They discharged Hermione the following morning, and Harry escorted her downstairs, near begging her to come stay at 12 Grimmauld Place, or else the Burrow, instead of returning to Hog's Head.
Professor McGonagall met her in the lobby and swept her into a careful hug.
"Whatever you need, Ms. Granger, we will accommodate, should you like to return to school."
"Of course, Professor. And I'm alright. Really."
"Can't she move into a dorm?" Harry asked.
McGonagall nodded, "Of course we could –"
But Hermione interrupted. "No, I just want to go back to my room. I want things to go back to normal."
"Oh dear," McGonagall said, clasping her hand. "I'm so sorry this happened. Lorena will be waiting, should you like to see her. And Aberforth and I will extend the runes."
This earned a grateful nod from Harry, as they guided her into the Floo and up to her room. Even the short bit of travel was near exhausting. Hermione collapsed into her chair and locked the door with her wand.
Harry casted protective charms and wards before shuffling awkwardly by the door, "I can stay? Or do you want me to get Ginny? Or Daphne? Or –"
"I just want to be by myself for a bit," she told him, which wasn't true, and they both knew it. But the person who she had wanted to greet her at the hospital doors never returned Harry's owl.
"Not even Lorena?" his voice had an almost shrill component, but he was never any good at pushing her into things. So what if Ginny and Daphne attacked him once he closed the door behind him?
Hermione shook her head.
He sighed, "Fine. But know that everyone wants to see you. They care about you."
"Everyone," she murmured, adding a barely audible scoff because they both knew it wasn't true.
Harry left. She redid his barrage of spells and charms and added a few more for good measure.
She watched the door, the feeling of her exposed back sending a chill up her neck she didn't like. She warmed the air in the room, lit the fire, and backed into a corner to watch.
Nothing happened. It was one of the most safely guarded rooms in the United Kingdom. But still she didn't dare take a Dreamless Draught and float out towards gentle oblivion.
After a half hour of watching the door and jumping at every noise in the hall (which, thanks to one of her security spells, she could tell consisted of a three separate individuals pausing outside her door before they walked away) Hermione ran a bath.
She slipped back into Shell Cottage to re-sort, re–check, and re-cast every cham on her secrets. She ignored the timer she'd set, feeling the bathwater grow cold until she cast a warming charm, and opened the door to the bedroom where she'd locked away her parents.
It was no longer suitable to not deal with her sadness, she told herself, setting her shoulders. A small flicker of worried lightning boomed outside as it began to rain on the Cottage's patched roof. And it wouldn't protect them any bit if they weren't obscured here either.
Because no matter what Lorena had told her all semester, no matter how much time passed after the war, Hermione would always be in danger. Her forearm told the world this, and she wouldn't be protected at Hogwarts forever.
Or perhaps, alone and afraid, without the man she'd come to feel safe around now, she wanted to retreat to a simpler time of skinned knees being her worst pains and midnight tea when she'd had nightmares.
The memories in the room hummed in a soft, enchanting melody that washed over Hermione and silenced the rain outside. She lost herself in memories of pancakes in the morning and learning to ride a bike as she sifted through each one with a gentle touch. She categorized her mother's kindness in photo albums and hung her father's patience on the wall.
She wove a tapestry of their own brilliance, to start a practice together and build it into a bustling business, and their amazement at her magic. It was a rather simple weaving, but she hung it all the same as tears started to trickle down her cheeks. She'd never curl up on the couch for a cup of tea with her mum to catch each other up on the gossip from her months away again. Nor would she take a brisk walk in the winter with her dad until their noses were red as berries.
She folded each memory of them (and they were seemingly endless) into a chest of sweaters and scarves and the hats they would pull down over her curls again and again as they played in the snow. She made the bed with memories of bedtime and tucked the corners just as tightly as her mother used to.
She remembered the throw blanket her grandmother knitted for her as a young girl, and draped it over the foot of the bed. The room was no longer a storage facility. She rather thought her parents would like to stay in it, if it actually existed.
Hermione's fingers were pruned, and she shivered in the cold-again water. Nothing another simple warming charm couldn't shake, as she remade her own bed with tight corners that held her snug as she slipped into the sheets.
She was exhausted, and despite her best efforts to keep the door to Shell Cottage shut, she would have sworn under oath that her mother kissed her goodnight as she fell asleep.
