A/N: I will, of course, keep updating this story here, but I'd just like to mention that I STRONGLY prefer AO3. Apart from having a superior interface, it lets me included pictures/illustrations. I do that, once in while. If you're curious about a certain book cover from his chapter, you can see it there. Anyway, on we go...
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this so called plot.
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Hermione's shoes sank into the sand with each step she took. The damp, muffled crunches maintained a steady beat with her panting breath. Soft breeze swept against her back and coaxed her forward. A little group of cormorants had gathered close to the shore, singing their strange, harsh, gurgling song. From a distance, it looked like they were wearing dark hooded cloaks, giving them an almost sinister air. The loud but cadenced gushing of the bay kept sporadically drowning out all these sounds.
The day broke over Mentone beach and Hermione ran till her lungs swelled... till she felt they might break out of her ribcage. She fell to her knees, and they, too, sank an inch or two into the ground. Her tracksuit bottoms were fawn – or rather, a smoky dusty perse in the early morning dimness – and they blended perfectly into the sand. It was like she'd crumbled and disintegrated.
She felt like she was in a dream.
The sea and the sky were a smoky dusty perse, too. But the horizon was a thick band of vivid burnt orange. Hermione pulled her hair loose and let the wind carry it. The waves of the bay and the twisted locks of her hair danced in tumultuous tandem.
At the door, Hermione cast a thorough cleaning spell on her clothes, so that she wouldn't end up drizzling sand all over her parents' house. The moment she entered, she was struck by a most enticing aroma, and the sound of a pan sizzling. She poked her head into the kitchen.
"What's for breakfast?"
"Plain old fry-up," dad replied, "Shower quickly, will you? Your mother and I have to leave–"
"Dad!" Hermione cried, aghast, "Your apron!"
"Far too jetlagged and done-in to notice it yesterday, eh? Although..." he paused thoughtfully, "you weren't actually on a jet. Still counts, I think."
"Where did you get that, dad?" Hermione was appalled.
"Your mother gifted it to me." He grinned. "Now go shower. Shoo."
She tore her eyes away from the big bold lettering sprawling down his black apron, (This Chef Puts Out... Great Meat!) and, with her nose wrinkled, she trudged up the stairs.
The morning light filtered into her room through diaphanous lace curtains, melting over the thistle-coloured walls, and illuminating the enormous sofa sitting in front of the bookshelves. It was her transfigured belongings, just as she'd left them two years ago in the house that was no longer home. She winced and looked away, unable to fathom how much it must've cost for her parents to have it shipped... though they did assure her that selling all their old furniture had more than made up for it.
She went into the bathroom and had, as instructed, a quick shower. Her mother had set out brand new toiletry for her, and she revelled in the scent of jasmine and white musk.
Fresh and squeaky clean, she descended back into the kitchen, absolutely ravenous. They shared a hasty breakfast together, mum, dad, and her, during which they mostly talked about the ongoing student protests in Tehran. Mum and dad, thus, left for work on a sombre note, and Hermione took care of the washing up with her helpful little magic skills.
Then she stood blankly in the kitchen.
She lumbered into the sitting room and put on the telly. With a shameful fump she fell into the settee, with one leg kicked up high on the back of it, and all the tiny cushions stacked under her head. For a solid hour, she watched a guileless, charming blond man in khaki shorts wrestle crocodiles and play with sea turtles.
When the show ended, she was subjected to an onslaught of imbecilic advertisements, so she switched the telly off.
Peeled herself off the settee and up to her room she went.
She regarded the sofa with slight trepidation. The moment she undid the spell, she would be faced with boxes of things, cans of worms, all her specially chosen junk. She would have to deal with it all; whereas the sofa was functional.
Functional. Fuck.
That's what Hermione was supposed to be.
But she dallied a little bit more. She summoned her beaded bag and began emptying it.
Clothes came out first. They flew to her bed with a sharp flick of her finger, getting neatly folded mid-air, till the entire mattress was covered in towers of cloth. A sartorial city. The last thing to come out was Pat's suitcase of hand-me-down dresses.
Then out flew a bag of cosmetics, and one with toiletries, and a little jewellery box, and they found their place amid the stacks of clothes.
She pulled open the doors of her painted white wardrobe and all the stuff from her bed when sailing in.
She delved back into her bag. Out came her cauldron, her newly acquired potions and supplies, a box full of tools and implements, a geometry kit, a sneakoscope, a case full of quills and pens, bottles of ink and blank sheets of parchments. She conjured a box and shoved them all in it.
Next came scrolls and scrolls and scrolls of old essays, half a dozen folders full of notes, one folder full of letters, over a dozen notebooks also full of notes...
She casually leafed through them and found a few rolls of parchment littered with half-formed ideas about ketamine and pain potions, about beta blockers and Dragon-Pox related arrhythmias. Smiling as set them aside, she made a mental note to owl them to Padma once she got back to England.
She found a parchment filled with Theo's messy scrawl - it was his ludicrous story about a despairing plimpy. Hermione chuckled to herself as she read it, and then set it aside as well.
