Détraquée

by Hystaracal

"All her growth was the conveying of a corpse of hope." It was definitely the worst of times. Follow Hermione as she navigates through the quagmire: saving the world, getting top grades, falling in love, lust, and a whole lot of trouble; and comes out of it hopefully at least partially sane. (Super slow burn)

76. 76

Apologies for the delay, work bludgeoned me. And oh my god, apologies for this chapter. It was meant to be an interlude but it just SPIRALED. This is the reason I can't straight up tell you that we're down to the last ten chapters. Shit like this keeps happening.

I also made a bit of art to go with this chapter, and its there to see on AO3.

DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING BUT THIS SO-CALLED PLOT

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"Excuse me, please!"

Hermione jumped aside to make way for a hollow-cheeked man carrying a giant tureen, having just stepped into the Burrow seconds before, and not yet got her bearings. She goggled at the hurly-burly playing out in the kitchen. An assortment of people in crisp white aprons were cooking up a storm – there was peeling, shelling, chopping, dicing, and mincing going on all at once, and a dizzying mix of smells saturated the air.
Keeping close to the wall, Hermione scuttled like a crab towards the door to the back garden. She shivered slightly on stepping outside, feeling a sudden chill; the kitchen had been so hot with all the cooking and bodies. In the near distance, she could see the pointed tip of a marquee amid the orchard.

The interior of the marquee, though not as large, looked a lot like Bill and Fleur's wedding reception. There were lights strung across the roof, interspersed with gold and white balloons. There was a bar along one side and round tables scattered around the room. George, Angelina, Charlie, and a rugged young man with closed cropped dark hair were conjuring and draping flowers over everything.
Hermione placed her present on the corner table that appeared to have been put there for that purpose, when she was, quite unceremoniously, almost tackled to the ground.

"Hi!"

Hermione gasped.

Then she laughed and turned to properly hug Ginny back.

"Hello," she said and pulled away to look at her, "Wow, you look–"
"Yes, I know," she said, smoothening down her satin silver frock, "I've overdone it. But I haven't had any reason to dress up in so long. I'd forgotten I have legs, Hermione. Or at least that they do anything besides ache from over-exertion."
Hermione chuckled, "Actually, looking at all this," she gestured around them, "I wouldn't say you've overdone anything. I wasn't expecting something so grand."

Ginny looped her hand around Hermione's and together they began circuiting the area.

"George and Bill are paying for most of it. You only turn fifty once, after all... and mum deserves it."
Hermione nodded, eyeing the long buffet table that was being set up, "Where is she right now?"
"Dad's taken her shopping for new robes. She's too clever to not suspect, but hopefully she doesn't suspect this."
"I'm sure she'll be thoroughly surprised."
"Come," Ginny began pulling her towards the flower-enthusiasts, "I'll introduce you to Marius."
"And he is?"
"Charlie's boyfriend."
"Ah. Happy you've finally met him?"
"Yes," Ginny grinned, "Only been two days, but I reckon he's interesting. Loads better than Fleur, thank Merlin."

It wasn't hard to believe. 'Handsome, well-built, square-jawed, and Dragon tamer' would pass any litmus test for interesting. Marius was polite, his English was a tad accented, and Hermione got to speak to him for three whole minutes before anguished cries drew her away.
Harry and Ron had just wheeled in a gramophone with an enormous horn, but alas, could not get it to stop squeaking while it played. Despite having a lot of squeak-related trauma, and as tempted as she was to not fix it, (to save the party from Celestina Warbeck's saccharine crooning,) she reminded herself that this day was not about her. She got the music going and then went on to make a significant contribution to the 'flowers, flowers everywhere' movement.

By the end of the hour, the buffet table was laden with food and guests had begun to trickle in. They were all very spruced up and Hermione was a bit annoyed that no one had informed her that it was going to be a lavish sort of party. She did, however, stop scowling down at her plain shift dress when Seamus and Vassilios entered to take their place behind the bar. Then, she sought out Harry and tugged the sleeve of his robe.

"Will you be okay?" she asked.
"Huh? Yeah?"
"I just mean..."
"Oh. Right. Yes. Ahem." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll be fine. Don't worry. And... have you seen Ginny? I won't be looking at or thinking about anything else."

He looked happier than he had in months. Like Harry before the worst had happened, or like Harry after winning the quidditch cup, or on getting an owl from Sirius. His eyes went straight back to Ginny as she threw roses around, so full of love and delight that Hermione laughed out loud.

"She looks smashing."
"Yeah," he agreed with a bashful, dopey grin.

Suddenly, Bill and Fleur rushed in, and a tiny commotion broke out: A lot of shushing and "they're here, they're here," followed by absolute silence. Mr. Weasley walked into the marquee leading his blindfolded wife.

XXX

Chatter and rousing laughter. Celestina crooned at a low volume. Waiters went around baring trays piled high with appetisers.

While the party swelled around her, full of family, friends, and acquaintances, Mrs. Weasley was in a fantastic mood and rather drunk. Her new dress robes were violet, and her hair had been done up. From the moment the blindfold had melted off her eyes, she'd had a look of awe about her, like one who couldn't believe where she was. She was usually the one organising celebrations, not the one being honoured.

At that moment, however, she was standing in front of the eternally bilious Murial, with a glass of white wine in one hand, and Draco's arm in the other. She was, (according to George who was damn near weeping over Draco's ill-suppressed expression of horror,) extolling Draco's bravery for being the sole reason the Weasley family still existed. And sure enough, Draco looked like he was regretting every single second of his life that had led him to this moment.
Hermione sipped her red wine and smiled. He could scowl all he wanted but his robes would still trail down the line of his spine impeccably.

She was sitting at the bar, to Theo's right. George was on his left. They had planted themselves there like sentries the moment Luna, Xenophilius, and his wife Jamila made their fashionably late appearance. Theo was uncharacteristically quiet, but still making a show of enjoying Draco's plight.

When at last, Draco managed to free himself, he made a beeline towards her. Well, to the bar, more likely. Indeed, his first move was to get hold of firewhiskey.

"What is that woman's problem?" he spat, coming around to stand in front of George.
"It's her birthday, Draco," George tutted, "Be nice."
Draco huffed irritably. "Not your mother. The other one."
"Ah, yes. Muriel has many problems. What did she say to you?"
"Him? Brave?" Draco screwed up his face, "Looks like an anaemic shrinking violet."
"That's it? Bah." George picked the olive out of his drink and grinned, "I'm family and she called me an engorged imp with horrid hair and freckles."
"To me she said the ugliest ones always grow their hair out," said Theo.
"After she expressed general dismay over my muggleborn-ness," Hermione added, "She said bad posture and skinny ankles. Such a shame."
Draco's mouth twitched. "In that case... I dare say... she might actually like me."
"You should set her up with Kenny," said Hermione.
He laughed. "Now there's an idea."

Draco's arrival gave George the freedom to run off... somewhere. Mrs. Weasley had moved away from her rotten aunt and was now embracing and petting Fleur like they'd never quarrelled in their lives. And Fleur was absolutely, unfairly radiant, even in shapeless robes and with a mouth full of scotch eggs.

"Hello Hermione," said a deep voice from her left and she started, sloshing wine about her glass.

"Oh," she squeaked, "Hello, Kingsley. Lovely to see you. How are you?"

She pulled her lips back in what she hoped was a friendly grin, but from Kingsley's unsmiling response she felt like she had failed... or that he just was not happy to see her.

"I've been better," he replied curtly, "The last two weeks have been very trying."
"Er – Yes," she faltered, "I imagine they must have been."

There was a short reprieve, during which Kingsley accepted his drink and sampled it. Then he sighed and gave Hermione the most exasperated stare.

"You know I'll be the first one to say you're a huge asset to the Ministry. You're an extraordinary witch; what on earth compelled you to ruin our contract with the goblins?"
"I did no such thing!" Hermione exclaimed at once, "They were refusing to sign the contract before I said anything. They were demanding more money."
"I see," he said coldly, "So I suppose I should thank you for giving them the necessary ammunition?"
"I – erm – well – You're welcome."

Kingsley suddenly looked very tired. He sighed once more and forced out a reluctant smile.

"Enjoy the party, Hermione." He nodded, "Theodore, Draco."

He walked away and Hermione tipped back the rest of her wine. She spun around on her stool to request another, and did not consider the reactions of the two fellows next to her.
Just as her fingers closed around the stem of her glass, Ginny popped up, grabbed her arm and pulled her off to a table where Harry, Ron, and Seamus – among others – were sitting.

"You see Theo often enough," Ginny spouted, "Spend time with me."

It was alright, sitting with her oldest friends, drinking wine and mindlessly laughing. They were scarcely left alone, even when Seamus went off to check things at the bar. People kept stopping by because of who they were, but it seemed that Hermione was the only one who found it tiresome. Ron accepted the attention with geniality, and Harry and Ginny were too wrapped up in each other to care.
When Bill, Fleur, Charlie, Marius, and assorted Weasley cousins sat at their table, and Ron launched into some of his favourite Auror-ing tales, Hermione let her mind and eyes wander.

Mrs. Weasley's complexion was blazingly pink. She was clinging onto Mr. Weasley's arm and they were walking from person to person making small talk. He kept kissing the top of her head. It was tremendously sweet. She watched as they stopped to speak to the Lovegood gang, and Hermione immediately looked around for Theo.
He was with George, Angelina, and Lee, talking to Perkins and a woman from the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad.