With all her memories tucked and sorted nice and orderly, Hermione rested easy, at least, until the first light of dawn that her body was accustomed to rising at. She wanted to run, but she knew she couldn't, or rather, wouldn't.
Even if she hadn't sworn to Harry that she would be extra careful while the case was under investigation, the thought of the town's alleys that she'd grown so fond of, now sent a chill up her spine.
So instead, Hermione paced her room, ever few minutes stopping to repeat Rosemary's check for new gashes, which opened like phantoms across her back, her side, her arms.
Hermione ran a bath, and kept one eye trained on the clear water, searching for the first signs of pink. Nothing appeared. There was no blood. It was solely in her head. Which comforted herless than the bath had.
As she dried and plaited her hair, nervous fingers fumbling over themselves, to hold her hair away from the periphery of her face, she sighed. All the exuberance of her discharge had vanished and she felt rather unlike a Gryffindor, terrified to step foot outside her warded room.
Her professors and friends were terribly patient with her. McGonagall had made arrangements for her to sit in the back row of each class so that her back was never turned to another wand. Her attack had been kept out of the papers, so most students just smiled and said it was nice to see her again.
Her friends on the other hand, the raucous group of Eighth Years she knew, transformed into a sullen guard that folded around her as she passed through the halls. It was to Harry's credit, she thought, when Ginny and Blaise met her with a smile outside Ancient Runes, and escorted her to Lorena's office. They didn't ask her how she was doing, just made idle small talk along the way.
Hermione tried. She caught the nervous glances out of the corner of her eyes. She felt the whispers still as she approached. Harry had warned her not to shut them all out.
But Harry had gone a step further of course. Not that Hermione knew, but he passed along Lorena and Rosemary's separate warnings that cursed individuals, especially targeted individuals, had a tendency to withdraw from their social circles and grow wary of all their relationships.
Her act of normalcy was a cheap facade, and she suspected that they could tell, but she didn't yet have the words to recognize how vulnerable and exposed she felt at every turn. During the war, they'd had so much to do, there wasn't time to be afraid, even though she still was.
Now, she tried to lock it in a vault in Shell Cottage. A safe. A chest. She tried to bury it in the backyard. But again and again the fear radiated out until it consumed her, gripping at her shoulders and her jaw until she was back in Shell Cottage battling it back again.
"Care to drop your walls?" asked Lorena, softly.
Hermione pinched a smile at her, but her eyes were vacant beneath the haze. "I'm not sure what you mean." Because Draco was right, it was certainly possible to get through the motions of a normal life, even if you were hardly there.
Lorena's eyebrows raised, like they always did when Hermione lied to her. "We haven't spoken since the attack."
Hermione's eye twitched, but she did not flinch. Somewhere deep inside her, her heart pounded. Her eyes flicked around, towards the door, towards Lorena's wand on the table, the window. She gripped her own wand in her lap.
She shook her head. She just couldn't talk about it. Not yet.
Lorena understood immediately. "Of course. I won't push the issue. I just feel like I rather owe you an apology. I've been rather insistent on your recovery and moving past the war, I never considered the threats against you to be so imminent."
Fireworks across the sky in her mind. The threat was always there. The threat was everywhere.
Hermione's plastic smile faltered. "We didn't know," she said simply. "Now we do."
Lorena sighed, "Perhaps it's best we keep it light today. But I encourage you to remember your friends, your professors, and I are all here for you if you need anything."
Hermione nodded, statuesque in her posture. "Well, I have been rather curious about cursebreaking after this whole ordeal."
Lorena picked up her notepad and listened as Hermione described her objective experience in the hospital as they tried to break the multiplying slicing hex that was placed upon her. It was an ambitious academic project, to try to work out a counter curse, but as she discussed her observations, the light returned ever so slightly to her eyes.
Lorena listened to every detail, nodding and asking questions. By the time their hour was up, Hermione had a research plan copied into her own notebook.
There was no flicker of disappointment when the bench outside the office was empty. Just surprise, to see Blaise sitting there, instead of him. Lorena didn't meet her eye and Hermione realize she couldn't ask the witch where he was, or if he kept his weekly sessions.
"Where to, mademoiselle?" asked Blaise, gallantly offering his arm to her.
"The library!"
Blaise grinned at her and she knew he had a million jokes about her health and her proximity to a library, but he held them all back as she took his arm.
