Read Bottom for Warnings of some sort.
First Chapter of this FIC with assistance from my two new Betas:
Knut4YourThoughts (AO3 ONLY)
samlapa
Please thank these lovely ladies for their time and assistance!
SONG FOR THIS CHAPTER IS: WILDEST DREAMS BY TAYLOR SWIFT OF COURSE
Saturday mornings at the Granger residence possessed a certain charm. The melodious strains of music filled the air, emanating from the radio stationed in the cozy kitchen. Hermione's father had a penchant for rock and alternative tunes, and his musical choices set the energetic tone for the day.
Meanwhile, Hermione's mother occupied her customary spot at the large country-style table, where the family had shared countless breakfasts.
Despite the house having been abandoned for months- Hermione had even considered selling it if things hadn't turned out the way they did- everything was seemingly back to normal for the Grangers.
On her lap rested Crookshanks, their handsome feline companion, who basked in the warmth of the matriarch's affectionate strokes, purring contentedly in response.
Her father took on the role of chef, standing before the stove with an apron donned, expertly frying strips of bacon. He couldn't resist grooving and shimmying to the rhythm of "Kryptonite" by 3 Doors Down and Hermione couldn't help but chuckle at his endearingly enthusiastic dance moves.
This was what she needed, just for the year.
Time with her own family.
Time with her parents.
Crookshanks, ever perceptive to Hermione's presence, gracefully abandoned her mother's lap. With a languid stretch and a sleepy yawn, he made his way toward Hermione, who had just entered the kitchen. She was dressed in plaid pajama pants and a well-worn vintage tee, the epitome of comfort on a leisurely weekend morning.
"Go sit on Gram's lap, Crooks," Hermione murmured to the cat, her affection for the furry companion evident in her gentle tone.
Feeling grateful to have both her parents and her feline companion back in her life, Hermione gracefully settled into a chair positioned across from her mother. Her gaze softened as she observed her mother sipping her coffee—a rich, ebony brew that mirrored the morning's quiet charm.
The aroma of the freshly brewed coffee enveloped the kitchen, filling the room with an inviting fragrance. Hermione idly fiddled with a bowl of vibrant, sun-kissed fruit that graced the table. She glanced at her mother and couldn't resist sharing a playful tidbit.
"You know," she began, her voice lighthearted, "I heard dentists say coffee's bad for you. Apparently, it stains your teeth."
The Granger's weren't Tea Drinkers. They always drank coffee.
Martin Granger, in the midst of his bacon-cooking endeavors, turned towards his daughter and let out a hearty laugh. "What silly dentists said that?"
Hermione chuckled, the sound resonating with familial warmth. "The silly dentists in this kitchen," she replied, her eyes twinkling with affection and mirth. It was moments like these that made Saturday mornings at the Granger residence truly charming, filled with love, laughter, and shared idiosyncrasies.
"Any plans today, sweety?" Hermione's father asked, his voice carrying a warm, paternal tone as he set down the plate of sizzling bacon. The delicious aroma of the breakfast staple wafted through the kitchen, teasing her senses.
She took a fork and deftly stabbed a crispy piece of bacon onto her plate, its savory scent and satisfying crunch adding to the comforting ambiance of the Granger family breakfast.
"Not really, Daddy," Hermione replied, her voice soft and affectionate. She hesitated for a moment, contemplating her day. "I mean, I did get invited to a party tonight, but I'm not sure if I want to go anymore."
Helen Granger, Hermione's mother, was a remarkable woman in her own right—beautiful, loving, adoring, and intelligent. But Hermione had always been a daddy's girl through and through. She shared a unique bond with her father, one that went beyond the typical parent-child relationship.
They had their own set of inside jokes, often exchanged with knowing glances and suppressed laughter. Her dad's passion for nerdy pursuits surpassed even her mother's, and together, they could discuss topics that left her mum shaking her head in bemusement.
As their only child, Hermione had been the apple of her father's eye since the day she was born. Their shared interests, quirky humor, and unwavering support for each other had forged an unbreakable connection, making Hermione's moments with her dad truly special.
He eyed her wearily, the weight of the past year evident in the lines that etched his face. It was her mother who broke the silence, her gentle voice filling the room with warmth and wisdom. "You should go, Hermione," she suggested, her tone a blend of encouragement and maternal care. "It would be a nice experience for you. A party with other young people your age, in our world, non-magical. You may find it vastly different than the experiences at Hogwarts."
Hermione offered a grateful smile in response to her mother's words.
Her father, still wearing a weary expression, chimed in with a hint of resignation. "We have an appointment this afternoon with the mind-healer the Ministry assigned us to. The one your friend Harry uses, Dr. Heartwell," he explained, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "They finally were able to assign us one set person. Apparently, since everything that happened last year, they were a bit understaffed."
He shook his head, and his eyes, filled with sadness, met Hermione's. "We wish we could have been there for you," he confessed, his words heavy with the weight of parental regret.
They had been upset she had taken that choice away; they had been confused because as parents it was their job to protect her and not the other way around. After many arguments, they had realized that she only did what she did because it was all she could do for them, and they didn't stand a chance otherwise.
Her father had also encouraged her to see a mind healer, he didn't know the extent or strain of what had happened in the wizarding world, but he was perceptive.
She had refused. This was her way of healing.
Being normal. If only for the year.
A gentle tap on the window of the kitchen door interrupted their conversation, a timely diversion that Hermione silently welcomed. There were wounds, still raw and tender, that she didn't want to open right now.
Crookshanks, lounging comfortably nearby, blinked lazily as her father stood and walked over to open the backdoor, allowing a gust of fresh air to sweep in.