Finally, she held an arithmancy paper in her hand, and stared down at a risibly caricaturised doodle of an owl in the corner. A smile tugged at her lips. She ripped that corner off and set the silly drawing on top of Theo's parchment.
She set aside the thick sheaf of parchment that was full of her notes on the Wizarding legal system, from the list of reference books that McGonagall had given her.
She also put aside all her letters.
She bound the rest her schoolwork in brown paper. Maybe mum will have room for it in her carefully organised attic.
Now all that was left was her books. She laughed out loud. Yes, that's all. Oh, and the massive, stonking sofa.
With a fortifying sigh, she raised her wand and let the sofa take its true form.
Eight cartons, neatly stacked in four piles of two.
She began with the left because putting her faith in the Left is what her astute, upstanding parents had taught her. Both cartons were filled with sodding clothes: Great news if you're a house-elf, not so much if you're Hermione, who'd thought she'd already dealt with that matter.
She huffed and peered at the contents, wondering if she could just vanish the whole lot and be done with it. Afterall, she hadn't missed them all year, why should she miss them now?
But she caught a glimpse of the slim, checked skirt that her grandmother had worn back in the forties, and the piles of tops and dresses mum had bought for her over the years...
With another huff, she, one by one, piled and hung them in her wardrobe.
The next carton was full of cassettes and CDs. She left that one as it was.
And at last. Five cartons of books. In addition to –
(She took out all the books from her beaded pouch.)
– Another bloody boatload.
She magically lifted entire stacks out of the cartons and had them join said boatload, making a fairly wide circle. Sitting on the floor in the middle of her book-colosseum, she looked about wryly. When she was younger, she'd desperately wanted to live in a house where the walls were books.
Well, there you go little one. Is this everything you'd dreamt of?
That thought triggered a memory, and she quickly summoned Hogwarts, A History. She flicked through the pages till she found it; the creased old bit of parchment. Her "comprehensive" to-do list.
1. Introduce the magical community to muggle music.
Her classmates were familiar with muggle music now. But, quite honestly, that was all thanks to Dean.
2. Find a way to successfully integrate muggle technology with magic (first cause- electricity).
Ugh, Her poor, unfortunate music collection.
3. Encourage the incorporation of muggle medicinal practices in magical healing.
Padma had that in hand. She was going to blaze a trail through St. Mungo's.
4. Demolish the appalling and deep-rooted social evil of pureblood ideology by enforcing strict legislation–
Hermione closed her eyes. What about now, little one? Are you as disenchanted as I am?
She floated the parchment over the fortress of tomes and had it land softly on top of her 'set aside' pile.
She stood up then. Filled with a little frustration, a little bathos, she began demolishing her citadel.
Among the books already on her bookshelf, fiction came first, so Hermione started there. One by one, she sent novels soaring into the shelf, neatly organised according to author. As the titles floated in front of her, it was rather tortuous to not flip them open, and she often did give into temptation.
She dipped into Brave New World, David Copperfield, Middlemarch, Slaughterhouse-Five, Heart of Darkness, The Bell Jar...
The Razor's Edge.
She'd always loved the cover of this book; she'd admired it every time she picked it up. It featured a painting by Glyn Philpot; a portrait of a young man staring ruminatively into the distance.
This young man looked nothing like Draco.
His hair was too dark, his jaw was too squared. His features weren't sharp, and his brow was too low. But there was something about the cheekbones... the paleness of skin... the slim waist and the strong, beautiful hands. She'd seen that same faraway look in Draco's eyes, that night on the astronomy tower. She'd seen his lips gently parted, just so.
There was something in the young man's pocket. A handkerchief? A letter? He wouldn't tell her.
Hermione opened the book and picked out the post-it.
Away, you three-inch fool!
Just like she had when she'd first read it, she laughed. So damn stupid. So inexplicably ridiculous. Surely, he knew what the phrase meant.
She sent the post-it to join her 'set-away' pile, and she sent the book to her bookshelf.
After novels, it was time for poetry. That took even longer, and it was not her fault. When it was time for plays, she obviously had to revisit Taming of the Shrew. With much difficulty, she set aside her instinctive distaste for the subject matter, reading till she got to the line – Away, you three-inch fool! I am no beast.
She stared at those words for a very, very long time.
Books on natural history and science went next. Books on art followed. Her much-loved collection of Asterix comics. History. Politics. Civics. Philosophy.
(A skim through The Second Sex to equipoise the treatment of Katherina Minola.)
And she ended up with The Rebel in her hands.
She found the exact page, the exact line, and the folded piece of parchment under it. On opening it, once again, a little spiral of ash danced above a Shakespearean tercet. Just as bewildering as before. This parchment, she left in the book – it's where it belonged.
When, at last, the floor was cleared and the bookshelf was packed, she looked at her watch. Gosh, it was evening. It was nearly time for her parents to be back from the clinic.
Hermione stretched her slightly tired arms, switched off the lights in the room, and went downstairs.
XXX
Later, after dinner had been eaten, and mum got mired in a telephone call with her sister, Hermione asked dad if he wanted to go over her music collection.
"I could try using magic to run a stereo," she said dully, "but a gramophone is much easier and accessible–"
"Archaic." Dad cut in.
