As soon as the chugging of the train pulled the carriage around the bend, leaving her waving parents behind in a cloud of steam, Hermione sat back, her shoulders bumping audibly against the upholstery. There. It was done. She'd seen them, given them her love, been their daughter for a fortnight. No matter what happened now, at least she could say that much.
"You alright, Hermione?" Harry grunted as he shoved his trunk further back on the rack. He'd brought it down to retrieve a handful of galleons in anticipation of the sweets trolley. His long arms forced it back from where it got caught on the lip of the rack; Hedwig chirped in alarm.
"Oh, I'm fine," lied Hermione easily. "It's just strange, isn't it? To go backwards and forwards between here and the Muggle world. I think I'm a bit disoriented, still."
Harry nodded in genuine understanding. Perhaps one day Hermione would tell him how much it meant to her, to have someone else who had been raised like she had been.
"Well, I'm glad you had a good holiday." Ron ignored Hermione's frown as he kicked up his feet on the opposite seat. "Ours was a bit… well…"
Intrigued, Hermione eyed him and Harry, who was now glaring out the window. "Well? Well, what?" Had there been a falling out? They hadn't mentioned anything in their letters that could suggest an argument in the Order, or anything amiss at all, for that matter.
Unless — had there been an incident of some kind? Something too dangerous to convey through the post? If Death Eaters had shown up at the Burrow —
"Oi! Whatever you're thinking, stop," snapped Ron. "Everyone's fine. Nothing happened. Not like that."
Hermione blinked. In half a heartbeat, she'd imagined a thousand horrible scenarios, each worse than the last. Based on the severe looks from Harry and Ron, she guessed she wasn't the only one to develop that habit lately.
"We tried a spell, that's all."
"A spell? But you're not of age, Harry—"
"I wasn't the one who cast it. Fred did."
"Fred?"
"They came home for a bit," explained Ron. "And —"
"And I showed them the Prince's book." Harry scowled, looking as bitter and unhappy as he'd done last year. "I dunno. They know lots about experimental magic. I thought they'd be interested. And they were."
"Yeah," concurred Ron, "they really liked that upside down spell. Percy should be glad he didn't stop by."
Harry muttered darkly, "He'd be dead if he did."
"What?!" Hermione's gut lurched.
"There's a spell in there — dunno if you've seen it — the one 'for enemies?'" Hermione nodded and Ron went on, "Well, they decided to try it on a garden gnome. To see what it does, you know. Figured it would turn their legs into eels or something."
Harry snorted and shifted to glare out the window.
"Well?" Hermione felt her fingers curling into the upholstery. "What happened?"
"It… wasn't pretty. It… ripped him up. Blood everywhere, that sort of thing."
"What?" Hermione felt faint; Harry still refused to look away from the blurry landscape.
"Yeah. It was really awful. We were shocked. Not the sort of thing you expect to find in a student textbook…"
"Honestly, would've been kinder to use the Killing Curse," muttered Harry. "It took ages to die, and none of our spells did anything. Nothing would stop the bleeding."
Nausea rocked Hermione. She couldn't get the images out of her head — of the gnome, shredded and bleeding out, of Harry and Ron and the twins utterly powerless to stop it. Awful, awful, awful…
Ron, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, wrung his hands. "Fred was a bit messed up about it, afterwards."
"I'm sure he must have been. It sounds like Dark magic. Is he alright?"
"Yeah, yeah. And we — we didn't try anything else from the book, after that."
"Good."
"You don't need to say 'I told you so,' Hermione," snapped Harry so maliciously that she flinched.
"I'm not! I'm just glad you're alright." It was the truth, for now. Perhaps she'd follow up on her own anger later, when she wasn't overwhelmed by Harry's sudden return to the bitter and suspicious young man created by Voldemort's return.
Harry shifted on the seat but didn't stop glaring out the window. "I'll stop using the Prince's book."
Ron grinned. "Now you'll be top of Slughorn's class, Hermione."