An owl, its feathers a rich, deep brown, swooped gracefully into their kitchen and alighted on the sturdy dining table. It bore two letters, both addressed to Hermione. The owl's presence filled the room with a sense of magical wonder as it delivered its messages, and its feathers rustled softly, leaving a faint trace of enchantment in its wake.
As the owl completed its task and gracefully took flight once more, Hermione's parents stared at the magnificent bird in awe. It was a rare and enchanting sight that never failed to captivate them, reminding them of the magical world they were connected to through their daughter.
With a sense of anticipation, Hermione reached for the letters. From the distinctive handwriting on the envelope in front, she knew the first letter was from Harry, and the second from Ginny. She had requested them to write to her only on the first of every month, in a small attempt to restore a semblance of normality to her life. It wasn't the first of the month yet, but yesterday had been her birthday… not that she had ever made a big deal about that.
Eating breakfast quickly, Hermione savored the flavors of the meal before rising from her chair. She leaned in to kiss both her parents on the cheek, expressing her affection with a tender gesture. Then, with swift steps, she darted up the carpeted stairs, her footsteps echoing softly in the cozy house, Crookshanks trailing behind her like a shadow.
As she reached her room, Hermione felt a mix of anticipation and trepidation. She set both letters down on her well-worn desk, the morning sunlight filtering through the curtains casting a warm glow on the wooden surface. Her room was a sanctuary, filled with books, memories, and a sense of refuge.
Anticipating the possibility of unsettling news, she steeled herself, though she tried to push away those thoughts.
The war was over, and a sense of normalcy had begun to return. Maybe, she reasoned, these letters were simply a sign that her friends missed her, just as she missed them. Her heart ached with the longing for connection and shared moments.
Eyeing the letters, Hermione decided to open Ginny's first:
Hermione,
He's a bloody idiot.
A stupid moron. I cant believe he would do this. Merlin, I am going to strangle him.
Write me back soon please.
Love you always and I hope you had a Happy Birthday,
Ginny
Merlin. That was cryptic, she laughed aloud.
Was she fighting with Harry again and they needed a referee?
Eyeing Harry's letter she sighed and opened it, they would consider a lover's quarrel an emergency:
Mione,
This is utterly ridiculous.
It's ridiculous. I honestly cannot even believe it.
You know things like this could be made up. They could.
What did you do for your Birthday? Happy Birthday. Don't be sad today.
Chuckling softly, Hermione tossed the letters onto her desk. It was clear that Harry and Ginny were in the midst of one of their disagreements, and they probably wanted her to referee or meddle somehow. However, she had no intention of getting caught in the middle of their spats.
As she considered their ongoing quarrels, a pang of sadness washed over her. Yesterday was her birthday, a fact that had slipped her parents' minds. The realization hung heavily in the air, and Hermione had no intention of reminding them. She knew they would feel guilty for forgetting, and she didn't want to burden them with that.
When they eventually remembered, she would assure them it was okay they had forgotten. She'd take the blame, attributing it to her own oversight.
After all, last year, with the war and its tumultuous aftermath, they hadn't celebrated either.
Her birthday felt meaningless, just another day in September.
Before she allowed her thoughts to linger on the possibility of her nineteenth birthday being forgotten, spiraling into self-pity, Hermione decided to take action. She rose from her desk, determined to change the course of her day. Why wallow when she could seize the opportunity to have a memorable night?
With a newfound sense of purpose, she hurried downstairs, her footsteps echoing on the wooden staircase. Her parents were still in the kitchen, and as she entered, a sudden idea took hold of her. Why not attend that party tonight and try to enjoy it, she had said she would go.
It was a chance to break out of her comfort zone, experience something new, and perhaps bond with her mother in the process.
Raising her head high, Hermione made her announcement to her parents. "I've decided to attend my first college party this evening," she declared with a mixture of excitement and determination.
To her delight, her parents beamed with pride at her declaration. In their household, normalcy had always been a foreign concept. While it might not be typical for a nineteen-year-old to inform their parents about attending a party involving drinking (she was never the type), her parents understood that her world and their daughter was unique. They appreciated her honesty and independence, and they embraced the idea of their daughter stepping into new experiences with confidence.
Swelling with pride, her mother stood and exclaimed with an air of enthusiasm, "Well, we've got a few hours before our appointment. How about a spot of shopping, my dear?"
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Staring at the grand Tudor-style mansion, Hermione meticulously examined its architectural intricacies from her privileged viewpoint outside. The clock on the car's dashboard read eight in the evening, its digital numbers glowing softly in the dimming twilight. The sun, though slipping below the horizon, still painted the estate with a warm, golden hue. It illuminated the ivy-covered walls and the manicured gardens that surrounded the sprawling mansion.
Despite the lateness of the hour, the lively sounds and vibrant ambiance of the ongoing party seemed to defy time, spilling out from the grand house and permeating even the farthest reaches of the quiet street.
Laughter and music blended in a harmonious symphony, creating an irresistible invitation for Hermione.
As Hermione continued to admire the impressive English manor, her father, who had dutifully driven her to the event, beamed with pride and gave her an encouraging thumbs-up as she exited his car. Her heart fluttered with a mixture of excitement and nervousness as she watched her father drive away, leaving her to navigate the soirée on her own.
Her choice of attire for the evening was a light blue baby doll dress thoughtfully selected by her mum. They'd gone shopping today, and her mum was ecstatic. Before, Hermione had never cared much about new clothes, the latest fashions, or spa days. Lately, knowing her mum enjoyed these things, she'd made an effort.
She smoothed down the soft fabric, feeling its delicate texture against her skin. Her chestnut hair was elegantly half-pinned up with a charming clip, a touch of autumn approaching in the air, although the evening retained its warmth.
