Chapter 8: Caught in a Landslide
"You should have left. You should have gone home and never come back. I told you to leave," he spits out, hands still clenching her arms. She stares up at him, peering into the depths of his eyes hidden behind the mask, but she isn't scared.
She anticipates a moment of fear, expecting the touch on her arms to echo Ron's memory, but it never comes. These hands elicit a feeling of something else…something deep within her that she pushes aside.
Her heart pounds a steady rhythm from within its confines as she finds her voice again, "I can help you," she bites back, eyes struggling to adjust in the darkness.
"You can't help me." His voice is a growl. She isn't frightened, this shiver that runs down her spine settles somewhere closer to her middle. Her cheeks flush at the mere thought, the tinge from where her mind went for just a moment.
"I can, Harry is an Auror…or Kingsley, I can petition Kings—"
He snorts at her, unclenching his hand and taking a step back, creating distance. The instant there's a breath of space between them, her heart lurches at the absence.
He moves away, adept in the darkness as she snatches her wand up from the floor, casting Lumos. Malfoy raises a hand, shielding himself and recoiling at the sudden onslaught of light as though it burns.
He recovers, straightening to his full height. His tall and lean frame paired with the mask makes him look ominous. His skin is sallow, almost translucent from being down here for so long—a ghost of his former self.
"Don't you realise they're the ones that put me in here? Think about it, Granger, use that brain of yours." His words now glide with a smoother edge, lacking the usual bite in his tone.
She lowers her wand, the light illuminates them from below, casting long shadows in the tiny room.
His jaw slackens as he drinks in the sight of her. Those pale eyes she's been seeing everywhere flit over her face, lingering on her lips for a moment before falling to the wand in her hand. She takes a step back, bumping into the doorway and watches as his shoulders sag, his breath leaving in a whoosh.
"You need to leave."
"Wha—"
"You need to leave," he repeats through his teeth. His hand settles onto hers, clenching around her fingers as his thumb sweeps over her knuckles. A familiar wave of heat pulses through her at the intimate touch, but she doesn't recoil.
"I'm not leaving."
He knows something…
"Granger, you have to. It's not safe for you to be here," he almost whispers, his eyes linger on her hand, his body language softening even further with his tone. She follows his gaze to the slight sparkle of silver in the light.
Her brows furrow together for a moment in thought. He's pushing me away…
"Tomorrow, I'm coming back tomorr—"
Before she can finish, he is already pushing her out of the way, reaching for the doorknob. His hand hovers, fingers twitching before forming a fist.
"You need to open the door…I-I can't."
Her stomach drops, plummeting through the floor and she obeys, opening the door and slipping into the antechamber. "I'm coming back," she states, her voice carrying a resolute edge that leaves no room for discussion. He acknowledges her words with a resigned nod.
She recasts the spell—as if she were never there—and watches as Malfoy disappears back into the empty room. His eyes find hers before knowingly falling back to the ring on her thumb. Unlike Harry, his face doesn't betray an ounce of emotion.
She closes the door behind her.
Looking left and right to make sure she is still alone, Hermione is on her way again. An unwarranted shiver runs down her spine as she treks down the hallway toward the lifts.
Even behind the closed door that now stands between them, it feels as though his gaze stays on her retreating figure, an invisible connection that defies barriers now that she knows the identity—the real identity—of the masked man.
Hermione arrives home in a daze. She barely remembers the walk from the Department of Mysteries to the atrium, from the atrium to the Floo and to the apparition point. Her mind is still swirling with the discovery.
How could I have been so blind? It was right in front of me…
Part of her feels like she's failed him, like she should have known immediately it was Malfoy in the Department of Mysteries. His eyes alone should have given him away. The timeline of seeing him at his trial, followed by nothing in the papers should have been a big enough clue. Even Pansy leaving the ring on her desk…
She stands in front of her apartment door for a moment, her hand finding the ring on her thumb and twisting it as she thinks. Malfoy had noticed her wearing it. His grey eyes had softened when he saw it.
Shaking her head, she regains her train of thought, digging in her bag for her keys. It twists in the lock with a lack of resistance.
Did I leave the door unlocked? Breaking into a cold sweat, the perspiration gathers on her palms leaving them slick.
Hermione pushes the door open, keeping her breathing even and steady, internally talking herself through what could possibly happen if she's met with an intruder behind this door. Her hand hovers over her wand in her bag, ready to draw at any moment.
