A/N: Hi friends, this is a long one.
And in case you are interested in a backdrop for the piano scene: Ravel - Gaspard de la Nuit, No. 2, "Le Gibet"
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this so called plot.
The bathroom mirror had misted over completely – an opaque, slatey slab – and she drew dozens of concentric circles on it with her finger. She drew springs, tight and loose and erratic, and twisting, wiggly lines. Hermione Granger's addition to Hilma af Klint's Primordial Chaos series.
She stepped back to survey her work, and saw her own reflection in the disorderly shapes. The abstraction of Hermione Granger. Her left eye was caught in a spiral. Her mouth was shattered across circle within circle within circle within circle –
One broad swipe of her hand, and chaos was erased. She cleared the mirror and a pictorial case-study emerged: The Impact of a Hot Shower following a Strenuous Run on a Newly Liberated Young Woman.
(Conclusion: It was good.)
She had finally allowed herself the luxury to really take her time doing her laps by the lake, even veering into the shallow edges of the forest. She'd returned to her room energetic and ebullient, albeit with slightly shaky legs.
As she got dressed, she wished she had the means to play music in her room. If the common room below hadn't been so sodding full, she might even have attempted to summon Seamus' gramophone. She wanted something to dance around to, something as exuberant and vital as she felt. In reality, chaos cannot simply be wiped away. She did up her buttons all wonky and growled as she undid and re-did them.
She met Ginny just outside the Great Hall, but they didn't go in for breakfast. Instead, they traipsed out to Hogsmeade. It was a beautiful time in the little village; nearly all establishments had flowers outside their windows. Zonko's looked even more colourful than usual, the baker's shop emitted a heavenly aroma as they passed, and the bookshop had a big SALE sign on the door, which Hermione was forced to forgo by a very bullish Ginny.
They arrived at the Three Broomsticks and found it to be quite packed. After craning her neck to have a looksee for some time, she finally spotted Harry and Ron sitting cloistered in a corner booth.
Happy as she was to see them, her post-exertion appetite had made itself known. It galled her to be more Ron-like than the actual Ron was being, but it couldn't be helped. She partook in her eggy bread and berries more than she did in the chitchat. The wireless at the bar was playing some generic, jovial accordion music, that hung over the constant drone of multiple conversations.
After eating, Harry made up his mind to go see Hagrid. No matter how much Hermione and Ginny tried to explain that they had both already said their goodbyes, they were made to come along.
For Hermione, her run, the shower, the meal, and the subsequent stroll to Hagrid's hut, added up to an overwhelming desire to have a little kip. At her usual spot by the lake, she thought. She could conjure a nice soft blanket, lie on her back, and with the smell of grass all around her, she would just sleep. Involuntarily, she moved towards the site, but Ginny caught hold of her elbow and pulled her back in line.
"Harry! Ron!" Hagrid roared with glee after he pulled open his door. His delight was so pure and complete that Hermione felt bad for her attitude towards him. So, she grinned when he bequeathed a similarly convivial greeting to her.
They sat in his enormous chairs, with enormous mugs of tea. Thankfully, they were able to avoid sampling his cooking as they'd only just eaten. Fang, who was fast asleep by the fireplace, was snoring intermittently.
"Well, young chaps," he beamed, "Tell us all about yer firs' year being Aurors!"
These were stories that Hermione had already heard.
Hagrid's hut was very poorly lit. Fang's snores were deep and somniferous. Her eyelids kept fluttering threateningly, so she kept taking frequent, tiny sips of her tea. She really, really wanted to sleep.
XXX
Her eyes were watering by the time the assembly dispersed. She smiled at Hagrid as he walked them out and even to her, it felt vacant and gormless. She stifled a yawn as they trudged through the grounds... not back towards the castle.
Harry was leading the way with such command and purpose that the other three simply followed.
He brought them to Dumbledore's tomb. Pristine, gleaming, glossy white, with its moons and stars, it seemed untouched by the years of unfettered destruction. Hermione hadn't been this close to it since the morning after Voldemort fell, when Harry had deposited the Elder Wand inside.
She stood back – as did Ginny and Ron – while Harry approached it. The sun was glinting right onto his glasses, shrouding his eyes from view. He placed two fingers on the edge of the tomb as though feeling for a pulse. With his head lowered, he stood that way for fifteen ticks of a clock.
Then, abruptly, he wheeled around and began walking away. Hermione glanced at Ron, who simply shrugged and followed.
Harry decided to take a loose circuit around the Whomping Willow. Hands in his pockets, he observed it like one might observe a sculpture.
Next, he headed towards the Quidditch pitch. Once there, he stood right in the middle and looked up at the hoops. Hermione and Ron stood to his right, and Ginny stood to his left and took his hand. The sun and his glasses continued to lend him an enigmatic air.
Here was another abstraction. An oval enclosure. Six tall posts and six rings in the sky. Four nebulous blobs in the centre of it all.
"Mate," Ron cut into the silence, "Remember when Lockhart vanished all the bones from your arm?"
Harry's ensuing laugh was more of a groan. "How could I forget?"
"That was a bad year for all of us, wasn't it? Hermione turned into a monstrous cat, I spent ages vomiting slugs–"
"Oh, please," Ginny interjected, "As far as awful things go, I have you all beat that year."
They all stared at her in horror, but she just grinned and began dragging Harry towards the castle.
"Hermione," said Ron, "You fancied Lockhart like mad. It was ghastly."
"Oh my god, Ron. Do shut up." She shoved him playfully in the arm.
"You memorised his biography!"
"I memorise most things I read."
"You slept with his card under your pillow–"
"You git! If you want to talk about mortifying infatuations, we were just at the Three Broomsticks–"
"You both are pathetic!" Ginny sniggered.
"You sent Harry a singing dwarf on Valentine's Day!" Ron huffed.
"And it all worked out for me!"
"Five years later!"
Once in the castle, Ginny left them momentarily to head to the Gryffindor tower, and Hermione, Harry, and Ron continued to wander around.
"I should head to my room too," Hermione said by and by, around a yawn, "I'm afraid I'll collapse soon."
"Are you unwell?" Harry asked.
"No. Just extremely sleepy."
They did an about-turn in the middle of the corridor, and began moving towards the eighth-year tower.
Just as they stepped off a particular flight of stairs, they came face to face with McGonagall, and Hermione almost barrelled right into her. It was like she'd materialised out of nowhere.
"Sorry, Professor," Hermione mumbled as she blinked the alarm out of her eyes, "Er, didn't see you there."
McGonagall regarded them closely one by one, and a slow, pretty nearly indulgent smile spread across her face.