Her wand, a precious accessory for a witch like Hermione, was discreetly concealed within her white purse, which she clutched tightly as she approached the imposing front doors of the Tudor mansion. Each step brought her closer to the heart of the party, and her anticipation grew with every passing moment.
Before she could even raise her hand to knock, the massive oak doors swung open, revealing a friendly brunette with a red solo cup in her hand. Her warm smile exuded a welcoming energy. "Hey there, come in," she greeted enthusiastically. "I'm Shaylynn. You must be one of Charles' friends. I'm his older sister."
Hermione returned the smile and nodded in acknowledgment as she stepped into the grand foyer. The moment she crossed the threshold, the lively atmosphere of the party enveloped her. Conversations filled the air, and partygoers were scattered throughout the spacious entrance hall, some holding glasses, bottles, or cups in their hands. Laughter and excited chatter reverberated off the stone walls, creating an electric energy that coursed through the room.
The music pulsated with a techno beat, its thumping rhythm creating an infectious energy that seemed to synchronize with the collective spirit of the attendees.
While there might not have been the usual rush of colorful magical sparks or the tantalizing scent of mystical enchantments in the air, the atmosphere in the grand Tudor-style mansion felt undeniably enchanting. The hum of excitement was palpable, as if the very walls of the house were alive with the spirit of revelry. Hermione couldn't help but marvel at how ordinary mundanity could transform into something extraordinary when touched by the spark of human enthusiasm.
As she continued to make her way through the crowd, her senses tingled with the anticipation of the night ahead. It was a different kind of magic, one woven by laughter, music, and youthful exuberance.
"Hermione!" a familiar voice suddenly cut through the lively chatter. Hermione's gaze locked onto Alicia's, her vibrant blue eyes shimmering with excitement as she wove her way through the animated gathering. In her hand, she held a small bottle of something mysterious, its label adorned with intricate designs.
With a joyful smile, Hermione extended her arms, welcoming her into a warm embrace.
Alicia playfully showcased the small bottle, raising an eyebrow as she asked, "Do you fancy a shot?" Her mischievous expression hinted at the revelry yet to come, and she bit her lip in anticipation.
"What is that?" Hermione couldn't help but inquire, her curiosity piqued.
Alicia's giggles bubbled forth wholeheartedly, filling the air with infectious laughter. "Don't be silly," she exclaimed, her voice tinged with excitement. "It's tequila, girl! Tell me you've had tequila before."
Wide-eyed and momentarily taken aback, Hermione shook her head, her innocence in matters of spirits and party drinks evident. The idea of consuming tequila was foreign to her, and the prospect of trying it for the first time in this vibrant, non-magical atmosphere added an unexpected layer of excitement to the evening's adventures.
Sure, it wasn't a fire whiskey elixir or butterbeer but how different could it be? Not that she drank much of either. Drinking can mess with your senses, it's distracting. Distractions weren't things she ever allowed, not when the fate of the world was concerned.
Not when a Dark Lord wanted to kill her and all her family and friends.
That was then. And this was now.
Now, she could try this.
Suppressing the urge to spit out the fiery tequila she had just swallowed, Hermione managed to muster an apprehensive smile. "That was bloody horrible," she confessed with a shudder, the taste lingering on her palate. Alicia responded with an infectious giggle.
With her free hand, Alicia firmly grabbed Hermione's, her excitement evident as she led her through the pulsating crowd of partygoers. Sweat-drenched bodies brushed past Hermione, and the rhythmic thumping of the music reverberated through her bones as they navigated through a sea of energetic dancers.
This would be something Ron and George would enjoy, Ginny too. Harry would feel out of place. He wasn't much for crowds.
The atmosphere was electric, filled with an intoxicating blend of laughter, chatter, and the occasional whoop of excitement. A haze of smoke hung in the air, casting an almost ethereal glow over the revelers.
At last, they reached the back patio, a brief reprieve from the intensity of the dance floor and the warmth of the crowded interior.
"You look very lovely Hermione," she stated as they walked and approached two familiar faces. By an outdoor bar area stood Charles and Billy, drinking solo cups and talking about British Football.
This felt familiar. Instead of Quidditch it was football for the muggles.
Men, boys they were the same around the world, weren't they?
"Ah, Black!" Charles called out to someone behind her. Not quite paying attention she started sipping from a cup Alicia had handed her, she'd scooped up some sort of punch from a bowl at the bar and poured it in for her.
This new world, although reminiscent of her own, somehow felt refreshingly uncomplicated. Despite the familiar elements, there was a sense of simplicity that resonated deeply with her. Among all her friends, Harry would have undoubtedly grasped it the most profoundly, he understood muggles, even if he hated crowds.
A cheeriness drawled out of that familiar voice she'd never heard before, cheeriness in that voice.
Still pompous and arrogant but cheery. Of course, he was here. Of course, he'd be at a Muggle party. Why wouldn't he be? It wasn't like he hadn't harbored a deep-seated resentment for everything about this world, and his family had been part of a plot to enslave or eradicate all Muggles only a few months ago.
Swiveling her head, she met his wide, crooked grin, his blue-grey eyes sparked with some unease as he took in her appearance and presence there. The complexity of their history and the tension between their worlds hung palpably in the air as they locked eyes.
"Granger?" Draco said, his surprise not concealed in the slightest in his tone. Charles, feeling somewhat protective of Hermione, puffed his chest up and bellowed out, "You know Hermione?"
Draco arched an eyebrow and observed Charles protective stance, his aristocratic features revealing a trace of intrigue. "We went to school together," he admitted, his voice carrying the hint of a shared history.