Ron sits on the couch, idly flipping through a book he no doubt found in the piles next to her coffee table. He turns with a serious expression, his brows knit together carefully as he plops the book face down on the arm of her couch. The Green Knight…
"I thought you'd be home earlier." His accusatory tone startles her, while she's still getting over the surprise of finding him in her home.
"I was finishing something at work, I had to stay late." The lie comes out with ease, something she hasn't experienced before. "What are you doing here? I said I wanted to be alone tonight."
"I wanted to surprise you with dinner…" he trails off and she crosses the threshold, dropping her keys and bag into their respective spot. She reflexively looks into the kitchen, trying to see if anything has been started on the stove. Nothing.
Ron doesn't budge as she approaches. Instead, he removes his feet from the coffee table, sitting up straight. Hermione can see Crookshanks in the doorway of her bedroom, glaring at the intruder on her couch.
She moves to the living room, sitting on the opposite end of the couch and waits for Ron to continue. She reminds herself to breathe, reminds herself to take in air as Ron, whom she told not to come over tonight, sits on her couch, in her living room. In her space that is hers and only hers.
He looks at her before casting down his eyes and rubbing the back of his neck, "I shouldn't have cornered you at work today. That wasn't fair." There's a sincerity in his voice she hasn't heard in a while; it catches her off guard, her heart thundering in her chest.
I wonder who he talked to that made him change his mind like that…
Hermione's hands settle in her lap, fidgeting as she tries to meet his gaze. "You're right, you shouldn't have cornered me at work today," she parrots back to him before adding, "I have a job to do, Ron, just as much as you do."
She wishes he had just sent flowers like last time. His encroachment on her nightly routine—his supposed innocent visit—doesn't sit right with her. His hostility towards her earlier today, his condescension when she told him she hadn't been going to her therapy appointments when even he had been going to his.
The rational part of her just wants to see it for what it is, her boyfriend dropping in on her, but she's uneasy. The primal part of her, the one that reminds her to breathe when she forgets and to eat and to sleep is screaming inside of her. This should be nothing more than a simple visit, a kind-hearted wellness check, but she knows this will end in yelling. She knows it will come to a boil and Ron will scream and she will just take it.
He scoots across the couch, grasping her fingers lightly, stopping the motion of them, holding them still. His touch is gentle, sweeping his fingers over hers, caressing her skin. The same, spot where Malfoy had touched her earlier, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. His proximity andthe heat rolling off of him causes the air to catch in her lungs as she presses her back against the couch.
Ron gazes at her with what she can only assume is an apologetic look. His hand leaves hers, ghosting across her arm before cupping her face gingerly.
"I'm sorry I've been so angry lately." It's a whisper between the two of them, the words falling in the uncomfortable silence.
She waits, breath catching in her throat as she maintains eye contact with him. Waiting for that feeling, the butterflies or the gleeful racing of her heart , but it doesn't come. Not when he leans in, and not when his lips inevitably brush hers.
She's always been waiting—and wanting—for a feeling that never comes. Instead, Ron elicits a response of nothing.
In the beginning, she thought the absence of butterflies was from being comfortable, attributed to the tranquility born from familiarity. For her, falling in love with her best friend had felt akin to stepping into a lukewarm bath–unremarkable and undeniably ordinary but comforting.
His hand finds the back of her head, knotting into her hair as he deepens the kiss. Closing the gap, he presses their bodies tighter until there's no more space. She takes a deep breath through her nose, thinking about the sensation, the pressure of his hands.
Ron gives her hair a gentle tug, craning her neck back as his other hand finds her breast, massaging it clumsily. Hermione fights the instinct to recoil, tries to lean in as he trails kisses along her jaw. She takes his hand, gentle guidance, and slips it around her waist.
She tries again, to think about what she wants from him. The smell of Irish Spring fills her nose, while her senses try to embrace the familiar tones of bergamot and citrus.
Being with Ron in an intimate way has always felt graceless, but not in an endearing way. Fumbling with bra clasps, knocking of teeth, not enough foreplay. At the start, she thought it was just going to be a phase as they grew from friends to something more. But almost two years into their relationship and nearly nothing has changed.
He never exclusively asked her to be his girlfriend, but more of a gradual shift. She never fully noticed it happening until one cool night in August—before she returned to Hogwarts for her eighth year—he had referred to her as my girlfriend Hermione, instead of just Hermione.
