Chapter 35: Hermione

Tones and Variations

"I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited." ― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

One Day Earlier—
Friday, August 10, 2007
Chez Andres Magical Mediterranean Cuisine

"Follow me, Miss Granger. Welcome in."

As Hermione followed the hostess through the dimly lit, elegantly decorated corridors of Chez Andres, she couldn't shake a feeling of unease.

The restaurant was renowned for its exclusivity, and as they walked past tables filled with London's magical elite, she could feel the weight of curious gazes following them. It wasn't the first time Hermione had been the subject of attention, but tonight, it felt different—sharper, more scrutinizing. Perhaps it was because of who she was with and the entire purpose of their evening.

Joseph Dearborn moved quietly behind her, his presence looming and solid. His footsteps barely made a sound against the plush carpeting, but she could sense him there, close but not too close. It was as though he was giving her space, allowing her to set the mood for the evening, which was considerate, but it also made her feel self-conscious.

Hermione realized that she was nervous, an unusual sensation for her.

Three days ago, they had dined at a charming Muggle Thai restaurant, where the conversation flowed effortlessly. Joseph shared stories about his Muggle father's retirement in America while she recounted growing up with her dentist parents.

The evening had ended on a light note, with a simple kiss on the cheek and an exchange of Muggle mobile numbers.

But tonight felt different. When Joseph arrived at Grimmauld Place to pick her up, the atmosphere between them shifted. He looked impeccably put together in an upscale Muggle suit paired with a black wizard's robe, his hair neatly combed and his collar unbuttoned just enough to make Hermione blush. When she had opened the door, his gaze had swept over her in a way that made her stomach flutter. He said she looked beautiful with such intensity that Hermione had lost her ability to speak.

She had not felt these butterflies since Terry asked her to move in with him. No, that was a lie.

The last time she felt this disarmed by a man was just days ago, when Draco Malfoy leaned in close, his breath warm against her skin, his lips brushing ever so slightly against hers. The memory flickered in her mind, unbidden and entirely inappropriate.

She forced herself to focus on the present, on Joseph, who was there with her.

Tonight was about getting to know him better and seeing where this connection might lead. It was also about making a statement—about making the rights of werewolves impossible to ignore.

The ghost of a deep, whispered voice haunted her mind. Make yourself impossible to ignore. It won't be hard.

Not. Appropriate.

"Here we are," the hostess said, stopping in front of a circular booth.

Joseph gestured for Hermione to sit, and she slid into the booth first. Feeling the smooth, cool leather beneath her legs, she noted how the space seemed to envelop her as she settled in.

Chez Andres was renowned for its luxury. High, arched ceilings were adorned with charmed frescoes that subtly shifted scenes—from a peaceful woodland at twilight to a starlit night over a tranquil sea. Around them, other diners sat at similarly intimate tables, each cloaked in its own privacy enchantment.

Their booth was framed by bougainvillea vines, the vibrant pink blooms interwoven with soft green leaves that seemed to flutter in an imperceptible breeze.

The vines reacted as Joseph slid into the booth beside her, curling inward to create an even more intimate atmosphere. It was as if the entire space conspired to make them feel like the only two people in the world.

The hostess placed the menus on the table with a practiced smile. "Just announce your orders when ready, and the food will appear shortly. If you have any questions, ask the menu, and it will provide the answers," she explained, her voice as smooth as the decor. She left them alone with a final, courteous nod, disappearing into the restaurant's softly lit ambiance.

"This is the nicest magical restaurant I've ever been to," Joseph said, his voice low and appreciative as he looked around, taking in the surroundings.

"Me too," Hermione admitted, her fingers tracing the edge of her menu. "I've been meaning to come here for a while."

Joseph leaned back slightly, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "I was slightly afraid I would be turned away at the door—werewolves aren't welcome in most places like this."

Hermione's eyes pinched at his admission. "I was concerned about that too," she confessed, "but I know the manager here, so I asked her ahead of time to … make arrangements."

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "How do you know the manager?"

"We went to school together," Hermione explained, smiling at the memory. "Penelope Clearwater. She's Muggleborn, too, and we were both Petrified by a basilisk back in 1993. A bit of an odd bonding experience, but we've kept in touch on and off since then."

Joseph's expression shifted from curiosity to astonishment. "Petrified by a basilisk …"

She blushed, waving off his words. "It was nothing. I hardly remember it now."

"I can't wait to learn more," he murmured, his tone sincere, as he opened his menu.

They fell into a comfortable silence as they perused the offerings. She settled on a filet of sole while Joseph chose a rare steak. They decided to share a side of grilled asparagus with lemon sauce.

"Would you like anything to drink?" Hermione asked, glancing up from the menu.

Joseph shook his head. "No, I don't prefer to drink. It's just something I avoid. I don't like mind-altering substances—I get enough of that each month during the moon. But you should get whatever you like, please."

Hermione nodded, appreciating his honesty. "I'll have a glass of white wine, then," she decided, mentally noting that Joseph was remarkably self-assured. It was a quality she found increasingly attractive, especially as she compared it to how uncertain she felt about her own life.

As if on cue, a basket of freshly baked bread appeared at the center of the table, accompanied by a dish of creamy, herb-infused butter and Hermione's glass of chilled white wine. The warm aroma of the bread made Hermione's mouth water instantly. Without hesitation, she reached for a roll, the crust crisp beneath her fingers, as she broke it open to reveal the soft, steaming center.

She slathered a generous pat of butter onto the bread and took a hearty bite, closing her eyes briefly to savor the simple pleasure. When she opened them, she noticed Joseph watching her with a small, amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Sorry," she said, a hint of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. "I just really love fresh bread."