Billy, chimed in with a quizzical expression, "In Australia?"
Draco nearly spat out the drink he had been sipping, his grey eyes narrowing with curiosity as he assessed Hermione.
She could practically hear his thoughts. Australia, why in the bloody hell would you say we were from Australia of all places. Might as well have said America? Embarrassing Granger.
After a moment, once he had seemingly gathered himself, he nodded to the others. "Yes," he confirmed his eyes sparking towards her.
Seizing the opportunity to clarify, her voice calm and confident despite the unexpected reunion. "We both attended the same boarding school in Australia," she explained, lied.
Actually, mates you should probably all run and hide because this young lad before you is a bloody wizard and plotted to have you all not exist for most of his life with his father who is an evil death eater and hates non-magical folks like you. And he, in fact, was also a Death Eater for a bit and plotted to have our headmaster murdered. And yeah, I'm a witch too, and I've got a wand in my purse that can do things you all use your hands for. In fact, I could turn everyone in this party into a bloody farm animal if I really wanted to.
The only person she wanted to hex though was Draco.
Twinkling fairy lights (the muggle kind) overhead cast a soft, ethereal glow that transformed the patio into a magical haven.
The music pulsed through the air, creating an infectious rhythm that compelled couples to sway beneath the starry sky. Amid the laughter and animated conversations, glasses clinked in toasts, adding to the lively melody of the evening.
Charles hesitated, his voice a mixture of curiosity and unease. "Well, Draco's distant family, the Malfoys, they own the Apothecary company, and my father was close to his..." He paused, his eyes searching for the right word. "Uncle, was it?" He glanced at Draco, seeking confirmation.
Hmm, Had he?
Draco, maintaining his cool composure, nodded slightly. "That's right, Charles."
Hermione sensed an unspoken tension lingering in the air. Discreetly, she grasped Draco's arm, her fingers inadvertently digging into his forearm as she urged him away from their group of friends and towards a quieter corner of the patio.
No, he wouldn't have dared. Would he?
As they stood beneath the gentle glow of the fairy lights, Hermione's heart raced with anticipation. The soft breeze carried with it a hint of grilled food from a nearby barbecue and the fragrant scent of blooming flowers in the garden. She leaned closer, her voice low but urgent, "Who messed with Charles' memories?"
Draco's gaze met hers, his eyes revealing a glimmer of amusement. "Granger," he said, his voice laced with a hint of wryness, "your nails are digging into my arm, you know. It's quite impolite."
Suppressing the instinct to reach for her wand, Hermione leveled an accusatory glare at Draco, who, in response, rolled his eyes and emitted a sigh of resignation. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his pants, appearing somewhat uncomfortable with the topic at hand.
"The Ministry did," he finally admitted, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "The Malfoys are British royalty, Granger. I'm technically a Lord for Merlin's sake." He paused, letting the weight of that statement hang in the air for a moment. "They had to spin the memories of many Muggles. The Malfoy fortune is centuries old, as is my name. Charles and I knew each other as children. His father was one of my father's Muggle business allies, he now vaguely remembers me as a cousin of that family."
As Draco continued, there was a sense of history and privilege in his words, as if the weight of tradition and legacy rested heavily upon his shoulders. "As purebloods, we've always known we are better than those who do not have magical blood," he admitted, his tone unapologetic. "But our fortune's been around for centuries, long before there was even a divide between our worlds. My family's influence ran, well runs deep in both worlds."
Running her fingers through her hair, Hermione took a moment to absorb the weight of Draco's revelation. She decided to take a long, deep sip from her cup, allowing the liquid to linger on her palate as she processed the information.
The Malfoys' reputation was known in the Wizarding world, that much she had always known. In her pursuit of knowledge about the Wizarding world and its intricate history, she had neglected to delve deeper into the world of Muggle high society.
"You're a bloody Lord?" Hermione finally blurted out, her tone a mixture of astonishment and realization.
The penetrating gaze he held, unmistakably intent, locked onto the cup as it made its journey to a pair of expectant lips. "Was."
Sipping from her cup, her eyes roamed the lively party around her before she shook her head, she didn't like the feeling of not knowing something.
As she continued to drain her cup, a playful smile crept across his face, and he posed an unexpected question.
"How do you feel?" The query hung in the air, accompanied by an uncharacteristic warmth in his expression, and it struck her as an oddly personal inquiry from him. His tone was laced with a mischievous gleam, a hint of amusement dancing in his gaze.
Well, in truth, she felt a lot of things.
Why was he even here?
The alcohol must have loosened her lips.
Her words tumbled out in a torrent, fueled by a potent mix of liquid courage and pent-up emotions. "A bit warm," she confessed, her cheeks tinged with a rosy hue. "I mean, I realize my dress is quite short, and the fact that I'm not wearing a bra is probably clear now because I'm pretty sure you can see my nipples are hard right now, because you're emanating a pretty icy energy," she babbled, the words pouring out like an unbridled stream.
His eyes remained solely on hers.
Her voice quivered with emotions long suppressed. "I'm actually suppressing all these feelings of sadness and anxiety I've developed since the Battle of Hogwarts," she continued, her eyes clouding with memories. "Most days, I think this is all fake. We're still quite at war and in danger."
She took another sip of her drink, trying to steady herself. "I'm upset my parents didn't remember yesterday was my birthday." Her voice wavered, and a trace of vulnerability crept in. "I also don't understand why you're here, interrupting my peace and sanity."
She shifted her gaze to Draco, her eyes locked onto his, and her voice grew softer. "I'm supposed to be a Muggle for a year, to pretend I'm normal like all these people around us. But you're a Death Eater, and, well, not anymore, but you were."