They were friends first, so why did anything have to change? Why would he treat her differently now just because they kissed when they saw each other?
But she wanted them to change…She wanted their conversations to become ones of the future, of their future. What they'll be doing, where they'll be going, where they will settle.
But that never happened. They stayed the same—the same mundane conversations around Quidditch and work. She had always wanted more, expected more as their kisses turned to caresses. When caresses turned to exploration, turned to something more.
But that never happened. Despite her initial desire for more, anticipating some kind of change beyond the ordinary, their relationship failed to progress. What had begun with kisses, had transitioned into unremarkable caresses. And then those caresses turned to something more. While the physicality of their relationship was never truly the problem, her aspirations to explore their connection remained unfulfilled.
Hermione is pulled from her thoughts as Ron's hand slips to the buttons of her blouse, undoing them before briskly pushing it off of her shoulders. He's never been one for foreplay, she wonders if he thinks snogging is the only thing needed for someone to be aroused.
As she kisses Ron, her hand clenches, index finger finding the ring on her thumb. Its smooth face offers her a second of reprieve before the heaviness sets back in. Something inside of her cracks, fissures forming, pressure building and then she's shouting.
"Stop, stop!" —she pushes, palm connecting with his chest— "I can't do this…can't…" Hermione gets up, turning away, clutching at her unfastened blouse. Ron follows suit, hands brushing her bicep before he stops. His fingers hover, twitching as if he's holding back.
"Hermione, I can't help you if you won't bloody talk to me." His tone is even and collected, different to how he talked to her merely a few hours ago.
"I-I-I just don't feel—" She's wrapping her arms around herself, hand moving to her forehead to brush a strand of hair away. Finally, she looks at him, turning her body towards him, facing her problem head on.
"Is this new?" His eyes darken. She doesn't like the way his fingers wrap around her wrist, digging in when she tries to pull away. His grasp holds her steady. His fingers are tight on her thumb, metal biting into flesh as he tries to twist it off. Ron pulls her hand up, holding it at eye level.
"I- uh I've had it for—" Her mind, usually full, falls blank. A clean slate.
"Hermione, why does this have a snake on it? Who gave this to you?"
"It wasn't given to me, I-I found it—"
"I can't believe it." Ron drops her hand forecefully, stepping away. Like a flipped switch, he projects his earlier wrongdoings onto her. She tried to talk to him, tried to reason with him, but he didn't want to listen and suddenly he was like the old Ron–the Ron who let his jealousy control him.
"I don't know what you're thinking, Ron. I don't know what you think is going on but—"
"I can't believe this. I can't believe this!" His voice raises and she can't help but flinch, an automatic response. "You're different. You're a different person than the Hermione I loved."
She can't look at him, can't tear her eyes from the rug as he continues, "You won't let anyone help you, won't listen to me but you know what, you aren't the only one that's hurting. Harry's hurting, Ginny's hurting, I AM HURTING." Ron is breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring.
Hermione is too stunned to speak, looking at him, waiting for him to continue.
"I lost a brother. My brother is dead and gone and never coming back! And you, you chose to let your family go." That's when she feels it, the prick of tears behind her eyes.
"I ch-chose to let them go?" Hermione stammers out, the words almost dying in her throat.
Instead of reacting to her visible unease, Ron delves into another matter, allowing his fury to hijack the conversation. His tone is bitter, eyes flashing as he points a finger at her, turning, stepping into her personal space. "Remember when we were hunting Horcruxes with Harry and the Deluminator led me back to you?"
"Y-yes, o-of course," she stutters out.
"It brought me back to you for a reason. There's a reason we're together." When he says it, she expects her heart to fill, to get excited at the thought of them being together for a purpose. She expects everything to wash over her, all of her fear dissipating into nothing.
But she feels herself sinking, falling through time as if the ground has disappeared from beneath her. Shrinking, she can do nothing but watch as he storms to the door.
"I can't keep fighting if you're just going to give up and give in and continue to take gifts from someone who is meant to be your co-worker," Ron says and she does nothing but blink. His eyes are trained over her shoulder, somewhere in her living room.
Something inside of her shatters. The endless pressure that was building, bubbling just beneath the surface of her skin now floods her veins. All of the moments in her life that she told him yes, that she was fine, that everything was okay are tumbling. The house of cards she had been carefully crafting, her gentle facade comes crumbling down.
