Her heels echoed loudly, winter robes flapping. She walked quickly as she could without running, wand gripped in her hand and hair flying behind. No sense dilly-dallying. She might see someone.
"Good morning, Junior Minister." The guard at the front desk hid a yawn behind his hand.
"Morning," she said, breezing past. There was no line for the wand check. No line, because the lobby was nearly empty at this hour. As she'd intended. Coming and going from her office was her most vulnerable time. It was when she might run into colleagues who made small talk and awkwardly inquired about how she was doing.
It seemed everyone at the Ministry knew that Hermione Granger had been absent for over four months late last year. After a few weeks of polite "good to have you back"s it shifted - and each person she spoke to wanted to ask her about it. She'd been answering the same stupid entreaties for weeks, most of which were delivered with a patronizing must-be-nice tone. "How are you feeling?" and "Did they give you any trouble about missing all that time?" and "Having a rough go adjusting to working again?" and her favorite - "Wish I could have a few months off." Go ahead, she wanted to scream. May it be more fun for you than it was for me.
Yes, she had plenty of reasons to avoid the crowds. Plus, it was a long day ahead.
As yesterday had been. And the one before that. And back, to the first of January. All long days, blending together in a temporal slog of work and pain and bursts of sleep.
She was alone in the elevator. It was a peaceful descent.
"Watch your step, please," said one of the few people she passed - a janitor. He moved like a conductor, commanding several brooms to swirl across the floors.
"Hullo, Harold." She smiled. Her first smile of the day. Yet to be determined if it would be her only. "Thank you for keeping this place functional." She meant it.
He laughed. "I'm lucky, Miss. I'm old enough to remember a time that the Ministry was in danger. It's an honor to keep it up. Keep it strong."
She nodded solemnly, slipping by. She was old enough too, but needn't burden him with that.
When Hermione got to her office, she shut the door firmly and sagged against it for a moment - relieved that she'd avoided curious colleagues and prying eyes.
She surveyed the little space. Maps on the walls, pins and strings connecting places with sketches of magical creatures. Shelves bending from heavy texts. Piles of scrolls and parchments and newspaper clippings. Crates of books. Leftover mugs and quills. It had never been this haphazard or messy in all the years she'd occupied it.
But it was the best she could do, at present, in the middle of so many projects. Hermione had a space for each of them. Pulling off her scarf and heavy robes, she came 'round her desk and sat in her chair, lightly touching each pile. Taking inventory.
Catching Lucius. Top left corner. Priority. She had the report of his escape, including interviews with the guards who'd been on duty. She reviewed it periodically for anything she - they - might have missed. It was still unclear how he'd done it. One hour he was in his cell. By the next check - he was not. There was no sign of him since.
Fowler Kennilson's Connection. Middle right. She'd get to it at some point. Mostly she'd made a pile of it because she had a copy of the letter Malfoy had written to her parents. She found herself touching it sometimes, when she was thinking about something else. Tracing the letters toward the bottom in slanted script. She is a pleasure to work with. It reminded her of his lies. And his lips, while he told them.
Death Eaters. Lower left. She had a running list of the suspects. She'd started it before they even left Malfoy's estate on New Year.
They'd been walking to meet Harry after one of the aurors transfigured her shoes into boots. The trimmed, frozen grass of the grounds had crunched under their feet. There was chaos behind as Malfoy's guests made arrangements to leave - none of them noticed four Ministry types flanking a witch, green silk peeking beneath her borrowed robes.
"Who was there?" Hermione had asked suddenly.
"We'll deal with it in the morning," one of the aurors demurred.
"We'll deal with it now," she ordered. If she didn't find a distraction she would die. "Write this down, one of you."
The tall one, close at her side, conjured a parchment and self-jotting quill. "Malfoy," he proclaimed loudly as they walked. "Draco." The quill scratched.
"Dolohov," she said. "Tony. Must be Antonin's son."
"Malfoy's mother," supplied another auror. "Fit old bird, her. Shame she's still technically married."
"Don't speak about her that way," snapped Hermione. "Add Karkaroffs, I think. I couldn't tell. Make a note, to research Igor's family and any descendants."
"Theodore Nott," said the fourth auror, the quietest one. "I recognize him from . . . ." She glanced sideways at him. He was blushing. "I know it was him."
Hermione adjusted her robes. It was growing colder by the second. "Yes, Theo was there. I also overheard Waldron MacNair, grandson of Walden. He was with a Goyle."
They had an initial list of two dozen names before they even reached the property line. Several hundred yards away, carriages were rumbling down the drive, carrying disappointed and disgruntled guests in various stages of drunkenness. Good luck apparating home, she thought. Hopefully they'd all get splinched and end this nightmare.
Harry had met them at the boundary, appearing as if out of nowhere. He nodded a dismissal to his aurors and wordlessly gripped her hand. He apparated them back to the walk outside of Ginny's. Escorted her upstairs and into the flat. He and Gin looked on anxiously as Hermione stumbled to the loo and emerged some time later in pajamas, dress discarded and makeup roughly removed.
"Well?" Harry hovered while Ginny fetched her a glass of water.
