hi friends and enemies! this is my first! ever! piece, so please be gentle at the writing, ideas, and spark.
****please note content warnings for language, suicide ideation, and assault*****
special thanks to my beta reader, Lise, for her devilish eye for grammatical errors and gushy moments. much love to my harry potter (and the shut-up-about-harry-potter) friends for the unconditional support of this dream project. and, all the kisses to the astonishing number of authors that published incredible dramione works before me.
disclaimer: don't own anything. but jk rowling also sucks so maybe she shouldn't own this beautiful world either (just a thought). this is post-Hogwarts and ignores the epilogue, just so you know.
Chapter 1
Hermione felt uncharacteristically nervous.
Last night Ron had, with overt seriousness, asked her out for tea. Yes, the Golden Trio's lives were packed with decidedly unglamorous things – Ministry work, Quidditch games, Daily Prophet interviews – but Harry, Ron and Hermione were always talking. They never missed Sunday brunches at the Burrow, or Ginny's matches, or a butterbeer when their schedules lined up. When was the last time Harry or Ron sent her an owl to meet one-on-one to talk?
Of course, Hermione's brain had sorted through the infinite possibilities already. There could only be one reason why Ronald Bilius Weasley would be so overtly stiff.
Inside the quaint café, a familiar tuff of red hair bobbled midst the blondes and browns. Hermione's pace quickened and she bounded through the door.
"Ronald Weasley! Congratulations!"
"Shh!" The redhead scanned their surroundings nervously, but couldn't disguise his beaming grin. "Blimey, how did you know?"
"How wouldn't I know?" Hermione scream-whispered, and locked her friend in a tight bear hug. "I'm so, so happy for you."
"Katie and I wanted to avoid prying eyes," Ron lowered his voice, and Hermione nodded, understanding. To her, Ron would always be the awkward teenager she grew up with—but to the world, Ronald Weasley was a celebrity: a central player in Voldemort's downfall, a dazzling, world-renown Auror, and recently, a part-time coach for the Chudley Cannons (although he insisted he was hired only because of his stardom). Privacy eluded them like Boggarts. Their most intimate moments exposed, threadbare, for the world to judge.
Hermione could only sympathize with Ron's desire to maintain at least some control over his private life. Once, she had a small fling with Cho – just one teeny, tiny date at a Muggle pub of all things – and the papers were outing her mercilessly for weeks. Luckily the two of them had remained friends, but she had learned her lesson.
"And…"
He was fidgety, his eyes swiping side to side; it was what he always did when he was about to ask for a favor. Hermione sniffled a laugh, knowing that this was not the moment to interrupt.
"You're one of the most important women in my life…" he trailed off, and Hermione bit her lip to maintain a straight face. Ron shot her a grateful smile, took a deep breath, and sputtered in a single breath, "so-if-you-had-the-time-you-know-let-someone-else-save-the-international-wizarding-world-would-you-be-willing-to-be-my-groom's-maid?"
Hermione's vision blurred with, oh god, were those tears? This was a moment she had dreamt about on good nights: her friends hitch a fancy carriage called Happily Ever After. She loved Ron, and she loved Katie. Their story had started at the Battle of Hogwarts, what seemed like eons ago. In a brutal duel against Nott Senior, Katie Bell, wandless, had used her body to shield Ron from an ugly curse. Ron responded by smashing the Death Eater in the face with his fist. Later, they shared a hospital room at St. Mungo's – Ron refusing to leave his savior's side – and then an office where they were both Aurors serving domestic assignments. Katie always joked that he was her Quidditch crush from Hogwarts.
All that adrenaline was just a sowing ground for sexual tension. Hermione wasn't even slightly surprised when she first saw the two steal glances at each other. Still, it had been hard to coax her friend to feel deserving of love again. Lots of late nights with Harry and Ginny where the three of them just sat and existed next to Ron, until he felt ready to talk about and accept his budding feelings.