She couldn't see Draco anywhere.

Hermione's mood dipped as the evening wore on. Harry and Ginny disappeared, which she was grateful for because it was getting increasingly difficult to ignore where their hands were going. Fleur and Bill went to the Burrow – she needed to lie down. Finally, when Percy came to their table, shooting Hermione a look usually worn by disapproving clergymen, she said she needed to refresh her drink and swept away.

She hopped up on the same barstool as before, idly swirling her glass.

Since getting caught up in running circles around the Ministry, she hadn't given any thought to life's circles. But, right then, she was struck by another.
She'd been moping at the bar at Bill and Fleur's wedding reception, too. Miffed with Luna, missing Theo, feeling lost and lonely. Then Theo had surprised her. And then the Death Eaters had surprised her. Somehow, even with all that joy and horror and calamity, Draco had been the biggest surprise of the night.
He was the biggest surprise of her life.

Almost like she had summoned him with her thoughts, she saw him, from the corner of her eye: A flash of pale blond settling at a nearby empty table. She waited for a few moments – two sips and four swirls – keeping her gaze fixed on the silly flouncy bow under the chin of some fop from the Improper Use of Magic Office. Then she casually rolled her neck and chanced a look.

Draco was staring at her legs.

She turned away at once, burning from head to toe. Dear god, dear god, was he ascertaining the skinniness of her ankles? She could've turned to dust. Her soul wanted to groan. Why on earth did she point them out to him? She'd always been aware that she had spindly limbs... but now she knew.
(She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, praying that it would break his focus.)
The difference between being aware and knowing was the awful conviction that skinny ankles would be all that Draco would see from here on, when he looked at her. Bad posture and skinny ankles. She straightened her back at once.

It took another emboldening sip to summon the courage to look upon him again. Swirl, sip and look... straight into his eyes.

A jolt shot up her stomach. She blinked in surprise, while he looked back, steadily and unabashedly. She tried for a smile, and he – one, two, three seconds later – smirked.

Okay. Breathe.

She slipped off the stool and walked towards him, and then around him, and sat on the chair beside him. Setting her glass on the table, she waited for him to angle his body away from the bar.

"You look like you regret coming," he said, putting his own glass down on the table.
"I don't," she shook her head, ignoring his look of disbelief, "I regret some of the unnecessary invitees."

She remembered when anger and revulsion were all she ever read on his face. What kind of life would she have led, had she never got around to seeing him like this – mirthful, relaxed, and captivating?

"Such as?"
"Kingsley."
"The Minister for Magic."
"Yes. And Percy."
"The honouree's son."
"Hmm."
"How thoughtless of them to not run the guest list by you."
"Isn't it?"

He reached towards his glass, and over his arm, she spotted yet another troublesome site.

"Oh shit," she murmured.

Draco turned, and they both watched as Theo and Luna inconveniently met as he was walking away from the buffet table, and she towards it. It looked like Theo wanted to drop his plate and dash – either to her or far away. They exchanged a few words, nodded sharply, and parted. Theo took a few steps before stopping; at a loss. Hermione stood up and raised her arm, beckoning to him.

"'lo," he said softly, as he pulled back a chair.

It didn't seem like his appetite had survived the encounter. He courageously forced down half a coronation chicken sandwich, after which he picked up and put down the second half.

"Alright," he huffed, "I'm spent. Going home."

His assertion brooked no arguments. Hermione stared at his retreating form, until a heavy sigh from Draco distracted her. He knocked back his drink and stood up.

"You're leaving, too?" she mumbled.
"Obviously," he replied, "He shouldn't be alone."
"Yes," she sighed, "But he isn't going to talk right now."
"I know. I'm all for drinking in silence."

By herself once again, and even more disheartened than before, Hermione picked at Theo's plate, but it remained more or less as he had left it. She didn't have much of an appetite either. After a while, she noticed that Harry and Ginny had returned, and they were sitting with Hagrid and Teddy. Such an extreme combination of sizes. She shifted to their table.
Ginny smiled at her so warmly, that Hermione had no choice but to abandon her plan of telling her that she was leaving to check on Theo.

Slowly, the guests began to leave. Andromeda collected Teddy and left, and Hagrid, not much later, followed suit. Perkins was drunk and he lingered for much too long, till finally, Mr. Weasley walked him to the fireplace. Warming charms were fast fading. And while all that carried on, a large swathe of the area was cleared, and a spirited game of skittles broke out between the Weasley siblings.
Hermione crossed her arms and watched, sitting next to a still-smiling Harry.

A loud wail shattered the air.

Joyful, blithesome, tipsy Molly Weasley was clutching her husband's robes and sobbing into his chest.

"This was so beautiful, such a perfect party," she cried, "I'd always dreamed of this day. Turning fifty with you by my side and our children grown up... but they're supposed to be seven. Arthur... Ar... Seven children. We had seven. Fred's not here. Oh... M – My."

George's ball fell to the floor with a thud and he all but ran outside. Angelina went chasing behind him. Mrs. Weasley watched him go and her weeping got wilder. It took the combined effort of Bill, Charlie, and Mr. Weasley to tow her home. She kept gripping chairs and tables on the way out, at one point grabbing a bunch of flowers. She dropped them a moment later, and they lay on a ground, a crushed and crumpled heap of petals.

They all followed, with Ron racing forward to get the door, and Ginny chanting something about calming draughts. Hermione stayed outside, though, when the frenzied lot had gone in. Seeing her, Harry and Marius did too.

The sudden jarring silence when, Hermione presumed, Mrs. Weasley had been put under, was even more potent out in the back garden. Light from the marquee and the moon got diffused by the thin fog that had spread through the air. Hermione, shivering, drew a cloak out of her beaded bag.
Marius wandered over to the side, under a tree. She heard the click of a lighter and saw the tip of a burning cigarette.

Not one of them said a word till, after what felt like an eon, Charlie came out.

"She's asleep," he muttered, before joining Marius for a smoke.

And again, they were quiet till Ginny appeared. Gone was her pretty dress and the sparkle in her eyes. She was in pyjamas and an old jumper, and she went straight to Harry and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Let's go," she squeaked, muffled against his chest.
"Okay," he whispered gently.

He raised an arm in farewell and they disapperated.

Hermione continued to linger, in case Ron came out. Charlie and Marius had drifted deeper into the garden, and all she could see were their cigs and silhouettes.

Ron didn't show, so she spun on the spot and went home.

---

Against all odds, Hermione woke up the next morning full of beans. The early morning drizzle and mist over the hill and the surrounding heath was charming. Her mind wandered as she ran, cooking up scenarios involving ingenuity, intrigue, and magic.

She had been planning this day for two weeks, and it had finally arrived.

The neighbourhood had been done up for the occasion. She admired the carved pumpkins that sat outside shop doors and adorned windows as she returned to her flat with a little brown bag full of pork pies and quiches.

She showered and stood before the mirror, a bit fazed by her reflection. She looked as wound up as she felt; wide-eyed and pale, with a gash of bright pink across the bridge of her nose. She plated her hair, pulled on some clothes, (topped with a denim jacket and brick-red scarf,) and put together the necessary stuff. Then, with her beaded bag, a basket, and a whole lot of barely suppressed enthusiasm, she perched on the arm of her living room sofa, directly facing the fireplace.

Much too long after, Ginny came tumbling into the room, carrying a basket of her own.

"Mum's sent leftovers," she said, "A bloody load of them."
"How is she?" Hermione asked warily.
"As she always is the morning after a meltdown," Ginny shrugged, "Alright. Everyone's alright," she added before Hermione could ask, "The rest of them are hungover and having a proper lazy Sunday morning, but I'm being dragged out for some sort of woodland expedition."
"Ginny, it's okay if you rather not–"
"Shut it," she grinned, "Are you going to give me a tour of this place or not?"

Hermione took her around, which took all of five minutes. Ginny was suitably appreciative, and concluded that the flat was very emphatically Hermione-ish, for which she was thanked.

"Are you sure you want to go?" Hermione asked.

Because she was concerned. And she really wanted to leave.

"Yes, yes," Ginny assured her, "Let's go."
"But... Harry and Ron?"
"Harry said they'll meet us there. Ron's still asleep."

Hermione shrugged. She had sent a very detailed map around. She was confident enough in their apparating ability to be mostly sure that they wouldn't end up in the river.

She led Ginny down to the apparation point in the building's lobby and when she opened her eyes, the world was green.

Nestled in a valley in Dartmoor, Wistman's Wood was the mystical, other-worldly, stunted oak forest where the Dæg guild had made its home. The oaks grew to no more than four and a half metres, their trunks procumbent and stooped and their branches jagged and twisted and curling like serpents or eddies, forming a canopy of yellow-green. Stained sunlight fell through the cracks. The ground was completely covered with lumpy boulders overrun with moss that seemed to glow. The moss clambered up the trees too. It painted the whole landscape.
It was like walking into a cave of jade, emerald, and topaz.
The woodland was at least five centuries old, replete with history. It was where Mesolithic hunters stalked their game, and where some of the earliest packs of werewolves roamed, often mistaken for hellhounds or the Devil's Wisht Hounds. It was where powerful druidesses thrived, their magic perhaps still embedded in the earth and stones. It was where the most sagacious of centaurs made their home... now relegated to a distant copse by the Ministry.