Draco's eyes remained fixed on her, a mixture of curiosity and amusement dancing in them.
"It's like we're stuck in this unfamiliar place together, the only two people who have an inkling for both worlds," she mused, her words slowing as she tried to make sense of the whirlwind of thoughts in her head.
"Merlin, why am I rambling?" she questioned herself, shaking her head in self-disapproval. She then gazed up at Draco, her eyes locking onto his with an odd mix of embarrassment and a touch of appreciation. "You know, if you weren't such a bloody nuisance, a squirrel, you'd actually be quite handsome. That hair, it's like exotic, and your eyes... not many people have eyes like that, quite unique, you are pretty gorgeous admittedly."
Horrified by her own candidness, Hermione covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes darting to her cup.
That little ferret squirrel!
"UGH!"
Out of the torrent of words she had unleashed, the first thing he latched onto was, "Did you just call me a bloody squirrel?" He quirked an eyebrow, his amusement evident, though her words had clearly taken him by surprise.
Feeling a mix of frustration and disbelief, she tossed her cup to the ground with a clatter and crossed her arms, narrowing her gaze at him. "Did you put Veritaserum in the punch?"
Sipping his own cup, Draco nonchalantly tipped it towards her and raised it up and offered a casual shrug. "I'm drinking the punch," he replied instead of answering her question directly with a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.
Suspicion gnawed at Hermione, and she grabbed his cup, hastily bringing it to her nose for a quick sniff. The realization hit her like a jolt of electricity. "This has Veritaserum in it," she exclaimed, shoving it back in his hand her frustration evident. "Bloody hell, how didn't I spot it sooner?"
A dark chuckle escaped Draco's lips as he watched her reaction. "Maybe you were too distracted by my exotic hair and eyes." His brows perked up.
Fighting the urge to slap him, she looked away.
Unbelievable, he was bloody unbelievable; she clenched her fists together, making an angry grunting sound as she turned on her heel and stomped away from him. If she didn't leave right then and there was going to pull her wand out and hex him.
To her utter dismay, he followed her, his enigmatic presence refusing to be shaken off.
Before he could speak, Deanna approached them both, seemingly oblivious to Hermione as she gazed at Malfoy with mystical eyes, utterly captivated and entranced by him.
"Oh, I thought you said you couldn't make it, Draco?" she purred.
He sighed, brushing his hand through his hair casually to the right. "I apologize, Deanna. I didn't know you were talking about this party. Charles invited me a few days ago."
Hermione, growing impatient, brushed past them and continued walking, with Malfoy trailing behind her, leaving Deanna standing alone, her infatuation unreciprocated.
Arguments erupted all around them, like a cacophonous symphony of revelations and raw truths. Whoever had partaken in the punch was now spewing out their innermost secrets and candid confessions, setting off verbal fireworks of honesty in the midst of the party.
It was chaos, complete and utter chaos, and Hermione couldn't help but roll her eyes in exasperation.
Of course, it was Draco Malfoy who had unwittingly triggered this pandemonium.
Figures.
Muggles, mere entertainment.
Catching up to her, Draco revealed a small vial clasped firmly in his hand. "I have an antidote, if you want it," he offered, a hint of sardonic amusement playing at the corner of his lips. "Not sure if you want to go home and start spewing out secrets to whomever awaits for you there."
He had her there.
She hesitated, her thoughts racing as she considered the consequences of returning home in her current state.
Facing her parents with the possibility of voicing her deepest, darkest fears and the sadness that had taken root within her, especially due to their lack of control over what they could remember, was not something she wanted to do.
But this was Draco Malfoy, a name synonymous with hidden agendas and ulterior motives. Her skepticism surfaced. "What do you want?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing as she searched his face for any hint of deception.
She could just hex him, grab it, and run.
What would happen then?
He'd chase her.
They'd start a bloody duel amongst the muggles.
And then they'd both be in Azkaban. No, that wouldn't do, this was already a sick and twisted punishment as it was. Had the ministry sent him here around her on purpose?
Sipping on his cup, Draco remained cool, calm, and collected, the corner of his lip twitching slightly before it curled into a mischievous smile. He gazed down into her eyes, his tone laced with a hint of playfulness. "Just a chat, an hour tops," he proposed, his eyes holding a promise of intrigue.
One hour.
One hour of 'chatting' with Draco Malfoy under the spell of a potion that was used to interrogate potential criminals.
Ignoring the shiver of apprehension rippling through her she gave him a narrowed look and nodded in agreement.
What could go wrong?
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The rhythmic sound echoed in the quietude of the large Tudor estate's front porch as Draco stared out onto the cobblestone street, his long, slender finger tapping thoughtfully.
She watched in silent fascination as he tapped his fingers nervously on the porch railing. It was an unusual sight, seeing the usually composed Slytherin display such a visible sign of anxiety. She had always thought of him as aloof and confident, but this glimpse of vulnerability was captivating.
As he reached into his pocket and produced a small box, her curiosity deepened. What could he be up to? She squinted, trying to make out the contents of the box, and her breath caught when she realized they were muggle cigarettes. It was another shocking revelation too, knowing that he, of all people, indulged in such a muggle habit.
Her heart raced as she watched him light the cigarette without the use of his wand. There was something incredibly alluring about the way his lips touched the cigarette, the way he inhaled slowly and sensuously, savoring every moment of it.
"Those kill you, you know," she said.
Not that they hadn't been through worse.
He chuckled. "Worried about me Granger?"
"Yes," she whispered and put her hand to her mouth and gasped.