Joseph's smile widened into a soft laugh, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "Me too," he replied, reaching over to select a roll for himself. He mirrored her actions, spreading butter over the warm bread before taking a bite.

Hermione laughed lightly, feeling more at ease. "I suppose that wasn't the most polite way to start dinner."

Joseph shook his head, his gaze warm and reassuring. "I don't particularly care for traditional politeness," he said, his voice steady.

She raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in her eyes. "Really? Because from what I've observed, you're quite traditionally polite. I seem to recall you handing me a handkerchief a few weeks ago. And you always bow and kiss my knuckles when we meet."

He considered her words for a moment, then shrugged. "Perhaps it's my mother's influence—the half-blood in me trying to overcompensate," he mused.

Hermione sipped her wine before asking, "Tell me about your mother."

Joseph's expression softened.

"She was a remarkable woman," he began, voice tinged with sadness. "Beautiful, with long dark hair and a smile that could light up any room. She had a deep love for painting—enchanted landscapes were her specialty. I still have a few of her works hanging in my rooms at Avery Manor. They make the place feel more like an actual home."

Hermione listened intently. As Joseph continued, his voice grew quieter and more solemn.

"She died near the end of Voldemort's first war," he said, his gaze dropping to the table. "I was just shy of eleven. Her uncle, Silas Avery, murdered her with the Killing Curse. I later learned that he was … culling the 'less desirable' parts of the family lineage, even though she had already been disinherited and hadn't interacted with her blood relatives for over a decade."

A heavy silence settled between them, the weight of his words palpable. Hermione felt a surge of sorrow and indignation on his behalf.

"My father and I were staying with my Muggle grandparents in New York City at the time," Joseph continued his voice steady but laced with pain. "I think she knew things were getting dangerous and sent us away to keep us safe. When we heard that Voldemort had been defeated, we came back, hoping to reunite with her. But … she was already dead. It took months for my Muggle father to find out any magical news."

Without thinking, Hermione reached out and placed her hand over his. Joseph glanced up, his eyes meeting hers, and at that moment, a silent understanding passed between them.

"Joseph, I'm so sorry," she said softly, her thumb brushing gently over his knuckles.

He gave her a small, appreciative smile, turning his hand over to entwine his fingers gently with hers. "Thank you," he replied quietly. "It was long ago, but I still miss her."

They sat silently for a moment, and then something crossed Joseph's features.

"Sometimes I wonder what Silas Avery would think now," he said with a glint in his eye. "Not only is his half-blood relative living in his precious manor, but I'm also a werewolf, and dozens of werewolves tear up the grounds every month during the full moon. It gives me a sense of justice, in a way."

"I admire the community you've built," Hermione told him.

Joseph's cheeks colored slightly. "Thank you," he murmured. "It's been a collective effort. I couldn't have done it without the support of others."

He cleared his throat lightly before continuing, "But enough about me. I want to hear more about this basilisk."

Hermione laughed softly, withdrawing her hand. "Well, it's quite the story," she began. "It all started during my second year at Hogwarts when strange things began happening around the school. You know Harry, of course …"

As she delved into the tale, describing the mystery and fear that had gripped Hogwarts, Joseph listened attentively, his expressions ranging from shock to amusement as she recounted the details. She told him about crafting Polyjuice Potion in a haunted bathroom, accidentally turning into a cat, researching the clues, and ultimately being petrified before she could share her findings.

By the time their meals materialized before them, they were both engrossed in the conversation.

Between bites, Hermione continued sharing anecdotes from her Hogwarts days. Joseph reciprocated by sharing snippets of his own school experience at Hogwarts, revealing that he had attended Hogwarts while Bill and Charlie Weasley had been there. But Joseph had been a shy Ravenclaw who preferred the company of books and a small circle of close friends.

"I wasn't exactly the outgoing type," he admitted with a chuckle, cutting into his steak. "I had a few good friends, but we've lost touch over the years. Nowadays, my pack has become my family and closest friends."

Hermione smiled, spearing a tender asparagus spear with her fork. "I think a close circle is all we need, especially after everything our world has been through."

Joseph nodded thoughtfully, his gaze steady on hers. "Absolutely. But … it's nice to be expanding that circle," he added softly, his eyes conveying more than his words.

They ordered dessert—a decadent slice of chocolate cake drizzled with warm ganache and two steaming mugs of freshly brewed coffee.

When the cake had been shared, and they sipped the last of their coffee, Hermione felt pleasantly warm. Joseph was a great conversationalist. It was odd to see a rugged and weathered werewolf—stubbled face crisscrossed by faint scars—talk so easily about painting and office work.

Joseph set his mug down and glanced at Hermione, a more serious expression crossing his features. "So," he began, his shoulders tensing slightly, "how will this work? I think we were already spotted by a few people entering this place."

Hermione felt a blush creep up her neck.

"Lavender sent an anonymous owl to Witch Weekly," she admitted, her voice quiet. "When we leave, some photographers might be waiting for us."

Joseph nodded, his expression thoughtful rather than surprised. "I see," he said. "I hope everything works out how you'd like it to."

Hermione shrugged. "It probably won't, but it's worth a try. Either way, I'm having a great time."

Joseph seemed genuinely pleased by her words. "I'm glad to hear that." After a moment, he glanced down at her dress, the red silk catching the soft light. "At least the pictures will be great. I know I said it before, but you look stunning tonight."

Hermione smiled, feeling her blush deepen. "Thank you," she said, glancing down at the red bodice, the neckline exposing her shoulders, and the pleated skirt that fell gracefully around her legs. "Lavender made this dress, too."

Joseph's eyes gleamed with appreciation. "I'll have to thank her personally some time."

The evening had flown by, and soon enough, it was time to leave.

"Dinner is on me tonight," Hermione told Joseph. He started to protest, but she cut him off. This is my scheme, and I insist. You … can get the next one."

