a/n: hello all! i'm forrest toads - here to present you with my first fanfic in nearly five years! although i've been immersed in the general fanfiction community for nearly a decade, i've made this account to begin anew (also because my old account has nothing but doctor who and phan fics on there…)! the right to roam has been in the works for quite some time, and i'm nowhere near done with it. however, i enjoy uploading the edited chapters as i go because, quite frankly, i love receiving feedback on my work! i've tried my best to stay true to the plot through the sixth book or so, but some things have changed - though i still think everything works quite nicely (please let me know if it doesn't, or if anything is distracting)! this story really means a lot to me, and i sincerely hope it will eventually mean a lot to you as well! thank you for clicking on my little dramione fic, and have a wonderful read!
P.S. this fanfic will be cross-posted on both archive of our own (AO3) and wattpad
P.P.S i highly recommend listening to the song i quote at the beginning of each chapter while reading! once we get deeper into the story, i will be releasing a playlist i've put together that includes all of the songs!
SUMMARY: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger would have remained enemies if it weren't for the war - damned to despise one another until the end of time. Instead, they found trauma-edged love through serendipity, bravery, and the willingness to dream. EWE. HEA (to the max)!
CONTENT WARNING: Rated M for a reason! This story deals with trauma, poor mental health, and a plethora of potentially inappropriate choices that stem from both of those things. Also… other eventual adult content (lemon).
[SUMMER 1998]
chapter one
"let these words speak
let our eyes never meet
cause even if you love me
what would the people think?"
-'dragon' by breathe owl breathe (2010)
When the Malfoy heir decided to throw his wand to Harry Potter at the final battle of Hogwarts, reality itself shifted. The moment Harry moved from Hagrid's arms, Draco had turned into lightning, his feet striking the broken ground beneath him. He nearly fell at first - taking off from his toes at such a panicked speed, scuffling against the crumbling stone - but he quickly regained his footing. It was his velocity that helped him hurl his slender wand to the Boy Who Lived. Harry's quick reflexes had allowed for a triumphant succession of events to occur, using Draco's wand to end the decade-long fight against Voldemort.
And just like that, the war had gone by in a flash. Once it was over, it felt like it had stopped just soon as it had started, regardless of the years of peril that came before. Suddenly, there was no looming end goal. There was no grand secret, no plan to enact. Physically, it was over.
But in the minds of those who fought, those who had lost so much, the battle brewed on. Living in the post-war reality felt like moving through honey - a gold-tinted world that just wouldn't let go. So much was expected of the surviving heroes, the people who had watched their brothers and sisters and lovers die. There was always an exclusive interview, a proposed book deal, a mandatory court appearance, a trial to comment on, a crowd of thankful citizens to remind the living of what they had to endure. No one was given the chance to escape what they so badly wished to rid themselves of. No one could hide from the suffocation of success.
Oh, to be a bird. To have the chance to lift off and leave; to have an escape.
Hermione Granger had always been quite terrified of flying. It was recognized from very early on that it was one of the few things that truly gave her a fright. Scarred from her first attempt at riding a broom, she had stayed out of the sky at all costs except for when it was necessary, like in class or during a mission. She had absolutely detested her time spent flying on Thestrals with Kingsley Shacklebolt during the Battle Over Little Whinging, and had spent most of its duration with her entire body clenched, soured adrenaline coursing through her veins in clotted chunks. She had been unsure of whether she feared heights over the bloodthirsty death eaters, or vice versa in the moment.
But now, the death eaters were gone, eradicated, finished. Of course, some supporters hid on the fringes of society and tried their best to build something from nothing, but Voldemort was gone for good. Hermione no longer had reason to fear them. She, along with many others, had taken the power back, and in turn had protected the lives of muggle born and half-blood wizards everywhere. So how on Earth did she have the audacity to continue on in her fear of flying? It seemed silly now, being afraid of something as trivial as flying after conquering what they had. Hermione fully convinced herself that she had no time, no space left to feel foolish fear. She simply did not allow herself to experience the sensation.