He took a slow drag from the cigarette, the glow of the ember casting a soft, enchanting light on his features. Hermione couldn't help but admire the way the shadows played across his sharp cheekbones and the intense look in his stormy gray eyes.
The tendrils of smoke danced around him, creating an ethereal aura. Her heart pounded in her chest as she continued to watch, unable to look away.
Nervously, Hermione clutched her bag, her fingers tightening around the strap as she sipped on a glass of some sort of concoction she had hastily mixed together before following him to this unexpected rendezvous.
Her thoughts drifted to Ron, her boyfriend, and how he would absolutely lose it if he knew she were there, alone with Malfoy at a party, drinking, under the influence of truth serum, and actually engaged in conversation with him.
Not that it was entirely by choice; - she needed the antidote before she could safely return home. Besides, truth be told, Malfoy was a potions whiz. Undoing whatever he'd done would take her hours to figure out, or days, maybe months, and she didn't have that kind of time to brew her own antidote. The effects lasted twenty-four hours and a lot of damage could be done in twenty-four hours.
"Happy Belated Birthday," he began, his voice tinged with an unexpected warmth, ignoring what she had said before about smoking.
Rolling her eyes, Hermione took a sip of her non-potioned drink and let out a heavy sigh. She continued to stare straight ahead into the cobblestone street, the cacophony of noise buzzing behind them. The music blared, punctuated by the sounds of laughter, screams, and cries from the revelers all around.
"Why'd you spike the punch?" she asked, her tone a mixture of curiosity and exasperation.
If she could guess it was a combination of boredom and for his own amusement, but she wanted to try and take control of the conversation if she could. Just being beside him at that moment felt like a betrayal to herself, her friends, and everything she stood for. Regardless if they were stuck working together and going to college together, it didn't mean they needed to spend time together socially.
"They took my wand," he admitted bitterly, a tinge of resentment coloring his voice. "Of course, I still have the capability to do some wandless magic, but you and I both know that's not the same thing." She couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to be without her own wand, and she instinctively clutched her purse a bit closer as she looked at him and watched him stare gravely into the distance.
For a moment, she almost felt bad for him.
Almost.
"You're on probation, Malfoy," she reminded him, her tone carrying a hint of sympathy. "They're trying to keep you out of trouble. And safe."
"Safe," he mused with a wry chuckle, his amusement mingling with a bitter undertone. "I'll be lucky if I make it to my father's trial at the end of this year. Do you have any idea how many people want me dead?" His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his past and present.
He was under the ministry's protection. They were forcing him to live in muggle London and had even changed people's memories…
Maybe he was really in danger.
"No, I honestly didn't give it much thought, nor did I realize," Hermione admitted with a tinge of regret. "I read about the fact that you and your mother were in hiding and were going to be testifying, but I figured the Ministry would do everything in their power to keep you both safe." She paused, her words becoming more encouraging and heartfelt. "Most of the people who would want you or your mother out of the picture will all be put away soon. And even if their families are upset with that fact, you can't let them deter you from carrying on. You have a future to think of."
As she spoke, Hermione couldn't help but reflect on how her words flowed freely, a cascade of thoughts and emotions spilling forth. She realized that it must have been the potion that was making her ramble on like this; she'd never do it otherwise.
This was Malfoy, after all.
Malfoy, with his distinctive grey-blue eyes that seemed to hold a depth of hidden emotions.
"I'd retort and say I don't have a future," he began, his tone light but with a touch of self-deprecation, "but if the Golden Girl is saying I do on truth serum, then..." He turned towards her, a playful smile gracing his lips. "Maybe I do."
Something peculiar stirred in her stomach, a sensation akin to a summersault, as Hermione shifted her gaze away from him. She felt the warmth of a blush creeping up her cheeks, her heart beating just a little faster than usual.
Setting her cup down with deliberate care, she adjusted her position and swallowed as he continued to speak. His words had a raw honesty that struck a chord with her.
"I spiked the punch because I was bored, Granger," he admitted, his voice tinged with a sense of frustration. "I can mix most potions with my eyes closed, and I miss our world. This muggle bullshit is bloody… hell," he concluded, his sentiment clear.
"Report me, I guess if it pleases you," he added with a nonchalant shrug. "I didn't know you'd be here. The Golden Girl at a party? I'd never have guessed it; thought you'd be holed up in a library all weekend preparing for the next war or worried about the muggle politics and their upcoming war."
Hermione chuckled softly at the accurate assessment. "I probably would be," she admitted, "if it weren't for the fact that this year, I'm trying to live a different sort of life."
He shook his head, a hint of condescension creeping into his voice. "A muggle life," he uttered dismissively, his tone carrying the weight of his disdain for the unfamiliar world that surrounded them. Before Hermione could embark on a rant about muggles and his continued prejudice against them, along with his current predicament of living like one, he changed the subject. "Where are you from originally?" he asked, his curiosity piqued, as if wanting to understand more about her background.
Fiddling with the strap of her bag, Hermione answered. There was no use in attempting to lie, not under the influence of Veritaserum. "Well, I tell everyone now that I'm back in London that I'm from Wiltshire, which I know is where you're from, but I'm actually from Oxfordshire. I was born there."
Draco's response was unexpectedly contemplative. "Oxfordshire, huh? Not a bad place to be from, I suppose," he mused, his tone carrying a trace of nostalgia as he flicked the cigarette he had been smoking.
Nodding, Hermione turned her gaze straight ahead, fixating on a street lamp down the block. "Yes, my mother's family came from France ages ago, and my father's mother was Scottish, but we just consider ourselves Brits at this point. We're not fancy little Wiltshire folks like the Malfoys—Brits to the bone."