He gave her a displeased look but eventually nodded. "The next one, then."

Hermione smiled and tapped her wand on the magical bill to extract the funds from her Gringott's vault.

As they began to rise, the enchanted bougainvillea vines peeled back slowly, revealing the rest of the restaurant. The hostess reappeared beside them as if summoned by a silent signal, and she offered a gracious smile as she escorted them back toward the front door.

As they walked, Joseph leaned down, his voice low and soft. "May I put my hand on your waist?" he asked.

Hermione blinked, taken slightly by surprise. "Oh, yes. Good idea."

Joseph chuckled, the sound deep and genuine. "I'd do a lot more if you just asked," he murmured, his words making her heart beat faster.

As they approached the door, Joseph leaned in once more, his breath warm against her ear. "Pretend I'm very clever and made you laugh," he said with a grin.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, a smirk on her lips. "Pretend? I think not. You'd better come up with something good."

Joseph thought momentarily, then whispered, "Why don't wizards wear beanies?"

"Why?"

"Because there's no point."

It was cheesy, but it worked. Hermione laughed, the sound bright and genuine, just as they stepped outside. She turned, still smiling, only to be met with a flash of cameras—far more than she had anticipated. Her laughter faltered for a moment, but she quickly schooled her expression into something more neutral, conscious of how every move she made would be scrutinized in the papers tomorrow.

Joseph followed her out, placing his hand firmly on her waist, the contact feeling foreign and comforting at the same time. They moved through the throng of photographers, maintaining a pace that allowed for good pictures without appearing too obvious. Hermione ignored the shouted questions from the reporters except one—"Miss Granger, what are you wearing tonight?"—To which she replied, "Lavender Brown Weasley." Other than that, their voices blended into an indistinct hum as Hermione and Joseph walked away from Chez Andres.

They reached the apparition point, an alleyway dimly lit by only two gas lamps. Joseph turned to her, his expression softening as he said, "Well, I suppose this is it."

Hermione suddenly felt a pang of shyness, unsure of what to say or do next. She glanced at him, then down at the ground, before finally looking back up. "You can Floo from my place if you'd like," she offered, her voice a little hesitant. "Avery Manor is pretty far to apparate." It wasn't, but the lie was plausible.

Joseph's eyes searched hers for a moment, and then he nodded. "Alright," he agreed.

He held out his hand, and without hesitation, Hermione took it. In the blink of an eye, the alley, the gas lamps, and the distant sounds of the city vanished as they disappeared into the swirling darkness.

They appeared in the sitting room of Grimmauld Place, Hermione's magic letting them easily through the wards. She let go of his hand. They were standing right next to the fireplace, and Hermione was suddenly conscious of how small the room was despite never having thought it was small before.

Hermione cleared her throat and said, "I had a nice time tonight, Joseph. Thank you. And Thank you for agreeing to come out—and everything, with the cameras."

"I hope we get some positive headlines," he replied with a small smile. They were standing close, and Hermione had to look up to see his eyes. He was so tall that her neck craned.

"If we don't, I'll just write some myself," she said softly. "Maybe I'll start a blog."

He chuckled under his breath as if afraid to make a loud noise and raised a hand to scratch the stubble along his chin. Hermione took a moment to admire the sharp, broad line of his jaw. Then, with a wry grin, he reached for her hand and touched her knuckles to his lips.

Their eyes met, his a warm brown that appeared almost glassy in the dim lighting.

His voice was rough when he asked, "Can I kiss you?"

Hermione could not speak past the thudding in her chest. She nodded.

Joseph pulled her in, and Hermione stumbled toward him. He leaned down, wrapping one arm around her waist, and closed the distance between them.

At first, his lips met hers softly as if testing the waters. The kiss was gentle, almost tentative, but it sent a rush through her entire body. Hermione found herself leaning into him, her free hand coming up to rest on his chest. She felt the steady beat of his heart beneath her fingers. She felt the rough texture of his stubble grazing her face, his soft lips against hers.

Joseph deepened the kiss, his arm tightening around her waist. Hermione responded in kind, parting her lips slightly to allow him closer. The room seemed to fade away; all that mattered was the feeling of the kiss, his hand cradling her back, and the warmth that began to spread through her body.

When they finally pulled apart, both were breathless. Hermione's eyes fluttered open when she found him staring down at her, his expression a mix of awe and something else that made her heart skip a beat. His thumb traced a small circle on the back of her hand.

"I've wanted to do that for a while," Joseph admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm glad you did," she confessed, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks.

They stood there for a moment, just holding onto each other.

Hermione finally broke the silence. "Do you … want to stay for a bit? We could have some tea or—" She hesitated, not sure if she was too forward, but the hopeful look in Joseph's eyes reassured her.

"I'd like that," he said, his lips curving into a smile that made her heart flutter again.

Hermione led him over to the worn but comfortable sofa, their hands still entwined, and she guided him to sit.

She paused and then, with a courage she rarely possessed in these situations, said, "I don't feel like tea."

Joseph met her eyes, looking almost predatory, "Me either."

They dove back toward each other, their lips meeting once again. This time, it was more fervent than sweet. Joseph pulled her into his lap with pure strength, and Hermione sat firmly across his thighs. Her heels fell off, and she lifted her feet to rest on the cushion.

It was rough—hungry. Joseph coaxed Hermione's mouth open with his tongue and feasted. It was all Hermione could do to keep up with his movements. Joseph's arms were like vices.

They remained like that for many minutes, kissing and holding one another, pulling each other closer.

Suddenly shy, Hermione pulled away and murmured, "I'm … I mean, do you …" She trailed off, finding it hard to speak over the thumping of her heart.