"Vintage and charming?" Hermione tried with a wry smile.
He snorted.
She brought down her carton to his study and he went through it, letting out frequent murmurs of appreciation. Not surprising, that, considering he was the one who'd shaped her taste.
While he was occupied, Hermione took stock of the room. Save for the over-crowded bookshelf, it looked so different from what she remembered, even since a year ago. She moved towards a brand-new CD rack and peered at the titles, pulling out one that caught her eye.
Dad appeared over her shoulder.
"It's Bowie, live in Manchester, seventy-two. The whole concert." he exclaimed with glee.
Hermione turned to smile at him, while he gazed lovingly at the sleek CD rack like it was something he'd build with his bare hands over decades.
"And this... ah. This is a relatively newer band, Pavement, they're decent, you should have a listen. Oh, and! You're going to love this one. It's an entire encyclopaedia!"
Hermione looked at the slim case with a blue cover, depicting a clear cube with fish, a steam engine, a violin, Notre Dame...
"Encarta?"
"'99. I have 98, too, but why go backwards, eh?"
Next to the rack was a large desk with a gleaming white computer – the brand-new Compaq that Hermione was supposed to consider her sibling.
"Now if only your mother would get off the damn telephone, we could go online," Dad chaffed, as he peered at the spines on his rack, "Even encyclopaedias are old hat now. You can ask Jeeves whatever you want, and he'll help you out."
"Er... Jeeves?"
"Yes," dad muttered absently, "Good old Reggie. Britannica is fully online, too. Go see if the line's free, will you, sweetheart?"
Utterly overwhelmed, Hermione left the study and walked across the hallway to the living room. Mum was sitting on an armchair, very much still on the telephone. Hermione wheeled around and shuffled back.
"She's still talking to Aunt Malorie..."
"Your aunt's a bitch."
"Dad!"
"I'm sure she's called me worse. But anyway - I saved the best for last. Look at this!" he exclaimed with a flourish.
The cover had an ancient Roman soldier, a Pharoah, and a Mesopotamian scribe, against a rather complex backdrop and above a bold red font that read Age of Empires.
"Just you wait," Dad cooed, sinking into his (also new) chair.
Hermione stood behind him for as long as she could, watching him do... something or the other, she wasn't sure what was going on, really. Buildings seemed to keep springing up ("As you can see, I've decided to go the East Asian way,") and there were tiny ant-like 'people' moving about. It rather galled her that she couldn't understand, and that technology had run so far beyond her; her idea of computer games was still duck hunt and inane car racing on dad's old, chunky grey computer. In fact, she didn't think she'd actually been anywhere near that computer after first year.
She could feel herself turning into Arthur Weasley.
"Argh!" dad cried, "That's the enemy tribe. Looks like we're going to war."
After a while, he stopped giving his running commentary and got utterly consumed by the game. She continued to watch for a bit, dazed and grouchy, but ultimately sidled out of the room and, once again, wandered over to where mum was.
Mum was no longer on the phone. Instead, she was sitting with her head back, eyes closed. Hermione had only half-turned to leave when she called out to her.
"I thought you'd dosed off," Hermione said, leaning against the door jamb.
"No," mum sighed, "Just recuperating after a very long, very taxing conversation. I can't figure out if Mal wants me to tell her to get a divorce, or to talk her out of it."
"Tough."
"Indeed. Where's your father?"
"He's building an empire."
Mum rolled her eyes.
"Are you sleepy? It'll be–" she looked at the clock on the side table, "–three at night, back in England."
"I'm not sleepy in the least," Hermione answered, "You were right to keep me up all day, yesterday."
"Well, that's excellent," mum smiled and stood up, "I'll brew us some tea, and you can show me how you translated Delphi's diary."
With her hand on the wall for support, Hermione was shoving her foot rather forcefully into her trainer, while simultaneously charming her hair into a high ponytail.
"Oh good. You're ready."
Dad came up beside her in joggers and a windcheater, and began pulling on a pair of walking shoes.
"Um?" Hermione asked quizzically.
"It's Saturday morning, sweetheart," he said jovially, "We're going for a walk."
He took her down the same route as last time, down a neck of greenery, to the beach. They ended up, once again, on the same old jetty.
Standing side by side, with the sea all but wrapped around them, it felt like they had arrived at a sacred spot; like remnants of their last conversation lay entombed in the chalky wood of the railing, and they had returned to sanctify another post.
The corners of dad's eyes crinkled as he looked down at her with a gentle smile.
"How different you look, my love."
Hermione self-consciously pushed away tendrils of hair that had escaped her ponytail.
"What do you mean?"
"Last time we were here..." he shook his head, "Haunted, wretched... Starved. God, I'm so bloody, awfully, sorry for what you've had to go through."
"Dad..."
"But look at you now," he whispered, "You look just like my Hermione. Just like you ought to. Beautiful, vivacious, full of that compelling, clear-eyed sparkle."
"Dad," she repeated, but in a completely different tone, fighting a smile.
He laughed and playfully tugged her ponytail.