"Don't you have a class?"
Blaise carried no books, no bags, not even his cloak. He shrugged, "I'll go back."
She dropped his arm. "Don't be ridiculous. I can walk a hall on my own."
At this, Blaise frowned. "Hermione," he started, and from his tone, Hermione regretted saying anything. She didn't want a lecture about how worried he was or how he just wanted to help. She was a bloody war hero after all, wasn't she? And the thing that had distracted her enough to keep her guard down, was rather well managed now.
So, she wasn't exactly proud of it, but the second he let her name out, she snapped. "What Blaise? Do you really think there are Devourers prowling the halls waiting for me? Do you think I can't manage ten feet on my own? I don't need you."
She might as well have slapped him, from his reaction. A scoff of disbelief and a sneer that she hoped was a defense mechanism. "Suit yourself then," he said, turning on his heel.
It was the right thing, she thought, watching him go. She wouldn't be a damsel in distress, and she certainly didn't need a guard on her at every move.
But the library was crowded. She tensed in the stacks and retreated to quiet corners that didn't have the books she was looking for. She was the one who thought Devourers were prowling the halls waiting. She couldn't manage ten feet on her own.
Dennis found her in the library, sitting rigid with her wand drawn against a far stack.
"C'mon," he said, holding out a hand. "Let's get you back."
He called over to Ginny, who had been searching nearby for her, and together they escorted her all the way back to her room in Hog's Head. Hermione felt like an idiot, but still she couldn't answer Ginny's pleading, "What happened?"
She simply shook her head and locked the door behind her. She heard them whispering outside, as she cast her protective enchantments. She paused before casting the Silencing Charm, the incantation on her lips, before remembering her promise.
What if there was actual danger and they couldn't hear her? she reasoned, trying to push his eyes out of her head.
Only then did she allow herself to cry.
Because yes, she was bloody terrified to be out and about. If the Death Eaters had recruited children, there was no guarantee the Devourers wouldn't stoop to the same level. She couldn't leave her room without the prickle of someone watching her creeping up her spine. Yet inside her room she was anxious, pummelling herself for not sucking it up to go join her friends downstairs.
It would be warm downstairs by the fireplace, she told herself. But she couldn't stomach the flickering shadows in the corner of her eye.
And then there was the matter of Draco. That he wouldn't be downstairs, waiting for her. That he wasn't sat outside her door, keeping guard. He was gone. A wisp of smoke that had faded from view, but lingered in the air, drenching her senses in how nice it had felt to be with him.
His absence was an abyss of loneliness. And she couldn't comprehend why he'd avoid her. Obviously he wasn't a Death Devourer. She would have been targeted with or without their date. And even if their association was a problem, it was her who'd grabbed his hand in the papers. She volunteered to testify.
So she cried. Then forced herself to sleep. Then paced her room in the mornings, before pulling a carefully constructed haze over her mind whenever she had to step outside.
She survived a week. Barely. She was exhausted and over-energized all at once, as she dressed in her warmest running gear and laced up her sneakers, ready to go. She needed to bite the bullet, to get back out there. She couldn't live the rest of her life constantly afraid of stepping outside.
But the door grew ten times in size as she approached, as her ears began to ring, and she felt the suspicious warmth of cutting across her back.
There was no blood. There was never any blood anymore. But she sank back on her bed all the same.
Hermione lay there, furious at herself for being so afraid, as her sweat began to pool in the too-warm clothing.
She sighed.
And then, a sharp knock sounded against the door. Hermione gripped her wand tighter – how long had she been holding it? – as the knock came again.
"Hermione dear," called a voice on the other side. It was sharp, concerned, motherly. "It's Naricssa. Mind letting me in?"
Hermione very much did mind letting Narcissa in. She debated pretending she was gone, or sleeping, or else in the bath.
"Darling, I heard you pacing from downstairs."
Dammit. Hermione looked at her clothes. She was certainly not dressed to entertain Narcissa. She had no tea, and she was pretty sure the stale air in her room was repulsive.
"Unfortunately, Blaise guarantees me you're in here. I need you to open the door now."
There was a warning behind the sing-song calling. Hermione would kill Blaise. What did he even know? Wasn't he still cross with her?
Hermione felt cornered, likely because she was trapped in her own room, even if she'd done it to herself. She had no choice, so she cracked the door open just wide enough to peer through.