"And blood, pure," he added playfully, earning him a light smack on the shoulder. She quickly withdrew her hand, realizing that their bodies had accidentally touched.
Pureblood Brit to the bone. In every way.
A bloody Lord, for Merlin's sake.
He chuckled at her reaction, and a subtle camaraderie seemed to be growing between them. This potion and the alcohol seemed deceiving; she thought as she made sure to not make contact with his body again.
"I'm quite surprised you asked to chat with me. And that you wanted to be partners in Lit," Hermione admitted aloud, her thoughts drifting to their recent interactions.
"Why's that?" Draco asked, his slender fingers tapping on the porch with a rhythmic beat.
Biting her lip, Hermione hesitated for a moment before deciding to be candid.
"Spit it out, Granger. It's not like you can control it."
"Because I'm a Mudblood," she confessed, the words heavy with the painful truth.
The memory of Draco's prior taunts and the word "filthy Mudblood" raced through her mind.
He tensed beside her and turned his head to face the opposite direction, his reaction clearly conflicted. But when he turned back to face her, his expression had softened. "You're Hermione Granger, one-third of the Golden Trio. You're not just a Mudblood." He said the word distastefully, unlike she's ever heard him say it before.
Maybe it was the potion and the alcohol or the combination of both, but Hermione couldn't help but press further. "Is that what you thought when your aunt tortured me in your drawing room?" she asked pointedly, her gaze locked onto his.
He flinched, his eyes reflecting the weight of that dark moment.
"I wish I could go back to that moment, Granger," His lips confessed, his voice heavy with remorse. "I wish I'd had the guts to do something, not just stand there in fear while you called my name, while you begged me to help you. I should have done something. I'm a coward, Hermione."
The weight of his admission hung in the air, and Hermione could feel herself spiraling into a deeper emotional state.
It was too heavy, too intense, and she needed to change the subject.
Heart to hearts with Malfoy, no that was treacherous.
And somehow that's what she found happening.
She talked to him about Hogwarts, about how it was before the war and everything she missed about it. That earned her a smile from him as he took out another cigarette.
After one hour, they stood, and he offered to go for a walk, and she had agreed. They walked the cobblestone streets and walked past other Saturday night shenanigans.
Passing grand homes hosting events, they eventually reached a downtown area filled with coffee shops, stores, and bars.
He bought them beers at a local pub and with wandless magic made them look like coffee as they continued to chat. It amazed her, but she didn't say so.
They debated house elf rights.
The potion's effects couldn't hide when he agreed with her. When it came to lycanthropy he disagreed with her adamantly. "Too dangerous Granger, they shouldn't have equal rights in most things because they cannot be controlled. Elves although sometimes ditzy," he chuckled, "can actually be quite rational."
She stared at a group of teenagers playing with sparklers and wondered what life would have been like if she hadn't grown up in Hogwarts,. She felt him watching her.
When they walked towards a park and he went for another cigarette she shook her head and told him, "Were supposed to be at a party Malfoy."
He shrugged playfully. "This seems more fun, doesn't it?"
Swallowing, she nodded. There was no way she could lie.
This felt…nice.
Normal even.
Somehow, they started talking about their goals.
Their dreams. What they now wanted from life since the war was over.
"You want to change the world, Granger," he said with a knowing glint in his eyes. "Keep everyone safe. Happy. Equal rights for all. Be rid of archaic rules. You're going to get into law."
Hermione's eyes widened in surprise, her lips parting slightly as if she hadn't expected him to understand her ambitions so well. His words hit the mark, and she couldn't deny the truth in them. But Draco couldn't resist a playful jab. "Archaic rules like Shakespeare's work," he added, his tone teasing and light, as if he were intentionally pushing her buttons.
Rolling her eyes, Hermione chuckled, her voice carrying a hint of playful sarcasm. "And you, Malfoy, want to end your probation," she said, her words laced with a knowing tone. "Go back to the wizarding world and continue to be the Malfoy heir, take over your role as a good English Lord. Live the conventional, easy path. Shag, drink, travel, and buy whatever your heart desires."
Draco arched an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Well, Granger," he replied, taking another slow drag from his cigarette, "you've got me all figured out, haven't you?"
"Well, don't I?" Hermione had asked with a mischievous glint in her eyes, her confidence shining through.
Draco, however, shook his head, the cigarette smoldering between his fingers. "No," he replied, the corners of his mouth quirking up into a faint smile.
"What do you want to do?" Hermione inquired, her curiosity piqued as she gazed at Draco, trying to understand the depths of his desires.
He shrugged, his gaze momentarily drifting past her toward a group of people pouring out of a nearby pub, their laughter filling the evening air as they tumbled over each other in mirth. "I do miss playing Quidditch," he admitted with a touch of nostalgia in his voice, as if reminiscing about a simpler time.
They didn't talk about the Battle of Hogwarts, the wounds from that time still too fresh and painful. But as they continued to chat, he opened up about the period that followed. He spoke of the aftermath, the way it had changed him. He confessed that he had felt different afterward, as if a part of him had been irreparably altered. "Sometimes," he admitted, his voice tinged with vulnerability, "I feel lost. Lately, in this new world, it's as if I'll never find myself."
Hermione listened intently, her heart aching for him as she tried to understand the weight of his words. But before the conversation could delve deeper into the realm of emotions, Draco's gaze brightened with a sudden discovery up ahead—a taco cart. Without hesitation, he grabbed her hand, and they darted towards it. With muggle money in hand, he ordered a couple of tacos, and they devoured them with gusto, the flavors exploding in their mouths.