This is what they won the war for. This feeling of happiness. Of new beginnings. Of love.
"Yes, I would be honored, Ron."
His eyes twinkling with tears, Ron cupped Hermione's hands and thanked her, over and over again. The pair stayed like that, silently weeping with joy, for Merlin knows how long. Content, safe, immersed in the precious glow called love.
"Wait – how did it go? Did you end up proposing at Hogwarts? What did she say? When did you-"
"One question at a time," her dear friend chuckled, and began to narrate his story.
.
Hermione collapsed on the sofa, feeling as lethargic as a creaky, aging troll. After the charming conversation with Ron, she could only Apparate back to her flat, wiggle out of her trousers, and summon some tea before falling into a heap. It wasn't Ron. Hermione loved and would always love being a part of his life. Lately though, even hanging around those she loved drained her energy levels like a Dementor sucking her soul.
After the war, Hermione had caved inwards. She had thought that once the dust had settled, she would dive into the projects she had fantasized about at Hogwarts: eradicating pro pure-blood legislation, abolishing the inhumane incarceration systems and relics of speciesism.
But, she was no longer the fifteen-year-old Hermione Granger. The fiery passion from her teenage years dimmed. The goals she once aspired to achieve transformed into burdensome expectations. "The brightest witch of her age," papers and peers and strangers clamored. The brilliant brain of the Golden Trio. The future Minister for Magic.
She was, objectively speaking, successful. Assistant Head to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, working directly under the Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt himself. Overseeing legislative reform for two major projects, including redistribution of wealth collected from notable Voldemort families (such as the Malfoys, the Rookwood's, and the Macnair's) and the introduction of mandatory multi-species training for Healers and Aurors across Britain. Outside of the Ministry, Hermione gave the occasional lecture at Hogwarts, and worked with Professor McGonagall to research accessibility magic – formulating new spells to make magic attainable to magic folk of all abilities and all blood-lines. Just last month, they'd finalized a transfiguration spell for dyslexic-friendly coursebooks; the month before, they'd worked with Muggle-born witches and wizards to compile an open source magic database online, triggered by a customized Revelio spell from any and all electronic devices. The Ministry eagerly forecasted their research's ramifications on the magical world at large, and chirped loudly for a book release.
Yet, nothing felt enough. She took Floo calls around-the-clock, read new research by domestic (and international) wizards into the night, and dissected obscure spells and potions "just in case." Nothing had changed since she battled imposter syndrome at Hogwarts except her responsibilities. She shouldered more expectations, oversaw more lives.
Hermione knew this lifestyle was not sustainable. But she felt so carried by inertia that if she stopped, for even a small break, all the cracks and fissures would topple. She would collapse.
Her stomach rumbled. She waved her wand absentmindedly and some oats bubbled into a pot.
Perhaps learning about Ron's soon-to-be wedding uncovered something deeper. Something darker, more obscure. Because everyone was moving on except her. Ron settling down with Katie, Harry and Ginny starting a family –little miniature humans running around without a clue of the world – and
Hermione felt a dangerous hitch of her breath. Her breathing sped up dangerously. Soon, she was gasping, air leaving her windpipe in small painful chokes. Her numbing hands trembling, teeth chattering, chills running down her spine – until she stood, paralyzed and lost, like an abandoned dog in the rain.
A panic attack.
Hermione instantly curled up into a ball. You are strong. You are strong. She chanted the mantra as bravely as she could muster. Slowly, she wiggled her toes and felt the firm ground beneath her. She let her surroundings bleed into her ears, her nose, her eyes. The sounds of the busy London street, the smell of her candles and porridge on the stove, her hands clasped in front of her. After what seemed like hours, Hermione felt her heartbeat slow to a steady, pulsing calm.
With a weak wave of her wand, she accio-ed some Calming Draught from her medicine cabinet and gulped it down for good measure. She was getting dependent on the potion, but Hermione was too tired to think about the risks tonight.