"I wasn't expecting you," she said, shielding the entrance with her body.
Narcissa was dressed far more casually than Hermione had ever seen her. A sleek black robe and pants that looked soft to the touch. She levitated a tray of tea and toast next to her, and Hermione's stomach grumbled on sight. "I know, it's horribly rude of me to insist on inviting myself in. But I imagine there are wards that I couldn't dream of breaking protecting this door."
Hermione grimaced and stepped back, waving her wand to allow Narcissa in. She made a mental note to definitely kill Blaise later, as she waved her wand behind her back to tidy the clothes and books strewn about the room.
Narcissa stepped inside and sniffed once, answering the question she hadn't asked, with a flick of her wand towards the window. Fresh air swirled in, making both witches shiver until Narcissa flicked her wand again to heat it with a smile.
"You wouldn't believe the amount of housekeeping spells I have memorized," Narcissa explained, taking a seat at the table as the tea began to pour itself. "But the Manor is needier than Lucius and Draco combined."
Hermione folded herself into the chair opposite Narcissa as she passed over a cup of tea. She should have realized from the jump, that there was no stopping Narcissa Malfoy.
"Thanks," she said softly.
Narcissa glanced over her outfit. "Did you run today? I heard that was a particular habit of yours."
Hermione shook her head. She should have changed. "I thought about it but…no. I didn't."
Narcissa eyed her. "Of course. I'd imagine you wouldn't want to be in the village anymore… well, if you're ever interested, you could always come run the Manor grounds. They're far more expansive than the house and though they're unkept in areas, they're very well protected."
Hermione sipped her tea. That actually sounded…really nice. And if it was only ever Narcissa on the premises, unless Draco was there, or they had guests, of course she wouldn't ever have to step foot in the house…before she knew it, she found herself nodding. "Thank you. I might, if that's alright."
"Of course! Hermione, I know what it's like to feel unsafe in your own home. It's horrible."
Her eyes hinted at a sliver of steel that threatened to close over them. Right, Narcissa had played host to Voldemort as he executed and tortured people in her house. Hermione shuttered, but Narcissa simply buttered a piece of toast and passed it to her.
"Thank you," she said, accepting it and beginning to nibble. "And thank you, for the hospital. Harry told me you helped get him access."
Narcissa flipped her hair over her shoulder and huffed. "It's an archaic rule, and Harry's practically your family. Molly was beside herself and for good measure. As if a Weasley would ever hurt you!'
Hermione chuckled lightly, it was strange to see Narcissa so upset on her behalf.
"On the other hand, I understand why they didn't let me or Draco see you given all the news. But that's not why I'm here today. I was hoping we could brainstorm two of our issues."
"Our issues?"
Narcissa nodded. "Yes, well, I stopped in two nights ago to take my rather reclusive son to dinner, and I found a small, concerned council convened in the bar downstairs."
Hermione chewed her toast.
"Your friends tell me they haven't seen you as yourself and you've been unresponsive in their attempts to reach out. They want to help you, but they don't know how."
Hermione blushed scarlet, but what was there to say except she was terrified.
"I was concerned, upon hearing this, it was a matter of your Occlumency. Blaise mentioned there was an attack on your mind as well as your body?"
Hermione nodded.
"But seeing you here now, you seem perfectly in your mind, albeit a little more reserved. I take it Ms. Weasley's plan to – how'd she put it? – shake you until you loosen the grip on yourself, might not be necessary."
"You spoke with Ginny?"
"And her brother. And all the usual suspects downstairs, including my son."
"Ron was here?" Hermione asked, ignoring the shift in her tone when she mentioned Draco. Surely there was nothing Narcissa did not know about Draco's actions, the date, and the deafening silence ever since.
"Yes dear, they're all terribly concerned about you. But seeing you here now, do you think you'd be up for dinner with everyone this evening? Something relaxed in a safe environment you're already acquainted with?"
That sounded…lovely, Hermione thought as she found herself once more in the incredulous position of trusting Narcissa completely. A tear pricked to her eye and she rubbed it away as she nodded in agreement.
"Would the Manor be alright?" Narcissa asked. "I can have elves cook your favorite foods. Strict instructions of relaxed conversation."
Hermione nodded.