"Don't fight then." When she says it, she's almost surprised that the pent up anger and frustration didn't cause her to shout, instead her tone is even.
Ron furrows his brows, face contorting, mouth opening, "wha—"
"Leave Ron. If you don't want to keep fighting, there's no reason for you to be here. Go." She's found her voice, steady and sure. Standing, Hermione squares her shoulders and crosses the room, opening her front door.
"Hermione, I'm—"
"Get out. Get out of my flat and get out of my life, Ron. I can't do this. I'm done. It's over, we're done. You can't just treat me like this."
"It's Connor, isn't it?" he practically spits, but his eyes betray him.
"It's no one, Ron, now get the fuck out of my flat."
"I'm not coming back. This is it, Hermione, this won't be like last time." Last time when he left her and Harry alone in the woods. When he walked out of their lives after accusing her of being with Harry. She wishes he had never come back, wishes he had just gone off and disappeared.
"Get out, Ron."
He almost snarls at her before finally turning away.
She doesn't know where this sudden burst of a backbone has come from but when he leaves, she listens to his footsteps as he descends down the stairs. Farther, softer, and out of her life.
Only when she is finally alone does she fall, knees hitting the hardwood, her hands catching her face before she collapses completely. The momentary strength of will fades as swiftly as it had come, and Hermione is wracked with sobs. Everything she's built her life on, seems to be falling around her. The confidence she used to carry like a sword and shield during her time at Hogwarts is nowhere to be found, and she doesn't know how to return to that more solid version of herself.
As the tears slip between her fingers, she wonders if she will ever feel whole again.
The next morning, she moves as if in slow motion, getting out of bed to dress, while avoiding the pile of clothing on the floor. Last night after Ron left, she peeled her clothing off, leaving it in a heap at the foot of her bed. Today, she wants to wear something comfortable so she takes her time in choosing.
Making her bed after she dresses, she skips breakfast. She leaves her flat, descends the stairs, and steps into the street, making a conscious effort to hold back tears.
The atrium seems quiet this morning—or she's just gotten better at tuning out the needless noise. Filled with a multitude of faces she doesn't quite recognise in Auror uniforms that denote them as little more than foot soldiers. A shiver runs down her spine as she sweeps the crowd, looking for the man that put the golden manacles on Malfoy during her first encounter.
Her gaze focuses on a group gathered by the café, on the lookout for the Auror who she ran into the other day on level nine. A younger man speaks animatedly with his hands as the others lean in and watch. All of their fingers are intact.
Hermione brushes the thought aside and makes her way to the lifts, her head facing down. As she slips into an unoccupied elevator car, turning to press the button, a hand stops the golden gates from closing.
"Granger," a violet-eyed Morag drawls with a smirk. The gates close with a clang and Hermione swallows the cocktail of emotions that threaten to boil over and get the best of her.
"If you're going to run around in someone else's skin you should at least be able to brew a flawless polyjuice."
"Who says I want it to be flawless?" Pansy inspects her nails nonchalantly.
"Where is Morag anyway?" Hermione asks, voice tinged with the smallest amount of worry.
"Oh, she's fine. She's at the Parkinson estate in France's countryside. I offered it to her for a few months in exchange for some of her lacklustre hair." Pansy's finger twirls the end of the long French braid in a bored way. "Oh Granger, don't you fret that frizzy little head of yours over Morag. Like it's hard to do this silly little Ministry job?"
Hermione's blood runs cold as her suspicions begin to align. She wants to keep an eye within the ministry…Something is seriously wrong. Her hand flies to her mouth, biting the skin around the edge of her thumb before she can stop it.
Pansy reaches across the car and before Hermione can dodge, she grasps her hand, pulling it away from her mouth.
"I see you got my hint." She motions towards the ring on Hermione's thumb.
"It's Malfoy." There's a snort and Pansy rolls her eyes. Hermione yanks her hand out of Pansy's clutches, letting it settle at her side. Her index finger taps an unsteady rhythm on her thigh.
"Of course it's Draco down there! Who else would it be? I thought leaving his ring would be enough of a clue." Hermione pushes past the cognitive dissonance of seeing Pansy's mannerisms on Morag's body. "Merlin, Granger…I thought you were supposed to be smart."