"Get the report from your aurors." Hermione sank onto the couch and pulled a blanket over her lap.
"Did you find Draco?" Ginny patted her shoulder and began to braid her hair. It felt wonderful. Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, letting the gentle tugging soothe her.
"Yes."
They waited, silent.
Hermione had sighed. "In summary? Malfoy controlled the creature that attacked us. He intended to use it as a weapon of some kind. He and the Carrows are fomenting plans for a revolution. If necessary, he's willing to go to Azkaban or even," she gulped, "martyr himself to try to catapult Lucius to power."
Ginny's mouth fell open. "No."
Harry rubbed his scar, confused and processing. "That's crazy. It'll never work."
"Draco knows that. But it sounds like his father is desperate. And he's . . . a willing accomplice."
"Oh Hermione." Ginny looked like she might try to hug her. Not that.
"When are they doing this?" Harry asked. "And, how -"
"I need to sleep," Hermione interrupted. "Please - please let me go to bed. The work begins tomorrow. We'll stop them of course. But - not right now."
Her tone had been enough. They both rose, bidding her goodnight, frowning sadly at her. Pitying her.
They left her in the dark as they closed Ginny's bedroom door.
Hermione cast a silencing charm around herself with shaking fingers.
Her chest had been so tight - tight enough that if she didn't know the cause, she would have gone to St. Mungo's, begging for an evaluation.
In the dark early hours of the New Year - she stared up at Ginny's ceiling. Blinking away the shock and the tears. This one will be better than the last, Ron had said. Not bloody likely. Not when it began like that.
To distract herself, she thought of names to add to the list of Death Eating suspects. She was sure she'd seen someone who resembled Yaxley . . . .
Fiddling with a corner of the list, she was comforted by how it had grown in the weeks since. Harry's aurors had done their job - combining their memories and notes with surveillance. They had nearly all of the Death Eating attendees, along with known connections with the Malfoys, occupations and present locations, and the likelihood that they were willing participants in Draco's plans.
She kept the parchment with all the names close at hand. Motivation. It had become her talisman of that night and the work since. Of reports and intelligence and research. Know thy enemy . . . .
She briefly reviewed the other piles on her desk.
Azkaban Issues. Bottom right. Harry had assured he was "on it," whatever that meant. But Hermione was keen to help. When the Malfoys were sent to prison this time - she wanted to be damned sure they never escaped again. Which reminded her, of course, of -
Malfoy's crimes. Top right. It should be another priority. But she ignored that pile, for now. It was too early in the day, and the week had been too draining. She needed several coffees first, if she was going to touch that. Or, as she did most days, she might put it off . . . a little longer. Besides, she was waiting on Harry to share when Draco might be arrested. The latest update was that the aurors were still looking for evidence of something concrete. "My word isn't enough?" she'd asked snippily. Harry said no, they wanted more. Fine. She'd get it for them. Later.
And last - Identify the creature. The thickest pile on her desk, middle top. She liked to have that in front of her at all times to keep her imagination churning. It was vexing her more than the others. What the fuck was it?
Hermione had taken Malfoy up on one thing: to leverage what he had in his library. Take what you want. In the early days of the new year she'd secured a warrant, signed by Kingsley himself - authorizing the search, identification, and collection of "any notes and materials relevant to magical creatures."
She'd asked Harry for an auror to execute it. To go to the Manor, round up materials subject to its purview, and bring them to her.
"Sure," agreed Harry. "Very good idea. Merrick can do it."
"Who's Merrick?"
He'd rolled his eyes. "The lead auror on your mission. Accompanied you to the party." She must have looked as confused as she felt. They had names? Harry sighed. "Tall? Handsome? Always asking after you?"
Right. One had been tall. "Yes. He'll do. Make him go right away. I don't want Draco to have more time to hide anything."
Harry had nodded, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. "I'll tell him to bring you anything he collects."
The auror-known-as-Merrick delivered it all the next day. Boxes and crates of books and notes and parchments, straight from Malfoy's library. It had nearly filled her office, necessitating that she stand closer to him than she would have liked.
"Let me know if you need help going through it," he'd offered kindly, smiling at her.
"How was he? Malfoy, I mean. When you collected it?" She gripped her hands together behind her back.
Merrick frowned. "He, uh, snarled a bit. Certainly didn't offer me a tea. Seems a rather nasty sort. But once I told him it was for your Department he didn't resist. He ordered one of his elves to pack it all up."
"Did he say anything else? Give you . . . a note, maybe?"
"No. Were you expecting something?" Merrick quirked a brow.
"Of course not," she said hastily. "Just curious. Thanks for doing it." She prodded a box with a toe. "Certainly seems like it was a successful effort." And she'd fairly shoved him out of her office, turning to the pile.
Had knelt on the ground before a crate.
Had pulled one of the books out, fingers shaking.
Had opened it. Flipped the pages gently. Smelled them, hoping for a hint of . . . .
It just smelled like an old book.
Hermione had gone home early that afternoon and skipped dinner. It had been all she could manage - to make it to her bed - before she collapsed in disappointment and devastation. Malfoy's library. His books. He said he wouldn't need them anymore. The potential ramifications - unthinkable.