"Wow," Ginny exclaimed, bringing Hermione back to the present.

They walked just a short distance away, to a small clearing between boulders, next to an oak that bent so low it made for a natural bench. Ginny opened her basket and took out a thick maroon blanket and spread it out. Hermione conjured a heap of cushions. The two of them settled side by side and stared at the branches above.

There was a soft breeze like a whispered secret.

With the next breeze, Ginny shook off her awe.

"What happened between Theo and Luna?" she asked.

Hermione sighed and she told her. And while she told her, Ginny plucked tiny wild daisies and red clovers from a tuft by the edge of the blanket and stuck them, willy-nilly, into Hermione's hair.

"Sad," Ginny remarked at the end of it.
"Yeah."
"It's a good thing Harry and I are so used to being apart. Maybe being together will be what ultimately does us in."
"I doubt that," Hermione laughed.
"It must have been hard," she mused, "They were joint at the hip, those two."
"Hmm. But Theo insisted it isn't over. So, who knows..."
"Alright, now onto bigger things."
"...Yes?"
"Tell me about the goblin rebellion of 1999."
"Ugh," Hermione groaned, "I'm sure Harry's already told you all about it."
"Yes, but you haven't."

And so, Hermione repeated the story for what felt like the millionth time. And while she did, Ginny twined flowers around the locks that had escaped from her plait.

"Galloping gargoyles, Granger."
"Nice."
"I knew you'd like that. But honestly. All this time you've been insisting that nothing of note has happened in your life since I left, but let's look at it properly, shall we? You got your own place, started working under one of the biggest names in the Ministry, in a position usually reserved for someone far more experienced, you helped take down a huge, corrupt company, and then you set off a bloody rebellion."
"Er... well..." Hermione hedged, "It all sounds a lot more exciting than it actually is..."
"Now you sound like Harry."
"That isn't remotely the same–"
"Pfff."

Ginny placed a crown of flowers on her head.

"Well?" she went on, "Is there anything else?"

I've also developed an insane attraction towards Draco Malfoy.

"No. That's about it."
"Is he fit, by the way?"

Hermione had a heart attack.

"Uh?"
"Takumi. Is he fit?"
"God, Ginny, he's happily married and closer to my father's age than mine."
"Oh." She was quiet for a minute. "But is he fit?"
"No," Hermione laughed and pushed her shoulder. "Now your turn. How's training?"
"Brilliant. I've moved onto really complex manoeuvres now. Kippler's called in a specialist from Belgium to help."

A call of Hermione wafted in from between the trees, and she yelled "Over here!"

Dean wandered into the clearing wearing a loose white jumper, with an easel strapped to his back. He was looking around in amazement, like a young Impressionist who had just discovered his forest of Fontainebleau.

"Wicked place," he breathed.

He went straight towards the baskets, and fished out a bottle of juice, an apple, and a pork pie. He didn't make conversation; he didn't even bother sitting. Some creative force or the other had him in its thrall, and he simply said, "See you later," and ambled on, in search for the perfect view.

If nothing else, his arrival inspired them to dig into their victuals as well. Hermione sat back with a box of blackberries and two distant cracks followed, announcing Theo and Draco's arrival. They, too, were looking around with interest. Hermione allowed herself the shortest, most brief appraisal of Draco's person, before looking up at Theo.
He smiled at her in the best way – affectionate and warm.

"Hello, little wood nymph," he said, dropping down next to her and gently extracting the box of blackberries from her hand.
"There are two whole baskets full of stuff right there."
"I know," he grinned. Then he eyed her hair. "Really getting into character, are you?"
"It's all Ginny's handiwork," she muttered, reaching back into the basket to find something else to eat.
"Dean can fuck off," Ginny beamed, "I'm the real artist around here. Hullo, Malfoy. My mum's remembered she's in love with you again."

Draco snorted a laugh as he settled at a slight distance from the three of them. His head was turned away, peering through haphazard branches. Ginny set about making a flower crown of her own.

"By the way," Hermione said upon finding herself a peach slice, "Shall we have a quite dinner at my flat tonight? The pub downstairs has some Halloween specials–"

"But you must come for the party!" Theo cried at the same time as Ginny barked, "You have to go to the party."

"Er..."
"You will go to Finnigan's" Ginny averred as she haughtily placed the crown on her head (daisies looked lovely against glossy red strands,) "Ron will go to Finnigan's and spend the night at George's. Kreacher will be at the Burrow helping with the clean-up. And Harry and I will walk around Grimmauld place, completely starkers."

Hermione laughed. Theo groaned. Draco choked like he was dying.

"We will have it off on every conceivable surface."

Ginny beamed through the fallout – which was loud and offended – and during which, at long last, Harry and Ron materialised.

The variegated company did not find it's pitch in this instance, the way it had on her birthday... perhaps because they were less in number. Ron looked like he hadn't recovered from the night before. Draco's scowl of discomfort, though almost impalpable, was enhanced by the way he was sitting apart from everyone. It was annoying and unnecessary.
Frankly, the following howevermany minutes were unnecessary. Hermione felt once again like she had in the morning. Urgent, eager. She had not come here to eat in silence and stare at pretty trees.

She hopped to her feet and voiced a command, "Let's head to the settlement."

Harry, Ginny, and Draco stood up; however, Ginny immediately grabbed Harry's hand and began walking in the wrong direction.

"It's this way!" Hermione called.
"Harry and I will check if it's over here," she replied.
"It isn't! I have a map–"
"We'll let you know if we find it!"

The last few syllables of her sentence faded as she and Harry disappeared behind the trees. Hermione rolled her eyes and stared down at the two who hadn't bothered standing up.

"Well?" she huffed.
"Oh sure, Hermione," Ron droned, "I'd loved to spend my day off plodding through a forest, pretending to care about some crone named Beetlerot."

He lay against a tower of cushions with a pile of food on his lap and stared back contumaciously. She wanted to ask why he had bothered coming at all. Theo said nothing because Theo had dozed off. Hermione pressed her lips together and turned to Draco, and he uncaringly swept his arm towards the thicket, as if to say after you.

Right at that moment, when she spun around and ducked under a low branch, she felt like she'd been struck by lightning. When she scrambled onto a big mossy boulder and heard his footsteps behind her, the aftershocks abated and...

Garden.

There was an entire blooming garden inside her. The flowers in her hair couldn't compare. Versailles, Giverny, Mirabell, Keukenhof, and Kew couldn't compare. Because she was walking into a place of history, exquisite beauty, and wonder; and she was walking with the only person she had really wanted to go with.
She stayed on the boulder and waited till he was beside her, and she smiled as she unfurled her map.

"It isn't too far from here," she said, pointing the spot out to him, "No more than fifteen minutes, I'll say."

He took the map from her, giving her, in return, the time to finally properly drink him in. Green and golden light fell on his hair, giving it an eerie tint. It fell on his skin and eyelashes and mottled over his black jacket.
He rolled up the map and handed it back to her.

"Lead the way, Granger."

She didn't move.

"Hermione," she insisted, softer than she had intended.

One corner of his mouth quirked up.

"Alright, Hermione," he said with mortifying emphasis, "Lead the bloody way."

She didn't lead as such; the times when she was ahead were rare. She kept stopping and slowing to keep them walking side by side. Navigating the terrain wasn't easy, so they spoke little. The further they went, the denser the rock coverage got. The air smelt cool, clean, and lush.

Draco asked her what species the trees were. He asked her how old they were. She told him and she told him and that was all that interrupted their silent trek.
Till he randomly reached up to a branch less than a foot above his head and plucked a leaf. Hermione stopped to observe the branch swing up and down in search of equilibrium. Its leaves fluttered, blocking and unblocking the sunlight in rapid succession. It was a mesmerising, shimmering thing of beauty.

When it stilled, she looked away and saw that Draco had gone on ahead. He was standing by a lichen covered tree with his arms crossed, watching her piercingly.

"Sorry," she mumbled.
"You dawdle a lot."
"No, I do not."

She hopped off a particularly high boulder, and a lock of her hair, twined with three red clovers, swung into her eyes.

She pushed it away and said, "Nearly there. Keep a lookout for a rune carved into the moss."

They walked slowly through branches that curved and converged, forming a woody-tunnel. Clouds floated in front of the sun and shrouded them in shadows. The colours turned richer and darker and suddenly sinister. It ripened the feeling of forbidding anticipation.
They stepped out of the tunnel and onto a slight upward slope, passing by a tree with a reach so wide that it could've been the mainstem from which the entire forests' network of branches emerged.

"It's here," Draco said.

There it was, sharp and crisp like it had been drawn in just moments ago: The bow-shaped dagaz rune amid a carpet of moss on a plinth-like boulder. Magic vibrated palpably against Hermione's skin. She raised her hand and curled her fingers around empty air.

"Can you feel that?" she whispered.
"Yeah," he replied lowly.

Together, with unexpected synchronicity, they stepped through the shield.

"Oh my," she breathed.

They were in a clearing about the size of a tennis court, carpeted with soft, vibrant moss. There were only two oaks in the area, and both had incongruously large structures built upon their branches. In the middle, there was a small scorched circle, besides which sat three enormous iron cauldrons, also overrun with moss. The very same cauldrons in which the brilliant Catrìona would have stirred her wonderous brews. Hermione approached one and gently touched the rim.