She did, however, endure a specific sort of sadness - the kind that began as a single grain, then slowly expanded to fill one's whole chest and mind. It was an aching, immobilizing depression that had made life devoid of meaning.
And it was all because of a fucking boy.
Once the dust finally settled, there hadn't been enough time to say goodbye. There hadn't been enough time for anything, really. An escape was the only viable option for everyone who wished to keep what remained of their shattered sanities. Hermione had gone to The Burrow with Harry and Ron almost immediately after the Final Battle, then remained there for nearly two whole months. The tall, rural home had been shrouded in a blanket of inescapable bereavement. She hadn't so much as left the magically warded property for a day hike within her recuperative stay, choosing to merely stay inside, write, and chip away at her post-war reading list - there was no distraction better than reading. With her nose in a book, Hermione didn't have to look up and see the emptiness in George's eyes, or notice the suffocating silence that invaded the kitchen whenever Molly cooked. She could hide in a corner and avoid brushing shoulders with Ron, avoid having an unfulfilling conversation with Ginny or Harry.
And when she wasn't reading, she was asleep in her small, twin sized bed. Nearly everyone else in the house had trouble sleeping, their minds burdened by PTSD-induced night terrors that refused to be remedied even by the strongest of Dreamless Sleep potions. For each of the others, sleep served as somewhat of a reverse highlight reel, forcing them to relive their war-torn moments and trauma - it was hell. Insomnia was quickly deemed as the preferable option by Harry, Ron, George, and Ginny. The four of them had made a habit out of meeting in the dark of night, crowding the small kitchen and distracting themselves with Firewhiskey as the rest of the house tossed and turned from above.
But Hermione, she preferred to dream - she welcomed it.
In reality, she just wanted to be alone. She wished for an escape from her escape, a place in which she could stare at walls in silence and brew tea at six in the morning without having a shadow of grief lurking behind her being. She wanted to be lost, untraceable, vanished completely - but this desire was nearly impossible to achieve. The entire wizarding world knew Hermione's face, knew of her accomplishments and story. There was nary a place for her to hide away, to be a person before a war hero.
And then the letters began.
Nearly a month after everything had begun to wind down, Hermione was awoken by a rather large owl tapping at her window, the sun just barely peeking over the horizon. She wasn't sure in the moment, but if her memory served her right, it was a Eurasian Eagle owl. Its large orange eyes peered into the small space that she shared with the youngest Weasley curiously, its head cocked in anticipation as it stood before a rather hefty parcel.
Hermione then moved towards the window quietly, tiptoeing across the hardwood so as to not disturb Ginny - who had finally fallen asleep in the night for once - then pushed the pane open with her palm flat against the glass. It was cool outside, the early-morning air causing an outline of condensation to accumulate around her hand. She and the owl both quickly realized that the window would not be wide enough to let the smaller creature in through.
"Tell you what," Hermione started politely, offering her hand out for the bird to nuzzle. "I'll meet you down in the garden - with treats."
The owl let out a low squawk, then took off towards the green space below. She was unsure of the sender or contents of the letter, but she was desperate to busy her brain with something in the early morning light. Hastily, Hermione shut the window and scurried around her small area to collect a muggle pen and some parchment, along with a fistful of treats from her personal stash. After gathering her things, she shoved both legs through a pair of loose-fitting joggers and tucked the hem of her t-shirt into the waistband before making her way out back to meet with the owl.
With a pinch of anxiety in her gut and no shoes on her feet, Hermione walked toe-heel, toe-heel, toe-heel down the wooden staircase. The Burrow was tall - nearly too tall for her liking - and its stairs were relentlessly creaky, crying out beneath every other step she took. She moved in a brisk fashion, knowing that she would cause a bit of noise regardless of her pace, until she reached the bottom floor of the Weasley's home. From the wall across the living room, their funny clock hummed and clicked as all of the hands - adorned with portraits of each member of the family - pointed to "bed." Hermione smiled at the confirmation of solitude as she tip-toed across the rest of the home until she reached the door.
She slipped outside with ease, rushing to the garden perch in which the owl had sat upon. It was attached to a picnic table fit for all nine - well, eight - Weasleys, stretching out towards the field that resided beside the home.