"Well, this is a sight for sore eyes," she said, "I am overcome by an urgent need to dish out a detention or two."
Ron chuckled nervously, and once McGonagall had left said, "Fuck me, if she told me to write lines or polish trophies, I'd still bloody well do it. That's power, innit?"
Just a short distance more, and then, at long last, Hermione was back in the common room. She bid a firm farewell to Harry and Ron, and crawled into her room to sleep.
It was ten past four when she woke up. She opened her eyes and sighed, pulling her arms over her head to stretch. Sunlight sliced into her room through a gap in the curtains. She turned over, and her slumberous stare stayed fixated on the handle of her wardrobe, where the beam of sunlight met its end.
How it shone.
She rolled out of bed and stretched again with her fingers interlocked, pulling her spine straight. Then, with her hands on her lower back, she bent backwards as far as she could go... till a sudden rush of blood to her head made her stumble, and brought her back into an upright position. For a moment, she considered pulling open the curtains, but found herself scowling at the prospect, and so, with a wave of her hand, she lit the lamps in her room instead.
She summoned a book from her desk: One that she'd taken from the library quite some time ago but hadn't allowed herself to read. Hopping back in bed, she spent the next two hours reading.
XXX
"Merlin, bless us all! The resident recluse has emerged from her cave!"
Hermione rolled her eyes at Theo and stood behind the armchair he was sat on. "It's only been a couple of hours. Did you really miss me so much?"
"Hermione," he said, very seriously, looking back at her, "I miss you every tortuous second that we are apart. Well, anyhow. I'm off. Toodles."
She laughed. "Where are you going?"
"Off to collect Luna-love for dinner. Oh, and by the way, if you are thinking of skipping the party tonight–"
"I am not thinking that."
"– well aware that to you the end of the NEWTs is an occasion for mourning rather than celebration, but–"
"Don't be stupid."
"– here knows how much you love to get abysmally trollied–"
"Theo, shut up and go away."
He grinned, ruffled her hair, and left. With a matching grin, she watched him walk jauntily out of the door, before turning to the remaining two – Draco and Dean.
"Would you both like to head down for dinner as well?" she asked, looking between Dean's face and Draco's shirtsleeve.
"Not yet, I'm going to wait till Seamus shows up. Anytime now." Dean's pleasant bearing melted away as he grimaced. "And I have to go wake Ron. Damn chuff's been asleep, slobbering, on my bed for hours."
"And any idea where Harry and Ginny are?"
"Dunno. Don't want to know."
Hermione watched him leave too, but this time most decidedly without a grin. She watched him go even after he'd gone, as what was to come next required some fortification. She pressed her nails into the armchair cushion.
Draco met her eyes with his idiomatic nonchalance, with his deftly lifted brow, with an implicit 'yes, I know you're going to speak to me now'. He had claimed his chair like it was a throne, sitting back with his ankle crossed over his knee. She could not, simply could not bring herself to ask him if he wanted to go down for dinner with her. Just him, just her – the thought made her feel all too diffident, even though they'd be going down to eat with the entire bloody school.
As an alternative, she said, "I found out why those centaurs toppled over. That night, in the forest when–"
"Yes, I remember."
"The mallowsweet was ripe... and when burned with sage and oak, it's said to produce fumes that apparently refine their powers of divination, help sharpen their inner-eye and what not. They were in a deep, deep trance. The whole ritual had been timed so that at midnight, the smoke from the bonfire will have shrouded them. But then we made a noise–"
"You."
"Er – huh?"
"You made the noise."
"Fine. Then I made a noise that abruptly snapped them out of it, and they just..."
"Thud."
"Yes. It is a good thing we didn't linger, though–"
"You wanted to."
"It wouldn't have taken more than five minutes for them to recover."
He tilted his head a bit to the side. "I burnt sage once, at midnight. Read some tripe about it in an ancient astronomy book."
"When was this?" Hermione asked, loosely crossing her arms.
"Christmas hols, third year."
"And? Were you able to observe the veiled mysteries of the future?"
"It was fucking January, Granger. The wind was brutal. The fire spread."
"Oh!" she gasped.
"Took down a quarter of the lawn and old Armand Malfoy's statue."
"Oh no."
"Didn't need divination to figure out that my parents would not be happy."
"Were you punished?"
"No pudding after dinner that night."
She raised her eyebrows. "That's it?"
He shrugged. "Yeah."
Shaking her head, she shot him a look of incredulity, and what she got in return was perhaps the most prepossessing look of boyish amusement she'd ever seen.
"Speaking of which," she blurted, "Shall we go have dinner?"
He looked surprised, but so momentarily that his grin scarcely wavered. "May I have pudding after?"
"As much as you'd like."
"Then let's go."
While he stood up, Hermione pretended to be rooting around for something in her bag, so that she could shake her hair forward to hide her face... for her face had been taken hostage by the most embarrassingly broad smile. She brought it somewhat under control and lifted her head; found him standing, waiting, on the other side of the armchair.
As they climbed down the stairs, Hermione skimmed her fingers along the cool smooth metal of the handrail. Draco was a mere half-step ahead of her – just enough for her to be able to see him from the corner of her eye, but not enough for her to properly watch him. One side of her mouth kept twitching upwards. She was having a stroke.
"I didn't know Seamus would be making an appearance tonight," she said, "So it's going to be that sort of party, then."
"What sort of party is that?"
"A Seamus sort of party."
He snickered. "The sort of party where you get... what was it...? Abysmally trollied?"
"Not just me," she replied loftily, "Everyone does."
He glanced down at her, over his shoulder. "I hope to see you flat on your arse once again."
"I have vowed to never again imbibe anything that you have prepared."
They reached the great hall and he, with an airy "later, Granger," made a beeline for the Slytherin table. Hermione made her way to her own house table, where Harry and Ginny were already seated.
She helped herself to some cottage pie.
"Did you sleep well?" Ginny asked.
"Yes. But evidently not as well as Ron, who has usurped Dean's bed."
They laughed.
"By the way, Hermione," Harry added, "Please eat properly. No drinking on an empty stomach, alright? I don't want to have to carry you again."
Hermione growled. The third joke at her expense within the scope of half an hour.
"The party is in the common room, Harry. You won't have to carry me anywhere."
"Still–"
"Zip it. Finish your peas."
They could all get bent. Hermione decided she wouldn't drink a drop of alcohol that night.
The mirror by her dresser was full length and crystal clear. Running her finger across it achieved nothing besides nearly imperceptible smudges. It wasn't going to be a terribly large party, just a laidback knees-up with her friends and classmates. No big deal.
But she wanted to look nice.