He looked at her, still holding her close, expression dark. Then, he kissed her again, this time softly. When he pulled back, he said, "Let's take it slow."

Hermione blinked and followed Joseph's lead as he delicately pushed her off his lap and back onto the sofa. He stood up and adjusted the closure of his cloak. Hermione blushed and stood up with him.

"I'm going to be honest, Hermione. I really like you," Joseph said, meeting her eyes intently. "I don't want to rush into anything." He picked up her hand and kissed her knuckles for a final time. "I'll text you tomorrow from my Muggle phone."

Hermione blinked. "Okay."

Joseph smiled, pulled his wand, and turned to light a flame in the hearth behind him. Hermione picked up a bowl of floo powder from the mantle and held it out for him.

"Goodbye," she said.

"See you soon." Joseph winked, and then he was gone.

After he left, Hermione extinguished the flames and flopped down on the sofa, waiting for her heart to beat at a more reasonable pace.

She brought her hands up to caress her swollen lips.

And then she thought—almost impossibly because she'd never had such a lovely date before—that … she wasn't burning. Not like she had in that dark corner of the DA.

Burning was dangerous. It was reckless—overrated. This light smoldering was a much more sensible, comprehensible sort of thing. And really, Hermione had experienced a lot of burning in her life, not of a romantic kind, but of the physical kind. And, if she thought about it, she burned existentially, too, especially in recent months.

She waited for her heart to stop pounding as she watched the flames flicker in the hearth.

One Week Later—
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Number Twelve Grimmauld Place

The kitchen of Grimmauld Place was warm and filled with overlapping conversations. Kreacher moved swiftly and silently around the room, serving a hearty dinner of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables, and warm, crusty bread rolls. Hermione had already eaten three.

Hermione sat between Harry and Joseph, her plate half-full as she listened to George and Joseph exchange jokes about England's recent Quidditch win against Germany, which advanced them to the semifinals of the European Championships. George, still sporting the Quidditch paraphernalia he'd picked up during his and Angelina's whirlwind trip to France for the preliminary match, leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in mock despair.

"I know we won. But, really, our beaters were asleep at the broom," George said, his tone exaggerated for effect. "You'd think they'd never seen a Bludger before! I'm just glad Ginny could get a few goals in for insurance before our seeker caught the snitch."

Joseph chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement. "I looked at some of the recap photos in The Prophet this morning. It's like the German chasers were fed a sleeping draught compared to your sister's flying."

Hermione smiled, watching Joseph closely. Despite being a new and last-minute addition, he had blended into the group like a natural.

She could hardly believe she had blurted out the invitation the night before. They had just returned from watching a Muggle movie at the cinema, a rare treat for Hermione, who hadn't been to a movie theater in years. They watched a movie called "Stardust," which provided fodder for numerous magic-related jokes with its wildly different universe than their own. Joseph made her laugh throughout the film, and at one point, he whispered, "You'd be a star if we lived beyond the wall," which made her insides feel warm.

Definitely closer to burning.

Afterward, he had walked her home; it had been a lovely summer evening. Then he kissed her on the stoop of Grimmauld Place, leaving her dazed and panting but nothing more. Joseph's respectful manner made her wonder if he sensed her complicated feelings.

Then, she blurted out an invitation to dinner the next day—tonight. She would be leaving for France with Ron and Harry on Sunday, so she and Joseph wouldn't see each other for a while.

Joseph had said yes instantly—and now there they were.

Lavender and Ron, seated across from Harry, chatted animatedly with Angelina. Lavender had brought two trunks full of clothes for Hermione's time in France, and Hermione couldn't help but smile at the thought of the beautiful blue floral dress robes Lavender had packed for the Gala at the end of the tournament.

Hermione's paparazzi stunt had gone surprisingly well. The article in Witch Weekly was positive, and Harry and Lavender—even Ron, who didn't care about such things—had gushed about how she and Joseph looked on the cover. Hermione already had three requests for interviews lined up in her bedroom, but she and Lavender agreed to bide their time until after Hermione was seen out and about in France—to drive up even more interest.

Hermione looked forward to seeing some magical vineyards and chateaus, but the Quidditch of it all made her wary. Eventually, she raised her concerns with the group.

"But what if the last match takes a week to finish?" Hermione asked. She had absorbed a lot of Quidditch lore over the years, and the most horrifying statistic she had come across was that the longest match in history had lasted over seven full days.

Ron, already on his second helping of mashed potatoes, waved off her worry. "No need to worry about that, 'Mione. The competing seekers are exceptional. It's more likely the organizers are worried the matches are ending too quickly—they're not making enough profit on concessions."

Hermione nodded, though she was still worried she might find herself stuck in a stadium for more than a few hours. She resolved to leave if it came to that. Her thoughts were interrupted as Joseph leaned closer, his warm breath tickling her ear. "Bring a book with you," he whispered. "No one will even notice what you're doing."

She turned to him with a smile.

The conversation shifted when Joseph asked Harry, "How's the investigation into the rune stone bombs going?"

Hermione's attention sharpened at the question.

Earlier in the week, Harry and a few other DMLE staff had taken her back to the charred remains of the apothecary, hoping it might jog her memory. It hadn't, though the sight of a shattered bottle of Swooping Evil venom had cleared up some things.

The obliviatory effects of Swooping Evil venom were well-documented. If that had been one of the dozens of substances that had coated Hermione in the fallout from the explosion, it made sense that her memory had been affected. She still could not remember what had brought her to the apothecary in the first place.

Hermione had also examined the rune stone bomb personally, but the experience had been unproductive. Terry had been assigned to supervise the examination. Luckily, despite their awkward last encounter, he offered only polite detachment and gave her a reserved goodbye when she had finished. She hadn't noticed anything new other than a useless thought that abrading the carved runes might prevent the stone from exploding again—something the Department of Mysteries had already determined.