"For you, friend." Hermione tossed the treats across the wooden surface, set her other things aside, then nabbed the letter in one foul swoop. The owl clucked once in appreciation before practically diving headfirst into the spread. Hermione smiled at the creature as she clutched the thick envelope between both hands. There was a slight breeze in the air that carried a dewy scent as she sat down on the bench and let her eyes wander across the packaging. On the front of the envelope, her name was written in a beautiful, cursive script - bold black ink then traced by a stunning silver that accented things just right. Around her name were small flowers, sloppy doodles of tight-petaled flowers and tiny trees - pine and birch - drawn around the edge of her name. Immediately, she knew who had sent the letter.
Of course it had been him.
The opposite side of the envelope had been hand-colored a Slytherin green, with flecks of silver scribbled along the edges. Hermione smiled at the unapologetic craftsmanship, running her finger along the paper and taking a calming breath before she dug her index finger beneath the seal. She ripped the paper as best she could, taking her time to carefully unbind the muggle packaging. Once inside, she found three separate things.
The first item she pulled out was a twine-bound stack of postcards, many of them being from small towns and sights along the sea. Without freeing them, Hermione flipped through them and peeked at each design. They were all muggle photographs, frozen in place the way she preferred - the moving, looping images that wizards developed still caused her unease, even after all her years in their world. There was no writing on any of the postcards, which Hermione thought was a bit odd. She set them aside gingerly, then dug her hand back into the envelope to pull out a folded piece of bulky paper.
It was a portrait of Tonks.
Beautifully etched atop the paper with pencil and charcoal, her dearly departed friend stared up at her with wide, reanimated eyes. Draco had signed his name at the bottom of the piece, his signature swirled with artistic flair. The piece was really quite good. Hermione ran her fingers along the edge of her face, the intricate lines blurring into one as a wave of tears pooled over her eyes. She would have to get it framed for her room.
The early morning breeze felt tinted with magic as it danced through her hair and across her skin. It was evident that Draco had spent time on this letter - time on a gift for her. For the first time in what felt like eons, Hermione's heart began to flutter.
The only thing left in the envelope then was the letter. Hermione stared at it within the packaging for a moment in an attempt to prepare herself for its contents. He had written the message on muggle paper, a flat piece of stationary folded in half to fit the envelope just as the drawing had been. Trying her best to remain present in the current moment, Hermione took a breath and observed how the Earth felt between her toes, how the wood of the picnic table had warmed beneath her, how the air felt against her tired skin, until she had finally been able to even out her breathing. Then with courage, she looked at the note.
Dearest Hermione,
Have you been dreaming?
Best,
DM
Hermione held the letter tightly to her chest after scanning it one, two, three times. The message was so simple, so unexpected, so necessary. Because she had, in fact, been dreaming. She had been dreaming about him for weeks now - the reasoning behind why sleep was the only destination that brought her peace. It was the only place in which she could get away, in which she could be with him. But she had thought it to be all in her head, old fantasies stirring around and up to the surface of her subconscious.
She looked off into the distance then, the letter clutched to her heart.
Draco Malfoy was muted, made of earth tones and stoicism. He reminded Hermione of the Black Lake that sat beside Hogwarts - a body of dark and muddled water wading just above a world of soft green light. He had sacrificed so much to help them win: warning the Golden Trio of the incoming death eater parade at the Quidditch World Cup back in fourth year, working with Snape behind the scenes to keep the Order as up to date as possible, saving Hermione's life at the Manor all those months ago. Though he wore an ever so convincing mask of disinterest and narcissism, he was easy to see through with practice. Hermione had practically shattered him to bits the day he saved her from the manor, had seen the light hidden between the deepest cracks in his skin.
If he was inquiring about her dreams, did that mean he had been dreaming about her just the same as she had about him?
With a bold grin, Hermione placed everything back into the envelope and began to scrawl out a response to her one-time nemesis. She decided to keep the message simple but purposeful, just as he had, and pondered over the word choice for quite some time. The final result was thirteen letters long, a simple but prodding succession of words - and though she felt proud of the letter, she did feel a bit embarrassed about how bare her envelope was, how thin its contents were. Reluctantly, she placed some doodles around the backside of the envelope then, as elegantly as she could manage, wrote his name on its front.