She pulled on a pair of slim black trousers, a tad seemlier than her well-worn jeans, along with a satin cranberry-coloured singlet. Her hair was doing what it usually did at the end of a day spent sprawled in bed. It was frizzy, unruly, and out of shape. She eyed the bottle of Sleekeazy on her dresser, a little vexed. There wasn't a chance of her spending an eternity combing it through her locks. Taking a dollop of the potion in her hand, she rubbed her palms together and gently glided them over her hair. It didn't do a whole lot, but it had some impact, for sure – hopefully it was the difference between bushy and, er, voluminous. Finally, after a little dab of lipstick, she left her room.
Mandy had just stepped out of her room at that moment as well, and Hermione furtively looked her over. She was wearing a skirt and a flowy black blouse. Her skirt was of a perfectly respectable length: There was no need to make any sort of special effort to draw attention to legs like hers.
She glanced over at Hermione and smiled. "I simply love your top."
"Thank you," Hermione muttered, "You look very nice."
They walked down the stairs together.
Faint thumping of percussion instruments and a low roar like a distant ocean hit her when she was no more than halfway down.
"Sounds like it's in full swing," Hermione said, before pushing open the door to the common room.
She gasped.
The place was packed, and it wasn't just her friends and classmates – there were also over twenty kids from Ginny's year. The room had never looked so small. She spotted Seamus immediately, emptying a bottle down Dean's throat. For some reason, Roger Davies had shown up, and Mandy marched straight towards him.
The music wasn't loud, but it was pervasive, persistent. It weaved through and around the many, many bodies scattered throughout, charging the very air. It wasn't a song she was familiar with.
Hmm, can you party with me?
Can you show me a good time?
Do you even know what one looks like?
A frantically waving hand caught her eye, between a small gap in the crowd. She peered and saw a flash of red hair, so she sucked in a breath and pushed forward in that direction.
Fuck. There were so many people.
"Hermione!" Ginny trilled, obviously a few drinks down, "What took you so long?"
But Hermione was too distracted by the sight of George, Angelina, and Lee to answer.
"Hi," they chorused, grinning.
She perched on the arm of a sofa, and Ron thrust a huge goblet of wine into her hand. Hermione examined the lovely vinaceous liquid within, pretending to be on the horns of a dilemma... but honestly. One drink. It was fine. There were so many people. She wouldn't make a fool of herself.
"So how has the illustrious Hermione Granger been?" George enquired.
She took a nice long sip and grinned. "Good. And you? How was your trip? Are you finally going to divulge where you'd gone?"
Angelina laughed. "Nowhere exotic, I'm afraid. We were in Ireland."
"Cork, to be precise," George added, "Which now, as it so happens, has its own Weasley Wizard Wheezes outlet."
A general rumble of laudation went around.
"You've gone international!" Hermione cheered, "Congratulations!"
George gave her a sardonically doubtful look. "You aren't going to reprimand me for attempting to corrupt the Irish?"
(Seamus' voice boomed out of nowhere: "Old fella, we're born that way!")
Angelina laid a hand on George's and said, "Paris is next."
"Wow, really?"
For the following half hour or so they bantered amongst themselves, and Hermione, under the dastardly influence of Seamus and Ron, was on her third goblet of wine.
Suddenly, Neville burst through the crowd into their circle.
"Come on, guys," he said, waving a fancy looking camera, "Smile."
Hermione downed the last sip of her drink and grinned widely as the blinding flash went off. And in the dazed moment after, somehow, a fresh drink was in her hand.
("Sláinte!" cried Seamus' disembodied voice. He was anywhere and everywhere, both Dionysus and Pan. Source of and conduit for merriment.)
Neville went on clicking clicking clicking, until finally he announced, "How about one of the Golden Trio?"
The phrase made Hermione roll her eyes, and Harry groan. Still, she stood, and –
Some blundering halfwit knocked into her and her drink spilled onto the carpet.
"Shit," she moaned, forlornly.
But then Harry had pulled her to him and slung his arm around her shoulder and Ron appeared, slinging his arm over Harry's arm.
"Alright," Ron said, "Say, bad dog, Fluffyyyyy."
Harry and Hermione burst into laughter. The flash went off.
Unfortunately, that was seen by most as an invitation to get a photograph with Harry Potter. The next thing Hermione knew, some strange bloke had put his hands on her hips. She wrenched away, ducking under Ron's arm to escape. Being slight had its benefits; it wasn't long before she was away from the over-eager mob surrounding Harry. Her head swam after that sally. She needed a moment to regain her balance.
So many fucking people, crawling around like mites –
She needed many moments. So many people. All pervasive music. Drums and piano swelled around her.
We've come a long, long way together,
Through the hard times and the good.
Another arm around her shoulders. Seamus.
"What?"
"Hermione," he lamented, "Your hands are empty. Here."
He pressed a tall glass of orange liquid into her palm.
"What is this?" she asked distrustfully.
"Gin and pumpkin fizz. You'll love it."
"I really shouldn't–"
"You'll love it!" His voice echoed as he disappeared somewhere into the horde.
So many people – she took a sip – she did love it. The music was electronic and melodious, just like what she'd needed this morning.
Surrounded by people, standing alone, drink in hand (– another sip! –) she felt herself swaying to the beat.
I have to praise you –
No. So many people. This is how falls from grace began. She decided she ought to find some corner to secrete herself in. She pushed forward once more.
I have to praise you like I should.
She squeezed out from between two hufflepuff girls, right into a low coffee table. She staggered, protecting her bevy with her life, until she was set right by one of the girls.
"Thanks," she gasped, help me she thought, and her eyes darted around wildly for shelter.
Just beyond that table was a sofa, and on that sofa was a Draco. Miraculously, nobody was sitting next to him, perhaps put off by the pungent scowl he was sporting. Hermione was not put off. Previous quest forgotten, she bounded over to him and collapsed on the sofa. He didn't acknowledge her, just kept scowling the other way.
"You look incredibly cross," she said.
His scowl deepened. "I'm not. But nothing kills a buzz like having to watch Potter swaggering around making his devotees kiss his ring."
Hermione baulked. He sounded so terribly like his younger self.
"Harry doesn't wear rings," she informed him, numbly. He ignored her, so she went on, "And he doesn't enjoy a second of scenes like these."
He made a sound of disbelief.
"Truly, he doesn't. He still refuses to go to Diagon without his invisibility cloak. He hates being badgered."
"Oh, poor fucking bloke. Being fawned over is such a bother."
"It gets very invasive and tiresome."
"Well imagine being called a rat six different ways during a simple run for errands."