The runes were, in Hermione's academic opinion, baffling. They included a mixture of at least three different alphabets, and the stones had cores of what appeared to be ashes of non-mineral substances.

During her one day of Mail Duty that week, Hermione had taken the initiative to visit the Department of Mysteries herself. (She did not want to encounter Terry again.) A pale, wide-eyed Unspeakable of approximately eighty-nine years old had informed her that the ashes had traces of several flora or fauna. It was impossible to tell whether the explosion had rendered them ash or whether the ashes were inserted intentionally. They could not reverse-engineer the magical energy that caused the blast without knowing the incantation appended to the runes.

In other words, they had many theories but no conclusions.

Harry, who had been quietly eating when Joseph asked his question, looked up. "We've brought in a prominent rune expert from Greece to consult on the case—at Theodore Nott's recommendation, actually," he said, his tone strangely casual for the statement's absurdity.

Hermione turned toward her friend. She hadn't heard about that before. The fact that Theo was involved was a surprise.

George, who had been listening to the exchange, said, "Theo's an expert in his own right! But he recommended someone else?"

Harry nodded. "Apparently, this expert taught him during his Mastery. A Mister Kalokardias—he looked at the stones yesterday and said they're not pure rune work. The stones carry the remnants of a curse. The problem is, we haven't been able to analyze the curse because it released and dissipated when the stones exploded."

Hermione absorbed this information, her mind racing. If the stones were cursed, it added another layer of complexity to an already perplexing case. She found herself wishing she could be more involved in the investigation, frustrated that her injury and lack of memory had sidelined her.

"Has the DMLE considered bringing in Theo to examine the stones as well?" Hermione asked.

Harry took a long sip of water to clear his throat of food. "Officially, he has not registered as a runes master, so he doesn't qualify to consult as a DMLE expert."

Hermione registered that with curiosity. "What constitutes a DMLE expert consultant?"

"Honestly? No idea, probably a professional certification plus whatever Robards decides at the moment, although I think he needs to answer to the Minister's Office."

Hermione thought the DMLE could use some updated guidelines but filed that thought away. After all, it was not her place, disgraced junior auror that she was.

Kreacher chose that moment to appear with a plate of treacle tart, offering it to anyone who wanted dessert. Hermione declined, her mind too preoccupied to enjoy sweets at the moment. And Kreacheralwaysmade treacle tart—Harry's favorite.

As the conversation continued, Hermione found herself stealing glances at Joseph. He was talking to Ron now, discussing the upcoming match and the likelihood of France versus England in the finals.

Hermione's thoughts wandered. She felt unsettled. The explosion, the unsolved werewolf attacks, her leave of absence, and now this whirlwind with Joseph—four dates in less than two weeks. And they were excellent, truly.

But … there was the matter of Malfoy, who had saved her life and maybe had wanted to kiss her. Over the last two weeks, Hermione had almost convinced herself that it was a dream, that she had imagined the entire encounter. Every moment she spent with TheoorMalfoy, Hermione felt like she was in a feverish dream state. But the physical memory of Malfoy's breath on her lips remained visceral.

And here was Joseph, sitting beside her, his arm lightly draped over her shoulders. He fit into her world like he had always been there, and the thought made her heart inexplicably ache.

A while later, George and Angelina left to pick up Roxanne from the Burrow and head home, and Hermione walked Joseph to the Floo. Hermione was filled with deja vu from a week earlier when they had embraced on the sofa. She blushed.

Joseph, clad in Muggle denims and a classic blue button-down shirt, spoke first. "Thank you for inviting me tonight. It means a lot."

Hermione smiled. "Thank you for coming."

"So, you're off in the morning?"

"We have a private Portkey leaving at seven," said Hermione. The small carved wooden lamb was waiting on Hermione's vanity. It would have been a zoo if she, Harry, and Ron had all three gone to the Portkey Office at once.

Joseph reached out and brought her into a warm hug. Half into her hair, he murmured, "I hope you have a great time."

"I'll be back—after the moon. I hope everything goes well."

Joseph smiled. "If not for recent events, a moon is just another moon to me. While you're gone … may I call you?"

"Of course—only I'll be in a magical hotel. So, maybe text me? I'll find a place to check my phone. We can arrange a time to talk."

"Perfect."

And as Hermione looked up into Joseph's face, his wide-set brown eyes shining with the light from the hearth, she felt confident enough to lift herself on her toes and kiss him. It was a short kiss, for they could still hear the murmuring of Harry, Ron, and Lavender in the kitchen, but when they parted, Joseph kept his arms around Hermione's shoulders for a moment longer than necessary.

She was getting warmer. Definitely. Probably. Almost certainly.

Four Days Later—
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Castle Sauvan, Provence

Hermione strolled through Castle Sauvan's gardens, her eyes sweeping over the meticulously trimmed hedges and the orderly rows of flowers that seemed to stretch forever.

The late August sunlight reflected on the surface of an artificial lake where a pair of black swans glided effortlessly across the water. It was a tranquil scene, and Hermione felt a sense of peace. This was the France she had always longed to explore since her parents first brought her here on family holidays as a child.

Back then, they had stuck to the well-worn tourist paths—museums and historical landmarks around Paris—places steeped in history, but ones that catered to the Muggle public. The Castle Sauvan had been on Hermione's wish list for years, but its magical connections were unknown to her back then. She had begged her parents to visit, fascinated at the time by stories of old French nobility. But the Grangers had never made a trip this far south, to Provence.

With a magical map in her hand and years of research behind her, Hermione was finally seeing this chateau for the first time—and from the perspective of a witch. She glanced down at the map, its parchment glowing softly as it revealed paths invisible to the Muggle eye. The magical portion of the estate was just ahead.

