Besides Hogwarts, The Ministry cafeteria was Hermione's favorite place in the entire Wizarding world. Across the vast dining hall, black marble counters were filled with imaginative cuisine, from British comfort fare to rare foreign delicacies. On any given day the canteen offerings could feature anything from a smoothie bar to an assortment of Indian curries.
She had lost much of her idealism over the years, but from time to time, Hermione still felt guilty being served by house-elves. The witch usually tried not to think of the poor creatures working tirelessly in the kitchen for hundreds of Ministry bureaucrats to eat so well.
But today, the solemn imagery of toiling house-elves was a welcome relief from the thought of Ginny's forced smile, or Voldemort's piercing eyes.
Hermione wasn't sure what to make of the strange mind-melding episode that had occurred just before Harry had interrupted them. Maybe it was a combination of legilimency, sleep deprivation, and heady potions fumes clouding her judgement.
A hovering cafeteria tray landed on the counter in front of Hermione with a bang, interrupting her troubled musings. The ravenous with served herself a delectable looking vegetarian lasagne, some salad, and two vanilla biscuits for dessert.
After she scanned her wand to pay, Hermione turned around to find not one vacant table in sight.
Wizengamot was in session today, and the cafeteria was crawling with legislators, staffers, and jury members engaging in lively discussions over their meals.
Just when she decided to retreat to the office and have lunch at her desk, Hermione's tray whizzed away to the other side of the room.
"Bollocks!" muttered Hermione, rushing after her tray.
The witch wove her way through the crowded dining room, following her lunch all the way to the back of the room. The tray landed on a table in the corner, which was empty except for a blond man sitting with his back to her.
"My apologies, I didn't-"
The blonde man turned around, and Hermione's heart jolted.
She had only seen those cold grey eyes and high cheekbones in tabloids since the Battle.
"Malfoy," Hermione said, stunned.
The blonde wizard looked equally startled to see her.
"Granger, I…"
Malfoy stood up jerkily, and gestured towards the empty chair.
"Sit down, if you want," he said.
The last thing Hermione felt like doing was having lunch with her childhood bully. In her Hogwarts days, she would have spat in his face and left.
But now, Hermione knew she lacked the conviction or the guts to snub him. And she wanted to devour her lasagne as soon as possible.
"Er, alright then," Hermione mumbled, and took a seat.
Hermione began choking down large forkfuls of the lasagne. She kept her eyes on the tray, silently cursing it for putting her in this situation.
Meanwhile, Draco listlessly picked at a plate of mince pie.
"So, Granger. I hear you're an Unspeakable now," he said in measured tones.
Hermione swallowed her mouthful of food with a gulp.
Of course Malfoy had picked up on her sensitive spot.
"Actually, I'm an administrative assistant in Chief Firestone's office," said Hermione.
By normal standards, Hermione should have at least been a trainee by now. A job at the Department of Mysteries wasn't so prestigious when her days were consumed by sorting papers and scheduling meetings.
"Ah, I see," said Draco with barely concealed surprise.
After a moment of silence, the blonde wizard cleared his throat.
"Well, how are Potter and Weasley?"
Hermione pursed her lips.
"Why do you ask?"
Malfoy averted his eyes, and if Hermione hadn't known better, she would have sworn a hint of blush was spreading across his sallow cheeks.
"Sorry. Just trying to be polite."
Hermione nearly choked on her salad. She wasn't sure she'd ever heard Malfoy apologize.
"Er, Harry's well," she said. "He and Ginny've just had their second baby. I'm sure you've seen them in the Prophet."
An imperceptible expression flashed across Malfoy's pointed features.
"I don't read the Prophet much anymore. Ever since…"
Hermione recalled just months ago when Lucius' screaming face was blazoned across the front page.
While Shacklebolt had been willing to pardon Draco's father, he had run an unsuccessful re-election campaign, losing to the Conservative party in 2002. The current administration- lead by Minister for Magic Herodotus Avery- had not been quite so lenient towards Draco's father. Lucius had been quietly sentenced and given the Kiss in June.