Hermione froze. She looked at his profile closely – his complexion was far more florid than usual.
"You're quite drunk, aren't you?" she broached.
"Not drunk enough."
He reached under the sofa and pulled out a bottle of firewhiskey and topped up his glass.
"Your personal stash?" she asked.
"Hm."
He turned to her then, and his scowl receded. His eyes travelled down the length of her and up again, coming to a steady rest on her exposed clavicle. Hermione's throat was bone-dry. She took a hefty gulp of her drink, and his eyes followed that motion too.
"What are you drinking?"
"Um, gin and pumpkin fizz. Seamus foisted it onto me."
He pursed his lips to the side, and twisted in his seat so he was facing her fully. "Well on your way to getting wasted?"
"Not nearly so much as you. Perhaps I'll get to see you fall on your arse this time."
"You won't." One sip, and he'd cleared half his glass.
Screech!
Some other hapless sod collided with the same coffee table. Hermione watched him hobble away. So many people. She turned and pulled her legs up onto the sofa.
"Do people really call you a rat?" She tried to make her eyes as wide and earnest as possible.
He shrugged one shoulder. "It wasn't uncommon, immediately after the hurly-burly."
"But... still?"
"Who knows?" he said with a caustic turn of his mouth, "Been in a bubble this past year."
Hermione, once again, looked around the room. So many people.
"Yes, I suppose we have."
He refilled his drink. She took a sip of her own. Fizzy. Nice.
"Mighty useful thing, that invisibility cloak," he muttered sourly.
"Must you work yourself into such a maudlin funk?" she exclaimed, exasperated, "I have half a mind to push you onto your arse."
"I will murder you," he assured her. His eyes were glossed over with inebriation.
"Disillusion yourself when you're out and about then!"
"Pfff. Tedious."
"You're tedious."
She gathered her hair over one shoulder. His glassy gaze fell on the freckle on the side of her now exposed neck. Her heartbeat picked up and sputtered and whirred.
"You could try disguising yourself," she said in a voice gruffer than a lifelong chain smoker. She downed the entirety of her drink and moved to set the empty glass on the floor. Her hair swung forward and momentarily blocked him from view. When she turned back, his hazy, foggy, unswerving stare made her want to hide again. Gin and fizz were in her head.
"Can I interest you in some...?" he shook his glass of whiskey.
"Not just yet," she whispered, and looked down at the space between them, at the deep rift between the two sofa seat cushions.
"How shall I disguise myself?"
She couldn't fathom how he did that. How he sometimes said things with such a lack of inflection. She couldn't tell if she'd annoyed him or if he was playing along.
"Well," she pointed to his bright, elegantly dishevelled hair, "You could start there."
"My hair?"
"Yes. It's very tinselly."
"Tinselly?" He was aghast. Ah, real emotion at last.
"Yes. Tinselly."
He glared pointedly at her hair. "So, if I transfigure my hair colour to a boring, mousy brown, people will stop harassing me on the streets?"
She ignored the jibe. Her eyes skittered across his face. "Well... the thing is..."
"Oh, what is the thing, Granger?" he droned, punctuating his question with a big gulp of whiskey.
"The thing is... your face." She took in the lines of his jaw and the curve of his eyebrows.
"And what am I supposed to do ab–"
"It's very symmetrical," she declared – his very symmetrical brow furrowed – "It's very eye-catching."
At that, his eyebrows shot up in frank surprise. Hermione, evidently, had slipped on a bit of metaphorical ice... at the top of a very steep hill. And now she was doomed to tumble, down and down and down. There would be no stopping her.
"Yes," she mumbled gin-and-fizzily, "You know. Like... striking."
"My face is striking." He swallowed. His throat undulated. His mouth was trembling with amusement.
"And also," She needed to stop. At once. People. "Your eyes are very... I mean to say... they are rather... Distinct"
A slow, flabbergasted grin spread across his face. "My eyes, Granger?"
Oh, what the fuck. She absolutely HAD fallen on her arse. This was very, very bad. She needed to tap the hell out of this conversation.
"Salazar save me," he drawled, "You're flirting with me!"
Her mind was screaming like a baby mandrake. "I am not!" she yelped.
"You are!" he said with a disbelieving snigger, "You're flirting with me!"
Panic. Blind panic. Seamus was Pan and he had done this.
"I am certainly not flirting with you!" she hissed.
So many people. Were they watching? She couldn't tear her eyes away from him. The whistling in her ears drowned out the music.
"I most definitely feel flirted with," he said, eying her over the rim of his glass.
"I... That was not my intention," she bewailed.
"Intention or not, it's what I feel–"
"Well, I am sorry!"
"It's out there. You flirted. What are we to do?"
"I take it back!"
"You can't take it back. I think I ought to inform the Prophet. People should know what a disgrace you are."
People. She bristled. Her heart hammered still.
"That'll make Skeeter's day. The boy who fed her tales about my conquests in fourth year, claiming that I inflicted unwanted flirtation on him. I'll be the most disreputable slag in the country!"
He chuckled lightly and stole the last sip from his glass. "I'll be sure to write to her immediately."
Hermione gently laid her head against the back of the sofa. His eyes seemed to trace the line from her ear to her shoulder and she found herself unable to breathe. Those orbs of chaos had returned.
"Go on then," she rasped.
"Huh?" His eyes climbed back to her face.
"Go write to her."
"In a bit." He tilted his head to match the angle of hers, a soft smirk on his lips.
Her stomach had dropped to her knees.
"You - you said immediately."
"Well... yeah. But I think I'll stay here a little while longer."
"...Okay?" she breathed. Barely.
"You know, your face is fairly symmetrical, too."
Oh god.
She lifted her head off the sofa and stared at him, most likely beet-red.
"Draco," she warbled, "Are you flirting with me?"
He grinned. "Yes."
The blood gushing in her veins turned to lava. She'd never felt such a burning surge inside of her in all her life. Her lips parted as she gawked at him; his grin so full and unabashed. She would erupt into flames right there on the sofa, burnt from inside out, in front of all those naffing people.
So many people. She cleared her throat, hard.
"Very clever, but I can tell you're trying to set me up so I will implicate myself further. It's not going to work." She smiled in (what she hoped was) a winsome way.
"Over here! Hermione, Draco!"
Her head whipped around and she was promptly dazzled by a flash of light. When she'd blinked the room back into existence, Neville's jocund face filled her vision.
"And one with me," he said cheerfully, "Hannah, if you will...?"
He handed her the camera and took a pew between the two of them. Hermione uncurled her legs and set them down on the ground.
Following that, she jumped up and said, "Neville could you come with me, please?"
