Disclaimer: This is a fanfiction so clearly; I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters.
Hermione landed exactly where she had set her mind to, only because apparition had to be done with extraordinary care to avoid splinching. Before her was the ever loved by wizards and witches alike: Three Broomsticks. Calmed considerably just by the sight of the establishment Hermione fixed her favorite hoodie and hoped no one could tell that it needed a good washing. Many mundane tasks had recently fallen to the wayside, for the current moment it was a different issue to be addressed at a later date.
She pushed the doors open before she lost her nerve and made sure to square her chest to emulate the confidence she wasn't feeling. She was Hermione Granger after all, the brains of the Golden Trio, muggleborn she may have been by birth, but she belonged in this world the same as any other witch or wizard with even a drop of magical blood!
Upon entry Madam Rosmerta greeted her warmly, "Well if it isn't Miss Hermione Granger in the flesh! I'll get your butterbeer. Take a seat at any table you'd like, dear."
"Actually," Hermione began with a slight bit of trepidation in her voice "I'll take a firewhiskey, neat, and I'll be sitting at the bar. Thank you."
Her voice just barely faltered at the end, which she thought may have given away the fact that this was only her second time ever drinking. The first was when Ron had left her and Harry in the tent back when they were hunting horcruxes. That night along with many others, were sent into one of the several compartments Hermione had devised to lock away less than savory memories in the back of her head. Occulmency was a skill that she has been working on honing since 5th year, even then she knew the dangers of an open mind. She bit back the irony of knowing she could keep memories locked away. It was precisely how she knew she couldn't access any memories related to her parents.
Rosmerta examined the state the girl seemed to be in and nodded her head. She promptly poured her 3 fingers of firewhiskey and left her to bask in her thoughts.
Hermione sat with the crystal tumbler full of firewhiskey and swished it around in the glass experimentally. Lifting the glass to her nose she tried to discreetly to sniff it and was rewarded with blazing nostrils. It wasn't called firewhiskey for no reason, some brilliant wizard had found a way to co-mingle distilled spirits with charmed encapsulated fire that maintained its warmth without outright burning. Reasoning with herself that she had in fact had quite a go of it for the last bit of her whole life, she tipped the glass up to her lips and savored the way the whiskey burned as it entered her body warming her with a heat she didn't realize she had needed. She nearly let a moan escape but thankfully caught herself before she let it slip remembering where she was.
Glancing around the tavern she assessed how empty it was save for two blokes chatting animatedly in the corner. No doubt about Quidditch or how Ron was such a stand-up guy. Everywhere she went in the wizarding world people knew her name due to her association with the Chosen One.
Nauseating.
She hated that her association with Harry had completely overshadowed that she was the brightest witch of her age. She didn't need people to confirm that she was exceptional but forever being disacknowledged had certainly done damage to her self-esteem. A ribbon of worry carrying malice danced briefly behind her eyes intruding upon her vision.
No one fucking cares what you think, Hermione.
These types of thoughts had somehow made their way into her daily reverie bathing her in hateful thorns of destructive self-talk so thickly she was sure that anyone who glanced at her could see the blood drip from all the places the thorns impaled. Hermione Granger had fallen from the high horse she used the be perched upon and she was sure that everyone knew.
Suddenly she snapped back to the present moment and realized that she must have been staring the entire time she was thinking.
Good job at looking completely barmy, witch, now you need to leave.
Turning back towards her drink she quickly downed it, with the same motion she threw down 3 galleons, ran out of the establishment and apparated so quickly that a ring of sound reverberated through the air just as Madam Rosmerta was able to reach the door trying to catch up to her.
Draco had never been known to consider what anyone outside of his own self or parents thought about any situation. Growing up as the sole heir to the largest fortune in the wizarding world bought a lifetime worth of being able to do, say, and act any way he wanted. It was no secret to any witch or wizard either how filthy rich they were, their generational wealth and pureblood prestige had carved them quite the comfortable seat in history. No one wanted to challenge the Malfoy's although it's unsure why, they may have been pompous, but respect and politesse were essential to maintain a good standing in society. Money can shorten social hierarchy gaps, but etiquette cannot be purchased.
To be fair, many believe the sheer number of riches they have at their disposal means they must be involved in unsavory activities, obviously prone to debauchery. Truly, they weren't far off, it just wasn't as depraved as they all seemed to think. They were a family comprised of Lady's and Lord's, after all.
Presently, Draco was sitting in one of Malfoy Manor's sitting rooms across from a ministry official that seemed to have majored in posture as her back looked to be painfully straight. The very same manor where only months prior their own great hall and drawing room was defiled by being ensconced as a meeting spot and torture den for the Dark Lord's cult. Nearly everything, short of the expansive marble flooring, had been stripped of several rooms throughout the manor during it's recent "remodel." That's what his mother was calling it anyways. That woman loved any excuse to redecorate a room, it mattered very little to Narcissa that this was forced upon her due to the Ministry currently decommissioning everything that Dark Lord had so much as breathed around. Of course it wouldn't hurt their pockets, their pride was what was on the chopping block.