"Consider it done. You should come for a run today, as you're already dressed. You can of course, bring anything you like, and perhaps spend the afternoon before dinner in our library? It's a lovely collection, even if it's a bit unorganized."
Hermione's interest sparked, something like hope or appreciation catching flame inside her chest. She nodded, "I think I'd like that a lot."
Narcissa smiled at her, and though Hermione had the sense that she'd been manipulated, she didn't actually have it in her to be bothered with the older witch at the moment. "The second issue we have to discuss however," said Narcissa, pausing to sip her tea as Hermione hung in suspense, "is my son."
Hermione wanted to pull the fog back down over her brain and lose herself within it completely. The very last person she wanted to discuss Draco with was his mother.
"As I understand it, he's been squandering away his chance to be there for you in a time of need?"
Hermione felt a blush rising in her cheeks as Narcissa continued. There was no backing out of this conversation now.
"Nevermind the fact you two are friends. But he hasn't had the decency to call on you like any concerned suitor should?"
Something about the way Narcissa said the word, suitor, as if it was a sure thing that Draco was trying to…court her. She willed her mind to come up with something, anything that would move Narcissa's stare from combing over her face. She might as well just read her mind, Hermione thought.
"Last night, Daphne mentioned that he took you on a date," she went on, her voice turning a tone of shrill Hermione hadn't heard before. She sounded genuinely annoyed. Had she really only found out last night? "And my son turned a shade of red I don't think I've seen before. As did Mr. Weasley, by the way, though his was surely anger."
Hermione wanted to melt into the floorboards. Why on earth did Narcissa insist on torturing her like this?
"He wasn't mad, well, not at you anyhow. I think it was the fact my son hadn't called on you since that had him in a right fit. Mind you, the others were furious as well." She laughed softly. "Blaise gave him a finer talking to than I ever would have."
"Excuse me," Hermione said, finally finding her voice again. "I'm just not sure I'm following."
Narcissa nodded. "Of course. I've taken the long way around to my point, but the Manor is yours tonight. I'd like you to invite whomever you see fit. If the Weasleys come, I'd be honored. And if you don't want to invite my son, I certainly wouldn't blame you."
Hermione pressed her lips together to avoid her jaw swinging wide open. Surely she was dreaming, or Narcissa was joking, as the thought of her hosting a dinner party in the manor without Draco present was laughable. Wasn't it?
But Narcissa wasn't laughing, and any inkling that the older witch had already invited everyone already faltered ever so slightly. She seemed sincere, and for the first time Hermione noticed small crinkles of concern pinched around her eyes.
"I don't understand why he hasn't come," Hermione admitted softly, lowering her head back to her teacup. "I'd like to see him, but if he didn't show…"
She couldn't bear to think about it.
Narcissa clicked her tongue. "You'd be disappointed, naturally. You've put your feelings out on the line and he's left them out in the rain." She let out an exasperated sigh. "As much as I disagree, and disapprove, of my son's idiocy, you ought to know he's convinced himself that this whole ordeal was his fault anyway. He's determined to keep his distance to protect you and fails to see reason that he can't make this decision unilaterally."
Hermione chewed her cheek. Draco was certainly noble enough to think such a stupid plan was a good one.
"It's not fair," she whispered into the air between them, clutching at her wrist.
"It was just one date, I know, surely –"
"No, I mean –" she paused, because Narcissa was right. It had been just one date. It was too soon to know what was happening between them. It could all very well not be worth all this hassle. Certainly not all this heartbreak. But that wasn't it, that wasn't the real problem. Hermione sighed, "There's nothing I can do about my blood status. It will always put me in danger whether I associate with Draco or Ron or just as well no one! I'll always have a target on my back."
Narcissa was quiet for a moment, but when Hermione met her eye, she was aflame in anger. "It's idiotic to think it matters, now more than ever. I know it's not fair for me to say, in my position, but I do think my son is being ridiculous."
"Is he really so adamant about it?" asked Hermione, nearly stumbling over her words. She felt pathetic, confiding in his mother how crazy she was about him and how much it hurt that he was trying to ignore the small kindling between them.
"I believe he can be swayed, however, my son has an Occlumency practice that's protected him in times perhaps even harder than this. He's learned to bear torture, even when it's self inflicted."
Her words were pointed, as Hermione's brain grew fuzzy. Torture she'd called it, knowing the weight the word carried in this room. As if it were torturing Draco to keep himself away from her.