With a hefty sigh, Hermione flopped down onto the floor. Drained, exhausted, head-empty.
A waft of tangy smoke alerted her of the porridge on the stove. Another weak wave of her wand, and Hermione began nibbling her dinner slowly. She had to fuel her body for tomorrow. Tomorrow.
.
The next morning, as Hermione was making herself a cuppa, a little brown owl popped into her flat window with the daily paper. With the recent giant revolts in the west, she expected heightened fear mongering and exaggerated conflict coverage. Instead, an egregious headline was plastered above the fold.
Hermione Granger and Ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy Caught at a MUGGLE PSYCHIC! Has Malfoy Infected Granger with DARK MAGIC?
She choked on her tea. Psychic? Dark Magic? Draco Malfoy? What foreign, otherworldly universe had smashed together those words into one headline?
Her eyes scoured through the column. According to the Daily Prophet, Malfoy had cursed her into frequenting a "Muggle psychic" – who was actually a Dark Magic wizard in disguise – to topple the wizarding world by manipulating Hermione's political decisions.
Essentially, Hermione was Malfoy's proxy puppet. The not-so-subtle criticism of her recent political moves did not escape her.
There was some truth to the headline. Hermione was seeing a "Muggle psychic" and had been for some time: Dr. Persephone "Penny" Sylvester, a renowned psychoanalyst best known for her research in post-traumatic stress disorders. Penny was indeed a Muggle, but "psychic" she was not. And, why correlate Muggle medicine with "Dark Magic?" Just because the wizarding world did not understand a lick of Muggle psychology did not justify degrading it to the abhorrent magic from that side. How could anyone casually mention Dark Magic, as if thousands had not been destroyed by it just years before?
Hermione fumed, and blamed resurgent anti-Muggle consciousness. The Daily Prophet must've received secret sponsorships from a group of filthy rich bigots – the Sacred Twenty-Eight. No longer actively supporting Voldemort, or the drastic ideals he evangelized during the war, the self-proclaimed "pro-blood activists" simply attacked the reforms brought by Hermione and other members of the Order of the Phoenix. Strategy by fear, Hermione muttered.
And then, there was Draco Malfoy. Could it be true? Hermione was in utter disbelief that the prideful Slytherin would voluntarily visit a Muggle doctor for Muggle treatment. Of everyone in the green and silver house, Malfoy was her least favorite (to put it mildly). She just couldn't imagine the pompous, privileged prick doing anything for anyone other than himself. It had been much easier to welcome Blaise and Theo, both respected wizards in the Investigation Department under Harry, into her life. Perhaps her prejudice against pureblood wizards, despite their alliance to their side, stemmed deeper than she had realized. She shelved that thought for later.
Hermione ferociously scanned the column for the author. Pansy Parkinson. That sniveling, pug-faced snake –
The clock hanging on the wall tittered, and Hermione hurried out the door. She didn't have time for this. Kingsley was waiting to discuss important strategies against the pro-blood activists and giant conflicts.
.
Draco Malfoy read the column four times.
He was mildly impressed that the Daily Prophet had managed to uncover his trips to Dr. Sylvester. It wasn't like he broadcasted his experiments with non-magic medicine or told anyone except those he trusted with his life. The Daily Prophet must have charmed a tail on him. Or (illegally) slipped Veritaserum into a unsuspecting Muggle's coffee. He should just get Blaise to sue the paper this time.
On the other hand, Draco was pissed. He had spent the last few years painstakingly rebuilding his reputation from scratch. At Potter's insistence, Draco was pardoned from the war trials after the Second Wizarding War; however, even the Chosen One couldn't control the press. Draco had heard rumors of Granger trapping that abominable Rita Skeeter in a glass jar, but the gossip columns were relentless and resilient like pests. With or without that infamous liar, disinformation seeped into papers at alarming rates. Draco wondered when (if ever) his name would be free from the "Dark Side." "Ex-Death Eater." "Infected." What was he, a disease?