The worst part, in the days that followed, had been Draco's notes. She'd found them in the bottom of the last crate, neatly stacked and bound together with twine. Twine that she'd - embarrassingly - untied and tucked into her pocket. She'd been carrying it with her ever since. Stupid. You don't even know if he's the one that tied it. But she imagined that he had.
Drat it all, his notes were incredible. Detailed. Neat. Well-plotted. And compelling in their subject-matter. Particularly to a curious Junior Minister in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.
His weapon indeed. As far as Hermione could tell from his slanted script, Malfoy had begun looking for the perfect creature that would help him break into Azkaban - and get his father back out.
He'd examined, in impressive depth, myriad options:
Potential uses and origins of dementors.
The care, feeding, and attempted training of nundus.
Mating cycles of erumpents.
Whether acromantulas could be Imperiused. Experiments unsuccessful.
Vampires; their creation, breeding, and social structures.
Quite a lot about lethifolds. Attacks, language, reproduction.
Grindylows and kelpies and how long they could survive out of the water.
On and on. Malfoy had been calculating, thorough. And determined. He'd researched and evaluated every dark creature Hermione had ever heard of, and then some. Studied their origins, their behaviors, what they ate and how they mated and environments they required to thrive. Pages and pages.
He'd delved into magical theory too - spells to control, to forge mind-creature connections, to communicate. Blood rituals and binding spells and creatures' weaknesses.
Despite his organization and attention to detail, it was hard to parse and make sense of it all. On one parchment she found a series of ideal attributes - a wish list of sorts, culled from the features present among various animals. Fast. Stealthy. Tameable. Untraceable. Lethal as necessary.
To stop the creature, to stop him, she needed to be able to identify it. Know thy enemy. But which of these had been the thing that attacked her, she could not tell. It was a mystery, his morass of papers.
And they incited a growing rage, kindled by weeks without meaningful progress and memories of how Draco had let her flail at this very issue while he looked on. She'd fruitlessly worked on the problem of the creature, reading what books he'd deigned to send to her flat - only enough to distract her. Malfoy had let her research right in front of him. He'd sat on her couch, staring at her legs and backside, while she took silly guesses and bent over useless passages about boggarts. What had he been thinking? That she was a moron, surely. It was so patronizing, so mortifying - she fairly itched with the urge to figure it all out, to prove that she could. And to tell him that she had.
She was in the midst of studying Draco's notes yet again, familiar frustration mounting, when Ron barged in. She glanced at her watch - half past noon.
"Hermione! I've just stopped by to drop lunch to my dad but he was busy. Mind if I eat with you? I've got sandwiches and I'm starving." He leaned over her desk, depositing a brown sack on her piles. "How goes it? Blimey, that's not your handwriting."
She delicately shifted the bag to an open space. "No."
"Looks like your style though."
"Yes."
He tipped his head, examining her. "What's got you so frazzled?"
She set Malfoy's words aside. "Research on the creature. But it doesn't make sense. It's a lot of magical theories and snippets of spells and rumors and background facts - nothing concrete. I still can't figure out what it is -"
Ron shrugged, digging into his own sack. "Do you want tomato or turkey?"
"Tomato, please."
As he handed it to her she was reminded of a different man who used to send lunch, and his chattiest elf - Merlin, no. Ron seemed to read her mind. "Heard anything from Draco?" He was bent over, intent on his own lunch.
"No."
"That's too bad," he said. "Selfishly, I wish that supposed alibi of his could be public knowledge so folks would know he didn't get Lucius out."
"Hmm." She would concede nothing, not to Ron. Besides, he wasn't listening to her.
"Him being accused has really put a damper on things with Pans," he said around a mouthful. He had made himself comfortable in the visitor's seat across from her. Which - she didn't mind. It was nice, that any awkwardness was gone. All it took was falling for a couple of Death Eaters.
"I'm sorry." She nibbled slowly, in no rush. "You really like her?"
He grimaced. "Don't tell Ginny."
"I think she kn- right, I won't."
Blushing, Ron unwrapped his second sandwich. "Hermione, I'm in love." He said it like a confession. The kind of confession a proud teenager made - that they snuck out, had sex, smoked an unknown root. Not at all contrite.
"I'm happy for you. Do you, um, see this being a long term thing?"
Ron bit his lip, contemplating how to answer. "I try not to push. She's - very flighty."
"And currently unavailable, given her connections to several of Wizardom's Most Wanted."
"Those connections are tenuous at best," he argued.
"Tenuous?" Hermione rolled her eyes. "You said yourself, Pansy fucked Malfoy, quite a lot - for years. Until he got with her cousin."
Ron shook his head. "I don't know if 'a lot' is accurate. More like, on the rare occasion the mood struck them both. But that was personal. Not about their families, or He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Pansy's unavailable now because she's being careful like the rest of them."
Unavailable, because the Prophet reported that many of the Death Eaters' heirs had retreated after a big New Year's celebration. Gone into hiding, avoiding public scrutiny. Malfoy included. Probably holed up with his parents, preparing for a return to power. She pushed the thought away, focused on Ron.