"You know, Catrìona Jewelle had figured out a potion that could turn anything edible? Literally anything. It... somehow reduced things to their basic elemental composition – minerals and such – and you could happily consume them." She moved onto the second cauldron and peered inside, while she muttered under her breath, "Would've been bloody useful to have when Ron was raging over my cooking."

Draco appeared at the other side of the cauldron and, like her, peered down at the damp mossy mulch within.

"What was it made of?" he asked.
"Ugh. See that's the frustrating part. Fedelm didn't say! She mentioned so many incredible spells and potions, but never revealed the incantation or the recipe. She was so wary and justifiably mistrustful–"
"Or she was a fraud."
Hermione sneered. "You just need to read one page of her memoir to know she wasn't. And about this potion... the only thing I know is that it required a whole lot of hag stones. Specifically, the ones found by the river not far from here..."

Draco turned around and loped towards the larger of the two shelters. It was actually multiple shelters – a bunch of typical Celtic round houses made of daub, wood, and straw – connected by wooden ramps.
Hermione tapped the base of the tree like Fedelm used to. At once, a score of flat stones jumped off the ground and formed a floating staircase, leading up the tree.
She turned to Draco and made the same gesture that he had earlier; that blithe after you. He rolled his eyes and began climbing, while she waited for him to make some progress before following suit. She didn't fancy, (well, fine, she fancied it a bit too much,) being too close to his back. There was a big gap between each stone, and no railing. That kind of exposure was liable to cause injuries.

Upon pushing past the door, they found themselves in the Druidesses' living quarters. In its prime, it must have been splendid, going by the arrangement and finely carved logs used as furniture; but now it was utterly wild. Everything was covered with moss. Branches had poked through windows and cracks in the walls. Rusted charms hung from the ramparts. A broken sickle lay in the fireplace in the middle of the room. Woven baskets were scattered around, torn to shreds.

Time and nature truly conquered all.

They explored all the huts – the arrangement being that Draco left one as soon as Hermione entered it, until they ended up together in the largest one, Fedelm's private chamber. The desk still had a candle stand on it. The bed – made of metal and rope, had been mostly eaten up by flora. There was a second door, covered with leaves that Draco cleared with a wave of his wand. It opened to a platform that overlooked the clearing. There was no railing there either, so Hermione stayed gingerly away from the edge.

"Fedelm used to sit here every evening," she murmured, "And write, while looking down at the world she'd created."

The brewing station was right beneath her, and across the clearing, she could see the hut on the opposite side.
She turned and an indulgent, breathy laugh burst out of her – Draco had conjured one of those high back leather armchairs he seemed to favour, and had a bottle of juice at his mouth. He took a second bottle out of his pocket and handed it to her. She accepted with a thanks and conjured a chair of her own; a simple, cushioned ladderback.

A breeze. Rustling of leaves. The clouds shifted, and the sun popped out again. Draco was practically glowing, stately and majestic like a Tolkien elf or an Arthurian knight.

Um, what? She was completely batty, sappy, and ridiculous. She put her focus back on the dreamlike splendour before her.

"It's so..."
"...So what?"
"I was about to use an adjective that's a bit redundant."
"You mean magical?"
She chuckled. "Yes. I suppose enchanting could work."
"If you want."
"Or... mystical. Ethereal."

She felt him looking at her. She scrutinised the darkened interior of the hut across the clearing.

"You could just say beautiful, you know. In my experience, it's well received by both landscapes and women."
"That's much too trite for this landscape, and a woman like Fedelm."
"She went around with the name Beetlerot. She has no business complaining about adjectives."
"Okay, Ron."
"Fuck you."
"You just agreed with what he said earlier."
"Yeah, well... the name is bad enough to bring about such a ghastly, aberrant occurrence."
"Be careful, Draco."
"Huh?"
She had to grin at him then. "Fedelm's spirit might be listening."

He made an unimpressed face and scoffed, deeming that statement unworthy of a response.

She continued, "Besides, you have no business making fun of anyone's name."
"I don't give a damn about your opinion of my name."
"Malfoy translates to Bad Faith–"
"Bad Faith sounds dangerous and exciting." His grin was dangerous and exciting. "Infinitely better than putrid insect."
"Well, if you–"
"Granger means one who lives in a barn."
"Farm bailiff."
"That's much better."

She sniffed and chose juice over continuing that line of conversation.

Another breeze. More rustling. Speckled sunlight twinkled like scattered galleons.

"There's a comic book series called The Adventures of Asterix, about a village of Gauls – the only village that continues to fend off Roman occupation. It's full of humour, puns, and extravagant caricatures. I think you'd enjoy it."

Leaning slightly over the arm of his chair, he wore a soft frown and steady eyes. She had come to understand that expression. She really, really liked that expression. He was engaged.

"The names of all the characters are puns. The hero, Asterix, is a very small, brave man. His best friend is enormous and called Obelix. The Druid, who whips up a very impressive strengthening potion by the way, is called Getafix. The chief of the village is Vitalstatistix. The bard is Cacofonix, the old man is Geriatrix, the fishmonger is Unhygienix, and the smith is Fulliautomatix."

By the end of her oration he was smiling, very slightly.

"Had you been there, you would've been called Irksome-characteristix," she said.
His smiled expanded into a half grin, and he drawled, "Is that so? Well, you'd be Foolish-heroix."
"Underhand-tactix."
"Wit-is-tragix."
"Problematic-politix."

(That earned her a look.)

"Utterly-neurotix."
"Utterly-egocentrix."
"Prone-to-hystrerix."
"Needless-dramatix."
"Unnecessarily-afraid-of-broomstix."
She laughed, gasping and shaking her head. "No. I'm sorry. You lose."

He shrugged; his manner conveyed that he was happy as long as he got the last word. Her laughter abated and she polished off her juice, then tossed the bottle upwards and banished it mid-air. She wanted to stay in that tranquil, jewel-like forest of unearthly delights forever. It was like being in a capsule where nothing bad had – or could – happen.

"Hermionetrix," she mumbled.
"That better not be for me."
"No," she sigh-laughed, "It's what I called myself when I was polyjuiced as Bellatrix."

Draco sat up again, bending till he could rest his forearms on his knees, and he goggled at her like she was out of her mind.

"Are you telling me that you were wearing the guise of the most unhinged, evil bitch to walk the earth, out to perform a life-threatening and dangerous task... and you gave yourself a pet name?"
"It wasn't a pet name!" she hissed, feeling her cheeks ignite, "It was... it was a way to tell the two apart. In my head."
"Which two?"
"Myself and... myself as Bellatrix."
"Bloody fucking hell. Right. Wouldn't want to get the two confused."
"It's just something I do, alright?"
"I don't think you're stable enough to be using polyjuice."
"Too late to worry about that," she grumbled.

There was a sweet little redpoll on the branch running at level with the platform. It pecked at the lichen. Draco was taking much too long to compute their latest exchange.

"How many times?" he asked eventually.
"Just four. Bellatrix, a random old muggle woman, Mafalda, Harry, and..."
"And?"
"Being Harry was the most uncomfortable. But it's hard to tell if that was because I was in a male body or if it was because I was flying on a thestral and Voldemort showed up."

He fell quiet again, and they both watched the bird for a bit. It was a brave little thing that hopped onto the platform, quite close to their chairs.

"What was the last one?"
"The last what?"
"Mafalda, Potter, and...?"
"An old woman. Muggle."
"You already mentioned her."

Hermione slid lower in the chair and kicked her legs out. The bird flew away.

It was happening then. She was actually going to tell him.

"Second year, Harry, Ron, and I needed confirmation that you were the heir of Slytherin."
"Hah!" he cackled, but it was devoid of humour. "Of course, you did."
"I brewed polyjuice in Myrtle's bathroom, so that we could transform into Crabbe, Goyle, and Millicent and ask you about it."
"Funny."
"Is it?"

He had his chin in his hand and now it was him who was gazing into the opposite hut.

"It's funny that you thought I was responsible for a murderous spree at twelve, when at sixteen I – Ha. Priceless."
"Yes, well... you were exceptionally gleeful and horrible about it."
He swallowed. "I know."
"Anyway, so Lockart gave me access to the library's restricted section, and I nicked supplies from Snape's–"
"Hold on," he frowned, "You had access to the restricted section?"
"It was necessary," she frowned back.
"And you chose to brew a complicated potion that takes a month to get right... instead of finding a book on old bloodlines?"
"Er..."

She felt a flash of stupidity followed closely by indignation.

"What was the point?" she snarked, "All you purebloods are related in some way or the other."

He regarded her coolly. "I see. Go on then. You brewed polyjuice in Myrtle's bathroom."
"Yes," she snapped, "And like you said, it took a month."
"Probably why Myrtle hates you so much."
"Myrtle hates everyone except you and Harry."

He enjoyed that as much as she thought he would. It was only fitting that that the sun disappeared behind clouds again, bringing back an eldritch atmosphere.

"When did you do it?" he enquired stolidly.
"Christmas evening, after dinner. Harry and Ron took care of Crabbe and Goyle using cakes laced with sleeping draughts. And then," she shrugged one shoulder, "They chatted you up, found out we had the wrong idea, and the whole ghastly ordeal had been in vain."
"I don't remember."
"Why would you? The whole point was to ensure that you suspect nothing."
"You said they. Not we."
"Yes."