"How on earth was I supposed to know that this bloody ring belongs to Malfoy?" she spits back. Pansy's face drops in disappointment, a wrinkle forming between her brows. The mask of haughtiness is gone for a split second before she puts it back on, squaring her shoulders. Ever the prim and proper Pureblood, heaven forbid she show an ounce of an emotion other than distaste.
"You didn't recognize his ring? It didn't remind you of anything?" She presses her thin lips together, edging forward for Hermione's answer.
"It's not like I've ever been close enough to him to notice it." Hermione scoffs, Pansy's face falls, her mouth hanging open in a slack O.
"That's beside the point. You finally figured out the hints I've been dropping. What do we do now?" Pansy is carefully packing away her emotions, folding them up and Hermione watches the last hint disappear once more. Hermione rolls her eyes, hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder and looking to the golden gates, watching the motion of everything that passes.
"Are you asking me for help? Have you exhausted all your other options and I am the last resort?" Pansy's hands ball into fists at her sides, clearly unsatisfied from Hermione's response.
"You're supposed to know how to help people," Pansy grits out between clenched teeth.
Hermione lets out a long breath, ready to retaliate when the elevator stops. The gates open and Connor steps into the lift. His dark eyes brighten when he sees Hermione. Tucking the file he was reading under his arm, he steps in with a smile.
"I didn't expect you in this early, Hermione." He stands between the two witches, directing a small nod to Morag before settling his gaze back onto Hermione.
"I wanted to get a head start on a few things," Hermione responds quickly. Connor continues to chat with her idly for the rest of the ride, sometimes pointing a comment to Pansy as she stews in frustration in the corner.
"I'll see you around." Hermione turns to Pansy, locking eyes with her and receiving a nod and pleasant remark.
She and Connor step out of the elevator together, leaving Morag behind. Connor continues to chat, mostly about cases he's working on—things he will need her help with—as they stroll down the hall. Past the chaos of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and into the silence of the record-keeping side of the office.
They're the first ones in the office, going their separate ways with a quiet nod so Hermione can lose herself in her filing.
Sitting in her chair, she glances at the photo pinned to her cubicle wall. Harry, Ron and herself stare back, smiling on her graduation day. It feels like a mockery now after last night. She rips it down, not caring that the tack has torn the top of it, opening a drawer she tosses it inside and slams it shut once more. Taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes, imagining her memory as a piece of paper, putting it into a drawer and closing it. She would deal with the fallout later, for now she has work to do.
Hermione idly flips through her files, trying to decide what she wants to fill her time with. There's an interesting-looking case about a group of Muggles who stumbled upon a Niffler that stole all their jewellery. It seems to be a cut-and-dry incident, as long as the arresting Auror filled out the paperwork properly.
Opening the file, she spreads out its contents, cross-checking the information with the witness statements and looking up the log numbers for the evidence. Much to her chagrin, only bits and pieces of the form have been filled out.
"Of course…" she grumbles to herself, taking quill to parchment and jotting down the information she will need to find herself. It looks as though three Muggles had their valuables stolen and a passing Wizard noticed the Niffler, alerting the Aurors upon their return to Diagon Alley.
She flips to the back of the file, skimming to see who the arresting Auror was so she can chase them down for the missing details.
"No record of which memory charms were used on the Muggles, nothing on if the Niffler was found…" Focusing, she follows the lines of text, sliding her finger along the neat and succinct handwriting. She stops. Her eyes catch on a badge number next to a name.
114GH69, Gareth Hedlund…why does this feel familiar?
Like a Rolodex, she rifles through the possible outcome of this information. The name repeats in her mind. Is it the name? Or the number that feels familiar?
Is he someone Harry has spoken about? The name more than anything feels like something she should know. This was easier before the war…
Hermione bites the edge of her thumb, continuing to sift through the file from a new perspective, one of suspicion. Something isn't right, she thinks grimly, standing and snapping the file closed.
Crossing the office and knocking on Connor's door, she enters without waiting for his answer. He looks startled to see her, closing the notebook on his desk quickly, shuffling his papers.
"I didn't expect to see you until lunchtime." A flash of annoyance crosses his features, but he vanishes it with a seemingly sincere smile. His warm eyes soften as she takes a seat in front of him.
"I've noticed some inconsistencies. This Auror has missed some vital information in his notes…Do you mind if I take a few of the other cases he's worked on recently?" She licks her lips nervously before adding, "I just want to make sure it's a clerical error and nothing major."