"Are you in touch with her?"
"A little - we've been sending owls back and forth. She's done nothing wrong, of course. She had no idea what Draco was plotting." He was assuring himself as much as Hermione.
"How do you know?"
"I know her," he said. He leaned forward, his face earnest, emphasizing his point. "She wouldn't do anything illegal. She's told me - we've talked about the war, and You-Know-Who. She cares about her friends, of course - but she doesn't want to get mixed up in anything that could get in the way of her future."
"What future is that?"
"Pansy has dreams, Hermione. She wants to start her own line of robes - to bring wizard fashion into the modern age. Much shorter," he said, eyebrows raised, like Hermione would understand.
"Um, okay."
"So although she's sticking to the shadows for now - she had nothing to do with Lucius. She was at the party to support Draco, not because she was in on his alleged schemes."
Ultimately, it didn't matter. Pansy wasn't crucial to any of it. Hermione tossed the rest of her sandwich in the bin.
"Well, I hope you're able to find pockets of time to be together. A connection like yours is precious. You should hold onto it, Ron."
"Thanks. I intend to. If she'll let me." His lips twisted pityingly. "I know you've been through it. I hope -"
"Let's not talk about me. I'm fine. I'm here, aren't I? And there's a lot to be done. I've got to help find Lucius. We still need to learn about the creature that hurt me and Gin. We need to know more, to prevent it ever hurting anyone else. And of course Harry needs help, making sure Azkaban is actually secure again."
"No more escapes," agreed Ron. "And I heard the Carrows are still planning to host a big gathering in the spring. Bold, that. Right in the middle of everyone finding out they're a bunch of Death Eating, power-hungry traitors."
"Yes. We've got to monitor that situation. So - lots to do, little time. The usual." She forced a smile. "Thanks for lunch. I'd better get back to it."
"Sure thing." He stood and leaned across her deck. Brushed his lips against her cheek and gave her a one-armed hug. "Thanks for your support of me and Pans."
"Anytime. Someday soon - perhaps we could all gather together. A pub night, like old times. We could get to know Pansy properly."
"I'd like that." He froze for a moment. "Do you think - maybe she should join us for a family dinner?"
Gods, no. "That would be nice."
"Thanks, Hermione." He made his way around the chairs and past the stacks of Malfoy's books. "Hey - about that creature. I thought of something."
She cocked her head, pretending to be interested.
"Maybe it's something new," Ron offered. Then he grinned. "See you tonight." And left.
Something new.
Something new.
She blinked. Yanked Malfoy's notes toward her and flipped back to the front page. Something new.
Several hours later there was a light tap at the door. She checked her watch reflexively as she cracked her neck. Four o'clock. "I'm busy."
Ginny poked her head through. "Thirsty?"
"No. I'm really tied up, Gin."
But Ginny came in anyway and handed Hermione a tea. Leaned into the extra chair, legs dangling. Hermione quelled the irritation and marked her place in the book she'd been reading - Theories of the Origins of Magic. "Thanks."
"It's a Friday afternoon. No one works this hard on a Friday afternoon."
"I've had a bit of a breakthrough about the creature - nothing I want to share, quite yet. I'll tell you soon, though, if I'm right."
"Well that's good," chirped Ginny brightly. "Say, what time will we see you tonight? Mum and Dad are looking forward to it. It's been forever since we had a family meal."
"Really? Didn't we just?" Hermione sipped at the mug in her hands. Hot enough to burn. Perfect.
Ginny made a face. "It's nearly the end of February, Hermione. You haven't seen them since a few days before New Year."
"I guess. It feels like yesterday."
"Uh huh. Well, they're excited. I warned Mum - no steak this time."
"I appreciate it." Hermione drained her tea, anxious for Ginny to be off. She wanted to finish the chapter before she left to pop by her flat to change. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Malfoy's letter. A pleasure to work with. "Any word from Kennilson?"
"No. I've been watching him, as you requested, but it's been a waste of time. No idea how Draco might know him."
"Hmm. Please keep me updated."
"Speaking of Malfoy." Ginny stood and went to stare at Hermione's biggest map - of Yorkshire. Malfoy's lands. It was covered in notes of rumored and confirmed sightings. The approximate location of the cave was circled in dark ink. "How are you?"
"I'm fine."
Gin surveyed her over a shoulder. "I've tried to honor your wishes and not mention it, these past few weeks. But - you look stressed, is all."
"There's a lot going on."
Ginny sighed, turning to face her fully. "Please talk to me. Where did you leave things? Is there any hope of his redemption?"
"I've told you." Hermione picked up a quill, bending over a blank parchment. Had no idea what to write, but was determined to look busy.
"That's rubbish and you know it. You only told us about the plans with the Carrows and the monster and his intentions to support his father."
"There's nothing more."
"Hermione." Ginny was leaning over the desk. "Harry's aurors reported you were gone from the party for a long time. You must have talked about your relationship. I've asked before and I'll keep asking until I get an answer. What happened? I want to be here for you."
