Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. It and any characters from the franchise that may appear in this fanfiction are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling. This story was written for entertainment purposes only and no profit is made from this story.
Author's note: Eternal thanks to my beta, GeekandProud (AO3) a.k.a. AnimeIsMyCrack (FF) who also made the cover image for this story.
Draco gasped when he returned to his body, Deandra sitting next to him, a frown on her face.
"Are you all right, little dragon?" she asked, touching his shoulder gently.
He wasn't. He'd been reliving memories for what seemed like ages. Just how many of them had Hermione managed to remove just to keep them safe in this war? And the one he'd hidden in the charm… Merlin. He'd really decided to go back all those years if she would die, hadn't he? Draco Malfoy, the prince of Slytherin house, bigoted bully, had been swept of his feet by a muggle-born witch. If anyone would have told this to him even a few weeks ago, he'd tell them they were nuts. But now… After reliving those memories with Hermione… He understood why he wanted to fulfil his promise to her and make both hers, and Harry's, lives better. She'd stood by him through his darkest days. He'd stand by her and make sure the darkness wouldn't reach her this time.
He let out a deep sigh. None of this would have been bloody necessary if snake face had just stayed dead, like he was supposed to. But no, that madman had to go and make seven fucking Horcruxes. How the bloody hell was he supposed to solve that? Hermione said they'd never really figured out what all seven of the Horcruxes had been. The diary, which was hidden in the secret room under the drawing room at Malfoy manor was one. Deandra had bristled when she realised such a dark object had been close enough to taint the Malfoy wards for years.
There were still six others left. Well. Five. Maybe? In one of the memories he'd lived through, she had admitted to him that she thought Potter might be tainted with a piece of Voldemort's soul. That cursed scar Draco had made fun of so often, was more than it seemed. He definitely needed to look into that when the timeline stabilised itself.
"Your aunt was quite unhinged when she realised they had the Sword of Gryffindor with them when they arrived at the manor," Deandra mused, remembering the arrival of the golden trio better than Draco did. "Since Voldemort gave a Horcrux to your father, is it too farfetched to assume he has given another to one of his other followers for safekeeping? Maybe the Horcrux is in her vault, since she was so terrified that they had somehow managed to get in there and steal the sword."
"That still leaves us four," he answered, trying to sit up. Deandra put her hand on his shoulder and put him down again.
"There's one thread left to fix," she said right before he was sucked into the final memory.
He was standing on the quidditch pitch, his Firebolt in his hand. He took a deep breath, enjoying the wind through his hair, the smell of freshly mown grass and wet mud mixing in the air. It had just stopped raining, and the Forbidden Forest seemed more foggy than usual. Draco was completely alone on the pitch, just as he preferred, while everyone else was in the castle still. This was the perfect time for some peaceful flying. Oh, how he'd missed flying ever since Moldy Pants and company had moved in with him. Flying was freedom, and as he now knew very well, freedom was power.
"I'm sure you're not here to fly. So what brings you here, Granger?" he heard himself taunt as Hermione's magical signature walked closer to him. During the memories he had become more and more attuned to her, but he was unsure if his past self had actually felt it as strongly or if he was just projecting and observing too much as he relived these memories.
"Sod off, Malfoy," she said right as he turned to her. She had clearly been using her wand as an umbrella to protect her from the rain, the droplets still hanging onto the invisible magical shield. She looked younger than when he'd last seen her, and he was in awe of her ease in using magic. How could he ever have thought she was beneath him? She belonged in the magical world, manipulating and bending the magical currents around her to her will. She was fucking brilliant, and he'd always been too stupid to see it.
Hermione was babbling about something, some project for Vector. Even though his memory-self was replying to her, he took his time to study her. This was the last memory. The last time he'd see her. His 'Mione. After this, she would be truly dead. No one but he would remember her, and he wanted to cherish every memory he had of her, not ready to say goodbye just yet.
"And taking a well-deserved break will empty my mind and help me to come up with a solution to our arithmancy problem," he heard himself argue back at her. "So, if you wouldn't mind and move your arse off the quidditch pitch so I can fly in peace, Hermione. I could do without you screeching like a harpy at me."