Laughter bubbled between them as they moved on to a nearby pub. He swiftly ordered them drinks, and they settled onto barstools. Hermione, emboldened by the alcohol and the intimate conversation, began to share her own struggles. She told him about her parents, about the heart-wrenching necessity of erasing their memories to protect them. She learned he hated the taste of most beers, but settled on gin, still complaining about the beer they had earlier.
Butterbeer was actually quite delicious.
Draco's expression softened, and he confessed, "I wish I could have saved my mother from the same fate." It was a moment of vulnerability they both shared, their confessions pouring out like a cathartic release.
As the night wore on, and the alcohol flowed, their inhibitions faded away. Her heart did indeed feel strange things, their connection deepening with each passing moment.
They were drunk, they had to be, there wasn't any other explanation for both of them willingly spending this much time together, sharing their innermost thoughts and feelings in a way they never had before.
She accepted this state of disconnect.
This release.
She was still peeved about his methods and how this came about.
The truth serum, but she had nothing to lose.
There was no Hogwarts here, no houses, no prejudice, he wasn't even a Malfoy anymore in this world.
Checking his watch on his wrist he perked his brow. "Three in the morning Granger."
The bartender called for the last call.
She'd never in her wildest dreams imagined being in muggle London, with Malfoy.
Not ever.
He paid, she let him.
And they went outside of the pub and she yawned, her eyes glazed. The potion and the alcohol swirling. He stood beside her and told her he'd hail a cab for her as soon as he saw one. She had told him she'd just apparate home and he reminded her she wasn't allowed to do that here.
"Why did you want to chat with me?" she asked realizing one hour had turned into six, her voice shaking slightly. He stared at her, his grey-blue eyes swirling with some strange emotion she didn't understand, clearly taken aback by her abrupt shift in topic, and he let out a sigh.
He remained perfectly stoic, contemplative, conflicted.
And then he responded.
"We can't be friends?" he inquired, his expression a mix of curiosity and something else, he was looking at her strangely.
A sound escaped her lips and she chuckled softly at the notion of Draco and her being friends, thinking that perhaps he had added a delusional ingredient to his potion.
"We're not going to be friends, Draco," she stated firmly.
Why not? She answered her own thoughts, because he's still Malfoy, not in this world but their real world, she felt herself sobering.
He had moved closer to her, their faces now mere inches apart as they stood facing each other.
His gaze bore into hers as he whispered, "No, I don't think we are, Granger."
His beautiful eyes gleamed and his face was very close to hers.
Too much alcohol.
Time seemed to slow as their lips met, and the world around them faded into obscurity. The taste of him, a mingling of the remnants of their drinks and something uniquely Draco, lingered on her tongue.
His lips were surprisingly soft, moving with a delicate urgency, and she felt herself instinctively leaning into the kiss, her heart racing, his hands ran through her hair gently,
He was so tall, so regal as he leaned over and into her, enveloped her.
He was lean, but it was pure muscle still.
She could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin, their breaths mingling in a shared rhythm, his tongue dancing behind her teeth and gently tug on her bottom lip.
Spearmint, Vanilla, and Cedarwood.
Her fingers trembled slightly as they found their way to his cheek, the sensation of his stubble brushing against her fingertips sending shivers down her spine.
The world seemed to disappear, leaving only the gentle pressure of their lips locked in an intimate dance. Emotions swirled within her—a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and a growing desire she hadn't expected. Would have never expected.
It was as if a bridge had been built between them, connecting their past and present, and they were crossing it together in this stolen moment.
But then, in a sudden jolt of realization, Hermione pulled back.
The weight of her actions and the consequences crashed upon her.
She remembered who Draco Malfoy was, what he stood for, and the fact that she had a boyfriend waiting for her.
Her hand instinctively moved, not to caress but to push him away.
His face remained blank as he disengaged, abruptly breaking the connection.
With an air of indifference, he stood and tossed a vial at her along with a folded newspaper article at her, she grabbed both swiftly.
"You deserve better, Granger. The twit finally earns himself something of value, something Gold and he tosses it away as if it's not valuable, it's ridiculous," he scoffed, ruffled his hair in frustration, let out a heavy sigh, and then hailed down a cab and opened the door for her and then turned and left Hermione standing there, a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts churning inside her.
Slowly, she entered the cab sat down and told the driver her address.
Staring at the antidote vial he had tossed her, she hesitated for a moment. She contemplated whether it was indeed a genuine antidote or if it had some other unknown effect.
Her treacherous lips had kissed Malfoy.
Of all people, Hermione Granger had kissed Draco Fucking Malfoy!
The situation could not have been any worse, and her curiosity about the contents of the folded newspaper article nagged at her.
With a deep breath, she made a decision, taking a leap of faith.
Playing roulette with her life like she'd done so by allowing Malfoy to kiss her, opening up to him and "chatting" all evening, she downed the potion from the vial. The liquid slid down her throat, and she waited anxiously, hoping that Draco had indeed given her a way out of the truth serum's effects.
Unfolding the newspaper article, she stared at the cover of the page as the image moved.
Stared until she felt her breath leave her chest, and for a fleeting moment, she thought that maybe Draco had poisoned her or given her something to distort images in front of her.
But no, that was her chest struggling to breathe because she genuinely couldn't breathe.
She couldn't think.
She couldn't breathe.
Her heart felt cracked.
It felt bloody cracked.
On the cover of the Daily Prophet, the image showed a red-headed male standing in front of a bustling marketplace, locked in a passionate kiss with a blonde woman.
The blonde looked nothing like her, but the boy,
the boy she recognized all too well.
That was her boy.
That was her boyfriend, Ron.
Ron was kissing someone else.
Ginny's and Harry's letters this morning suddenly made sense.
And she was a hypocrite, because she'd just done the same.