A/N: I haven't written fanfiction in... *checks account* 11 years, almost to the day. I'm writing this to hold myself accountable to a creative project, but without the pressure of character/world-building. Updates will happen relatively regularly (i.e. as I write each chapter), but I won't commit to a strict publishing timeline because I want this to be an enjoyable experience for me. If you decide to join me on this journey, welcome! I'd be delighted to hear your thoughts.

Hermione took in a slow, quiet breath as everything trembled—the walls, the ground, the blessed silence that had existed for only a few short minutes before now. Her eyes were shut tight in the darkness, her body rigid as she willed the world around her to still once again. After several agonizing seconds of silent prayer to unknown deities, her environment settled and silence wrapped in a comforting cocoon around her head. She exhaled softly in a steady stream, allowing her chest to push out the tension that had built up over the night and welcoming the peace that now surrounded her.

It did not last.

"Stupid—bloody—why anyone would sleep in a bag…"

No matter how deliberately she focused her attention on her breathing, Hermione simply couldn't ignore the thrashing, muttering imbecile she was sharing this confined space with. It was their first night of a two-week expedition in the field, and her absolute prat of a research partner didn't know how to make himself comfortable in a tent.

She supposed she should have expected as much. With his decidedly pretentious, decidedly not muggle upbringing, Draco Malfoy would have no reason to have camping experience.

But still. Did he have to be so obvious about it?

"Are you actually getting any sleep over there, Granger?" Malfoy finally huffed, clearly unable to keep his discomfort contained (if that's what one could call his behavior so far) a moment longer.

Smirking internally, Hermione kept her face passive and her breathing even. Though it had been years since they'd left Hogwarts, she couldn't help the flicker of satisfaction that accompanied Malfoy's misery. And if she could add to it in small ways here and there, well, why shouldn't she? He had given her plenty of reasons to despise him over the years, and she wasn't above leveling the playing field inch by inch whenever she got the chance.

In her faux-REM phase, Hermione let her mind wander. This was her first real tent-camping trip since the war and she hadn't been sure what to expect. As a rising star in the Department of Magical Creature Representation (formerly the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, language that was barbaric and ethnocentric and long overdue for a change, thank you very much), she was overjoyed at the opportunity to lead a Hogwarts-commissioned research expedition. But she wasn't a fool: the trauma she'd experienced since entering the wizarding world had reached its peak riiight around the time when she had been living out of a tent, hunted and underfed and existing deeply within a magically-induced anxiety and depression. The living arrangements for this expedition could easily trigger her PTSD.

And so she had prepared. Since being offered the field research role for the project, Hermione had begun re-acclimating herself to the wilderness. She'd started small: short hikes in the woods with friends she'd never walked a tree-lined path with, then a solo overnight stay in a cabin at a populated campground, finally working her way up to a two-night, two-site, one-tent camping trip with Ginny. (She hadn't had the heart to ask the boys for help with this, and Ginny had Ron's complexion and temper and Harry's impulsiveness and sibling-like status, so it felt like a fair swap.) She couldn't deny the anxiety that lingered as she trained, but after two months of self-guided exposure therapy, she felt she had it under control, and Hermione couldn't help feeling proud.

The one thing she hadn't planned for?

"Unbelievable… great dirty roots… muggle tent… Granger of all people…"

Draco bloody Malfoy.

Hermione had been thrilled to be chosen for the assignment. Hogwarts was funding an expedition to study opportunities for enhancing communication between wizarding populations and more reclusive aquatic communities. Since Dumbledore's passing, the merfolk had retreated to the depths of the Black Lake and refused interaction with staff or students, not even surfacing when the centaur herd gathered on the shores during blood moons to celebrate their kinship. Her research would take her across the continent and over—and into—bodies of water that held some of nature's most magnificent communicators. But, her supervisor informed her, there was only so much she would be able to learn from behaviors and tones alone. No, in order to ensure the greatest chance at achieving results, she would need to work closely with a talented linguist. The best that money could buy.

Malfoy let out a string of curses in what sounded like Welsh, thrashed a bit in his cocoon-shaped sleeping bag, then let out a piteous whimper. This time, Hermione couldn't stop the smirk from reaching her lips.

