groaning at odd intervals.
And her eyes narrowed into slits the second she arrived at the kitchen. Hell, it was bright in there.
"Ugh," she gurgled.
Mandy and Malfoy looked up at her from the kitchen table. The table upon which was a pot of holy, life-giving tea. Hermione practically threw herself upon it – she fell gawkily into a chair and pulled the pot into an embrace.
"Are you planning on pouring it straight into your mouth?" Malfoy asked mordantly.
His voice made her hurt, and honestly, she wasn't above doing exactly that. Thankfully, Mandy was magnanimous enough to hand her a cup.
The first gulp was the best thing that had ever happened to her in her entire life.
Wow.
She went in for a second.
And a third.
And a –
"How are you feeling?" Mandy enquired softly.
With a heavy sigh, Hermione looked up. She was able to keep her eyes properly open now, and saw that Mandy was wearing the shirt that Malfoy had on last night. He was in a plain black jumper, and looking down his nose at her.
"Like hell," she rasped.
Mandy giggled, albeit apologetically. "Yes... that is to be expected."
Hermione took a fifth, sixth, and seventh sip. She pushed her hair away from her face, too scared to think about what it must look like. Keeping her gaze on the rim of her cup she ventured – "What... what happened last night?"
"You don't remember?" Malfoy sounded vaguely amused.
Despairingly and warily, she peeked up at him through her eyelashes, (he even looked amused,) and shook her head.
He cocked an eyebrow as he studied her for a moment. "Well then," he drawled slowly. He stood up, turned his back to her, and busied himself with the French press on the shiny kitchen counter. "You really don't remember climbing onto the bar and flashing your knickers at the crowd?"
Hermione nearly spat out a mouthful of tea.
WHAT.
Holy fuck, what?
She was going to kill herself. She was going to kill herself that very second. She was going to –
"Don't be mean, Draco," Mandy chastised, "Don't worry, Hermione. Nothing like that happened."
"Gah," she gasped, slapping her hand against her chest. Her heart – that had been thrashing around like a trapped animal – gradually began to calm down. She glared at Malfoy's back with all the fury her weary, beaten body could muster, but he didn't even have the decency to turn around.
Before she could snarl at him, however, Theo stumbled into the kitchen, looking like he'd travelled a hundred miles through a storm.
"Oh," he said to Hermione, "You're up."
"Yes, I –"
He was scowling at her. What the hell?
"All right," she demanded angrily, "Will someone tell me what happened?"
Theo huffed. "You don't remember?"
"Obviously not! That's why I'm asking, aren't I?"
He rolled his eyes moodily, but perked up when Malfoy returned to the table and set a steaming mug of coffee before him. "Ah, bless your soul, Draco."
"Where's Luna?" Malfoy asked as he pulled the teapot away from Hermione, (the fiend!)
"Still asleep."
"Hm."
Hermione's patience ran out. "Please –"
"How far do you remember?" Theo presented the question baldly, roughly... a tone she didn't care for one bit.
"I don't know!" she bemoaned, "I can't seem to–"
Blurry, zipping images flickered across her mind's eye... disconnected and strange. Yet, one particular notion lingered, and it made her feel sick again.
She cleared her throat. "Tell me. Was... I mean, did... Is there any chance that... that... Terry Boot was involved?"
Mandy squealed. "So you do remember!"
"Not really, I just –"
"Oh, it was so romantic! I never knew he had it in him, honestly. I was blown away! I mean, I know I can never expect something like that from this chap!"
She poked Malfoy's shoulder; he wrinkled his nose.
"Look," Hermione croaked, filled with dread, "You're going to have to elaborate."
"At midnight," Theo began irritably, "That pillock stood on a chair, silenced the music and everything, and shouted in that thin, peaky voice of his, 'Ladies and gents – my new year's resolution!' Then he ran over to you, dipped you over his arm, and kissed you. And you, my dear one, did not stop him. Quite the opposite in fact."
"No," Hermione breathed.
"Yes," Theo countered harshly, "Oh, and you should know, for the rest of the night, he called you his girlfriend. And the only reason you didn't wake up in his bed today morning, was because I refused to let you leave with him."