Connor furrows his brows for a moment, steepling his hands in front of him and bringing his fingertips to his chin.
"I don't see a problem with that, you do have a keen eye. It's probably nothing, everyone's been stretched quite thin lately," he says with a shake of his head.
He waves his hand in a beckoning motion and a long piece of parchment floats to his desk out of a cabinet in the corner. With his quill, he scratches something in a column next to Hermione's name.
"Thank you," she says, standing, getting to the door before stopping. "Also, I haven't forgotten. We still need to dissect The Green Knight." She watches him smile before closing the door and heading back to her desk.
Gareth Hedlund…
The office fills as the hours pass, a steady hum of noise building around her. She's pulled Gareth's records from the last six months and within the first three she notices a general pattern of ill-kept notes. The man consistently misses vital information in his statements, doesn't seem to know how to properly conduct inter-departmental consults or follow protocol.
She lets out a huff of air, hand finding her forehead and pushing back her unruly curls. There's an image, haphazardly stuck to the back of another scroll of parchment—add improper filing to the list of wrongs he's committed. At first glance, the image itself doesn't seem incriminating. Gareth stands next to a trio of smugglers he's just caught and looks like he's interrogating them, but upon further inspection, Hermione notices a detail that makes her blood run cold.
His hand rests on the shoulder of another man who squirms uncomfortably under his touch. This hand that she's seen before, gripping a wand awkwardly between his index finger and thumb to make up for the lack of finger tips.
She dives deeper as the list of incriminating evidence against him continues mounting. Hermione finds herself struggling to keep her composure—despite no one else being in the room with her—her breath hitching in her chest as the weight of last night threatens to consume her.
She distracts herself by fiddling with the ring on her finger as she continues to take incident notes before moving on to her actual current caseload.
The office begins to clear out again around noon, everyone filing out for lunch and Hermione makes a point of hanging back to watch her coworkers leave. Connor is getting lunch with someone in a different department today; he came over to her cubicle earlier and apologised before hastily making his exit.
She slips over to the corner of the office, preparing two cups of coffee before quietly navigating her way to the elevators.
The familiar ride down to level nine feels longer than normal.
She grips the paper cups in an attempt to keep her hands from shaking. The black tile of the antechamber seems warmer than yesterday, more inviting than the last time she had seen it. Oil lamps still burn in their sconces, illuminating the round room.
Hermione steps out of the elevators, her head on a swivel, checking to see if there are any Unspeakables or fellow Ministry members snooping around. She rehearses a few excuses internally as she crosses into the antechamber, choosing a door. Like yesterday, it opens revealing an empty dust-filled room. There's movement from the corner as a disillusioned Malfoy stands to his full height.
Balancing one coffee precariously on top of the other, she reaches into her pocket. With a wave of her wand, the contents of the room are revealed.
It seems less ominous now that she's been down here a few times. The furniture is a little less austere, and Malfoy in the mask seems a little less menacing. The scarred eyebrow she remembers noticing at the trial—that contributed to his intimidatory appearance–is covered.
"I told you to leave. Do you need me to explain this concept to you?" His voice breaks the unearthly silence of the room. It's full of menace but there's also something else in his tone, seemingly a reluctant excitement to see her. "When someone tells you to leave, you should listen like the goodie little Gryffindor you are."
She presses her lips together before she speaks, watching him lick his own cracked lips. "I-I brought you coffee." Extending her offering, his eyes dart from her face to the paper cup.
"I don't like coffee," he deadpans and all of her confidence crashes, her hand lowers and she's engulfed with the overwhelming urge to leave. She should have listened. Her heart is in her throat, thundering away and she's worried he can see her pulse fluttering. Why am I here, why did I come back? He doesn't even know me, why would he want to see me? Why did I think I could bring him comfort?
Turning, she clutches the paper cup like a crutch. She can't look at him anymore. Hermione tries to leave the room, but a hand grips her wrist.
"No, wait. Look, I just—" he stutters out, hand still on her. "It's been…a while since someone has shown me kindness…I'm just not used to it."
She can hear his voice crack, this confession sounding almost like an apology on his chapped lips. His moment of vulnerability, especially with her, is something she would have never anticipated. This is the closest thing she will get to an apology, but it's better than nothing.
"I'll bring you tea next time." Hermione smiles, taking a sip of her drink and watching the ghost of a twitch in his lip, almost as if he were going to smile back at her.