"You remember the itinerary I'd drawn up for our trip here? When it was still just a trip, I mean. For the three of us?"
"Um," Hermione hedged, "Vaguely..."
"We never got around to it, you know, your mum and I."
He looked out at the port thoughtfully. Hermione moved closer and leant against his arm.
"We've barely seen a quarter of Melbourne, actually," he went on, "Just got completely caught up in the business of setting up a life here. We thought... well, there'll be time to go about later. We kept putting it off over and over again. I think I know why now. Can you guess?"
She shook her head. His windcheater was soft and fluffy like a pillow.
"We were waiting for you," he replied simply.
Hermione pulled away, swallowing thickly. Her eyes felt misty as she took in his smiling face.
"Well, I'm here now," she murmured wishfully.
"You are."
"We could..."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
They both turned their backs to the water, alerted by a disturbance behind them. Two young boys and a golden retriever were splashing around in the shallows.
Dad continued, "Your mum and I still have to work next week, but after that–" He raised his hand and mimed an aeroplane, "– we'll go to Sydney. From there, we'll rent a car and drive down the coastal highway to Brisbane. I've been told its beaut. We can fly back home well in time for you to pack up for your return."
Her eyes had gradually widened as he spoke.
"Well," dad urged when she didn't immediately react, "What do you say?"
"Yes," she burst out with an enthusiastic laugh, "Please!"
Of the many universal physical constants – the speed of light in a vacuum, the Newtonian constant of gravitation, vacuum magnetic permeability, electron proton neutron mass, blah bloody blah – nothing matched the steadfastness of dad's devotion to a good Sunday roast.
He began his day by heading to the shops, where he spent at least an hour, and returned with multiple bags. From then on, he'd be in the kitchen, chopping that, dicing this, stirring that, boiling this. All sorts of intriguing smells spilled out, and if you were to peep in, you'd find him in a very merry state, singing along to whatever his Walkman was playing.
That particular Sunday, he was listening to Thin Lizzy. Hermione was forced to cast a charm to keep his voice contained within the kitchen.
She was sitting with mum in the living room, watching news on the Beeb, when a loud rapping against the window made them jump a foot in the air.
"Oh my god," mum gasped clutching her heart.
Hermione got to her feet, wand raised... And her blood turned to ice and she stopped dead.
There was a pretty little barn owl at the window, with pitch black eyes and a letter clutched in its talons.
"Aren't you going to get that?" mum urged, "It's probably your NEWTs results."
Hermione whimpered.
Mum huffed impatiently and brushed passed her, opening the window to collect the letter herself. She gave the owl a treat from the jar she kept on the sill and it went on its way with a grateful hoot. Mum pressed the envelope into her hand, but still, Hermione stood frozen. It was only after she'd been implored multiple times to stop being a twit, did she finally move, looking down at the letter and –
The air left her lungs in a great big gush.
"What?" mum demanded.
"It's from Neville," Hermione replied blankly.
Mum let out a great big laugh and said, "How terribly anticlimactic."
His letter was short and buoyant: He hoped she was well, he was all set to leave as soon as the NEWTs results were declared, and his grandmother had bought him a beautiful set of spanking new gardening tools.
Along with his letter was a slim stack of photographs, tied together with a bit of string.
The one on top was of the entire group: Hermione perched on the arm of a sofa, on which George, Angelina, and Ron were sitting. Lee was on one armchair, Harry on another, with Ginny on his lap. They were all beaming widely, raising their glasses in a toast. Hannah kept popping in and out of the frame. Seamus streaked across the middleground, with a swarm of glasses hovering around him. And the background was just a solid wall of people.
"Ooh!" mum called excitedly, "May I please see?"
How was she supposed to refuse? They sat together on the sofa as Hermione pulled loose the string, and one by one, they looked over each photograph.
Second photograph: Hermione was blinking dazedly while Seamus refreshed her drink. George was kissing Angelina. Ron pointed at the camera and said something that made Harry, Ginny, and Lee laugh.
Third photograph: The same group, this time watching George as he took a shot... put down the glass... and breathed a tiny lick of fire. Seamus was next to him, grinning proudly.
Fourth photograph: Ginny and Hermione were standing with arms around each other's waists, heads and goblets tilted towards one another. They smiled fetchingly at the camera while, to their left, Harry's glass was getting refilled by Seamus.
Fifth photograph: Hermione, Harry, and Ron, arm in arm. Ron's face was red and he was grinning. Hermione and Harry had their heads thrown back in laughter. A few seconds later, a bottle and Seamus' hand entered the frame, and nudged Ron's shoulder.
"This one's delightful," mum said.
"Yes," Hermione agreed, smiling broadly.
Her heart was warm. She was definitely getting the last two pictures enlarged and framed.
Sixth photograph: Similar to the one before, except Ron was holding out his glass to Seamus. Hermione and Harry looked slightly dazed. Some unknown chap lumbered over and put his hands on her, and she flinched.
Seventh photograph: Tons of people were flocking around Harry. Hermione wound around Ron and ducked under his arm. Seamus watched her go.
Eighth photograph: Hermione's stomach lurched.
"Who's that?"