It was a tactless thing to say, and Hermione glared at him for it, but she couldn't deny the little blossom of pride.
The uncomfortable atmosphere of the carriage was eased by the arrival of the trolley, and Hermione was gratified to see Harry purchase as many Chocolate Frogs as he could fit in his arms. Hermione took one, too, and quietly excused herself for the prefects' carriage when the time came.
The journey passed uneventfully, and though Harry remained sullen and distracted, she saw his posture lighten as the lights of Hogwarts came into view, their Thestral-drawn carriage bumping along the road. Hermione felt something similar; her heart thudded just a little bit faster, and she found herself craning for a look into the Great Hall as the crowd shuffled forwards. When she finally saw him, slouching at the Slytherin Table, her bloody heart actually stopped for a second. He caught her gaze and raised his eyebrows in a gesture that seemed to both greet and tease. She smiled before she could stop herself and ducked her head away.
Later, as she checked her belongings had been correctly stowed in her dormitory, she spotted the shimmering in her bag and plucked the charmed diary from its depths.
Welcome back, Draco's handwriting greeted her.
She grinned, biting her lip. Thank you. After a fortnight of communicating only through parchment, she missed him dearly. It irritated her to no end that the Wolfsbane didn't need tending tonight. It seemed absurdly unfair that she must wait an entire day more before she could see him properly. Alone. I trust all went well with the brewing?
Snape minded me. Apparently, I'm incompetent without you around.
Hermione scoffed. Perhaps I should go down and check on it, just to make sure?
Perhaps you should. Draco's writing unfurled swiftly. But Snape was very thorough. Perhaps you should meet me on the seventh floor to go over the steps with me. I could use a brush up on some of the theoretical parts.
Hermione was up and out the door before the ink had settled. The common room was alive with chatter and activity; Ron and Harry waved her over to where they were chucking rolled up bits of the Prophet into the fire. Hermione was tempted to join them; Rita Skeeter's latest insight into current events certainly merited it. But that could wait.
"Hi — sorry, I'm actually on my way out —"
"Potion?" wondered Harry. "You don't get a day off, do you."
"I just had a fortnight off, Harry. But yes. Probably won't be back until late, so good night!"
They waved as she all but skipped out of the common room. It was not yet late enough that she could be scolded for being in the corridors, so she didn't bother trying to keep her footsteps light. She had the advantage; Draco would be climbing stairs for ages. Still, when she found herself breathless and sweaty on the seventh-floor landing, she couldn't shake the quivering anticipation which made her jump at every sound, convinced he was just around the next corner —
I need to see him. I need to see him. I need to touch him again, to know he's okay. I need to be away from the rest of the world, from all of it. Just to be with him. Safe. I need to see him. I need to see him…
The door disappeared behind her, entombing her alone in the cosy sitting room they'd come to that horrible night the cabinet had exploded, and later, when she'd seen his Mark. The fire was mild, casting the plush sofa in warm light which diffused into seemingly infinite darkness beyond the furniture. Hermione thought she saw windows and the young night sky, yet while it gave the impression of endless darkness, she couldn't imagine a space more safe or intimate.
"Hey."
Hermione spun and threw herself at him before she could realise she'd done it. His laugh resonated through his chest as his arms came around her just as hard, squeezing her tightly, her cheek pressed against his collarbone, flooded by the smell of his clothes; the smell of Hogwarts and magic and brewing. He kissed her head and she smiled so hard she felt tears in her eyes.
She didn't know how exactly they ended up on the sofa, snogging senselessly. Every time she thought they'd surely fall off and land on the rug, or bump against the back of the sofa, it seemed the furniture extended another inch to keep out of their way. Something about this space always seemed to bring them together like this, she thought, as she lay on his chest. His fingers wandered along her back, through her hair, until they reached her neck and then began the loop again. He was warm below her and, though he was still thin and bony, it looked like he at least hadn't lost any more weight whilst she'd been away.