"Thank you," Hermione whispered, staring down at her lap.
She felt a blazing need to smack her head against the table. Instead, she buried her face in her hands.
"Noooo," she keened into her palms.
Maybe she could stay like that forever. They could bathe her in molten bronze and make a sculpture out of her. The Non-Thinker. The Drinker. The What-The-Hell-Were-You-Thinking-er.
Yep, she was never moving.
"Hermione," Theo sighed. He sounded kind again and he laid a hand on her shoulder, so she braved a glance at him, and –
"JESUS CHRIST!" she shrieked.
He nearly fell off his chair, but honestly, how else is one supposed to react when one's friend appears to have spontaneously sprouted a spectacular set of antlers?
"Wha–?!" Theo yelped.
Hermione couldn't form any words; she just pointed above his head as her jaw hung down to the floor.
She gaped as Theo's hands flew upwards and encountered the bony growth on top of his head. He let out a panicked howl as he jumped up – his chair fell back with a loud thud.
"What the fuck? What the fuck?!" He looked this way and that wildly. "What is this – what – I need a mirror!"
After he'd fled from the room, Hermione turned her wide eyes to the other two: Mandy looked bewildered... Malfoy was smirking behind his cup.
"DRACO MALFOY!"
With a roar like a thunderclap, Theo burst into the kitchen once more, blistering, fuming, seething...
"You absolute dick. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"
"What are you talking about?" Malfoy rejoined airily, "I just made you coffee."
"YOU!" Theo bellowed, with his finger pointing back and forth between Malfoy and his empty coffee mug, "YOU!"
"Yes...?"
"YOU!"
"I don't have all day, Theo. You're going to have to... buck up."
Theo collapsed against the counter, letting out a strangled sigh. "I fucking hate you."
"Sure."
"How... fuck... how long are these going to stay?"
"How long did I have to suffer that singing fountain?"
"Three wee – YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS!"
"Oh, yes," Malfoy affirmed coolly, "And I wouldn't try vanishing them, or disintegrating them, or... well, using any kind of spell on them."
"I wasn't going to," Theo gritted out, "You're an arsehole."
"Such stag-gering wit."
Hermione made... a sound... and Theo rounded on her with fiery eyes. "Have something to say?"
Her mouth twisted to the side contemplatively. Apparently, hangovers decimated her intelligence and tact, because this is what she came up with:
"Oh... deer?"
A shocked laugh erupted out of Malfoy. His head turned towards her suddenly, with his eyebrows raised high and his lips pulled up in a crooked grin.
"I can't believe you did that!" Mandy chuckled and leaned into his side.
"I hate you as well, Hermione," Theo grumbled. He set his chair right again and sat down sulkily.
He was a sulky young man in a bedraggled blue shirt, with wildly tousled hair and a pair of antlers on his head. The time that followed was edgy. Hermione wanted to laugh, but with the shock having worn off, she was once again thinking about the things she'd done while utterly sozzled... and she wanted to cry.
Five minutes passed. Somebody had to say something or her head would explode.
As luck would have it, Luna strolled in.
"Hello all," she chimed, looking fresh as a daisy and aggravatingly untouched by the night before. Her eyes landed on Theo and she froze. She looked at his antlers speculatively, then at his entirely disgruntled expression.
She smiled. "I always suspected you were some kind of satyr."
Oh dea – Oh no. If he had looked angry before...
"That's not funny," he snapped.
Luna made a great show of bending to look under the table. "Do you also have hooves?"
"Luna..." he rumbled warningly.
"And a tail? Please tell me you have a tail!"
"THAT'S IT!"
Theo charged towards her and grabbed her. He picked her up and carried her away, as she giggled and squealed...
A door slammed, and then there was silence.
Hermione rested her throbbing, fuzzy, overwrought head on the table and burst into laughter. Loud, full, cathartic laughter that made her whole frame shake. She could hear Malfoy and Mandy chortling along as well, through the wood against which her ear was pressed and in the air around her.
Welcome to the new year.