"That's Draco," she mumbled, staring down at him, "He's... um, Theo's friend. And flatmate."
"The one responsible for the antlers?"
"Heh. Yes."
In the photograph, she was sitting facing him, with her legs pulled up and folded to one side. He had twisted his torso to face her. His empty glass was in his hand, resting on his knee. They were both looking at each other, him with a wide grin, and her with a fragile smile and blazing red cheeks.
There were many people standing around, but only the two of them, and the sofa they were sitting on, stood out starkly.
Then, suddenly, they turned towards the camera, smiles slowly fading away. His brow puckered as he glanced up with lush, intoxicated eyes. She looked completely disoriented, like she'd been woken up from a trance.
From the corner, Seamus walked into the frame, holding a tall bottle of wine.
"He's handsome," mum remarked.
Hermione couldn't look at her.
"He's very aware of it," she muttered.
"Ah. That sort."
"Hm."
If she didn't move onto the next photograph now... she probably never would.
Ninth photograph: Draco and Hermione, but with Neville in between them, fervently grinning. Draco had adopted his signature smirk, with all the conviction of one who knew exactly how it looked. Hermione's legs fell back to the ground as she aimed a slightly manic smile at the camera. Her cheeks were still scarlet. Behind them, Seamus was pretending to perform a very lewd act on the wine bottle.
Tenth photograph: Hermione with a full glass of gin and pumpkin fizz in her hand, once again beaming with sincere joy. Theo stood behind her, over a head taller – floppy hair, white shirt, bluegreen scarf – with his arms wrapped around her. He bent his head to rest his chin on top of her head and smiled with profound affection. George, Lee, Luna, and Seamus were standing a bit to the side, doing a round of fire-breathing shots.
"Lovely," said mum.
Hermione decided that she would be framing this one, too.
Eleventh photograph: Theo pulled a slightly startled Luna towards them, next to Hermione. Hermione turned to grin at her. Theo draped one arm on each of their shoulders, and laughed as Luna blinked to reorient herself. Behind them, George, Lee, and Seamus threw back another round of shots.
Twelfth photograph: Theo turned back towards George and Lee, who were waving scattily at the camera. Hermione and Luna were looking at each other, exchanging a few words. Dean and Seamus leapt in from opposite sides and stood on either side of them. Dean took hold of Hermione's wrist and directed her drink towards her mouth.
Thirteenth photograph: Luna returned to Theo's side. Dean had Seamus in a headlock. Hermione looked on in astonishment, taking quick sips from her glass.
Fourteenth photograph: Padma slipped an arm around Hermione's waist and they both grinned. Susan and Tracey appeared to want to join in, but were waylaid by Seamus and a bottle.
Fifteenth photograph: Hermione and Ginny (and fucking Seamus) were dancing. The picture was out of focus; the background was nothing more than blobs of random colours. Even the dancers were reduced to their basics: The gleam of Ginny's jewelled sandals and Hermione's glossy top. Red hair and brown hair and sandy hair being tossed about. The rhythmic sway of limbs. The medley of movement.
Sixteenth photograph: This one was much more in focus. Hermione and Ginny were still dancing, but this time with Angelina and George and Hannah and Dean. In the background, Ron, Michael, and Justin – all scowling – were handing something to a very smug Ernie. Seamus stood in between them, holding a tray full of empty glasses.
Seventeenth photograph: The final picture was of a crowd of dancing people. Hermione spotted herself, briefly, making a piss-poor attempt at swing dancing with Dean. But it was dizzying trying to keep up with who was where. And then, suddenly, Seamus' harlequin face filled the frame. He cackled and his hand reached out and covered the lens.
Mum whistled lowly and observed, "Some party."
"Yes," Hermione agreed, with a tense and timid laugh.
It was one thing to have her mother be aware of the fact that she consumed alcohol, but having her actually witness it was a whole other kettle of fish. When she finally mustered the courage to meet mum's eyes, she found her looking terribly amused.
"This is the furthest thing from exams."
Yes, mum, well noted. Hermione thrust the photographs back in the envelope and stood up, mumbling something about checking on dad's progress. Mum continued to watch her in a tender and entertained way. There wasn't an ounce of disapproval in her manner.
"When's Theo coming by?"
"Friday evening," Hermione replied, bouncing on the balls of her feet, "At six. Luna is coming as well."
"Wonderful," mum twinkled, "I'll prepare the guest room. They'll be here for the weekend, yes?"
"Mhmm."
"And will that other chap also come? Er... what's his name? The handsome one?"
"Draco," Hermione croaked.
A ripple of prickling heat swept up her legs. Oh, mum looked wicked.
"He will not."
"I see."
Hermione scampered out of the room then. In the kitchen, dad, in his horrid apron, was putting a slab of beef in the oven. He gave a cheery nod when he saw her, and pulled off his headphones.
"Need any help?" she begged.
"Peel those carrots, please?"
She did, happily.
XXX
The gentle chill of the night was very pleasant. Hermione stood by the open window in her room, peering out at a moon that was only a day or two away from disappearing. Above her head, the tinkling chime produced a seraphic melody. She blew into her cup of passionflower tea.