She knew his current expression too – mouth a thin line, eyebrows raised, eyes lidded. It was curiosity that he was trying to hide. They could've been back in the Hogwarts library, and she could've been blabbering about Camus or Dickens.

"I made a mistake," she softly pronounced, "What I thought was Millicent's hair, was actually... Um. She had a cat, right?"

His spine straightened with a snap. For once, she could not take joy in his shock.

"You turned into Lady Clementia Wigglesworth?!"
"That's what she named her cat?!"

They exchanged round-eyed, discomposed glances.

"Polyjuice isn't meant for animal transformations."
"I know that!"
"What happened to you?"
"I – I had fur. Cat ears and eyes. Whiskers... a tail. But I was still, you know, largely human. Bipedal."

Draco grinned slowly, purely, like she had warmed his heart. It was insupportable.

"Is that why Myrtle calls you pussycat?"

She glowered.

"How long?"
"Seventeen days."
"Merlin."

She glowered harder. He leaned over the arm of his chair again, much further than before, filling her vision with his face.

"What did you call your cat-self?"
"No," she replied flatly.
"Wha–"
"No." She stood up. "I'm done talking about this."

She banished her chair and stomped back inside, racing towards the floating staircase at a feverish pace. His boots produced an awful lot of thuds as he came after her.

Sorely tempted as she was to simply collapse the staircase while he was still climbing down, she somehow suppressed the urge and trotted towards the other hut. No more than halfway across the clearing he caught up with her, overtook her, and planted himself in her way.

"Oh, come on," he glimmered, "Tell me."
"No."

How could one person go through so many contrary moods in such short time? She tried to walk around him, but he blocked her, so she turned, but he glided around her. Thus, they exchanged posts, but ended up in exactly the same position.

She looked past him and pointed angrily at Fedelm's platform.

"You left your stupid chair there!" she flared.

He spun around and flicked his wand, giving her an opening to attempt escape. An idiotic attempt, for she had hardly even turned before he was back in front of her.

"Listen you–"
"Hermione."

Oh no.

"Tell me," he urged compellingly, "Come on."

He wasn't holding back at all. Every mode of persuasion was being employed in full force: The pervasive eyes, the entrancing tilt of his mouth, the enticing tone of his voice, the rakish fringe falling down his forehead...
She was completely powerless, and she was going to tell him. She was fucking going to tell him.

"You can't tell anyone else. Not even Theo." She paused. "Definitely not Theo."
"Fine."
"And you can't bring it up again."
"Alright."
"I'm being dead serious, Draco. No taking the mickey out of me."
He was fighting hard against a smile. "Fine."
"Do you promise?"
"Yeah, sure."
She fixed her eyes on his shoulder and spoke through gritted teeth – "Her-meow-ne."

He burst into laughter.

Like some absurd, poetic happenstance, that's when the sun came back out. Maybe it was the highly reactive magic of that place, or maybe he just was the sort of all-important bastard who could shift the weather with his mood.
The sun shimmered, he tossed his head back, and she was torn between wanting to storm off in a huff and wanting to stare and stare and stare at him.

He was dazzling.

Her insides were in a state. It was too much.

She whipped around and set off towards the other hut, even as the tendrils of his mirth formed lassos that kept trying to drag her back.
She tapped her wand to assemble another stone-staircase and climbed.

The interior was just as ravaged as expected, and it was very dark; there wasn't a single window, or crack in the wall. She conjured some bluebell flames, filling the room with sapphire light. There were multiple narrow beds, broken and fuzzy, and a central fireplace where a small oak had sprouted. The room was filled with stone bottles, woven baskets, and bits of broken glass. At least two dozen amulets hung from the rafters. There was a table with a weighing scale and a human skull on it.
She spotted that last one at the same time as she heard Draco's thudding footsteps.

"What's this place then?"
"Sabia Gristlesmoke's infirmary," she replied. Her voice was pitchy from embarrassment.

She turned her back to him and began prodding the wall that rested against the trunk of the tree. Right in the middle of it, her wand went right through the moss. A vanishing charm revealed the hollowed interior of the tree, with a wooden pole going through. There were two juts at the base, enough to prove stable footing.

Hermione climbed onto one and gripped the pole. She looked at Draco through the blue and asked, "Would you like to see Brigit Dunne's observatory?"

A basic locomotion charm set them moving upwards; a slow, slightly rickety ascent up the dark shaft.

Draco's hand was at her eye-level. It wrapped almost entirely around the pole. Long, straight fingers and knuckles like a snowy mountain range. Conversely, her hand went just about halfway-round the pole. It was pink with how tightly she was holding on. She wanted to slide her narrow fingers up and cover his hand with hers.
She looked down at their feet, at another stark contrast in size. Her old and scruffy trainers were covered with moss stains. His sturdy dragonhide boots were impeccable, and probably charmed to remain so.

The climb was agonisingly slow. The shaft was maddeningly narrow. Draco's cologne, Hermione's shampoo, and the earthy smell of moss mixed to form an inexplicably agreeable medley.
Beyond his hand was the lapel of his jacket. His chest delicately rose and fell as he breathed. Inchmeal, she lifted her eyes till she found his eyes, which were soft and lowered and looking at her. His mouth was quivering like he was desperately holding back a laugh... like he was picturing her with ears and whiskers and a furry face.
She lowered her brows and glared, which only enhanced his amusement.

She wanted to shove him, send him plummeting down the shaft. She wanted to twist around the pole, climb onto the tips of her toes, and kiss the point of his chin.

Suddenly, light burst into the tunnel, and they were moving past branches and then through a hole in a slab of wood. Hermione's mouth fell open when they finally stopped.
They were standing on a square of roughly hewn wood, hovering just a breath above the forest, like a magic carpet, or a floating raft. It was so much brighter up there, forcing her to squint, and considerably windier.

At once, Draco leapt away from the pole and went to stand at the very edge of the slab. With his back to her, fine hair being tossed by the wind, and single hand in his pocket, he looked like a Caspar David Friedrich painting. Wanderer above the sea of twisty, stunted oaks.

He looked over his shoulder and raised a challenging brow. "Are you just going to stand there?"

She was planning to. But no plans ever withstood him. Still, before moving, she drew a circle around the observatory with her wand, casting the strongest barrier she was capable of producing. She let go of the pole, and heedfully crept near to where he was stood. (Not as close to the brim, obviously.)
The view was staggering, at par with Theo's peak. From up there, it was easier to see autumn's kiss on the leaves and the way the thinnest branches spread like dendrites. The small forest looked endless. The horizon was a crisp line.
Hermione sat, hugging her knees, ignoring how hard and unforgiving the wood felt under her bum. She peered at the swirling clouds above – they drifted sluggishly, but the movement was dizzying to behold.
Draco sat down as well, one knee bent and the other foot in line with the edge of the slab. A flower from Hermione's hair fell onto her sleeve. She blew it away – an offering to the god of wind. As the branches danced, she imagined them to be sinuous arms or charmed snakes. She saw shapes in the spaces in between. Animals and faces.

"This is like the complete antithesis of..." She hesitated.
"Fiendfyre," he completed.
"Yes," she agreed, looking at him in surprise.

If he was bothered by her stirring up that particular memory, he didn't show it. But it seemed like he was thinking about it anyway.

"It was how I imagined hell," she said timidly, "The flames of Tartarus. Fire and chaos."

He leaned back on his hands and let out a sigh that blended with the breeze, while looking so unnaturally unruffled and composed that she decided it was best to stop talking.

"Not according to Dante," he said after enough time had passed that Hermione took a moment to remember what he was referring to.
"Inferno wasn't horrifying enough for you?" she asked.
"Horrifying, sure. Chaotic, not at all."
She rested her cheek on her knee. "What do you mean?"

As he took a few seconds to collect his thoughts, she simmered with anticipation and elation.

On the top of the world, looking down on creation, and... she wasn't looking for an explanation.

"It's so tightly organised," he began, "So sorted. Like clockwork. Right from, abandon hope, all ye who enter here... Everyone is squarely divided by their respective sin, sent to their respective circle to receive the standard, vetted punishment for said sin."
"They aren't just standing around in formation, are they?" she contended, "There's hornets and maggots, bloods and pus, enormous burdens, boiling rivers, angry harpies..."
"I didn't deny it's horrible."
"How is that not chaotic? People lying supine on burning sand while being showered with flakes of fire? Or people with their heads twisted around, being forced to walk backwards for eternity, blinded by their tears–"
"Exactly," he cut in, "Eternity. Maybe it was chaotic at first, and I don't suspect the unpleasantness wanes, but the punishment itself becomes routine. After a point, some poor sod will say, excuse me Mr. Malebranche, you forgot to drive your pitchfork into my arse today. That's how habitual and tedious it must get–"
"One of the Malebranche was called, Draghignazzo, remember? Nasty smirking dragon."
He smirked, but ignored her. "Like your friend Sisyphus. Up and down the hill for eternity. Routine absurdity."
She hummed ponderously. "He's not the only one in Greek Mythology, either. Tantalus was doomed to reach out for fruit and water that kept jumping out of his way, and Ixion was bound to a solar wheel and set to spin forever and ever."

She shifted to a cross-legged position to ease the weight on her bum. An exceptionally strong gust of wind compelled her to tuck her nose into her scarf till it passed.