"Sure..."
After exchanging one parting glance with Draco – he appeared quizzically amused – she led Neville away.
She kept her eyes peeled and she meandered through the masses, pausing to wordlessly accept Seamus' proffered glass of gin and fizz. Her pulse simply would not relax. It matched its beat to the music.
The flowers in the garden
The wine
The "Waiting for Godot"
And so much modern time?
At last, by the fireplace, she spotted Theo.
He stood with a drink in one hand and Luna's hand in the other, chatting with George and Lee. When Hermione approached, he beamed from ear to ear.
"Where have you been, little girl?"
"Around," she hedged.
"And that is drink number...?"
"Shut up. Take a picture with me."
He set his glass on the mantle, and stood behind her and hugged her around her shoulders. Off went the flash. She felt him rest his chin on the top of her head.
Once again, it was a flash that launched a thousand photographs. She was being gripped this way and that, Luna and Dean and Theo, George, Seamus, Padma – she lost track. Her perception was reduced to flashes of light and sips of drink.
Soon, her head was swimming so appallingly, she felt close to collapsing. Theo caught her by the elbow and found her a chair.
"You are a godsend," she told him.
"This chair is a Theosend," he rebuked.
He returned to his conversation with George and Lee. Hermione pulled her legs up for a second time, and rested her glass against her knee. The condensation left a damp circle on her trousers. She had acquired a drunken detachment from the world around her, like she'd been cut out and placed there by accident.
Peeking around the back of her chair, she saw people – people and people and people – forming a paling around her. She visualised them parting like the red sea, providing her with a direct view of Draco, still alone on that sofa... and he gestured for her to come back.
With a sigh, she turned away and cast an unceremonious evanesco on her unfinished glass. She was cutting herself off. What was she to do now?
That state of disoriented inertia didn't last very long. Ginny found her and forced her off the chair.
"Let's dance, please!" she beseeched
"Ginny, there's no room to dance!"
"Fuck it. We'll make room."
How often do such things happen? Her day began with a strong desire to dance, and ended with her dancing well past midnight.
She slept till ten-thirty. Her eyes opened to an unfamiliar view, and she realised she'd crashed perpendicularly across the bed, on top of the covers, still in her party clothes, with her legs hanging off the edge and her shoes still on. She kicked them off and turned to her side, drawing her knees up into a foetal position... and she grimaced. Her legs were aching and her mouth was so dry and sour. Gin and pumpkin fizz did not taste good at all, the morning after.
But at least she'd brought herself to her own room, all by herself.
She remembered the night in its entirety, and that, she realised with a feeling of abject dismay, was actually no better than blacking out. She flopped onto her stomach and buried her face into the mattress with a groan. Evidently, controlling her speech around Draco Malfoy was outside the purview of her abilities. And, in a truly lamentable turn of events, she'd gone from constantly, inadvertently pissing him off, to...
Symmetrical. She groaned in agony.
Her only hope, she thought as she sat up, was that he had blacked out and forgotten the whole thing. It was a fair thing to expect, since he truly was soused to the eyeballs... To his very distinct eyeballs.
For fuck's sake.
When she finally stood up, she couldn't tell if the rolling in her stomach was from all the alcohol, or –
He grinned. "Yes."
Oh god.
That. It was definitely that.
Drowning herself in the shower seemed like a wonderfully tempting prospect while she stood under it, drenched in the scent of orange blossoms. Draco was right – they had been in a bubble this past year. From a life that was inexorably cruel and raw, they'd moved into this sheltered castle in the air. All sorts of strange fancies were bound to develop.
In a few days she'd be out in the world and her head will be set right.
She felt marginally better once she'd got dressed and tied her hair back, but no less chagrined. Her gut was still experiencing sickening surges of heat. She needed a distraction, so she set out to get one.
The common room was strewn with the detritus of their impropriety. She picked up empty bottles on her way to where Ron, Dean, and Seamus were sprawled.
Setting the bottles on a table, she took in the state of them: Seamus was out cold, with his mouth wide open, and Dean was slumped forward with his head on his lap. Ron was slumped back, and moodily eating pumpkin pasties. They were the only ones in the room. Such a change from the night before.
"Going somewhere?" Ron asked, around a mouthful of pasty.
"Library."
He gave her a fond look. "Getting your fill before you have to leave?"
"Exactly," she smiled. "By the way, you look like you've been dragged through hell."
"Bleh. Bollocking drinking competition." he grumbled, "And that rotter Macmillan fucking fleeced me. Eight galleons!"
"Ha!" Dean barked. Then he moaned pitifully.
XXX
All the flat surfaces in the library were aureate from sunlight, and despite the fact that Hermione had spent so much time there these past few months, she felt like she was looking at some place entirely new. Her vision had been tempered by sentiment, her heart felt delicate and tremulous.
Buoyantly, she floated up and down the aisles, running her finger along leather-bound spines. She wanted something diverting... something, dare she say, magical.
She ended up settling on Tales from the Deep: Mermish Folklore and More, and quickly bustled over to her favourite corner, her favourite armchair.
XXX
In about an hour and a half, her stomach rumbled. Her watch confirmed that it was time for lunch. She stood up, stretched, and sent the book floating back to its place among the shelves.
Soon enough, she was in the Great Hall with a plate full of Sunday roast in front of her. She ate in companiable silence with Neville, till Dean joined them and muttered, "Brace yourselves."
"What do you mean?" Neville asked.
"Quidditch turned sour," Dean replied enigmatically.
Then Ron arrived, practically skittering over to sit next to her, looking painfully discomfited. Before she could so much as ask what had happened, Harry and Ginny charged in.
"I don't know what the matter with you is, but you're being ridiculous and a right beast, Harry!"
"I'm being a beast?"
Everyone else at the table fell silent. Slowly, quietly, uncomfortably spooning food into their mouths.
"Everyone runs off at the mouth during quidditch! You were saying shite to him too–"
"He started it! I thought you'd said he isn't a fucking toerag anymore!"
"He's still Malfoy, Harry. You – you were seeking against each other! He was just trying to rile you up!"
"Well, it didn't work. I caught the sodding snitch–"
"Of course, it worked! You won't shut up about him!"
"Because he was made a pass at you!"
Hermione's stomach twisted in an awful manner. She put her fork down.
"Merlin, Harry! It was just a stupid joke!"
"It wasn't fucking funny–"
"–Completely harmless–"
"Harmless? Does he make jokes like that often?"
"Harry. STOP."
"No – tell me –"
"Ask anyone here! It's not like that!"
Dean and Neville jumped off the bench and left. Hermione continued to stare down at her unfinished plate, listening closely.
