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Hermione staggered into her office, kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto her bed, shaking. She'd run all the way back from the library and now her heart was pounding and a stitch was flaring in her side as she gasped for breath.
She lay back on her pillows, staring up at the ceiling.
What had just happened?
One moment they'd been talking like two perfectly normal people and the next the pair of them were spinning round the library, Draco's strong hand on her waist and his grey eyes gleaming down at her. There'd barely been any music, they'd hardly had room to do more than spin and there'd been ink all over his hands, but for some reason it had felt exactly like the way she'd pictured dancing at a ball when she was a little girl.
She locked her office door with a wave of her wand and set the kettle on to boil.
There hadn't been anything missing there, either. The doubt she'd been carrying like a hole in her stomach had vanished. It hadn't mattered that the rest of her year were away and she had been left behind, and nor had it mattered that the rest of her evening had left her feeling as if she wanted to sprint right out of the Great Hall. For the first time in a very long while, she had felt right. The certainty that had been taken from her had been restored, for a second, but now it was gone again and she was filled with more doubt than ever.
The kettle began to whistle. Hermione sat up in bed, her ballgown rustling, and waved her wand again. A teabag plopped neatly into a waiting mug and the kettle poured boiling water over it of its own accord. She waited a few minutes, then poured the milk into her tea and vanished the teabag, floating it carefully across to her bedside table.
It was scalding hot; just the way she liked it.
She leant back against her pillows.
She was going to have to think about this.
In the end, all she decided on was that it would be best for everyone if she left early and didn't make eye contact. She'd been up half the night, her head swimming with doubts and frightening possibilities, and as the cold, grey light of dawn had begun to seep through her window she was no closer to making sense of the night before.
She packed her trunk with a wave of her wand, left a note for Professor McGonagall and headed for the school gates. The moment she had passed through them she stuck out her hand and the Knight Bus appeared from nowhere. She got on board, dragging her trunk behind her, and after an hour of lurching across the top deck her own street slammed into view.
She climbed down gingerly and dragged her trunk over the cobbled streets. The Scottish snows had not swept quite so far south as to reach her home town and she was eternally grateful. It wasn't that she didn't like snow, but every time it snowed in Wispen, Oxfordshire old Mrs Pennyweather down the road would short circuit the electricity by trying to melt it off her front door with a hairdryer. Hermione never worked out just how Mrs Pennyweather managed to cut the entire village's power using just a hairdryer, but she was fairly certain that it had something to do with the tangled mess of extension cords that the old lady always used.
As it was, there was only a little ice on the cobblestones, and Hermione slid over to her front door with only one major wobble.
She knocked.
Her mother opened the door. She had the briefest glimpse of her mother's greying, frizzy hair before Mrs Granger threw her arms around her daughter and pulled her inside. Within seconds she had been supplied with a steaming mug of tea and seated at the kitchen table, and before her mother had time to ask why she was home so early, Hermione had started to cry.
Christmas was a quiet, strained affair in the Granger household.
They meant well – they always had – but after the revelation that their only daughter had wiped their memories and sent them halfway across the world, Mr and Mrs Granger didn't quite know what to say to Hermione. At first they had been angry – furious, even, and on one memorable July night Hermione had had to go and stay with her Aunt in Oxford for a week – but after a few months apart their anger was finally starting to fade. Hermione had told them everything, even if it did seem a little late for that, and after they'd read some of the Daily Prophet's reports on the former Death Eaters' crimes, they had grudgingly acknowledged the necessity of what she had done.
Still, Hermione had obeyed their wishes and kept her magical activity to a minimum while she was home. She had no owl of her own and received no letters – apart from a brief note from Harry that he'd had the good sense to put in the Muggle post. It wished her a Merry Christmas and invited her to Diagon Alley on the day after New Year's. She'd scribbled back her answer – a hasty yes, please! – and sent it to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.
Apart from that, she hadn't heard from anyone. She'd appreciated it, in a way – it made it easier to clear her head – but as she climbed into bed every night she would close her eyes and wonder, just for a moment, whether Draco Malfoy would send her a letter.
Hermione met Harry at ten o'clock on January 2nd, at the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley. He was looking incredibly pale and had dark circles under his eyes. For a moment she thought he might be ill, but then she suggested he try a cup of Tom's spiced mead to pick him up and a queasy look crept across his face.
"No thanks, Hermione," he muttered, "I think I'll pass."
She grinned at him.
The two of them sauntered down Diagon Alley at a leisurely pace – Hermione had a sneaking suspicion that if they went any faster Harry might throw up – and at length, she discovered the cause of Harry's incredible hangover. The Auror office had thrown a New Year's Eve party, and every year all the new recruits had to make their way through a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey. There was more to the initiations, but Harry had gone very red and said that that was all he could remember.
In the end, she'd managed to persuade him to try a pumpkin-spiced Restorative Draft, sold to them hot by a street vendor with a knowing smile, and they'd sat on the wall outside Madam Malkins' while Harry nursed his headache.
He slurped the smoking orange drink and sighed, loudly. "But how've you been, Hermione? Ginny tells me you've ended up tutoring Malfoy. He's not bothering you, is he?"
Hermione almost fell off the wall.
"No, no, not at all!" she said, laughing, as a blush crept into her cheeks, "I've just been helping him out, really."
"How'd you get roped into that one?"
Hermione picked at a hole in her glove. "Well, he asked me."
Harry raised his eyebrows. "Just like that?"
"Sort of," she mumbled, pulling at a loose thread, "he said he needed my help. He's having a really tough time of it, actually, he's trying to turn over a new leaf but it isn't easy. He keeps getting beaten up and someone's sending him threats in the post."
Harry raised his eyebrows again. "Oh yeah?"
She nodded. "I think it's Charlie Jackson."
"What, that skinny little fifth year?"
"Sixth year, actually, and he's built like a troll. He's pretty attached to me, as well, I think that might be why he's sending the letters. It's pretty cruel, actually. There's some really nasty curses on those letters."
"Well, after everything he –"
Harry broke off, staring across the street. All of the colour drained out of his face. Hermione followed his gaze, and at once, cold flooded her stomach.
Ron Weasley was standing on the opposite side of the road.