She was wiping the raindrops left on her wand on the hem of her robes and, suddenly pausing as she'd just realised what he'd called her.
"Well, Draco, why don't you make me move?" she huffed, glaring at him angrily, her magic crackling at him in annoyance. "Or is that unbecoming of one of your pedigree, to remove the mudblood filth out of the way?"
Why was she using such foul words with him, he wondered? To show him that even his words couldn't hurt her anymore? That she was above all that bigoted nonsense now?
His memory-self smirked at her and strode over. "My my, Granger, no need to talk yourself down in front of me. I'm articulate enough to make you go crying to Potty and Weaselbee without your assistance."
She glared up at him defiantly, chin up in the air. He was trying to determine when this happened as their past selves kept arguing, tensions raising higher. Even if he wanted to remember her, he didn't need to remember the hateful words they used to spit at each other. Instead, he observed his surroundings. The quidditch pitch was back to normal, so this encounter must've happened after the Triwizard Tournament. The trees around them were starting to turn bright hues of reds and yellows. Mhm. Autumn of their fifth year then.
Hermione raised her hands in the air helplessly, distracting him from his thoughts. "I don't have time for this, Malfoy. I want this project to be finished. Some of us have actual friends to hang out with."
His memory bristled at that. She'd managed to get under his skin with that one. He had always known that Crabbe and Goyle were more bodyguards than friends. Pansy didn't care about him in the slightest. She was just trying to be the perfect little pureblood, so she could become his betrothed and eventually the future Lady Malfoy – if only she knew that what she deemed to be a mudblood had technically taken up that title. Theo, Blaise and Daphne were alright though, but he never spent much time with them. He'd always learnt to never trust anyone but himself. Fear, envy, and wealth had made him the Slyherin prince, not making friends with his fellow house mates. The one time he attempted to make a friend... Harry Potter had spat it back in his face, even if Draco had to admit that he was a git back then. There was only one person he trusted in the end. Only one who truly trusted him. Hermione.
And here she was, standing right in front of him, still so defiant. He loved her for it. She would never let him walk over her. Ever since she punched him in the face in third year, she'd never backed down from a fight with him.
"You could hang out with me instead," his memory answered, seemingly not letting her words get to him. "Perhaps we can go for a fly, Granger. You can always take a ride on my broomstick," he smirked suggestively, arching an elegant eyebrow at her. His eyes burning with humour.
Hermione blinked rapidly at him and he could see a slight blush tinge her cheeks. "Are you barking mad, Malfoy?" she hissed. "Honestly, if this is your idea of fun then you can go fuck yourself," she spat. She was still as feisty as ever, and so easy to rile up. He'd have to help her learn not to do that if she would truly become a snake. As a Gryffindor, she was like an open book, easy to read. That could be her downfall if she did that around their enemies, around the snakes who would defy her presence in Slytherin House. That was if she ended up getting sorted there the next time round.
"But what would be the fun in that, Granger?" he whispered as he took a step closer to her, faintly noticing he was already a head taller than her. "Are you sure you came to endure the rainy weather just to finish some project that Vector assigned us? Are you sure you didn't just come outside because you were following me?"
Draco noticed how close they were, their noses almost touching as she glared up at him. She was still flustered, but also still refusing to back down from his taunting. "Why would I want to follow you?" she asked, her Gryffindor courage not failing her for a single second.
"Because you can feel this," he exclaimed as he reached to her with his magic, pulling on the thin thread that seemed to bind them together. There went that theory. Seems like his memory-self definitely was aware of her magical signature if he could so easily grab onto it.
Hermione took a step back, startled at feeling his magic grabbing onto hers, pointing her wand at him, ready to make him let go of her.
"What? Aren't Potter and Weasel as attuned to you as I am?" he smirked, stepping forward and closing the distance again. "Even after all the adventures you've been through they still don't know it's you who's approaching them in the Great Hall? Or do you not know what this actually means, being so attuned to me. It wouldn't surprise me if you didn't considering your less than fortunate upbringing."