"...telling me you're out here getting so chummy with Malfoy."
"Everyone is chummy with him! Even Neville – even Hermione!"
"But you–"
"He's a decent bloke!"
"Hey," Ron whispered in her ear, "Can we get out of here?"
She nodded mutely.
She and Ron went to their old courtyard haunt and stood in the summer breeze.
"So, what on earth did Draco say?" she asked. Her lunch had congealed into a rock in her stomach.
"No clue," Ron replied evenly, "I was by the hoops." He sighed. "Something's wrong. Harry's been tetchy all week."
"Did anything happen at work?"
"Not that I know of."
Hermione looked at him and couldn't help but smile slightly. It was so odd to see him being the even-keeled one while Harry threw a wobbler; she hadn't seen it happen since fifth year.
"Draco didn't have a go at you?"
"He said some bullshit. I gave him a–" he held up two fingers.
"My, how surprisingly restrained."
Ron grinned and kicked a small pebble by his foot. "Taoism, Hermione. I told you, it's brilliant. Besides, I just don't care about Malfoy anymore."
"And... about Harry..." she ventured.
"Yeah?"
"Do you think it has to do with Dumbledore?"
"Dumbledore's dead."
"Yes, Ron," Hermione sighed, "That's the problem. Going to be two years in a few days."
"Oh, right." Ron chuckled humourlessly and shook his head at himself, "Could be."
They circulated the courtyard a few times, till Ron suddenly stopped and pointed towards the Great Hall: Harry and Ginny had just stepped out. They both looked positively thunderous.
"Ready to go, Ron?" Harry asked stiffly.
"Er... yeah..." Ron mumbled.
"Good."
Harry nodded at Hermione and stalked off. Ron – looking petrified – offered her and Ginny a one-armed hug each, and went after him.
After that, Hermione had to endure another ten minutes of torture, as she accompanied Ginny upstairs.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
So much for being solid, huh? (She obviously didn't say that.)
They separated on the seventh floor. Hermione kept her head down as she walked back to her tower, making sure to not even glance at the shaded areas of the castle, lest she found Draco there with some girl, making eyes and standing too close.
However, he learned shortly that he was in the common room, along with Theo, Luna, and Dean, who were playing some card game. Dean frantically waved her over as soon as she entered, thwarting her plan to go brood in her room. Still, she refused to look at him.
Dean asked, "Are the lovebirds still rowing?"
"No," Hermione replied coldly, "Harry and Ron have left. It was not a happy parting."
"Harry never took the Wrackspurts seriously," Luna muttered under her breath. She was very focused on the game.
Then Hermione heard him chuckle. She heard the rustle of the quidditch magazine on his lap. She glared down at the cards in Theo's hands.
"Mate," Dean addressed Draco, "Was laying into him really necessary?"
"It was."
Hermione glared down at the cards. "Harry's still the one who caught the snitch."
"With a face like a slapped arse."
"You know," Hermione ground out slowly, "It's one thing to feel nostalgic and think back fondly over the earlier years at Hogwarts, but regressing into your dreadful, blustering juvenile self is an absolutely unnecessary extreme."
Theo let out a snort of laughter.
"You saw the way Potter was strutting around." His drawl was so smug. "Every word I said was necessary."
"Tell you what," she snapped, "Let's call Harry back. Then we'll ask McGonagall to set up the Great Hall for another duel, and you both can face off in combative poses and hurl inane insults at each other. I'm sure all the other twelve-year-olds will be very impressed."
Theo broke into a fit of sniggers. Genuine Theo sniggers. He looked up at her with bright eyes and wrapped his hand around her forearm. As badly as Hermione wanted to keep her cold, hard façade, he infected her. Laughing in spite of herself, she decided to finally glance at Draco.
He was certainly nettled, looking at her and then at Theo. Then he wordlessly returned to his magazine and flipped a page.
XXX
He caught up with her after supper.
Having eaten quickly, she was on her way up to get a much-needed early night. Just as she'd cleared the sixth-floor staircase, he called out – "Granger!"
She was adequately stunned, and waited till he'd scaled the stairs and joined her.
"Are you sulking on Potter's behalf?"
"I'm not sulking," she snapped and resumed walking.
He kept pace.
"And this isn't just about Harry," she continued, "It's about Ginny, too."
"What about her?"
"You caused their quarrel. Now she's terribly upset."
He scoffed. "It's not my fault he took out his temper on her."
"Harry said you..." Hermione sucked in a breath, "made a pass at her."
"Hah! What?"
"And Ginny defended you, by the way. Called you a decent bloke."
She snuck a peek at him. He looked tickled.
"All I said to her was that clearly Potter had no expertise on how to handle a snitch and–"
"At least he can get his hands on one."
He exhaled sharply. Or laughed softly. Or both.
"See, Potter simply needed to comeback with something like that."
"But he didn't."
"Yeah, instead he lambasted his poor girlfriend, because some clever chap heckled him."
"Don't sound so high and mighty. You just said you heckled him. With no provocation, like a bratty little–"
"I can't help my striking wit, Granger."
She lost her breath. Her train of thought was derailed and her mouth snapped shut as heat flashed across her face. She was struck dumb.
It was yet another painful, awkward, silent trek up to the eighth-year tower, while every single braincell she possessed sizzled under the strain of coming up with something to say – just like the night after the Astronomy practical. Her eyes remained resolutely downcast, watching her left foot, then right... left then right, left and right, left right left... Oh, doomed march!
She was so agonisingly aware of his presence next to her, radiating some sort of pulverising beams that were scrambling her insides. She felt torn between wanting to cry and bursting into manic giggles.
And he – why wasn't he saying anything either? Walking along, straight-backed and insouciant...
When at last they reached the common room, he put his hand on the door and paused. Looking at her over his shoulder with a very self-satisfied smirk, he said, "That was fun." And he went in.
She stood outside, catching her breath.
It was near impossible to believe that in two short days she'd be on a train back to London, for the last time. That, at that moment, she had just concluded her second-to-last dash along the lake. She stood at the edge of the rocky shore, watching the morning bloom out of the horizon. Light oozed into the dark sky like a tiny drop of liquid gold bleeding into a puddle of ink.
The early hours were so unbelievably quiet. Just the birds stirring, emitting tentative little chirrups.
Silence and stealth of days.
For once, she let herself feel the pangs of fear that had been roiling in her bloodstream for so long. How was she supposed to go out in the world, get a job, earn a living, find a place to stay, feed herself? The mundanities of adult life seemed disproportionately terrifying. She knew how to survive in the wilderness, how to escape mortal peril by the skin of her teeth. She had learnt to accept death, to close her mind to pernicious trauma... but she hadn't learnt enough. She hadn't learnt a thing.