Looking up into her friend's kind, imploring eyes, Hermione wished she could muster - anything. Unfortunately, she was numb. "Truly, nothing happened. I'm sorry to disappoint. We barely even touched. Certainly not like we had before. I asked him some questions and - and he answered."
"Did you tell him? What you went there to say?"
Uncomfortable silence.
"I cannot speak of it," Hermione finally whispered. "Please don't ask again."
Ginny collected their mugs. "Fine. But when you're ready, I'm here."
"I know."
"I'll see you in a few hours, yeah?"
"Yeah."
Hermione worked for another hour, ideas sparking and turning in her mind. The creature was new. She didn't recognize it because Malfoy had done something she would have thought was impossible - he'd created it from nothing.
The power and possibilities of it were dizzying. She longed for the details. The where, and the when, and the with what, and the how. Longed to see him, to press him to explain it. Longed to hold him down and get the answers by any means necessary.
Malfoy created it.
This revelation had allowed him to force his way into her mind in a way she did not normally permit.
Which reminded her to address her final, most secret, project before she left for the day.
She tapped one of her desk drawers with her wand. Several heavy locks rumbled. She tugged it open and slid out her notebook - the one that Malfoy had sent, cover embossed with her initials, when he felt bad about arriving, bloody and drunk, at her door. She'd taken to keeping a diary of sorts in it. Hermione had realized, almost immediately after New Year, that the days blended together. Long, sad days of work and greasy takeaway and struggles to sleep and questions without answers.
So she kept notes about her condition. Someone had to, now that Draco no longer looked after her. She jotted down her entries for today and the day before.
Thursday February 22. Slept terribly. Work was busy, met with several colleagues. No comments about looking tired. Picked up Chinese takeaway for dinner. Few bites - success. Binned the rest. Showered. Attempted slightly more complex transfiguration - ruined a perfectly good pillow. Tried to masturbate - failed. Good day.
Friday February 23. Vivid dreams again. Work interrupted by persistent Weasleys. Ate a lot for lunch. Significant progress re: the creature - more to come. Have actual plans at the Burrow - cannot cancel. Weekend awaits.
Hermione did dread the weekends. There was not enough to do. She often worked on Saturdays as a welcome distraction. Sundays were the worst - long and quiet in her flat. When she had the energy she walked. Actually, wandered would be more accurate. Went to the shop. Forgot bread. Lists had gone from a habit to a necessity. Without a list she was liable to lose what she was meant to do.
She reviewed the entries from preceding weeks. Overall - there were more good days than bad, when compared to early January. She'd had more energy then, physically. But her brain had been foggy with sadness and guilt and regrets, unable to function effectively. Her mind was clearer now. The tradeoff seemed to be in her strength and magic. They were waning slightly. A problem for later. She locked the notebook away.
Gathering her things to go, she slipped into her robes and checked the hallway for any lingering colleagues. It was clear. Hermione began her journey home, keeping her head down.
What was Draco doing? She could not help but think of him. It always got worse as evening approached. When rage faded away, supplanted by grief.
He had begun to drift from her. She was forgetting things. The shade of his eyes and shape of his teeth. The size of his hands. How he tasted beneath his ear. She tried not to dwell on it. This was fine and normal, she reminded herself as the elevator chimed. Time was doing its job.
This was good, actually. She skirted the edge of the lobby, avoiding the last of the Ministry workers.
She wove between Muggles on the London streets, thankful for their obliviousness. The sooner you forget the details the sooner you can move on.
She tried not to dwell as she carefully crossed the street. What was the point? He was going to Azkaban soon. He had tried to get his father out, and now Lucius was free. The people involved would have to be punished. She'd known it since Boxing Day.
Malfoy had to pay.
She was a person who believed in consequences. So she was trying, she was. To forget him.
If only the forgetting wasn't so painful. Agonizing in fact, as she stepped into her building.
He was everywhere.
Most of all, he was in her flat, which she reluctantly accepted while collecting her mail. Just change quickly before going to the Burrow. Don't let memories ruin your evening.
Climbing the stairs, carefully placing her feet on each one, she both dreaded and looked forward to opening her front door.
It reminded her of the first time she'd returned, after New Year.
Her friends had tried to convince her to stay with Gin until Lucius was captured. "He could learn where you live," Harry said anxiously.
"I'm sure he could. But who knows how long it will take to find him. Am I supposed to sleep on Ginny's couch forever?"
Their faces said - yes, duh.
Hermione sighed. "I'm going home. You can come and add some wards if you'd like - I would appreciate someone with stronger magic than me doing it. But I want to be in my own bed, surrounded by my own things."
She didn't mention that what she really wanted was to be where Malfoy had been.
To stand in the entryway and remember the reluctant grin she had occasionally earned when she jumped enthusiastically into his arms.
To shower where he'd held her, resting her hand against the tile. "Please?" he'd asked, on his knees. She could picture him there, as she soaped herself. How he'd cleaned her and kissed her and fucked her senseless.
To lay on her couch and remember the times he'd rested beneath her.
To sit in the kitchen and hear the sounds of him making tea, warming leftovers, puttering in her icebox. She still spread too much butter on her toast - as he had.