She looked out till all but the last sip of tea remained, muddled with dregs. She set the cup down on her desk and closed the window. The chimes came to a gradual halt.
Neville's letter and photographs were sat on the bedside table. She glanced at them on her way to the loo.
When she came back out, in shorts and an old t-shirt, she glanced at them again.
She got into bed with her notes on pivotal trials of the last century, and spent a good amount of time combing through them. The sheer number of cock-ups and miscarriages of justice were obscene; sentences delivered on the backs of thin evidence, the lack of proper investigation...
The basic apparatus of the legal system allowed for it. The Wizengamot had too much power.
And since all the books she'd read had come from within the system, they wrote away gross injustices as mere quirks.
The lone exception was a compilation of papers by one Madam Elena Barros, an untouchable bigwig in the DMLE, recently welcomed into the Wizengamot, at just forty-four.
Hermione remembered hearing about her from Mr. Weasley ages back, as the one who'd really helped pull his Muggle Protection Bill through the ranks.
It was half past midnight. She put the notes away and switched off the bedside lamp.
She switched on the bedside lamp and reached for the photographs.
There was, inevitably, a bit of a show put on, just in case some omnipresent force was indeed watching over her (P.S. Not Theo,) – She looked at all the photographs again, one by one.
Ultimately, surely and as expected, she sat back with the photograph of her and Draco.
It was very easy to see what mum saw, as someone who had no inkling of how fraught their association had been. Strip all that away, and it was simply a photograph of a charming young man and a categorically charmed young woman.
But Hermione knew. Hermione was gallingly aware of every aggravating, hateful, offensive moment they'd shared. In the quiet of her room, the photograph mortified her.
And to think, Neville must have sent a copy to Draco, as well. He would have solid evidence of her simpering over him. It was maddening to the highest extreme, made worse by the fact that even now, thinking about him, made her...
She found him attractive because he was. It was an inconvenient, bothersome fact... but a fact nonetheless. No big deal. He was attractive, she had eyes.
With a tap of her wand, she froze the photograph at the moment before Neville's interruption, when they were just looking at one-another. Flirting, apparently.
He was so droll, yet so polished. And she, madwoman that she was, smiled.
"...but why go backwards, eh?"
The more she looked at the picture the more her embarrassment-and-panic-fuelled-viciousness dispersed... the broader her smile got. Funny boy, and not a beast. Quick-witted. So very challenging.
Striking.
Her eyes closed from abashment.
She sighed.
She looked once again at his grinning profile. The impact of his cheeky "yes", was still there in the tilt of his head, in the stains on her cheeks. Setting the photograph back in motion, she watched the whole scene play out again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
She could not stop looking at it.
She'd sought him out, hadn't she? On more than one occasion.
And not to dismiss the significance of the moment or anything, but... it was obvious that she'd already decided she wanted to be his friend.
The next owl that arrived – a horned owl with a rigid disposition – did indeed bring her NEWTs results.
It was eleven-thirty in the morning on a Tuesday. She was alone at home.
The owl did not look like one that would suffer her anxious dithering, so she quickly divested it of its load. She placed the envelope on the coffee table and sat on a nearby armchair, with her arms crossed. It was a deadlock between girl and envelope; an inordinately long one.
Then she leapt up, picked up the envelope, rammed on her shoes, and left the house.
The walk to Chipper Choppers Dental Clinic usually took about twenty-five minutes. Hermione completed it in ten. She didn't flat out run, but she might as well have. For the next five minutes, she stood outside the door catching her breath and fanning her face with the parlous envelope.
The door opened and a little boy and his grandmother stepped out onto the pavement. His mouth was swollen and his eyes were red, and she was cajoling him with the promise of ice cream. Hermione darted in before the door could close again.
"Well look who it is!" Olivia exclaimed from behind her desk, "How are ya?"
Hermione shuffled over to her with a tight smile and half-hearted wave.
"Hi. I'm well, thanks. And you?"
They made friendly small talk, (with one brief interval during which Olivia reluctantly engaged with a patient that showed up with a bloody mouth,) while waiting for Hermione's parents to emerge for lunch. Olivia did most of the talking, of course. Hermione contributed a word, once in a while. Her tone was dense with apprehension.
"Argh, I need a ciggy so bad," Olivia whinged, "How long are you here for?"
"I'm leaving on the thirtieth. So, pretty much the whole month."
"Ah, no wonder the docs are taking some time off. They never do, otherwise. Bless you, babe. Thanks so much."
"Oh. Well. Ha ha. You're welcome."
It was twelve-thirty. Her parents should have come out by now. Why hadn't they come out? Mister bloody-mouth had been dealt with.
"Got any plans for the weekend?" Olivia asked, "Savage Garden are playing at Melbourne Park."
"What? Oh. I have some friends from England coming over–"
"Bring them too!"
"Um..."
"Blokes?"
"One is. The other one is his girlfriend."
"Ah, fuck me dead."
Hermione tore her eyes away from the frosted door leading to her parents' offices. Olivia looked a bit devastated.
"What happened to..." she racked her brain for a moment, "Er... Matty?"