All she wanted was some more time to dash around with a bag full of books... wear a uniform... learn. She wanted to spend hours on absurdly dangerous rooftop ledges with Theo. She wanted to have long and candid conversations with Ginny, academic conversations with Padma, conversations about music and art with Dean.
She wanted to see Draco bathed in such dawning light, surrounded by such silence. There was no stopping that thought. She didn't even try.
XXX
That afternoon, she walked down the narrow viaduct bridge with her arms stretched out, pretending it was a tightrope.
And she did have a conversation with Dean about art, leading to the discovery that, much like King's Cross, Slade College of Fine Art had a secret wall and a magical division; and that's where he was headed. In the evening, she told Theo they ought to watch the sunset from Theo's peak. And he, thrilled, decided to make an event out of it.
He invited Draco and Luna, and hastened to his room to grab bags and bags of Honeydukes treats.
Packets rustled as they munched on sweets, birds emitted brazen, parting chirrups as they flew back to their nests. There wasn't much conversation. Luna lay back against Theo's chest, and began humming a haunting, archaic tune.
Hermione looked at Draco bathed in dusky light. The sun set on their penultimate day.
XXX
She arrived at breakfast the next day, solemn and on edge. Her last run hadn't felt like her last. She had been expecting some sentiment of finality. But on top of everything, it was the death anniversary of Albus Dumbledore. The hall was draped in black.
Ginny received an enormous bouquet of flowers and a note that read – Meet me at Three Broomsticks at noon. Please. I'm sorry. Her nostrils flared, her face displaying an odd combination of outrage and relief.
"Will you go?" Hermione asked.
"Of course, I'll go," she grumbled.
Hermione spent the next two hours in the library.
Then, while Ginny went to sort out the hitch in her love life, (and Theo and Luna dashed off to "visit" the classroom where they'd first kissed,) the remaining lot ventured out into the grounds. Invariably, the majority voted to play quidditch, so Hermione sat to the side with Neville and Hannah. They told her that they were going to Switzerland together, as Hannah had applied for a course on remedial herbs. They both looked incredibly excited.
By and by, Theo and Luna returned, (yes, they were very ruffled, thank you,) and Hermione had the distinct pleasure of sitting alongside two very happy couples.
As the day cooled, the group wandered around the ground aimlessly like grazing cattle. Dumbledore's grave sat soundly in the background, covered in fresh flowers. Hermione surreptitiously peered at Draco, and saw him walking a bit separate from everyone, hands in his pockets, hair in a disarray. His posture was stiff... tense... and he kept his back to the gleaming tomb.
Ultimately, the purposelessness of their meandering drove them back in.
Theo put one arm around her and one around Luna, and lugged them towards Draco.
"How about one final concert, Draco dearest?"
He agreed with an infinitesimal grunt and shrug of his shoulders.
The four of them entered the music room and none of them thought to light any lamps. The fading evening light was ripe for vespers – a little ochre, a little blue – casting deep and long shadows in the room.
Theo and Luna sat on the chaise lounge, and Hermione leant against the shelf she'd once hidden behind. She watched Draco roll back his sleeves, (the dark mark out in the open after so long,) and sit on the stool with lingering rigidness. From where she stood, she could observe his profile. His brow was scrunched low over the straight line of his nose.
He started with one note, soft and lingering... then another... and more... till he climbed to a strain that was so cautious, so fragile. If quietude had a melody, this was it. Draco played every soft, measured note with such gentleness and delicacy, as though even the slightest pressure could cause an avalanche.
It was such a slow tune and achingly profound.
There was a lump in Hermione's throat. She wanted to cry. In fact...
She gulped painfully and blinked away the moisture in her eyes.
Not once did the tempo pick up. Not once did Draco's posture or frown waver. But while his control was absolute, the music lent him such an air of wretchedness.
Slow. Haunting. Deliberate. Notes. All the way through.
It finished like it began, gorgeous and sedated. Hermione covertly twisted her neck to wipe the corner of her eye against her shoulder.
He was a phantasm when he stood to leave, leached of all body and matter. As he glided by her, all she wanted to do was reach out and touch him, just to reassure herself of his solidity. She just wanted to feel the bare skin of his arm, the warmth of it, the texture of his skin, the undulatory veins within. Just one touch... she was so undone.
But Draco had left the room. Theo put his arm back around her, and she was grateful at least, for some sort of tether.
XXX
She didn't care at all for the ominosity of the phrase The Last Supper, but nonetheless, the feeling was there. The joy and merriment surrounding the final day feast was lost forever. It was now deathday dinner.
McGonagall did make the customary speech, generic and a little spoony. She spoke of growth, the miracle of the past year, of Albus Dumbledore's ever-enduring vision. Ravenclaw won the house cup, but the hangings in the hall remained black. The food, as usual, was exemplary. When she looked askance at Ginny, the girl just sighed and said, "He was gutted and very apologetic. Pretty obvious what it was really about."
Supper ended with a pitiful murmur. As the rest of the school shuffled to their respective dorms, a small group seemed to tacitly come together in the courtyard. Hermione looked at them one by one: Theo and Luna, Ginny, Dean, Neville and Hannah, and Draco. What a strange, confounding, eclectic bunch. She smiled softly to herself and linked her arm with Ginny's. They moved forward as one, once again tacitly aware that they would be traversing the length and breadth of the entire castle.
XXX
Their pilgrimage ended at the ill-fated corridor outside the astronomy tower. It was technically out of bounds, but Filch was nowhere to be seen. The door to the astronomy tower was locked. The corridor was deserted. The walls were bare and the sconces were few and far between.
Nobody spoke; they just walked through the passageway ploddingly, looking from side to side, as though expecting a curse to go singing by at any second.
Hermione paused to look out a window, at the clear dark sky and the cluster of tiny roofs that was Hogsmeade. She turned away and saw Theo and Luna had stopped at the point where the ceiling had once caved in. They were staring up at the repaired, perfectly sound roof. Dean, Neville, Hannah, and Ginny had bypassed them, almost at the stairs that would lead them away from awful memories.
Hermione waited, and when Draco failed to pass by, she looked back just in time to watch him noiselessly open the door to the tower with his wand, and go in. Eyes wide, Hermione wheeled around to see if anyone else had noticed, and... Theo had.
He stared at the door for a second or two. Then heaved a sigh, took Luna's hand, and walked the other way, calling out a "Yeah," to Dean's "Coming?"