"It so happens," Narcissa said, straightening her robe and setting down her teacup. "That I was able to visit Lucius yesterday, which we both have you to thank for, as he would have been in a higher security if not for your testimony."
Speaking of torture, thought Hermione, as she waded back to the conversation.
"And I spoke to him about the circumstances that we find ourselves in now. You see, he's always had a lighter approach to such delicate issues."
Hermione found a small smile growing on her face, thinking of Lucius being the more subtle of the two. Narcissa noticed.
"I know, he's acted so obscenely the past few years, but honestly Hermione, the man I fell in love with was a different creature. He has a wicked way with words and we used to have a little joke between us that I'd like to let you in on."
"What's that?" Hermione asked, feeling herself drawing closer and closer to whatever web they'd carefully crafted. Maybe she should run for the hills, she thought, but the concern and the craftiness in Narcissa's eye kept her rooted in place.
"All of life's problems can be fixed in a dinner party," Narcissa said, as her face broke into a wide grin. Hermione's head spun, as she imagined the regal couple squabbling over when and how to host tea, amidst planning the execution of her best friend. She simultaneously felt the net fall over her shoulders as she realized she'd walked directly into the trap she'd suspected all along. Everything I do, I do for my family rang in her ears as she realized there was no way around it.
"Of course then," Hermione said, with a quick smile. "Of course we'll invite Draco."
She tried to ignore the way her heart fluttered at the thought of seeing him again mixed with the confusion - or perhaps it was astonishment - that she was conspiring with Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy regarding her relationship with their son.
"Excellent," beamed Narcissa, flicking her wand and vanishing the tea. "I'll take care of everything else. Meet me downstairs once you're packed."
She swept out of the room before Hermione could remember she'd accepted not just one, but two invitations to the Malfoy Manor today.
Hermione flitted around the room, grateful now she was in her athletic wear as she threw her toiletries into a bag along with a long scroll of parchment and her favorite quill. She'd never been inside a pureblood family's private library before and the thought of the untold knowledge sparked her excitement.
She picked her softest sweats for the afternoon and a casual dress for the evening, while hoping the Manor wasn't too dreadfully cold. All of her sweaters needed a wash, and she wouldn't dream of being unkempt at dinner with Narcissa.
The elder witch was waiting for her downstairs, chatting idly with Aberforth in an otherwise empty dining room. "Shall we?" she asked, extending an arm and leading Hermione to the Floo.
With a handful of powder and a flash of green flame, Narcissa called out, "Malfoy Manor!" and they stepped through.
The Manor grounds were endless, Hermione thought, breathlessly, as she reached the top of yet another hill in the countryside behind the estate, just like the Manor itself.
Upon their arrival, Narcissa led her through a brief tour of the east wing, which contained a small sitting room with the finest silks on each cushion, two properly made up guest rooms (each with an en suite bathroom), and two massive oak doors that led to the private library.
With a wink, Narcissa had turned Hermione's shoulders away from the double doors, "We'll save that surprise for later. Wouldn't want you to get carried away," and pushed her into one of the bedrooms to deposit her bag and her clothing.
She resisted the impulse to sneak back to the library and let herself out onto the grounds with Narcissa's casual wave of her hand that she would "see the property line" if she managed to reach it, which Hermione decided was not, in fact, condescending, but an actual instruction.
So, she'd taken off in the vague direction of some hills at a great distance. Hermione adjusted rather quickly to running with grass underfoot rather than the bumpy pavement of Hogsmeade, and felt like she was gliding on air, despite the strain in her legs. She passed Narcissa's garden and what she assumed to be Draco's Quidditch pitch, before the grounds expanded into vast fields of green grass and wildflowers.
The fields were the opposite of the careful cultivation of the manor and the gardens. They were wild and unruled, yet vibrated with the same thrum of protection spells that Hermione sensed in her room in Hogsmeade. She hadn't a clue if the Manor always hummed at this frequency, or if Narcissa had bolstered the protections on their arrival.
Either way, Hermione surmised that the most dangerous thing to her here was a rolled ankle, when she was taking in the views instead of watching where her foot landed, within the small trails that wound through the fields.
She wondered if there were animals on the grounds, or else what had made the trails, and made a note to ask Narcissa later. For now, she relished in twisting through the fields. It didn't feel like she hadn't run in ages, though she'd spent most of the past month in a hospital bed. Surely she'd lost muscle, but the burning of her lungs and her thighs was welcomed, as she teetered on feeling careless and free.