"I don't know what happened to him. Lost his sick little mind, the dick..."
Mum and Dad came out then. Hermione bid Olivia farewell and dashed towards them, while they looked on, pleasantly surprised.
"Hermione!" dad exclaimed, "What are you–"
She held up the envelope.
"Oh!"
They ushered her into one of the offices, (the vase of primroses and the big Ukiyo-e print would suggest it was mum's,) and sat her down on a chair.
"Go on!" mum urged.
All three looked at the envelope in Hermione's hands.
"I – I –" her heart was thundering, "I don't think I can do it. Would you... please?"
"Okay," mum agreed.
She took the envelope and began slicing it open –
"No, wait!" Hermione cried, standing up, "I'll – please – give it to me."
Mum and dad exchanged a smirk.
Okay. Deep breath. Stabbing a horcrux was scary. Tearing open an envelope was not.
Moments later, she unfolded the parchment inside.
Seven subjects. Seven glistening black O's.
She pulled in a deep, quivering breath, and wordlessly handed the parchment to mum. Dad actually whooped, and then Hermione found herself being lifted up and spun around. Finally, laughter, relieved and ecstatic, came tumbling out of her throat and melded with mum and dad's.
XXX
That night they got dressed up and drove to Southbank, to an upscale restaurant with a fantastic view of the Yarra River. Mum and dad insisted on calling for champaign to toast to her success, which was followed by exemplary Thai food.
Truly, there was nothing like seeing her parents take joy in her accomplishments. They were talking animatedly, hyperbolically... speculating about the various ways in which Hermione was going to change the face of the wizarding world.
Hermione didn't say much, mostly just flushed and laughed, bubbly like her flute of bubbly; light and chilled like it, too.
A waiter cleared away their empty plates, replacing them with bowls of mango tapioca pudding.
Hermione's face almost hurt from beaming. She leaned back in her chair and looked up and found that she was sitting right under a chandelier.
Over the next three days, Hermione's life divaricated in the most intriguing way. In a sense, it was like she was trying to touch base with every aspect of her life.
In the mornings she ran. In the afternoons, she read poetry and she read A Legal Compendium. In the early evenings, while dad cooked, mum insisted on getting Hermione behind the wheel again: "It's an essential life skill."
She was awful at first and damn near ruined her relationship with her mother forever. By the end of the second day, she was no longer murdering the clutch, but the car still periodically screeched and roared.
Over dinner, she talked about what she'd read in the afternoon. At night, dad and her would be hunched in front of the computer. She learned how to ask Jeeves all sorts of things, and how to read the news, and book flights, and buy books.
On Friday evening, apart from one close shave involving a road sign and a very traumatised old man (who she profusely apologised to,) Hermione thought she had done rather well. Mum was frustratingly reluctant to endorse that assertion, but Hermione didn't push her.
Upon entering the garden, they found Theo reclining comfortably on a deck chair.
"Hullo," he grinned broadly, "Tried knocking, ringing the doorbell... but I think Robert doesn't' want to let me in."
"He must have his headphones on," mum said.
He stood up then, and walked to her.
"Ah, Evelyn, you are lovelier every time I see you."
He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. Mum looked absolutely torn between laughing and cuffing him. She took back her hand, gave his hair an exasperated ruffle, and went up to open the door.
Hermione and Theo grinned at her back.
"Buddy," Theo said, reclaiming Hermione's attention. And he wrapped her up in a hug.
"Where's Luna?" Hermione asked as they moved towards the house.
"Couldn't make it, unfortunately" Theo replied a bit dolefully, "She's scrambling to meet a deadline."
"Oh?"
"Yeah."
"Theo, you are going to have to explain further."
He chuckled, walking inside and closing the door behind him.
"The Scamander Institute of Magizoological Studies has offered a grant for a research project. Luna is working on a proposal. I told her I'd be more than happy to fund her research, but she said she wants the backing of an esteemed institute..."
"Good call."
"Hmph."
"What's her paper about?"
"You know her," Theo grinned, "She has a plethora of mysterious crea–"
Theo blenched. He'd spotted dad's apron. And then he laughed and laughed and doubled over laughing.
Though the air was nippy, the sun was out and bright. Hermione put on her sunglasses and, with Theo by her side, meandered through the weekend crowd till she found the beachside bar where Olivia had celebrated her birthday last year.
They settled down to a plate of grilled cod, a basket of chunky chips, and tall glasses of Victoria Bitter.
"I know you're dying to," Theo said with aplomb, "Just ask."
Hermione first took a nice big gulp of beer. They were sitting in the outdoor area, on a terrace of sorts. The view from there was very nice.
"Theo," she pronounced with formality, "How did you do?"
"First you tell me," he said, lounging back in his chair like a lord, "Did you get an 'outstanding' across the board?"
"Yes."
"Congratulations. As I'd predicted, yeah?"
"Yes."
"I was right."
"Yes."
"Nice."
"Theooooo!"
He laughed and gobbled up a forkful of fish.
"Not bad. Have it while it's still hot."
"I've put a warming charm on it."
"Outstanding."
"I hate you."