She bit her lip as she watched them leave. The part of her that wanted to follow Draco was too persistent and overwhelming. It didn't seem like she had a choice. Thereupon, she swiftly double-backed, and stepped through the door.
She climbed up the spiral staircase, her heart climbed up to her throat. The notion that she was doing something very wrong and invasive was very much extant, but the image of him behind the piano, of the music he played, was in the forefront of everything.
If he bit her head off, she would bite her tongue and dutifully back away.
The cool night engulfed her once she stepped out, and she took a moment to look around. Everything looked as it always had. The telescopes, the equipment, the model of the solar system – it was all there. And Draco was there, at the far end of the parapet, hands on the railing as he looked at the sky. Hermione curled her hands into fists, breathed in deeply, and approached him. Her insides were pure chaos - the primordial kind.
She went to the railing and kept the good hundred and fifty metres between them. From the corner of her eye, she saw him look at her.
"For someone who hates the scenery, you certainly spend a lot of time gazing at it," she mumbled.
He sighed and looked back out into the night. It appeared that he had nothing to say to that.
"Are you–" she began, but then abruptly stopped.
"What is it, Granger?" he asked in a surprisingly even tone.
"I was going to ask if you were okay," she maundered in her strange high-pitched voice, "but I know you'd just reply with an Oh what a stupid question, Granger, and thought better of it."
She couldn't understand why she was trying so hard to make light of his obvious melancholy.
But again, to her surprise, he chuckled. "I'm fine, Granger."
It didn't sound like an ironic laugh. It was just... quiet. Like the tinkling notes of the piano.
"I'm thinking," he murmured, softer still, "About that night and... now. A lot's happened since then."
"Yes," she agreed cautiously, "A whole lot."
Suddenly, he pushed away from the railing and turned around to lean against it. Arms crossed, he looked down at her with a pensive, slightly stern expression.
"I still remember the exact look on his face, right before he died. It was pure relief. And fuck, did I hate him for it. For... everything he did and didn't do."
He sighed then, and his head stooped to look at the ground. Suddenly he began speaking alarmingly fast -
"You know how it gets perceptively colder when a killing curse is cast?" I actually felt my skin ice over for a second. And everything fucking paused as he flew over that railing. There was madness before, and madness after... but that one, cold, clear moment was... was... I can't believe that was actually me. Then, over here. I can't believe I was that person... that boy... Standing right here, forcing myself to take a life... I feel like I've been eviscerated, or turned inside-out. And I can't decide if it's sickening or completely fucking liberating."
His eyes closed for a long moment.
Hermione was at a loss for words. She gaped at him, shaken to the bones by such an unexpected, raw confession. Her heart was thrumming loud enough to wake the castle, she thought. His eyes reopened, and while he continued to stare at the ground, her urge to touch him returned with a vengeance. Not just touch... if she could just take his hand in hers – God, just the thought of it. She gripped the railing tightly.
"Two years ago... threatened and coerced... I was here to become a murderer. And here I am now, willingly baring my soul to Hermione bloody Granger. The world never makes sense, does it?"
He laughed again, and this time it was definitely sardonic.
Hermione looked away. The sight of him had gotten to be too much. The chaos in her recognised the chaos in him. She remembered sitting on that hillock by The Burrow, thinking about the cruel, ironic circles that life was all about – so many concentric circles – and Draco was experiencing a pivotal one of his own.
"Life has been kind to you. Not everyone gets the privilege of my ear."
What was wrong with her? But he laughed again; the soft, airy laugh.
There were two minutes of silence. Then he said, "Granger, Theo will get all het up if both of us are missing."
"Yes, er, yes. You're right," Hermione stuttered, "I'll go back."
"Yeah."
She turned around and left. Theo had been right not to follow him; she shouldn't have followed him. This was his circle, his and his moment alone.
Although... two years ago, he'd pulled her roughly behind a tapestry and they'd absolutely abhorred each other.
No, Draco, the world didn't make sense, ever.
She walked back to the common room quickly, and she only looked back thrice.
XXX
With the exception of Ginny, they were all waiting for her in the common room.
Neville greeted her with a puzzled, "Where did you vanish off to? You were right behind us."
"Oh, I just stopped to admire a few paintings on the way," she replied breezily, and she accepted a glass of firewhisky from him with a thanks.
"Really, Hermione?" Theo asked in a tone that was simply fascinated, "Paintings?"
"Yes," she pressed, setting her jaw.
"That's lovely, Hermione," Luna interjected, "I also said goodbye to some of my favourite painted friends today morning."
Hermione looked back at Theo with a challenging expression, daring him to say something more. He didn't so she turned to Dean.
"I even passed that French toff on the fifth floor–"
"Ah, good old Philippe," Dean grinned, "Still a bastard?"
"Absolutely."
Hermione mentally patted herself on the back for that touch.
But she fell quiet after that, as banter swelled around her. She had to consciously stop herself from staring at the door. The whiskey did nothing to settle her and everything to agitate.
Draco came back half an hour later. There was a more explosive reaction when he entered, owing to the hour and the amount of alcohol that had been consumed. He smirked at everyone, but refused to partake, choosing instead to head straight to his room.
Here it was. The final morning. Her trunk was packed and sat at the foot of her bed. Her room was cleared of all her personal touches.
She looked out of her window at the lovely warm day. Then she drew the curtains closed and left without a final glance, or any kind of ceremony. It was done, she was out.
It had everything to do with Draco's words, and with circles. With being turned inside out... she had said her goodbyes to this castle already, once before, in a bleaker lifetime. There was no charm in doing it again. She had seen these stone walls endure all the elements and brutal destructive forces... and come out the other side. But what was so impressive about the durability of stone?
It was the flesh that survived assault that ought to be admired; the souls that sustained torture, the consciousness that weathered evisceration.
By the lake, a cacophonic swarm had gathered, waiting for the arrival of the boats.
Hermione teared up when McGonagall hugged her. And it only got worse when, one by one, all her professors hugged her, and told her what an honour and delight it had been, teaching someone as exceptionally brilliant as her.
They were Hogwarts, not some ancient castle. And her friends – the firm, resilient ones – they were Hogwarts.
She took Dean's hand as he helped her into a boat, and she resolved to sit with her back to the castle, looking only ahead, and at the people around her. It was a little boat of Gryffindors, with Dean, Neville, Ginny, and her, and it looked like most people were indulging in one final nod to their house-kinship. Theo waved at her from a boat with Draco and Tracey... and of course Luna tucked into his side. Draco was, once again, looking up at the sky, light and blue and reflecting in his eyes.
And with Hagrid's cry of "FORWARD," the boats floated deftly across the wide lake of endless possibilities.