The last time she'd afforded herself this luxury, she'd been struck down. Now, it was almost funny to her, that the place she felt safest was Malfoy Manor. A year ago, she'd never have believed it. Perhaps not even a few months ago. But now, as the distant hills loomed ever so slightly closer, Hermione was sure that she was safe here.
She did find the thought rather funny, as she slowed to a stop to giggle and get a grasp on the distance she'd covered. Her watch told her that nearly an hour had passed, and Hermione blinked a few times before she saw the Manor as a speck in the distance.
Small wisps of smoke trailed upwards from the house. Someone had lit a fire, she thought with a smile, recalling the warmth of the fireplace in Hog's Head. Away from the thoughts of danger, or needing to look over her shoulder, Hermione let her emotions wash over Shell Cottage.
It was a very peculiar sensation, she noticed, that while every memory was exactly where it was meant to be, all her emotions had rather jostled themselves loose. She blamed it on the exertion, the rollercoaster of the hills, and the breathtaking beauty of the countryside. Or perhaps it was running that stole her breath, so that each inhale tasted sweeter, crisper, as the wind cooled the sweat on the back of her neck.
Everything looked vibrant and sharp. It was, of course, a runner's high, but she felt more alive than she had in weeks.
Excitement flurried through the windows. She wanted to chat with her friends and hear what heaps of gossip she'd missed out on in the last month. She wanted to pester Blaise about Daphne, and Daphne about Dennis. And she wanted to know why on earth Ron was at a duelling club in the first place? (Even though she was secretly glad that it had protected him.)
She took a deep breath in, and this time when she looked at the smoke, she thought of the ember of Draco's cigarettes, wafting off into nothingness.
Hermione, feeling all of a sudden the raggedness of her breath and exhaustion pulling at her legs, brought her hands behind her head and sucked in air as slow and deliberately as she could. It was crisp and it was cold.
The ocean roared outside of Shell Cottage. It demanded answers. Satisfaction. It wanted to pummel a certain blonde haired man for leaving her feeling so very alone. Her jealous poltergeist poked its head down from the attic and she wondered if he'd found someone else he was more interested in, as a spider of doubt crept along the walls, telling her that he didn't want her anymore, that she wasn't worth it to him.
Hermione took another deep breath, and with it finally understood the saying in one of her meditations, of what it meant to let go of what no longer serves you. Because she knew the truth that ran through the walls of Shell Cottage like electricity. The truth she obscured in the walls and hid in the storm cellar, that somehow, along the way, became a very part of the foundation.
She loved him. And she rather thought he loved her too.
She just needed to remind him of it.
Hermione finished stretching and started up again, this time running towards the Manor, instead of away. Her legs cried out in protest, but her pain was snapped off by her brain, set in its newfound resolve as she settled into the rhythm of her footfall and her racing heart.
It would be several hours until she saw him, but she'd waited this long. What was another afternoon? Especially when this time, she wouldn't let him, or herself, slip away. She was so sure of it, she allowed the thought to take root and the sapling of a tree sprung forth in the middle of the living room. She'd have to move it, she thought immediately, nearly laughing at the mental image.
But then again, she had no intention of hiding how much she loved him anymore. She'd scream it from the roof of Hog's Head or take an ad out in The Daily Prophet if he'd let her.
Maybe even if he didn't. Maybe if he still didn't meet her eyes, or worse, if he refused his brilliant mother's invitation to dinner.
She loved him. With every beat of her heart she loved him. So she focused on the ground ahead, so that she didn't chance a rolled ankle, and she as fast as her screaming legs would let her, she ran back to him.
A/N: In honor of the marathon in my city today, an extra special running scene for anyone and everyone out there who has felt the technicolor of the world against a racing heart! (Also I know technicallllllyyyy she's not really running back to him at the end of the chapter but she's running back to his house and I really feel like that's close enough.)
Anyway! I think we are just about two chapters from the end my friends, my lovely followers, my brilliant reviewers. Thank you SO much for all the kind words and kudos and encouragement.
We have some fun to be had yet! A fun dinner party next week, a boat load of suppressed feelings to unleash, and, of course, memories to dive back into.
Stay tuned and thank you for reading! xx