Hermione's mind flashed back to one of the last times she'd seen Draco's father, laying on the cold marble floors of Malfoy Manor.
Instinctively, her fingers gravitated towards the raised skin on the inside of her elbow.
"Right. I was sorry to hear about that," Hermione said, after a pause.
Malfoy let out a sardonic huff.
"Were you?"
Hermione swallowed thickly.
She suddenly became aware of eyes on her. Wizards and witches at the neighboring tables were taking not-so-subtle glances at Hermione and Draco, concealing whispers that were sure to grace the gossip columns of tomorrow's issue of the Prophet.
Hermione squirmed in her seat.
"Your father did some awful things," she breathed, "but he also helped save Harry. For that, we owe him everything."
Malfoy nodded, looking pointedly at his plate.
"What brings you to the Ministry, anyway?" Hermione asked, after a moment.
Draco met her eyes again. Hermione noticed they were tinged with red, as if he had been crying, or not sleeping well.
"It's my mother," Draco said, voice cracking. "They're doing another round of questioning."
"But she was one of the first pardoned by Shacklebolt. We all know Narcissa lied to save Harry. How can they-"
"I know."
Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came out. This didn't make sense.
A tense silence descended on the two of them.
"I'm sorry, I've got to get back to work," she said finally, rising from her seat. "Malfoy, if there's anything I can do…"
Malfoy stood up too.
"Actually, there is. You can ask Potter to appear as a witness to my mother's next hearing. If he testifies, maybe they'll spare her."
Hermione's chest felt tight.
"I don't know. I'll see what I can do," she said. "Best of luck, Malfoy. Really."
Hermione forced a smile laced with bitterness. She walked out of the cafeteria, her empty tray whizzing away to be cleaned by the house elves in the cellar.
Later in the evening, Hermione sat at her kitchen table, listlessly stirring her tea while watching the rain fall outside.
She couldn't get the conversation with Malfoy out of her mind.
There was absolutely no reason for Narcissa to be called to the stand five years after the Battle. And typically, a high-profile war trial like this would be plastered across the front page of the Prophet for weeks. But Hermione had perused the stack of Prophet copies pilling up on her nightstand, and she hadn't found a single mention of the Malfoys in the last three weeks.
Something wasn't right. She gave a ponderous sigh, prodding the soggy tea leaves at the bottom of the mug.
Hermione thought back to the day she had received her Hogwarts letter. Holding the mysterious envelope in her hands, finding out that she wasn't a freak, she was special- it had been one of the best days of her life. And Hermione's school years, even with the escalating threat of Lord Voldemort, had been full of the most fulfilling, educational, and exciting experiences of her life.
How ironic was it that as Voldemort threatened to return again, she was more alone than ever?
Hermione's gaze flitted to the large black cauldron bubbling in the centre of her living room.
She was filled with the sudden, wild urge to flee. What if she dumped her tea into the revolting brew, snapped her wand, and fled to her parent's house? She could go to Muggle university, work as a receptionist at her parent's practice…
Before Hermione could act on her magical excommunication, she heard her front door swing open.
She jumped out of the kitchen chair, heart pounding, and drew her wand.
Hermione knew it was Voldemort. She felt his dark, intoxicating presence before she saw him.
He was standing there in the doorway, looking unfairly handsome even in Ron's old T-shirt, with mussed waves falling into his face.
As if Tom was able to read her thoughts, he smirked.
"How did you get through the wards?" Hermione demanded, keeping her wand pointed at him.
"What wards?" said Tom.
"I've designed a complex network of wards around my flat that only allow me and authorized guests to enter."
The edges of Tom's lips quivered, hearing the way Hermione's voice shook.
"Well, I'm an authorized guest, aren't I?"
"Hardly," she spat.
"Well, your wards seem to recognize me as one."
Hermione had no retort. Tom stepped brazenly forward and seated himself on the work bench, ignoring the witch's threatening stance. Slowly, she lowered her wand.
Hermione's urge to escape abated quickly, as she felt the tension of the bond begin to unwind in Tom's proximity. Finally, she could breathe again.