To sleep in her bed, her arms around a pillow, and recall how his eyes flashed when he watched her come. How he petted her breasts and cupped her belly and smelled her neck. How he knew when he could coax her into 'just one more.'
In her flat she could close her eyes and pretend he was there. So she had insisted on returning.
Harry escorted her home. He had a list from the Ministry - he'd told his aurors to put it together - of the best protection wards. He left her to unpack while he stood outside her front door.
Returned, a bit later, a strange look on his face.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Your flat already has all of these."
She took the parchment from him and ran her finger down it. "I don't have any of these. I think I've applied maybe four in all the years I've lived here - basic intruder detection and fire resistance, stuff like that."
"Hermione, I'm telling you. Every single one of the wards on this list is already here."
Harry met her eye. "Malfoy," they said at the same time. Hermione smiled involuntarily.
But Harry frowned. "I don't trust him."
You needn't worry about her safety, it's our highest priority. "Me neither. He probably just warded it because he . . . spent so much time in it, those months last year."
"I did a detection spell." Harry gestured about with his wand. "You've got literally dozens on this place. He must take his security quite seriously."
"He mentioned the wards on the Manor. They protect his family. I assume he wants that protection wherever he goes."
Harry seemed satisfied with the answer, if a little miffed. "I can't do more than what Draco's done, unfortunately. Maybe when you're back to full strength you should have a warding professional come and adjust it - start fresh." His tone changed. "Or, uh, I could send one of my aurors by. Merrick is very good at protection spells. And he mentioned he . . . might like to get to know you better." Harry quirked a brow, hopeful.
"He doesn't know me at all."
"Well he'd certainly like to. He skulks past your office to see if you're up for a chat. So - when you're ready to move on from Malfoy, let me know. I'll set it up."
Move on from Malfoy. Hermione had laughed.
Harry was pulling on his robes to go. "What?"
"You don't understand," she said softly.
"I do, Hermione. But he's going to be arrested soon. You're probably never going to see him again - unless it's in the papers when they haul him off to prison. What are you going to do, pine after him forever?"
Yes.
She stayed silent.
Harry stepped forward and gave her an unreturned hug. "The best way to get over someone is try someone new. I know it may not be your top priority. But give it a go sometime. Or just think about it. You might surprise yourself."
"Thanks," she'd said, and stepped around to open the door for him to leave.
She arrived at the Burrow for family dinner with wine and her best forced smile. Full-body hugs all around. It was the most physical contact she'd had in . . . awhile. So she leaned in, instinctively, craving the warmth of a hand on her back.
Hermione's watch whirred. Harry was, as always these days, at Work. He'd said he'd try to make it, but Ginny thought that had been a generous lie. Ron hadn't arrived yet, so Hermione used the opportunity for reconnaissance. She didn't want any surprises, not like the last time. What does everyone know? "Has anyone talked to Ron lately?" she polled the crowd.
Ginny grimaced as she set the table. "No. It's impossible to talk to him. All he does is moan about Pansy this and Pansy that. Godsawful."
Mrs. Weasley snapped a towel in her daughter's direction. "Stop that right now. We don't want to drive -"
"Pansy away?" George had walked in, looking disgusted. "Yes we fuckin' do. Hermione most of all, given they were in the same year. That Parkinson is a Death Eating twat, and -"
Arthur, standing closest, smacked him upside the head. "George Weasley. I won't hear you speak about a woman that way. Even if she is -"
"Hu-llo." Ron was standing in the door. Pansy at his side, holding flowers. They were both straight-backed and expressionless.
Hermione felt the blood rush into her cheeks. Peeking sideways, she was not alone - the Weasleys were all an identical shade of shocked and ashamed. George, mumbling something about winter herbs, turned and headed for the garden. Molly and Gin were frozen in different stages of cooking and pouring drinks. Mr. Weasley extended his hand and held it out for long, painful seconds.
No one moved.
Hermione saw herself from above for a moment. She imagined how it would feel to come here, Draco beside her and offering flowers. She'd dreamed of such a thing, once, before the clock struck twelve on New Year. She knew how her heart would pound, afraid of their derision. Their ire. It was brave - to risk the love of some for the love of another.
She stepped forward. "Pansy. This is a nice surprise. So lovely of you to come."
She bypassed everyone else and awkwardly - very awkwardly - scooped Pansy Parkinson into a half hug. Pansy did not place a warm hand on her back. Pansy stood, stiff, like she'd seen a ghost.
"Well," said Ron. "This is going great."
Molly was there then, giving her own hugs and introducing herself. Hermione stepped to the side to make room. Arthur came forward and actually shook hands, explaining that they were all excited to meet Pansy and could she please excuse their rudeness, it had been awhile since someone new came over.
Pansy didn't speak. Just nodded. Ron looked like he might die, right after happily offing the lot of them.
To be fair, the collective guilt was palpable. Molly shoo'd them into the drawing room while she finished up dinner. "Ginny, you stay with me," she ordered. Ginny gulped.