Theo beamed. "You adore me. Okay, I'm sorry. How about we start with good old Runes. I got an 'Exceeds Expectations'. Please don't be angry."
"Why would I be angry?" she cried, "That's very good!"
"An E in charms and transfiguration and defence too."
"Well done, Theo!"
"Thank you. Potions was 'acceptable'. Failed herbology and care of magical creatures. But who the fuck cares about those?"
Hermione took a bite of fish. Yup, not bad.
"How did Luna fair?"
Theo shrugged. "An 'outstanding' in magical creatures. That's all she told me."
"You didn't ask her about the others?"
"Hermione, I don't care."
He had drained his glass, and gestured for a refill.
While he was looking away, Hermione quickly asked, "AndwhataboutDraco?"
Theo smiled and ate some fish.
"Ask him yourself."
Grateful for her sunglasses, Hermione grumbled and stared at the otherwise blinding refraction over water.
"Aw, don't get all cheese off now," he cajoled, "Fine, I'll tell you."
Hermione had to wait, as that was when Theo's fresh glass of beer arrived. Theo spent much too long thanking the waiter.
"Well?" she said.
"Butterbeer is shite compared to what muggles call beer."
She turned back to the sea.
"Outstanding in everything but herbology."
"Did he fail?"
"No," he replied mirthfully, "He exceeded expectations."
"Oh."
"Don't look so disappointed."
"I'm not," she pressed, "I outdid him."
Theo sniggered. "Of course, you did."
How she wished Draco was here. She'd tell him that this was NOT an annoying conclusion. Imagining the way he'd scowl made her smile.
"Oh wow. You look dead smug."
Hermione's glass was empty. She turned to request another.
Another Sunday, another fatherly frenzy.
However, that particular Sunday, dad wasn't listening to music. Theo had insisted upon taking on the post of souse-chef. Hermione and mum stood at the kitchen door, drinking lemonade and watching the chaos unfold.
Theo had never cooked a day in his life. It was a travesty. Dad's usually delectable Sunday spread was very sub-par.
Spirits were so high that nobody seemed to mind.
XXX
That night found Hermione and Theo lying side-by-side on the shore, on a thick woollen blanket, staring up at a waxing crescent moon.
"I don't think I mentioned," Theo drawled, "I have a job now."
Hermione sat up like she'd been electrocuted.
"Pardon me?"
Theo grasped the back of her jumper and pulled her back down.
"Are you proud?" he asked, "I won't be sitting around, gathering dust..."
"You haven't told me what this job is," Hermione replied, resettling on the blanket.
"Creative Director at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes."
"What?" she gaped at him. "How did that happen?"
"George heard about the fountain. You remember...?"
"The Bananas in Pyjamas singing fountain."
"Exactly, well..."
He sat up then, stifling a yawn.
"Sorry, darling, if I keep lying down, I'll fall asleep."
"Yes, it's fine," she said impatiently, sitting up as well, "Tell me about George and the fountain."
Theo chortled and pulled her to his side.
"There's nothing more to it, really. He heard about the fountain and loved it. He offered to buy it off me, but I don't need money. In fact, I offered him money. He's doing my work... you know. God's work. And I also rather like the idea of making an actual career out of coming up with batty whatsits. I'm good at coming up with batty whatsits, aren't I?"
"Yes," Hermione mumbled, "I – erm, I'm scared."
"Huh?"
"You and George joining forces, that's... downright dangerous. The world is not prepared."
"It'd better be," Theo said with a rakish grin, "Because it's happening. George had also heard about the antlers and wanted to rope Draco in, as well. Could you imagine that?"
Hermione feigned a shudder.
"Calamity. Devastation."
"Quite. But Draco didn't want any part of it. He sold George the antler potion formula. You know what's going to happen now?"
"Bad things."
"I have so many ideas, Hermione."
You could be an inventor," Hermione told him, "An Unspeakable–"
"I will invent unspeakable things," Theo vowed.
Some time later, they sauntered back home, to the back garden, where mum and dad were sitting, around a bonfire with mugs of hot toddy.
With the heady smell of whiskey, cinnamon, and smouldering wood in the air, they talked and joked around for another hour, till Theo stood up and pulled a portkey, (look, Draco, a fucking trolley wheel,) out of his pocket.
"Goodbye, kind Grangers," he said with a sweet, contented smile.
The trolley wheel glowed a faint blue, and he disappeared into the ether.
White curtains rippled like sea foam as breeze swept into the room. The chime was tingling, adding an uncanny depth to Dreams by The Cranberries.
Hermione was packing some clothes into a small black suitcase, in a rather lax, oneiric way, sort of floating and swaying between lazy flicks of her wand. God, but the lightness that she was feeling was incredible; the serenity, the joy... Amplified by the awareness of how, not all that long back, she was sure she would never again feel this way.
The flight to Sydney was in six hours.
Between picking out beach-friendly footwear and wondering if the cold meant she wouldn't get a chance to swim at all, Hermione felt a sudden pang of hunger.
She hopped down to the kitchen and fished out a packet of bourbon biscuits from the cabinet. Three tickets were stuck on the fridge door.