Then she said, "So, like Sisyphus, everyone in hell is unbound by hope and has accepted and made peace with their fate."
"One must imagine the heretics happy."
She grinned and shook her head. "Which is worse? The awful, deadening tedium of endless, set torture, or the terrifying uncertainty of randomness?"
"Why does one have to be worse than the other? But I believe the saying is better the devil you know."

This time he shifted, switching the positions of his legs.

"We have both, here on earth, don't we?" he muttered, "Drudgery and the unknown. And sinners aren't allocated to their own little coves. They mix and mingle happily, causing all the upset they want."

He was squinting slightly, and his pupils had shrunk to mere spots. His eyes were almost pure, limpid grey.

"There are good people here on earth too," she said, "All sorts. And the unknown can be exciting, thrilling. Routine can be warm and comforting."
"I suppose," he allowed, tepidly.
"And," she murmured, "There are circles here too. So many damn circles... of a kind. Not like the ones in hell, of course – Oh, incidentally. Which is your favourite out of those?"
"Which is my..." he laughed incredulously, "Which is my favourite circle of hell?!"
"Mmhmm," she nodded.

He laughed some more, nonplussed, while he presumably mulled it over.

"The second circle, of course," he said archly, "Lust. I don't think an endless storm is all that bad, as long as I get to be swept away by lust in life."
"How predictable," she huffed, turning away.
"Getting blown by strong winds after death is fine as long as I get blown by pretty women while I'm alive."
"Oh. So funny."
"I'm sure Cleopatra and Helen will keep me warm."
"I'm sure they won't."
"What about you then? Favourite circle of hell?"
"Mine is–"
"No – let me guess. ...Limbo."
She flushed. "Yes."
"How predictable," he parroted.
"There's nothing hellish about it," she declared, "The only light is from their collective human intellect? From Homer, Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, Ptolemy, and Euclid's intellect? That would be a hundred times brighter than any divine light."

She tipped her head back and stared up at the sky, and closed her eyes when it overwhelmed her.

"And Paradiso?" she asked, "Did you like that? Did it cater to your love for astronomy?"
"I don't particularly love astronomy."
"Oh?"
"It's Black family law to study it, so yeah, fine. I studied it. The most harmless tradition I've been led into."

She opened one eye to spy on his disposition, but he was still as placid as the day was beautiful.

"The fifth sphere of heaven houses the Warriors of Faith."
"Yes."
"But every other kind of warrior or fighter, is send to the seventh circle of hell, for being violent."
"Moralising," she shrugged, "Every religion has its own version of heaven and hell, and most tend to send non-believers to hell."
"But which one is correct?"
She laughed. "Oh, Draco. That's a question for the ages."
He frowned. "Which do you believe in?"
"None."
"Your family then?"

Her left foot sent up a warning signal: It was close to falling asleep. She shifted again, once more hugging her knees.

"Well, my dad's side is somewhat religious. My grandmother was a staunch Catholic. My mother's side is mostly indifferent. My parents are hardy non-believers." She grinned at him. "You had a run-in with a zealot in that bookshop, didn't you?"
He snorted. "Yeah. I can see why she was so keen on salvation now."
"But see the thing is–"

She stopped to gently flex her left foot.

"The thing is, I thought I had it all figured out. Life is random, you owe it to yourself to do the best you can, and then you die, decompose, and... that's it. Back to the nothingness that you came from. But nine years ago, I found out that you can linger on, as an imprint of soul. That there indeed is, some sort of beyond, which ghosts are annoyingly cryptic about. I found out that your soul can be torn up like paper and strewn about. I don't know what to think any more. Honestly, I haven't had much time to sort it out... um, Draco?"
"Yeah?"

He'd crossed his legs now. His hands, with interlocked fingers, rested on his lap.

"Have you read much about the beyond? Are there many books about it? I don't think I spotted any in the restricted section."
"There aren't many in the library at the Manor, either. My mother..."

He stopped short and turned vaguely pink.

"Yes?" she urged, shuffling just a tiny, tiny bit closer.
He averted his eyes.

"My mother told me the beyond is a giant quidditch pitch with hoops made of chocolates, and friendly dragons that you can ride."

She smiled softly, a little resentfully, imagining a sweet exchange like that occurring in a home full of hate and prejudice.

He pushed on: "There's a general consensus on a flash of bright light. The image of death varies; sometimes a cloaked figure, sometimes a shadow, sometimes just an unspeaking, unseen presence. As for the in-between... there are as many versions as there are accounts. No two people have seen the same thing."

She remembered what Harry had told her about finding himself at King's Cross, and about what Dumbledore had said... it was happening inside his head, and it was very real.

"Isn't it a pity," she murmured, "That the Resurrection Stone only wound up in the hands of the desperate? Maybe someone with pure scientific curiosity could've got some real answers."

When he didn't reply at once, she realised at she had been staring at his hands. Thankfully, he appeared to be enraptured by some dancing branches.

"The moral of that story is that nobody can escape death, hence, nobody is immune to the stone's devastation," he said, by and by.

Hermione thought she might be. It was true that she had lost many friends and people she cared about... but she hadn't lost her best friends. She hadn't lost a parent, or a sibling, or a child, or a lover. She could do it. She could use the stone, bring back someone utterly brilliant... Maybe Fedelm herself. She would find out what lay beyond, as well as the secrets that Fedelm had left out from her memoir.

She closed her eyes and pictured Harry's expression of horror.

With a sigh, she peeled her eyes open and stared at the horizon.

"We should go," she whispered.

He followed the line of her sight and saw the thick dark clouds looming in the distance.

"Yes," he agreed.

She looked at him when they'd taken their place on either side of the pole, and as they went down through the hole in the slab. He looked back blandly.
She looked at the branches when they went past them. She looked up at the circle of light when they fell into the shaft, right until it disappeared. Then she was blind.

By the time her eyes had adjusted, they were back in the hut. Hermione's bluebell lights were still bobbing around the space. She dispelled them and they exited.

At the edge of the clearing, just a step away from the shield, Hermione turned back and gave the settlement one final, lingering glance. She would come back... she absolutely would. Hopefully, with Draco.
She stepped through the shield and walked straight till all tremors of magic faded.

Back on the slope, next to the sprawling tree, Draco stopped and asked, "That river you mentioned... how close by is it?"
"Very," she said, unfurling the map, "Just beyond the edge of the forest. Why?"
"Hag stones are useful to have around."
"Er... yes," she said bemusedly, "You want to go?"
"No. I stopped to make inane small talk."
She made a face at him, and then pointed at the map. "We're here, see? And the river is right there. You think you can manage?"
"Yes," he rolled his eyes, "I can manage simple apparation."

And so, they apparated to the river side. It was filled with boulders and long but sparse grass, and they bent low, hunting for tiny stones with holes in them. Hermione asked him if he hoped to riddle out Catrìona's potion. He said nothing but the words scientific curiosity.
Eventually, once his handkerchief was filled with pebbles, he was satisfied, and they apparated back into the forest. Draco's landing was unfortunate; He slipped on some moss, barely held his footing, and his handkerchief and all the stones spattered onto the forest floor.

"Bugger!" he growled.
"Simple apparation. Very nice," she remarked.
"Shut up," he snapped as he fumbled in his pocket for his wand.

But before he could so much as grasp it, Hermione had, with a twirl of her finger, gathered all the stones, tidily bundled the kerchief, and floated it up to his face.

He snatched it up, and muttered a gruff, "Show off."

They began walking back and she smiled.

"Fedelm's spirit is watching after all."
"If she's been hanging around, alone, in a forsaken forest, she's definitely randy as hell and looking at me, not you."
"No," Hermione scoffed.
"Oh?" He said with great interest, "Are you more her type?"
"I don't think she was... sexually inclined at all."

Some part of her was too shy to look at him after saying the word sexual. She shoved it away and defiantly met his eye. He smirked.

"Alright, Granger. She's admiring your impressive magical skills."

She couldn't tell how much of that was mockery, nor where the mockery was directed. She wasn't going to torture herself trying to figure it out.

They re-entered the tree-tunnel, and she only weakly chided, "Hermione."

It was different when the sun wasn't hidden behind clouds. Light seeped through the gaps and criss-crossed across their path.

Draco said, "I much prefer Her-meow–"
"Ah! Do not!" she trilled, stumbling over an exposed root.
"It's poetic," he intoned, "It's whimsical."
"You said you wouldn't–," she sputtered, "You promised–"
"Not my fault you were stupid enough to believe me."

She stopped dead and he kept going. Kept going while she glowered ineffectively at the back of his head. Then she charged, inelegantly, back to his side.

"You are vile," she averred, "Loathsome, treacherous, and utterly–"
"Calm down, kitten."

...Zounds? Great balls of fire. That one word went through her like a conflagration.

She clamped her mouth shut and silently stomped the rest of the way.

She'd started out with a garden, and she was left with flames. He could make however many arguments he wanted about the well-orderedness of Dante's Inferno, but the one within her was unerringly chaotic.

A light of breeze swept by and she tremored like it was an icy gale.

She climbed up on the same boulder, for the sake of tidiness, to form another circle. He gave her a funny look, and then walked right up to her, stopping when his toes touched the edge of the boulder. Their heights were matched. The shock of the new angle and of having him look straight into her eyes completely paralysed her.

"I won't tell them," he murmured with a knavish smirk, "I promise."

She remained stuck even after he had turned, and it was only when he'd ducked under the low branch and joined the group on the blanket, that she moved.