So it was that Hermione found herself on a Weasley armchair, perching opposite Pansy Parkinson. Ron was beside her on the couch, his hand laying oddly on the cushion between them, not touching. But - he wanted to, Hermione could tell. It was taking everything in him, in fact, not to grip Pansy's knee, or one of the hands resting limply in her lap. "Don't waste a second," Hermione nearly said. "Don't let go." But she swallowed it. Things were tense enough.
Mr. Weasley sat on another chair. It was the four of them.
"So," Hermione began. "Ron says you're interested in robes. Like, making them."
Pansy glared. "You don't have to make small talk with me, Hermione Granger. It's never been your strong suit."
That was irritating. She was trying to be nice, gods damn it. "Shall we cut to it then? Are you two official? When's the wedding?"
Ron blushed. Pansy paled. Mr. Weasley stood and said he'd get drinks. He was gone in a heartbeat.
"Thanks for that," Ron muttered. "He's probably telling Mum about it right now."
They all heard Molly gasp. Dishes clattered. "Well spotted," agreed Hermione.
Silence fell.
Pansy sighed. "Ron, I should go."
"No," he and Hermione said. Pansy's eyes met Hermione's.
She felt compelled to fix this. "I apologize. It's not your fault. I'm - not myself these days. It colors my behavior." And words. And perception. And sleep. And heart pains.
Pansy chewed her lower lip. Checked Ron for his reaction. He smiled at her, nodding. Go on. "Since we're alone," she said softly. "I've meant to say for months that I'm sorry. About Draco. I - I suspected that you two were close, and now it's been confirmed."
Hermione's heart pattered. "Confirmed? By me?"
"And him," Pansy offered. Her voice was gentle enough that it was scary. "I've only seen him once. But he's similarly not himself."
Oh. Hermione was starved for details. When? What had he been wearing? Was his hair a tangle or neatly combed? How was his laugh - bitter or genuine? Did he . . . ask about her? "How so?"
"His mother asked me to visit a couple of weeks ago. Narcissa just said he hasn't been at home much, but when he is he's . . . withdrawn."
Hermione wasn't sure what to say. "Has there been a sign of Lucius?"
Pansy frowned, uncomfortable. "I don't want to get into that."
So, yes.
Ron interrupted. "Let's not go there. Obviously - there's a - a conflict."
Hermione blinked. "I don't see one. Are you a big fan of Lucius, Pansy?" Sarcastic.
"Of course not," Pansy snapped. "I hate that fucking prick. He was dreadful to his son, and Draco never even saw it. But - I don't want any part of the search for him, or his escape, or any entanglements. I don't know where he is, I want to keep it that way, and I don't want to talk about him. With anyone. Including Draco, for the record."
The familiarity with which she'd said his name - Hermione quashed the jealousy. "I see." But something bothered her. "Dreadful? How so?" She supposed she'd assumed, since the escape, that Malfoy and his father were close. Why else would they have gone to all the trouble?
Pansy's chin wobbled. Ron, glancing past Hermione's shoulder toward the kitchen, accepted the risk and reached into her lap. Pansy covered his hand with both of hers immediately, squeezing tight. Hermione felt the pressure of it in her own chest. Painful.
"Draco would never - ever - admit it. I don't even know if he realizes it, himself. But his father was, in my opinion, awful. Unbelievably demanding - about everything. Draco's manners, his comportment, his appearance. His friends, the way he spent his time. His Quidditch." She laughed awkwardly, remembering. "Fly higher, fly faster, get the Snitch, knock the rest of them out. Win, of course, at any cost. But be brave, be confident, be the best, be the only. If you get hurt, get back up. Don't you cry." Her knuckles were white, clutching Ron's hand. "And his education - that was a whole other set of demands. When we were young and first . . . together, I made the mistake of thinking Draco got a break at school. It was only later that I understood - it wasn't a break at all. Draco never got a break."
Hermione wasn't sure what to say. She remembered him, as a student. Calling her a Mudblood. Eyeing her cauldron in potions. Hunched over his homework at breakfast in the Great Hall.
"Of course Lucius hated you, in particular."
"Me? Why?"
"Isn't it obvious? You were better than his son at something. Smarter. Lucius used to ask Draco about you. Make sure he was keeping you in your place. I would get jealous," she snorted, "hearing it."
"I'm not smarter than Draco."
Pansy sniffed, a hint of her usual self. "On that we agree. He might be the smartest person I've ever met. But I'll concede you're a harder worker."
"You said Draco didn't realize how his father was?"
Pansy sighed. She looked away, toward the windows, memories dancing behind her eyes. "No. He's too close to it. Steeped in it. I was fucking thrilled when Lucius went to prison. I figured if there was a chance for Draco to figure out who he is, what he wants - that was it. But, obviously, that's over."
"Of course."
Hermione felt lost. She didn't know what to think. Didn't know what to feel. She wished she could go back in time - way back - and defend him. Intercede on his behalf.
Tell him he was enough.
Tell him all the things he did well.
Maybe it would have changed something.
"The last thing I'll say." Pansy was staring at Hermione again. "I feel responsible, in part, as well. I - wasn't very nice to him during our . . . relationship, if you can call it that."