Refocusing he caught the tail end of what the ridged woman was saying to him.
"As a condition of your probation you will be required to return to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to finish your NEWTs with the intention of obtaining gainful employment after your schooling is finished." chided the Ministry appointed probationary officer Taylor Moore. She was a muggleborn, he was sure the Ministry had chosen her very purposely to oversee his case.
Had his occlumency shields not slammed into place he was sure his eyes would have ejected themselves from his eye sockets. More schooling was perfectly fine, that wasn't the issue - though he would've been content to never have to cross paths with Professor McGonagall in his life again – but employment?! A Malfoy forced to work outside of his family's own businesses? Did they know nothing of his family's strictly upheld traditions? He knew the answer to that query – yes. Yes, they knew of their traditions and that was why it was meant as a punishment. A small punishment compared to what his father had been given. Life in Azkaban, even without the Dementors present it was still sure to be dank, dark, and freezing. Thankful once again his shields were firmly in place, or else the shiver may have escaped his body at the thought.
"Of course, a gracious consideration made on behalf of the Ministry." For a third time in under two minutes he was thankful for his shields ability to keep his tone neutral and capable of emulating humility. "I look forward to our next meeting, Miss Moore."
The loud crack of her apparition echoed in Hermione's modest sized flat that she had yet to furnish. Only moments ago, she had sworn that she would never return to Hogsmeade after the debacle that had just ensued. Her cheeks burned as she admonished herself for allowing herself to be perceived as some lost little girl, even if that is exactly how she felt. Forgetting that she had just downed a rather large drink she wobbled slightly and decided to forget the whole thing.
Still on a mission to get completely obliterated she quickly left her flat to get to the corner shop. On the walk she felt slightly less inhibited and even cracked a smile to herself. Upon entering the small store, she made a quick bee line for the firewhiskey. She grabbed 4 bottles between her two hands, so she would not be forced to make any additional trips should an urge strike her. Securing what she had sought she made her way to the cashier.
"Having some friends over, Miss?" the cashier asked.
Normally this type of comment would have made her lock up immediately. Without pause she responded, "Yes, meeting up with some friends later and wanted to bring favors."
The cashier nodded, finished bagging her items, handed her a receipt and wished her to enjoy her soiree.
By the time she returned home she had worn herself out spiking her anxiety so high, then masking it so heavily for the trip to the shop. She put the bags on her kitchen island and decided she would instead sleep while the small amount of liquor worked its magic in lulling her into tiredness. Before she turned to go to her bedroom, she caught sight of the discarded Hogwarts letter on the counter.
Fuck it.
She grabbed one of the bottles making quick work of the stopper and took a large swig directly from the bottle. The burn was delicious and invigorating. She went to one of the few items she had decided to purchase – a record player. Flipping through her vast collection of records she settled on one of her favorites and gently placed it in. Barbara Strozzi continued to be one of her most favored composers of all time, perfects parts beautiful and haunting.
She feigned the elegance of a ballerina and threw her arms around as she danced through her flat listening to the record over and over, stopping occasionally for another drink.
As the music began to slow, she was guided into thinking about her offer to return to Hogwarts for her 8th year. Even with all the roadblocks that she had been enduring she knew that she would never forgive herself if she passed on the opportunity. Unsure of how she would deal with the scrutiny she knew she would be under returning to the school, she pushed the worry aside to dissect on another day - her mind was made up.
Hermione was returning to Hogwarts, Merlin be damned. It would be her best year yet. It had to be. She needed a personal victory.
Finally finding her way to the only furniture she had bothered buying: a bed. She threw herself down feeling the firewhiskey turn into a warming ember in her blood coaxing her to sleep. Blissfully, she drifted off.
Upon awakening the next morning Hermione could feel the effects of her self-indulgent escapades last night but also felt resolved to get her life in order so she could prepare to go back to Hogwarts. It would be so strange to go from the privacy of her own flat to sharing a dorm with other ladies once more, she thought, but quickly pushed it away before she could start to panic over it.
Padding across the floor she decided she needed to do a fair amount of self-care. Turning on the shower the steam enveloped her and helped to melt away her worries. The rich smell of her amber honey scented soap filled the showering room inducing a spa like feel. Hermione made sure to take extra care in making sure she banished the hair on her legs and armpits away. Upon leaving the shower she applied her favorite amber vanilla scented lotion, made sure her eyebrows looked alright – taking care to remember they were meant to be sisters, not twins – and applied a healthy amount of Sleekeazy's to her unmanageable curls. She quickly dressed in her favorite jeans and hoodie pulling on some simple trainers for comfort.
Before she left her flat, she penned a quick letter to inform the Headmistress she would be returning to Hogwarts.
This would be her year. She was sure.