"Godric, we thought you were never coming back," said Ginny in lieu of a greeting.

How long had it been? She had no idea.

"You really missed out," she said to the group at large, in a thin, not-really-there voice.

Only Ginny had the decency to look slightly ashamed. Harry and Ron barely glanced up from their game of exploding snap, and Theo with a too-sly grin, handed Hermione a box of blackberries. He had also acquired a flower crown.

Soon enough, a more inclusive game of cards was commenced. It was completely silent but innately competitive, with Harry, Ron, and Draco getting fiercely into it. Hermione deliberately lost in an early round so that she could move away and sit by herself.

Because she couldn't breathe.

Sunlight formed a halo around Draco's head and she couldn't breathe.

He scowled when a losing card stung his hand and she couldn't breathe.

He openly grinned when Harry's fingers got scalded and she couldn't breathe.

Her lungs weren't her own; nor her stomach nor her pounding heart. Bit by bit, her entire anatomy was morphing into something alien and terrifying... and she was stuck inside, unable to breathe. Images from the last... hour...? Two hours...? Three...? Kept flashing before her eyes; snippets of their conversations, bites of his voice, visions of him lost in thought, of him laughing, grinning, challenging, questioning, and teasing.

He lost to Ginny and threw down his cards with a disgruntled huff... and she couldn't breathe.

A rumble of thunder brought Dean back from wherever he'd been, and the group set about packing up.

Hermione had no idea how she managed to apparate home in one piece.

XXX

She was roused by the sound of a heavy downpour. She kept her eyes closed and listened. It was tranquil, and tranquillity was what she needed.

She woke up in her darkened living room, on her sofa, with one leg hanging off.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

An explosive flash of lightening illuminated the room for an electrifying moment, during which the puppet on her wall gleamed fantastically.

How fitting for a Halloween night.

She sat up and lit the lamps, and all around her – the sofa, the carpet, the floor – were strewn crushed and wilted flowers. She checked her watch; it was a quarter past eight. She was really, terribly late for the party, but she was, even now, too rattled to care.

She wanted to curl up and cry.

Instead, she stood up, pulled apart her plait and violently shook her hair until every last flower got dislodged.
Stella came into the room with her usual rhythmic clip-clop. Hermione left the tiny, artificial unicorn to frolic in a field of dead flowers, and went into the kitchen to find something to eat. Her unease just allowed her to swallow two biscuits before objecting. Hear ye – no more.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

She had a long hot shower, washing away the moss that had found its way under her fingernails. Lathered in soap, she took a moment to lean back against the tiles –

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

She opened her eyes and rinsed the suds off, then ventured into her bedroom to find something suitable among Pat's hand-me-downs. She pulled out a purple and black and Halloween-appropriate dress, matching it with plum lipstick and the amethyst earrings from mum.

Diagon was quiet when she arrived, and dark, save for a few floating lanterns and distant lights from the Leaky Cauldron. Cowering under her lime green umbrella, she walked carefully down the alley. When she reached outside Finnigan's, it was still fairly quiet. The area outside was charmed to remain dry, and there were a few people standing around in groups, all sporting some very interesting headgear. She waved at Charlie, Marius, and Lee, who were smoking on the pavement.

She stepped inside the pub and it was anything but quiet. The lamps were dimmed, replaced with glowing, bubbling cauldrons and pumpkins that floated mid-air. Purple smoke bloomed and coiled low on the floor, and the music sounded medieval; Ars antiqua. It was utterly chock-a-block, and every single person in the room was sporting some variety of horn or antler. As she handed over her cloak and umbrella, she spotted goats, antelopes, bisons, rams, reindeers, ibex, wild oxen –

"You're awfully late."

She smiled and shrugged at George, unable to apologise for it. He was standing by the door, between a rack that was full of tiny vials containing a pale orange potion, and a mirror.

"Here you go," George said, handing her a vial, "This one's especially for you."
"Er..."

She accepted it but felt extremely unenthused about drinking it.

"Quit looking so scared," George grinned, "Theo chose it."
"Oh. Well, in that case..."

She gulped it down and it tasted like extremely salty water. No more than a second later, a gentle tingling erupted all over her scalp. She stood before the mirror and saw two tiny, pointed horns – about seven centimetres or so – poking straight out of the top of her head.

"Those belong to a wee, cute little critter called dik-dik. I'm almost sure Theo didn't pick that one for you because of the name."
"Ha, ha," she droned.

She left him once more people with shamefully bereft heads arrived. Making her way to the bar, she was adamant about NOT looking around. She would have two drinks because she needed them, would show her face to Theo, and then she'd go home, where she would have two more drinks.
Maybe if she drank acid, she could dissolve the horrible agitation in her chest. She felt absolutely certain that if she so much as saw a hint of Draco she would combust. Or cry. Or cry and then combust.
A bubbling cauldron near her head suddenly spat out a burning flare. She gathered all her hair over one shoulder, though there was a chance the flames wouldn't actually burn. Seamus was a maniac; it was better to err on the side of caution.

"Juniper sling," she muttered listlessly to Vassilios. Might as well try something new.

She moved to the side but stayed at the bar, since it was clearly evident that all the tables were taken. They were also fewer in number that evening, since half the room had been cleared up to create a slapdash dancefloor, on which people were standing and not dancing. She caught a flashing glimpse of Theo, (his old antlers making a spectacular reappearance,) near the door of the private room, but he was surrounded by a ring of admirers that she had no desire to wade through.

Fingers trailed across the small of her back and she yelped in terror. Then, Anthony Goldstein was standing in front of her with long, lyrate Impala horns on his head and a very prominent drunken glaze in his eyes.

"Hermione Granger. It's been too long."
"Hello, Anthony. How are you?"
"Good, good."
"Hmm."

A fair, polite exchange. He could leave now.

"So, I hear you're at the Ministry now? Ernie said he runs into you from time to time."
"Yes, we–"
"Aces. You know, I brew now. Potions. With Medicamentum."
"I see."

He was half lying on the bar and drinking from an empty glass.

"Best among the new batch, they say."
"Very impressive."

He nattered on for ages. Hermione zoned out completely. She sipped her drink and watched a roe and a yak do a round of rainbow-coloured shots. Once her glass was empty, she tried to get Vassilios' attention, but he had his back to her, catering to a herd at the other end of the bar.

"...couldn't do that to Terry, you know?"

Her ears involuntarily perked up, and she slowly turned to look at him.

"What?"
"W–n't be right. He's my friend, and he was fucking gutted after you two fell out. But I reckon it's been long enough now... and you're hot... so–o–o... what do you say?"
"..."

For fuck's sake. And he was still talking.

"What?"
"Shall we get out of here?"
"Look, Anthony..."

"Goldstein. Macmillan's looking for you. Something about ten galleons."

His voice washed over her like a sudden strong gust of wind at an observatory on top of the world. It made her shiver.

"Oh, right... 'course. Ten nuggets, all mine. I'll be back, lovely."

Anthony stumbled away, and Hermione stared hard at Vassilios, now desperate – wildly desperate – for a fresh drink. He noticed her and she pointed to her glass, while Draco came to stand in the space that Anthony had vacated. The corner of her eye caught a little more than a hint of him – she could make out the soft fabric of his shirt, the colour a mystery in such dimness, and his hands as he placed an empty glass on the bar. She didn't cry or combust, but she was flooded with tingles that hurt. It wasn't until they both had received drinks that she finally faced him.

"Oh, good god!" she gasped.

His horns were ginormous. Thick and corrugated, they emerged out of the sides of his head in fantastic arcs, so much so that even though he was a good foot away from her, the tip of his horn went past the top of her head. She momentarily forgot everything as she gawked up at them in awe.

"That has to be deliberate," she decided eventually.
"No, really?" He crinkled his sharp nose in annoyance.
"They look very heavy."
"They are."

Theo's revenge was a welcome distraction and it had a grounding effect on her. She felt less rattled, less like a berserk livewire.

"Some kind of buffalo?" she asked.
He sneered. "Asian water buffalo. Largest hornspan they could find."

A man with anoa horns came to the bar and had to crouch under Draco's other horn to communicate with Vassilios. His mate – an elk – stayed back and scowled.

After they had left, Draco surveyed the top of Hermione's head with as little movement as possible. She assumed it had less to do with apprehensions about potentially clobbering someone in the face, and more to with the strain on his neck.

"Yours look deliberate, too," he carped sourly.
"Yes," she happily agreed, "See what happens when people like you? It pays to be nice."
"Rather, those two wankers wanted to avoid murder."
"I wouldn't have murdered Theo," she scoffed, "Or George."
"No," he said with a (failed) attempt to shake his head, "I mean anything heavier would've snapped your slender, delicate neck."

Hermione froze with her glass halfway up to her mouth. Her eyes nearly fell out of her head. And – Zoop! – there went her equanimity again.

He grinned like a sudden flash of lightening. Like he had one-upped her somehow.

Words failed her. She once again was entirely devoid of sense and sentence in his iniquitous presence. They both drank silently. Someone had taken charge of the music and switched it to the Weird Sisters.

"Oi! Move off! You're blocking the way!"

Assorted cattle stood behind Draco, bouncing impatiently.

"No," said Draco simply, "Go around me."
"There's no room!"
"Tough luck."

Draco attempted to meet the petitioners' eyes and one of his horns swung round, forcing them to scatter, and the other stopped an inch away from Vassilios' head.