He would usually rather be found dead than in the Ministry. Unfortunately, Bill had sent him to run an errand – to collect classified investigation documents from the Auror office – and he had reluctantly complied.
There was very little Draco wouldn't do for the elder Weasley. The man had sheltered Draco immediately after of the war, when his mother passed and his family name was shattered. Bill had fiercely and selflessly defended him, even when his own family voiced their hesitations. It was also Bill who had given Draco a job, trusting Draco to work alongside him at Gringotts. It was Bill who had convinced him to return to Hogwarts that eighth year. Bill had quite literally rescued him and given him a future to live for.
However, as soon as Draco had stepped into the Atrium, obnoxiously loud whispers had flooded his ears. Gossip was normal, Draco knew, and had heightened since Granger's anti-pureblood legislation. She had begun canvassing properties and assets of every known sympathizer of the Dark Lord, and Draco knew Malfoy Manor was on the top of her list. He was used to being treated as a tainted splotch. But the looks today were crueler and, fuck, was that pity?
Draco had escaped – no, strategically retreated – into Blaise's empty office. Out of sight, out of mind, he thought, praying those vile looks would disappear when he did. Except, his eyes caught the paper on Blaise's desk.
That headline. That familiar and damning label. Ex-Death Eater. Death Eater. Death Eater. Death Eater.
"Disgusting," Draco's growled, strangling the paper in his fist. Death Eater. Death Eater. Death Eater. The haunt echoed in his head like a dark incantation. At the same time, the door to the office flew open.
"Damn, you've seen it already," Blaise muttered, bending over his knees to catch his breath.
"This is entirely your fault," Draco muttered, shifting his glare upwards at his best mate, and Blaise sighed. The latter closed the door gently and absentmindedly waved a quick Muffliato charm. "If you hadn't been so nosy and insisted on a bloody Unbreakable Vow –"
"Yeah, sorry for caring about your well-being mate," Blaise shot back. "For the record, I don't regret it at all—"
"Yeah well, you're not the one getting plastered all over the Prophet, are you?"
"Cheers. At least you look better than Hermione."
Draco paused. "Granger?"
"How many other Hermione's do you know?"
"Never mind," Draco muttered. "Just surprised by the sudden use of the first name."
"I've only worked alongside the woman for, oh, I don't know how many years now," Blaise rolled his eyes. "You didn't expect me to continue calling her 'Granger' did you?"
Draco grumbled something unintelligible, and Blaise laughed.
"What is so bloody funny?"
"You and Granger. I feel an odd déjà vu from our last year at Hogwarts," Blaise grinned.
"Is this you reminiscing?"
"Eighth Year wasn't all butterflies and rainbows," Blaise admitted, "But yes, your rivalry provided some decent entertainment." Blaise smirked.
"Rivalry is a civil way to put it," Draco muttered. "More like a battle of bloodshed with a stubborn centaur."
Blaise scoffed. "You refused to talk for a week after the N.E.W.T. results came out—"
"My Felix Felicis was brewed remarkably,and I would've gotten an O from any properly qualified examiner—" Draco countered.
"And why did you even take the Ancient Runes N.E.W.T. if you were going to Gringotts?" Blaise rolled his eyes. "Oh right, because Granger was, and you had to prove your superiority."
"Because I was bored as hell and studying was my way to cope—"
"And studying against Hermione became a purpose to live for," Blaise sighed. "You know mate, you can admit you fancied her."
Draco glared at Blaise. "Has Lovegood Imperio-ed your mind? Where are all these codswallop plot lines coming from?"
Blaise sighed. "Leave my witch out of this. I still haven't forgiven you for that Loony rubbish you pulled last Friday. Anyways, Bill sent you here, right?"
"How did you know?"
"He left a message with Potter. Kingsley needs to see you."