Hatred flared in her eyes for a split second, and she flicked her wand, her magic lashing out at him like a whip, making his magic let go of hers. Bloody hell that hurt. Seems like she couldn't just pack a physical punch. Her magical ones were even harder.
"Never touch a lady without her permission, Draco," was all Deandra commented as the spirit observed the scene.
"I do know what it means," she spat back at him, taking a few steps back, holding her wand in front of her protectively, ready to hex him within an inch of his life. "I researched it ever since last year when you said it's easy for you to locate me based on my magical signature. If the books I've read are to be believed, and trust me they are because I've cross-checked them, then you have a thing for me."
"Ten points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger" Draco smirked, clapping his hands as he closed in on her again. "But you seem to have forgotten one tiny detail. How exactly did you end up finding me here at the quidditch pitch? What brought you here?"
"What kind of question is that," she huffed. "You always go to the quidditch pitch right after it stops raining."
Draco came to a stop right in front of her, the tip of her wand resting over his heart. He smirked down at her, daring her to act, show some of that Gryffindor bravery. "I do. And have you and your brilliant deduction skills figured out how exactly you know that bit of information about me?"
She whipped her head angrily, almost yelling at him. "Because I can…" Her mouth hung open for a second, her wand hanging loosely in the air as realisation dawned in her eyes.
He'd assumed that whatever thread between them had gotten stronger over the years, had been there all along. Draco remembered feeling her from the first day he met her, but he'd never thought about it twice those first years. He was so eager to please his father, so eager to forget his lessons. There was a reason why some wizards and witches were so attuned to others' magical signatures. Some people had a natural affinity for seeing magical signatures and connecting the threads. Luna Lovegood was a prime example of that, inheriting the trait from her mother Pandora. Most family members had no issues locating one another based on their common magical signature. He was pretty sure that the Weasley's clock which Hermione had mentioned to him once worked just because it was attuned to every family member's magical core. But one thing which every wizarding family knew was that sometimes, someone else's magic called on you. As Deandra had mentioned, it was almost like fate. Magic guiding the way, but leaving the wizards and witches the choice to act on it.
If Hermione truly had been the descendant of Armand Malfoy's adopted daughter, then what they felt could be just that. It could be nothing more than the two family lines, wanting to reunite, recognizing each other after being separated for 900 years. But after all the memories he'd witnessed, he couldn't help but wonder, if fate had had more in store for them than just making them recognize the ancient vow between Armand and Celeste.
He reached out again with his magic, carefully this time, brushing hers gently. The choice would be up to her if she would let him in or not.
"You can feel that, right?" he asked.
Hermione lowered her wand and closed her eyes, curiously reaching out with her magic. When she gently took hold of his, her face lit up, and so did his.
"You could've just asked me to kiss you, instead of bullying and annoying me for four years to make me notice you," she boldly stated, quirking an eyebrow at him.
Now it was his turn to stammer, scowling at her. "I don't want your filthy mouth anywhere near me, Granger," he sputtered.
She smirked at him, grabbing hold of his magic tightly, sending tingles up his arm. "Liar. You've been trying so hard to remove yourself from me, only slightly deviating from your stubborn path of ignoring me at the Yule Ball. But you've never been as vile since then. You've lost your bite, Malfoy. All you do now is bark."
This time, it was her taking a step closer to him, and she looked up at him expectantly, raising an eyebrow at him to daring him to disagree.
"You're absolutely infuriating, Granger" he murmured. "Just my luck to feel connected to a bloody little know-it-all."
She laughed and grabbed all of her Gryffindor courage, pulling his head down to hers.
"This is your last chance to back out, Malfoy," she whispered against his lips. "And your only chance. I'm done playing games with you."
"Bloody hell. Just shut the fuck up, Hermione," he said as he kissed her, his hands delving into her wild mass of curls, pulling her against him. Her hands moving from his cheeks to his hair, tugging on the strands, swallowing his growl, as she pressed into his tall unyielding frame. At least now he knew why she had scolded him for identifying the smell of the quidditch field right after the rain in his amortentia during potions class.