"Honestly," Hermione cried.

Before things could escalate any further, she collected her glass and Draco's, and marched away from the bar. If he didn't follow, he was welcome to brawl. She would not participate or interfere.

There really was nowhere to sit, though. She looked around in desperation at the crowd that was three-fold and the tables that were a third of the usual. She felt a presence stop close behind her, smelt the scent emanating from it, and sighed with relief.
She spotted a window that didn't have people around it, with a sill wide enough to work as a makeshift table. She rushed forward and placed both their glasses on it, and quickly before Draco could say anything, conjured a perfect replica of his high back armchair. She conjured a one for herself as well, on the other side of the window. Sitting down primly, she smoothened down the skirt of her dress, and smiled up at him.

He did not look happy, impressed, or suddenly besotted with her. Instead, he looked distinctly put out.

"Oh, what is it," she huffed, "You are aware that duelling is illegal now, right?"
"It wouldn't have come to that," he grumbled.
"Riiiiight. You would have skewered them with your mighty, mighty horns."

He glared and glunched, and they both took sips of their drinks.

Without any sort of change in his manner, he said, "I looked through Kovalenko's book by the way. Found twelve potions so far that can pare and condense, but not one that makes things edible. And no mention of hag stones."

Time flew after that, even though he was still sour; even though looking at him was tying her up in knots. It was a bit funny actually, carrying on an intense, theoretical discussion while one was near-growling and the other was close to simpering.

Then he made a daft claim about lobagun venom that he had no means to back up. She told him exactly how daft it was.
He told her she had no understanding of basic, elemental reactions. She told him he was too high on his own mad-potioneer's whimsy.

He said, "Sure, tell me more about my whimsy, Her-meow–"

She slammed her fist down on the window sill.

"Dra-cow Malfoy!"
"Hermione Grazer."

She was just drunk enough to find that hysterically funny.

The discussion carried on after that in a much more light-hearted manner, until Draco stopped mid-sentence to stare at something over Hermione's head. She looked over her shoulder and saw, through a most serendipitous gap in the crowd, Theo and Luna, (baring chamois horns,) speaking at the edge of the dancefloor. Then they hugged, briefly, and parted ways.
Luna, in her way, seemed to sense the eyes watching her. She waved in their direction, but was quickly cut off by a huddle. When the group passed, she was closer, and there was no mistaking her intentions: She was coming to talk to them.

"Happy Halloween, Hermione, Draco," she said pleasantly.
"Er, you too," Hermione replied delicately.

There was an uncomfortable silence after that, so Hermione ended up saying the first thing that popped up in her head.

"I'm surprised your horns aren't crumpled."

Draco snorted.

"Yes," Luna sighed, "I was rather disappointed as well."

Another silence. Draco gave no indication that he intended to contribute – he was staring into his glass.

Suddenly, Luna smiled.

"There's no reason to look tortured. Theo and I will be fine."
"Erm."
"We will. And five years from now, when we're getting married, you both will feel very silly for worrying so."
"I – Very well."
"Anyhow," Luna went on carefreely, "I'm leaving for Guyana early tomorrow morning, so I'll be heading home now. Goodbye."
"Have a lovely time," Hermione said to her back.

She bit her lip and turned to Draco, (who looked back with an arched brow,) and she knew she was going to make another confession that she wouldn't admit to anyone else.

"Sometimes I really don't like her at all."

Surprise rippled across his features and she quickly backtracked.

"I mean... of course I don't dislike her. She's a dear friend. But, god, she irritates me in a very distinct, maddening way."

Hermione pushed her glass away. She'd had quite enough, clearly. (The glass was empty.)

Draco wet his lips, considering. Then he said, "I think I've said a total of eight sentences to her."
"How is that even possible?"
He shrugged. "She talks, I politely listen. It's for the best."

She really couldn't believe he was capable of that. He certainly hadn't implemented that policy with her.

"Does that mean you find me more tolerable than Luna?"
"You're a shrew."
"Arse."
"That too. What about her distinctly annoys you?"
"Guess," she rolled her eyes.
"Her far-fetched beliefs bother you that much?"

He looked superior, like he himself had not just admitted he wasn't even able to converse with Luna.

"Not on their own," Hermione replied, "But the level of conviction she has... the way she looks at me with... with... imperiousness and pity every time I dare to negate any of her ridiculous claims. It used to make my blood boil. Took me a year to learn how to deal with it."

He swallowed the last sip from his glass and looked off into the distance.

"In my experience," he said slowly, "The most outrageous... the most rubbish ideas both require and inspire the strongest, staunchest conviction. Can't exist without it."

A statement like that was bound to derail her with its significance. It was just like him to casually bring up the monumental way in which he'd changed in the middle of a fatuous discussion about Luna Lovegood. How was she supposed to just 'well, anyway...' herself out of that?
It occurred to her that maybe he enjoyed baffling her as much as she did him.

"Luna didn't stand a chance with a father like hers," he muttered, "But imaginary creatures are nowhere near the worst things to have drilled into your head."
He blinked like he had baffled himself and stared down at his empty glass. Then glanced at her once, sideways, and blurted out in a desperate hurry with a cold, hard smirk, "And she has no concrete proof against her beliefs. Can you prove the crumpled-hornies don't exist?"
"I..." she swallowed, "I loathe that argument."
"Of course, you do," he said with a forced grin.

She enjoyed his bewilderment, but not his discomfort. There was such a dichotomy within her that she almost thought to give the two parts their own whimsical names. Her deepest instinct wanted to pin him to the spot, but the freshly blighted part of her – the transmutation that still wouldn't let her catch a breath – wouldn't allow it.

"Luna is like one of those people who insist that the world is flat–"
"Who the hell–"
"There are people," she waved him off, "And they're so cocksure and ridiculous about it, looking at sane people like they're pathetically small-minded and blind. And don't you dare say, oh Hermione, at one point you didn't think magic was real–"
"But you did at one point–"
"Shut it. I had no reason to believe it was real. And after I knew... well, I researched like hell and did everything I could to understand it."
"So, there is a possibility that Luna's creatures could exist," his lips quivered.
"Well, there is a possibility that I am a green alien wearing a human's skin!"
"Hermalien, I'm sure–"
"There is a possibility that everything is a dream. Maybe Gamp's Law is a lie. Maybe, maybe... Oh, it's so daft to think that way. Believing in things without an iota of proof is irrational and a complete waste of time!"

She had got rather unfortunately worked up by that point but there was nothing to be done. Draco was faintly smiling again.

"And if some day, it turns out that the crumply things are real?"
"Then I will gracefully accept–"
(He laughed.)
"Gracefully accept that fact. Like I accepted the existence of magic, the possibility of an afterlife, the conditional merit of divination and," she looked him dead in the eye, "the true merit of magical incantations."

He laughed again with those charming, tiny brackets at the corners of his mouth, and the entire structure of her thoughts collapsed. She capitulated and full-on stared at him like she'd wanted to for so long.

A loud string of pops set off across the pub, and they both jumped and looked around as the horns and antlers disappeared off people's heads. It was midnight.
She barely felt hers when they vanished, but the sigh he let out was fervent and the most erotic thing she had heard in her life.

He ran his fingers through his hair, declaring, "I need another bloody drink," and he stood up and walked off. A few moments went by before she could gather enough fortitude to follow.

Howbeit, she never made it to the bar. A very blotto and merry Theo latched onto her arm with a reproach, ("I never got to see you with your horns, that's not done,") and dragged her away. She ended up standing mutely by his side while he, George, Lee, and whoever engaged in bawdy conversation. Angelina insisted on two rounds of shots. She felt sick to her stomach all the while.

At a quarter to one, Dean decided it was time to treat the party to The Safety Dance. Before she knew what was happening, she was dancing with him and some Spanish witch named Itziar.

Forty minutes later, Hermione firmly announced her departure, paying no heed to Theo's dolorous pleas. She had work the next morning; a serious case of sexual harassment to tend to. She was tired, flurried, aching from the lack of air in her lungs, and just wanted Draco to grin at her one last time before she left.
She shouldered through the crowd, hoping he was still at the bar.

And he was there, with his colleagues Arnold, Irvin, and Fiona. He had on his lofty, heavy-lidded expression that preceded a particularly biting comment. She could practically hear his arctic drawl. Whatever he said made Fiona laugh, and she put her hand on his arm.

Hermione left.

Outside, the rain had stopped. Anthony had a woman pressed up against the wall, and was snogging the living daylights out of her.

---

One of the worst things she had ever done, was stop hating Draco Malfoy. It had been a mistake of epic proportions.

The sickening regret was almost enough to make her curse Theo and his infallible friendship.

It had been so hard to do it – to stop hating him. Their past made it near impossible. Their present made it untenable. He made it unpalatable. She should have given up. She shouldn't have let Theo coerce her into trying.

The process of not hating him had been like scaling a wall with no purchase. It was an obstacle so high and harrowing, she couldn't see the top. All her focus was on scaling the damn thing without causing any casualties.

How was she supposed to have known that there was no even ground on the other side either; that, in fact, there was nowhere to land at all? How the bloody fuck could she have guessed that on the other side, there was only an endless plunge...

A perpetual freefall.

Permanent, amplified vertigo.

She had wondered what life would have been like, had she never seen the mirthful, relaxed, and captivating side of him.

Most likely, she would have been content.