He was a prat. A spoiled, pompous, ferret of a man who had used his privileged upbringing to his advantage (and only his, no doubt) to reestablish the Malfoy name as respectable following the family's role in Second Wizarding War. Thanks to a childhood bursting with various language tutors, Malfoy was primed and ready to offer his services pro-bono to the Ministry's rebuilding efforts, facilitating financial support conversations with foreign governments and helping asylum seekers from other countries find their place in newly-Voldemort-free wizarding England. Over time (but much too quickly for Hermione's liking), the family debt was considered paid to society at large, and by that point Malfoy had established a lucrative business as—how did the Weasley boys put it?—a tongue for hire.

When she'd learned who would be accompanying her on the expedition, Hermione had frozen. She was collecting her things after a successful meeting with her department head, having finalized the details of her trip, and was shaking the man's hand with a professional smile when he'd said something along the lines of, "I know you and Mr. Malfoy will be the perfect pair to do this thing right. Numbers one and two in your class, if I'm not mistaken?" And she had just locked up. Hand still grasping his, smile now plastered in place, and what she could only assume was a visible panic growing in her eyes. And her mind did something it had never, ever done before.

It went blank.

Moments later (oh gosh, it was only moments, wasn't it?), her brain helpfully supplied a single word in bold block letters, filling the bright white emptiness of her thoughts with a message that sent the air right out of her lungs:

MALFOY

"Malfoy," she said and, blinking, unlocked her limbs and finished the handshake in what she hoped was a not-at-all-weird way. "Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Draco Malfoy." He nodded. But that couldn't be right. Why would she just be hearing about this? It's not like people didn't know they were on different sides of the war. Assuming it wouldn't go well if she screamed at the department head that he was a dirty, rotten liar, she tried again. "Malfoy?"

The man chuckled. He had the audacity to chuckle and Hermione had to force herself to breathe deeply, to remind herself that most people, in fact, did not know that Draco Malfoy had been witness to the most excruciating, terrifying, sickening, humiliating moments of her life. If living in a tent was a trigger, sharing any space for any amount of time with Draco Malfoy was a fucking grenade pin. Her brain supplied a new word:

TIME

She had no time to prepare for this. There was, what, a week left before the expedition began? Her mental calendar flashed behind her eyes—five days. Oh my god, in five days she would be spending two weeks in the wilderness with a man she had been actively avoiding since their return to Hogwarts to sit their N.E.W.T.s after Voldemort's defeat. For no helpful reason other than the compulsive need to understand how much time she would have given herself to train for this, Hermione quickly calculated that she'd have needed at least twelve weeks to prepare. As she'd only been given two months' notice before the start of the project, a new block of text came forward:

YES OR NO?

If she had known from the get-go who would be joining her, if she had known she wouldn't have enough time to prepare herself for any potential reactions or panic attacks, would she have accepted the assignment? The department head was rambling jovially, probably about the benefits of such an "elite partnership," but Hermione's focus was elsewhere. She zoomed in on the words in her mind's eye… and she didn't know the answer.

YES OR NO?

It was no use thinking how she would have planned it. No use mourning the time lost to not knowing, and therefore not preparing. All she could do now was decide whether she could still do this. Sighing softly, Hermione opened her mind to the blankness still enveloping it and welcomed it in. She invited in her heart, her spirit, and her soul and the truest parts of her met together in silence and light, with three words hovering in the space they filled.

YES OR NO?

It wasn't clear who made the final decision: mind, heart, spirit, or soul. Maybe they spoke all at once, or maybe they simply lifted the truth to the front of her awareness. However it came to be, two words faded from existence and her whole being was flooded with what remained.

YES

Her department head had finished his very one-sided conversation and was looking at her with a pleasant, expectant smile. "Of course," she'd said with a nod. "Thank you, sir."

As quietly and languidly as she could, Hermione shifted to her side, careful not to twist the sleeping bag around her but also doing her best to appear as though she were simply adjusting in her sleep. Even if she hadn't quite drifted off yet, she couldn't resist the urge to flaunt her ability to sleep somewhat comfortably in a tent. Feeling cheeky, she let out a contented sigh as she snuggled deeper into the warm down. Malfoy grumbled—was that Old Norse?—and Hermione felt herself smile. At least she was coping.