The chateau's original owner, Count Michel Palamede de Forbin-Janson, and his wife Cornelie Henriette, his Countess and the princess of Galean, were both wizards.

As the histories stated, during the French Revolution, the Countess—who bore a striking resemblance to Queen Marie-Antoinette—had offered to take the Queen's place in the Conciergerie, the prison where she was held before her execution at the guillotine. The Countess had even raised a million francs, her entire fortune, to finance the escape plan.

Muggles had their version of this history, but Hermione knew the magical truth.

The Countess had planned to use Polyjuice Potion to switch places with the Queen—or force someone else to switch places with her, Hermione thought darkly—a daring and dangerous plan that could have altered history. But Marie-Antoinette had refused, sending a note in return: "I cannot, and do not want to accept the sacrifice of your life. Adieu."

The plan had fallen apart, and the Countess had been forced to flee abroad when the scheme was exposed. But the idea of such a bold, magical thread in the tapestry of the French Revolution fascinated Hermione.

She loved being a witch.

The chateau remained open to Muggles, and its grand gardens and architecture were preserved for public viewing. But hidden within the estate was a magical garden and the remnants of the Count and Countess's potion laboratory in a secondary building. The couple had been renowned potioneers, and their research was studied by witches and wizards across Europe. It was this legacy that Hermione wanted to explore today.

Harry and Ron had listened to her excited, rambling story with practiced patience that morning over breakfast—and then decided to go to England's open practice session instead. Hermione rolled her eyes but allowed them to abandon her. They had already followed her on a tour of the Loire Valley the day before and had seen enough chateaus for perhaps the rest of their lives.

So, Hermione hopped in her Muggle rental car and drove here alone.

As Hermione walked through the manicured gardens, she admired the carved stone planters, filled with flowers that did not wilt despite the heat. A few other visitors wandered through the grounds, all of whom were Muggles, as far as Hermione could tell. Their distinctive cameras and sunhats made them unmistakable. Hermione enjoyed being a witch at times like this—she was protected by a sunscreen charm and a shade charm.

As Hermione rounded a corner in the path, she stopped short. A peacock stood just ahead, its vibrant blue and green plumage shimmering as it strutted across the cobbled stones. The sight of the bird reminded Hermione instantly of the fabled albino peacocks that roamed the grounds of Malfoy Manor—or had roamed in the past, she thought. She had no idea what that cursed Manor was like now.

Hermione rather thought the colorful ones were far more beautiful.

She shook her head, refocusing on the map in her hand. The enchanted garden was close now, and she could feel a faint hum of magic in the air as if the ground beneath her feet was alive with it. Hermione followed the path around a stone plinth, and the map glowed brighter.

There—just ahead, she saw a tall brick wall half-obscured by ivy, with an ancient-looking wooden door set into its base. The door was small, almost unassuming, but Hermione knew this was the entrance to the concealed part of the estate.

Hermione double-checked her map, and sure enough, an exact rendering of the wooden door stared back at her from the enchanted pages. She tapped her wand to the paper and observed as the drawing moved, demonstrating how to unlock the door through a series of swish-and-tap movements. Hermione pocketed the map and discretely looked around, ensuring no Muggles were nearby.

The guidebook was clear: WARNING—MUGGLE AREA. Avoid the use of magic in front of Muggles at all costs. Violations of the Statute of Secrecy are punishable by up to five years imprisonment.

Luckily, there was no one in Hermione's immediate vicinity, so she performed the unlocking movements. A rusty creak sounded from the door's hinges, and Hermione pulled on the handle.

The door swung open easily, revealing a courtyard and a building—small relative to the main chateau but still substantial—with an equally large attached greenhouse. At the center of the courtyard was a marble fountain with an animated bronze sculpture depicting a beautiful witch stirring the contents of a cauldron. Every time she stirred, water spurts burst from within the cauldron, falling in spirals to the pool at its base.

Hermione let out a gasp of awe. It was stunning. The courtyard was lined with flutter-by bushes, and electric blue billywigs flitted from flower to flower, likely charmed to stay away from the Muggle areas of the estate. The building had a limestone facade, a green ceramic-tiled roof, large windows, and a grand portico.

The door thudded shut behind her, and Hermione was amazed to see that there weren't any other witches or wizards around. A current of excitement ran up and down her spine at the thought of having this place to herself, if only for a moment.

"We've been wandering forages," came a voice from behind Hermione, who jumped up, startled. When she turned, no one was there, but she soon realized that the voices came from beyond the doorway she had just entered.

"It's been five minutes," a deeper voice replied. The sounds were muffled through the door, but a spark of recognition burned at the back of Hermione's mind.

"What are we looking for, again?" A new voice, also male, also familiar.

"A door," the first male voice replied.

"This door?" The woman.

"That is indeed a door. Good work, Pansy." Man Number Two.

Pansy? Hermione's stomach lurched.

"Well, is it the right door?" the woman replied, frustration evident through the wood, stone, and ivy.

"I think so," said Man Number One.

"Brilliant," replied Man Number Two. And then the door rattled loudly, causing Hermione to jump again. "It's locked. Go on, then, Draco."

Hermione stifled a gasp. No! No way! What are the odds!?

"Er …"

The woman, who Hermione realized must be Pansy Parkinson, replied, "Surely you know how to get in."

"Well—"

"You must be joking. This was your idea!"

"It's been years! I didn't memorize the incantation."

"Why not?"

"Can't be too hard to get in. It's not like it's Gringott's," said Man Number Two, whom Hermione now realized—was Theo. "Alohamora!"