After a painful minute of self-restraint, Hermione took a seat next to him.
I'm just supervising, Hermione told herself, ignoring the pleasure that washed over her in Tom's presence.
Hermione's skin began to tingle with a pleasant electricity, and warmth oozed down her spine like a hand of hot oil during a massage.
If Hermione had not kept her eyes so firmly fixed on the phials of ingredients before her, she would have noticed that Tom's shoulders also slumped in relief.
"This stage of brewing is complex, and it all comes very quickly," said Tom. "You'll need to pay full attention and perform the charms precisely."
"Fine," Hermione snapped, masking her lightened mood with faux irritation.
"I'm going to add three measures of asphodel. While I do that, I'll need you to finely grind one measure of bicorn horn in the mortar, then add it to the potion. Can you do that?"
"Yes, I took first year potions at Hogwarts," said Hermione.
Voldemort inhaled sharply. He clenched the muscles in his chiseled jaw, as if holding back a surge of anger.
The sight sent torrid ripples through Hermione's stomach. The witch averted her eyes and grabbed a ceramic pestle, half wanting to use it to bludgeon the lustful thoughts out of her head.
Hermione added the bicorn horn to the mortar and ground it carefully.
When the bicorn was milled into a fine power, she waited for Tom's signal to pour it into the cauldron.
"Quickly, now. Turn the cauldron to high heat," said Tom.
Hermione waved her wand to stoke the flames. The brew let out an awful, deep green gas that turned the room hot and humid.
"Ugh, that's foul," said Hermione, coughing into the crook of her arm. She pushed up the sleeves of her thick sweater as the putrid steam soaked her.
Tom ignored the queasy witch, transfixed on the cauldron. He kept precise time before adding the bicorn horn.
"There. Now turn the heat off quickly, and stir thrice counterclockwise."
Hermione followed his instructions, covering her mouth with her arm. The gas dissipated quickly.
"Wonderful. It's done for now," said Tom, looking pleased. "It'll need a little over 24 hours to simmer."
"Good, then you can leave now," she said.
Hermione ran a hand through her curls, which had grown to an enormous size due to the humidity, and rolled up the wristband of her sweater.
She glanced over at Tom and noticed he was giving her the strangest, most pointed look.
Hermione was perplexed until she noticed what he was staring at. The edge of her scar was peeking out from her pushed-up sleeve.
Before Hermione could fix her sleeve, Tom grabbed her arm so forcefully that her wand slipped out of her fingers and fell to the floor.
Hermione's heart thudded.
"Stop! Don't touch me!" she squealed.
Hermione twisted her body to escape his grip, taking Tom and a rack of empty glass phials crashing to the floor with her.
"Who did this to you?" he asked.
Hermione felt his dark presence poking at the edge of her mind.
"No, don't. Please-" Hermione whimpered, but she was taken under like an instant dose of Dreamless Sleep.
She lay on the floor. Her spine, thin from months of living on berries and fish, dug into the ice-cold marble. Death Eaters dressed in inky black robes surrounded her. Bellatrix, with her wild black hair, was screaming at her, demanding to know where she had found the Sword of Gryffindor. Then came the Cruciatus, that cell-splitting pain. Over and over again. Her agonized screams echoed through the cavernous room. She was pleading, begging, lying. She wished she was dead. Bellatrix stepped over her prone form, and slowly carved each letter into her arm. M-U-D-B-L-O-O-D. She faded out.
Hermione emerged from the memory with a choking gasp.
"What the hell was that?" Tom asked.
Tom was still gripping her arm tightly. They were both splayed out on the floor, his body almost on top of hers. Her skin ignited against his like a match against sulfur. She could smell his natural scent, earthy and musky, and she drank it in like wine. Hermione wanted more, wanted him closer. He leaned in, like he was going to….
As quickly as it happened, Voldemort released her, letting her her fall to the floor with a thud. He stood up, walked out of the flat, and slammed the door, leaving Hermione a frizzy, wanton, woozy mess on the floor.