The thought brought a frown to her lips. Despite all her efforts, all the pleading and sacrifice, it still felt as though they were careening toward a cliff-face that refused to get any smaller. There was so much danger ahead, the sort that would make the Department of Mysteries seem like child's play. And Hermione knew there was no possible way everyone would survive it. The universe simply did not work that way.
Draco's arms sped up along her back, drawing her back to their little room. She sighed, settling into him even more, until she could feel his ribs against her chest. His head shifted above her, where her cheek was tucked against his neck. He was so warm, and the way he wrapped around her reminded her of inhaling Amortentia. Hermione felt so profoundly safe and content. This, she decided, would be the memory she conjured when casting a Patronus.
Tempted, now, to try it out, she drew her wand from her pocket. Though she couldn't see his face, she imagined Draco observing her with interest as she raised her wand at nothing in particular whilst still lying on top of him. He didn't say anything, or even move, for that matter, and the implicit trust in that filled her up until she breathlessly whispered, "Expecto patronum!"
She was tired, and it felt like the energy was sucked out of her like a vacuum, traveling through her wand and manifesting as a white, cloudy shape with waving, pedalling parts that nearly resembled limbs. It hovered in the air for several moments before dissipating. Beneath her, Draco stiffened. She thought he might be holding his breath.
Hermione had managed a fully corporeal Patronus before, and the failure to do so now irked her. She closed her eyes, breathed out long and slow, and let the feel of his body against hers fill in every crevice of her mind. She would think — she would be nothing else but the heaviness settling across his chest, the way their legs overlapped and intertwined whilst her hip was cradled in the warm hardness of his stomach…
"Expecto patronum!"
She didn't need to open her eyes to know she'd succeeded. Draco's sharp gasp, however, made her arch up to see his face. His eyes were wide, reflecting the shimmering shape of her otter swimming delightedly through the air. Everything about him suddenly felt suspended and it wasn't until the Patronus had faded away entirely that he relaxed in an abrupt rush, his sigh displacing the fine hairs at Hermione's temple. He swallowed audibly.
"That… was amazing."
Hermione grinned. "You liked it?"
Draco nodded, but his eyes were still faraway and his voice faint as he said, "I've never seen one before. Well, not properly. Not like that. Only in third year, at the Quidditch match…"
Hermione remembered then how Harry's stag, miraculously cast in the midst of a brutal match, had ambushed Draco in his poor attempt at imitating at Dementor.
"Would you like me to teach you?"
Draco's eyes came into focus then, as he looked at her sharply. Hermione got the sense he was weighing her offer, as though it might pose some sort of threat. She almost wanted to roll her eyes; to live like that seemed like such a waste of energy.
"No-one I know can cast a Patronus," he admitted suspiciously, and Hermione understood that to mean that to mean, no-one like me can cast a Patronus. He jerked his head in the direction of his left forearm. "I'm not even sure it's possible."
"Don't be ridiculous," scoffed Hermione. "Come on — sit up a bit, and I'll show you how."
Draco was a curious, if tentative, student. Though she'd never say it out loud, part of Hermione feared that maybe he really wouldn't be able to do it, that the Dark Mark would prevent it somehow, or maybe the years and years of a miserable, hostile upbringing had altered his mind in such a way that could never be conducive to a Patronus.
She was delightfully relieved, then, when a pale mist came meekly from his wand. He grinned stupidly, more proud of himself than Hermione had ever seen. Soon after that, it became clear her instruction was no longer needed, and so she curled up beside him, one of his arms wrapped around her shoulders whilst his other practised the spell again and again. He didn't tell her what he was thinking of, but every time he closed his eyes to prepare the charm, his arm would tighten around her, and his fingers would tap against her shoulder. Despite his focus, though, there was a deep relaxation about him that Hermione hadn't seen in a long time.
He never managed anything more defined than a weak cloud of mist, but it brought Hermione more delicious happiness than the room full of the D.A.'s corporeal successes. The smile wouldn't leave her lips, even when she stopped watching him and closed her eyes, leaning back against his side, glad to be home.