Hermione scampered away from the door, afraid it would open to reveal her eavesdropping. The door only rattled again, though, and did not open. Her heart was pounding as she contemplated her options. One: rush into the house and hope they didn't figure out how to make it into this part of the estate. Two: hide inside the nearby bushes until they gave up and left, or made it through and beyond her line of sight, and then flee at the earliest opportunity. Or three: face them.

Option three was not the most appealing. Hermione remembered that night at the DA, the last time she had seen Theo and Malfoy. She recalled Malfoy's steel gray eyes and the sharp arch of his cupid's bow as his lips came toward her—

Nope. Not helpful.

"What if we blasted it open?" Pansy suggested.

"Or we could just ask for help," Theo countered. "So violent, Pans."

"And whom do we ask, exactly?"

"There's a nice chap just over there."

"Theo, that's a Muggle. Look at his shoes."

"Is it? Huh."

"Would you two just shut up? I'm thinking."

"Pansy, be quiet. Lord Malfoy is thinking."

"Oh, do forgive us, please, my Lord. We've seen the errors of our ways."

"I solemnly pledge fealty to your house—my magic is yours to command—"

"Shut. Up."

Hermione almost chuckled, surprised at the friendly banter that passed between the three Slytherins from beyond the doorway. Though Malfoy frightened her—in a way she was not yet ready to contemplate—and she had no memories of Parkinson other than glares and snide remarks, Theo, at least, was her friend. Or rather, he was friendly toward her. He had given her a tour of his club, dueled her amicably, and bought her a drink. It wouldn't be so far-fetched for Hermione to help him.

And that was her logic when, moments later, Hermione reached out a hand and opened the door from the inside.

"Need some help?" Hermione asked as the doorway swung open, placing a hand on her hip.

It was common knowledge that Hermione disdained the silly and sometimes cruel results of Fred and George's pranks at Hogwarts. Though she admired Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes and their magical experimentation, she was not the sort of person to purchase a canary cream, for instance, to trick someone into involuntary bodily transfiguration for her amusement.

But the looks on Theo's, Malfoy's, and Parkinson's faces made Hermione reconsider her outlook on shock-based pranks. They were priceless.

They all wore matching expressions of confusion and complete befuddlement. Hermione wished she had a camera because Malfoy's particular expression was worthy of documentation. His face was absent of all its usual contrivances: no stiffness in the upper lip, no furrow of the brow, no sneer marring the delicate angle of his nose—just smooth, pale skin, an open mouth, and a sort of blank focus. He looked directly at her, almost reverently, and Hermione was nonplussed.

She wondered if she could ever get him to look at her that way again.

Each Slytherin had their wands in hand, though they were all pointed at the ground. Their clothing, though relatively nondescript, was clearly magical. Theo was wearing an electric purple tailcoat at midday in the middle of August, for Merlin's sake. Malfoy wore a long-sleeved tunic and trousers, all in black; Hermione was overheated just looking at him. Only Parkinson's floor-length sleeveless floral print robe looked even remotely appropriate for the setting.

They didn't say anything, and Hermione began to feel wary under the scrutiny of their stares. She glanced down at the calf-length yellow sundress with spaghetti straps over her shoulders that Lavender had made for her. It was a bit formal for a day of sightseeing, but Hermione intended to meet up with Harry and Ron later in the afternoon for a get-together with some of Harry's colleagues in their French DMLE counterpart.

Hermione also double-checked that the glamour she cast over her left forearm was still in place to conceal her mudblood scar. It would have felt even more awkward to have that on display in front of these three, and Malfoy in particular.

Theo was the first to break his trance after what felt like a full minute of silence. "Um … what the fuck? Hermione?"

"You were trying to get in here. Weren't you?" Hermione inquired.

Theo blinked several times before speaking, " Yes, but … Salazar! Forgive my poor manners, Hermione. How are you?" He stepped forward and kissed Hermione on both cheeks, which she was too stunned to reciprocate.

"Oh," she said, blushing as Theo pulled away. "Just fine."

He smiled, and Hermione admired the blue of his eyes. "Wonderful! And I repeat—what are you doing here?"

"Theo," Parkinson hissed. "So rude." She pushed Theo out of the way as she stepped forward. "Hi Granger. Pansy Parkinson. We went to school together; you despised me; I despised you. All water under the bridge, I hope." Then the witch shook Hermione's hand, dropping it quickly before commenting, "This the place?" and stepping around Hermione to march through the doorway.

"And I'm rude, she says," Theo muttered. He turned to Malfoy, who still had not said anything. "She's the one who wanted to blast through the wall."

"I heard that!" Parkinson called from inside the courtyard.

Hermione stifled a laugh, her lips pinching into something like a smile. The expression fell, however, when she met Malfoy's eyes, still grey and utterly focused on her. She said, "Er … Sorry for the shock. You sounded like you were about to break the Statute of Secrecy."

They all stepped through the door, which Hermione closed behind them. Theo remarked, "Not my fault. Draco's the one who forgot the instructions."

"Oh," Hermione said. She pulled out the map from her pocket along with her wand and cast a duplication charm on the parchment, taking the copy and holding it out to Malfoy. "Here's a copy of my guide."

Theo had wandered off toward the enchanted fountain of the witch, where Parkinson had also wandered, so Hermione faced Malfoy alone by the ivy-covered wall. She was overcome by the memory of him sitting beside her, eyes half-closed, leaning in toward her—

She coughed, arm still outstretched.

Malfoy reached out a pale, long-fingered hand to take the parchment. He was careful not to let their fingers graze, touching only the minimum amount of paper to take possession of it.

"Thank you," he said, nodding. "And … hi, Granger."

"Hi, Malfoy," Hermione acknowledged with a dip of her head. She was horrified to realize she was blushing, and when Theo called out to them a moment later, she was grateful for an excuse to break away.