Hermione wasn't sure what that meant, and said so.
Pansy swallowed, brushing her thumb over Ron's fingers. "Just that I didn't know who I was, either. And Draco was - a challenge. In hindsight, I took advantage of some of his . . . tendencies."
"Which tendencies?" Hermione's heart was beating fast.
Pansy looked pained.
"Go ahead," Ron said kindly. He reached out his free hand and tugged at the back of her dark hair. Accepting. Like he'd heard this already, when they were alone. Like it didn't make him uncomfortable in the least to talk about Pansy's old boyfriends.
Pansy loosed a breath. "His eagerness to please."
Hermione bid goodnight as soon as dinner was finished. As soon as socially acceptable. The exhaustion had reached a tipping point.
Once the food was served, things had been Fine. She'd sat across from Pansy and Ron, giving her a front-row view to the effort everyone made. Even George tried, asking Pansy if she'd ever played a joke on Ron. "No," she said weakly. "But - I'll attempt it sometime, if you have one you recommend."
On Hermione's way home, her fingers brushing his twine in her pocket, she couldn't stop thinking about what Pansy had said. His eagerness to please. Nauseated and confused, she was desperate for the comfort of her flat, her bed, her memories. She wanted to return - to Malfoy. To Draco.
Because that was where she found him, where she allowed herself to mourn and love him. In her bed, hugged by her own arms, pressed against the pillows.
Standing before her dresser, pulling off her denims and knickers and baggy jumper, she let her imagination take control.
Let herself cling to memories of him like she had in the early days after they left the cave. Except she had far more memories, now. She obsessed over every scrap, replaying their conversations and interactions. She scrambled them together in different combinations to feel new.
Sliding under her duvet, she listened very hard. In the recesses of her mind, she could hear the click of her door.
Footsteps - it took him eight to get from the entry to her room. "Granger, I'm here."
Finally.
He was at her bed, climbing in, stretching out beside her.
She touched herself the way he had touched her. Her fingers weren't Malfoy's fingers, her skin wasn't his. She was a poor substitute. But in the pitch black it was as close as she could get. And she'd turned off all the lights.
"Tell me what to do," she begged. "I'm tired. I miss you telling me what to do."
His smile was in his voice. "Is that all you miss?"
"No. Give me the other things too."
"Alright. You've been very patient, waiting."
"I'm angry that you made me."
"I know." His contrition was genuine as he pulled the sheets down her body. "Naked already?"
"Like you said. I've been waiting."
He laughed that sparkling laugh. That rare laugh. "It's too dark. I can't see you properly."
She could not turn on the lights. Light revealed her delusion. "Go by feel."
He was laying with her but it lacked the familiar weight. All the times he'd done it before, he dipped the mattress so that she rolled slightly into him. That was one of her favorite parts. Two bodies, drawn together by greater forces. He was lighter now and she missed the pull of him. But feel he did - his hands, smaller than she preferred, trailing over her neck and her breasts and her stomach.
"You can do that later," she protested. "I'm desperate."
"I forget how I do it, it's been so long," he said. "Can you show me?"
"I've tried," she whispered, sad. "You've ruined me."
"No," he insisted, his fingers ghosting over her thighs but not between them. "You can do it all. I'll be right here, talking you through it."
"I can't -"
"Try," he ordered, louder. "Now."
She would prove him wrong. She put her hands on her cunt, rubbing it roughly. "See? Nothing."
He spoke against her neck and her spine arched. "Shhh. Not like that."
She tried again, slower. "It's not the same."
"Are you wet? You must be. You always were."
"I'm not -" but the argument died in her throat. Because she was.
"You let me see once, in this very bed, what it looks like when you touch yourself. Show me again." His voice was in her ear, in her head, its deep richness a blanket of desire.
Hermione moved restlessly, her hands re-learning herself. "I think you taught me what I like better than I knew myself." And she pressed her fingers inside, caressing the way he always had. Gentle and persuasive.
He groaned softly.
"You act like you can feel it."
"I feel the words," Malfoy gritted out. "I wanted those more than anything. You never told me. If it was - I was - good."
"I should have," she nearly cried, circling and teasing herself cruelly. "If I could do it again I would tell you all the time."
Hermione glided her fingers, slippery, over her clit. She was so close -
"Tell me now," he commanded.
"I -"
And she came, for the first time in months. The orgasm pounded through her, more necessary release than bliss. It was insistent, as he had been, giving her no option but to close her eyes and hold her breasts and bask in the clarity.
The guilt was ever present. And, the anger.
At Malfoy, for not giving her the chance to tell him. For making it impossible that she would ever be able to. For rending open this space in her heart and her body.
It was true, Draco had healed her - having sex with him had returned her magic. His kisses had infused her with strength. His fingers had stitched her soul back together with her body.
But as he'd done it he'd made a mistake - left a space. A hole in the shape of shared leftovers and his mark on her neck and rippling waters.
Now she had no idea how to begin to heal that part, his empty place.
By the time the last of her pleasure faded away, surprised muscles twitching, he was gone.