"Draco, look at this fountain! This is what I'm talking about!" Theo jumped excitedly, pointing at the water spurts as they flew in enchanted spirals from the cauldron into the marble pool. "I think the DA fountain could be bigger."

"Why have a club at all when you could invest all your father's money into fountains?" was Malfoy's snide reply.

"You're joking, but," Theo's face broke into a devilish grin, "he would hate that. I'm interested."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, and Hermione was struck at the absurdity of being at the Castle Sauvan with her present company.

"So, Granger, what brings you here?" Parkinson asked, perching on the fountain's edge to face Hermione, Draco, and Theo simultaneously.

"Sightseeing," Hermione replied. "I've always wanted to visit this place."

"Marvelous," Theo proclaimed. "This is one of Draco's favorite spots."

"Really?" Hermione's head whipped toward Malfoy, whose hands were tucked into his pockets. He looked uncomfortable. "But … you didn't know how to get in."

"I haven't been in years," came the tense and quiet reply.

"Must have changed the locks, so to speak," Theo suggested before turning back to Hermione. "But Hermione—what brings you to France? Not Quidditch?"

"I'm supporting Ginny Weasley for England," Hermione told him. "And having a short holiday, too. I came with—well, Harry and Ron and I traveled together, but they have a higher tolerance for sporting events than I do. So, I'm here alone today."

"That's the right attitude, Granger," Parkinson commented, smoothing the already-perfect skirt of her robe. "If these two drag me to another match, I'm going to heave a bludger into their faces. Had to force them at wandpoint to miss—what was it?"

"The open English practice today?" Hermione finished wryly. "That's where Harry and Ron are."

"See, Pans? It's not just us who wanted to go," Theo whined.

"They have a proper excuse, though, don't they?" Parkinson quipped. "Sister and-or former fiancée on the team."

"Hello? Englishmen," Theo countered, gesturing between himself and Malfoy.

"Anyway," Parkinson continued with a flip of her shoulder-length bob, "Granger gets it."

"Well, I think this is entirely delightful," declared Theo, who walked over to Hermione and wrapped a lithe arm around her shoulders. "Hermione, Draco was just about to give us a tour of the magical portion of this estate. Would you care to join us?"

"Oh—"

"We don't even know her plans. She was probably on her way out," Malfoy interjected. He looked furious.

Hermione's stomach lurched. The urge to leave—flee, really—filled her senses. Malfoy clearly did not want her there. It made her reconsider their entire last interaction. Had he even meant to sit so close to her? Was that lean forward intentional? Did the minuscule brush of their lips disgust him? He had helped save her life, but it wasn't as though that had been personal. Perhaps the accidental almost-kiss had infuriated him.

A billywig zipped in front of Hermione's face, speeding off toward an open window of the nearby greenhouse, and the urge to flee was replaced by determination.

She had wanted to visit this castle for years, and she had been there first.

Hermione steeled herself and stood straighter, correcting her casual posture. "I actually just got here. But I wouldn't want to intrude on your outing. I'll head in a different—"

Theo cut in, "Nonsense, Hermione. Draco doesn't mind. Do you, Draco?"

They all glanced at Malfoy, who appeared to be wrestling with some uncomfortable emotion that Hermione couldn't identify. A pink tinge crept up his neck.

What was that about?

"Of course I don't mind," Malfoy replied through clenched teeth.

"Brilliant!" Theo grabbed Hermione's right arm and placed it in the crook of his left elbow before prompting Draco. "Proceed."

Draco glared and pointed at the fountain. Pansy flitted up and moved to stand on Theo's opposite side. Then Draco recited in a controlled monotone voice, "Cornélie Henriette, the Roman princess of Galean, countess de Forbin, and chatelaine of Sauvan."

"Oh, I do love a title," Theo commented, causing Hermione to chuckle.

"The sculpture dates to the nineteenth century, almost two hundred years after her death. It was made by the renowned bronze worker Phidianna de l'Orange, who allegedly learned from Goblin artisans, though that was never proven."

Draco took a breath and then marched around the fountain toward the building without a preamble, leaving Theo, Pansy, and Hermione to exchange confused looks before hastening after him.

"And who was this princess, exactly?" Pansy inquired.

"A renowned potion maker along with her husband, the count—and a good friend of the French Muggle Queen Marie Antoinette," Hermione supplied.

Malfoy continued marching up the stepped entrance to the laboratory building and did not acknowledge her words. He stopped at the top of the steps and turned to face them.

Pansy stumbled for half a moment as they approached the steps. "Oh dear. I think I just had a flashback to Binns. Granger, you were the only one to ever talk in that torture chamber of a class."

Hermione sniffed. "Binns is not the greatest orator. I needed to speak to keep myself awake."

"Hear, hear," agreed Theo. "Some among us called your questions a 'gods-forsaken terroristic compulsion' Hermione, but see, Pans? It had a function."

"No offense, Granger," Pansy quickly jumped in, and Hermione was surprised that she looked somewhat sheepish. Equally surprising was that Hermione felt the need to reply.

"I know exactly what kind of student I was," Hermione admitted. "I was there to learn, not to please my peers."

Malfoy cleared his throat. He looked at Hermione again, who waited expectantly for him to continue, eager to change the conversation.

Hermione tried to keep an open expression on her face. After all, she had crashed their outing, and if Malfoy was disgusted by their near-kiss, then … well, she didn't want to make him uncomfortable. Even if she could still feel the ghost of his breath on her lips.

Entirely unbidden, the image of Joseph kissing her in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place flashed in Hermione's mind, along with accompanying feelings of guilt.

Malfoy appeared to hesitate for a moment before training his gaze directly on Hermione.

"Do you know the story of the countess and Marie Antoinette's execution?"

Up Next: Draco has a rough day.