"Please let me in," She whispered to the letter, kissing the seal before handing it to the patiently waiting owl. "Safe travels, and thank you."
Hermione watched as the owl flew off, its wings flapping against the blue morning sky. For the time being, she decided she would call the large bird Iris after its wild eyes, and hoped to see them again very soon.
Breathlessly, the pair swam beneath a thick cluster of lily pads, taking turns peeking at and circling one another in the water. Draco's pale skin was tinted green from the filtered sunlight, highlighting the scars and crevasses that littered his body. Hermione nervously tilted her head as she peered at him, dragging her gaze from his torso, to his mouth, then eyes. The gentle current caused the overgrown mop of blonde hair to billow out behind him, giving her a clear view of his relaxed face. She noticed how he looked at her, as though she were some sort of precious artifact – a beautiful, untouchable thing that had been put away for good reason. He appeared so delicate when he held her gaze then, his face dressed in a dreamy expression, his eyes unwilling to leave her own.
Hermione's hair stayed in tangled curls that floated in front of her face. She didn't bother to push them aside when she made eye contact with Draco. In fact, she barely paid any mind to her demeanor or physical actions, she didn't observe the temperature of the water or the depth at which they swam. It was as though she was completely removed from her typical, analytical self. Beneath the water, it was just them – there was only him…
Hermione shot upwards in bed upon her return to the waking world, her lungs heaving as though she really had been underwater. Beside her, Crookshanks jolted awake at the sudden movement and emitted a small, panicked meow. As she panted heavily, her eyes first shot towards the bedside window in desperation, her hands making fists in the blankets. But to no avail, the windowsill remained vacant; there was no sign of any owl. Hermione took time to peer around the dark space, quickly realizing that Ginny was out of the room. Relieved by the routine emptiness but perturbed by the awakening, Hermione released a drawn out sigh and collected the covers back around her shoulders.
Though she knew she shouldn't have been so naïve, Hermione couldn't help but wake each day, fresh from her dreams in anticipation of a response. Hearing from him had changed things. It was quite pitiful in Hermione's opinion - one parcel alone had the ability to positively shift both her demeanor and mental state. Just as she had done so long ago, Hermione had begun to help Molly in the kitchen, make small talk with friends, and voluntarily venture on long, winding walks through the tall fields and forests that surrounded the Burrow. Like a tiny miracle, the bundle of paper propelled Hermione forward in life - the response gave her some sort of far off purpose. But of course, she still wanted more.
It was still before sunrise, the room a shadow in the moonless night. Hermione's brain was suddenly in overdrive, festering with thoughts and lingering pieces of her dream. She had seen him again, so tangibly beside her in the depths of that pond. She rolled over in bed and began to cradle her cheek with her hand, pathetically reminiscing on the time Draco had done the same upon their escape from Malfoy Manor. She had disliked it in the moment, had shoved herself away the second they landed on the snow laden forest floor. But now… now she wouldn't mind the gesture as much. She wouldn't mind feeling his palm against her face, then neck.
there i go again - making a mockery of my trauma.
Hermione shook her head into the pillow as though to free her mind of the thought. It felt a tad ridiculous to have even the shortest intrusion of him woven into her recounted trauma. She didn't want to constantly connect him to that, but she quickly realized that it was all they had. Violence and danger had themed their childhoods, leaving barely any instances of laid back interaction. And besides, even if there had been time for that, the foul language that most likely would have left Draco's mouth would have spoiled it anyway.
Hermione groaned in defeat - her mind was absolutely reeling. There was no way she would fall back asleep at this rate, this she was far too aware of. She decided that tossing and turning would be of no use, then ever so carefully, she stood from her small bed and stretched her arms towards the sky. The wood floor was cold under her bare feet, sending a sharp shiver up her spine and kindly inspiring the concept of a bath. Yes, a warm soak in the tub would do Hermione and her restless mind just fine at such an hour.
On her way towards the door, Hermione glanced over at the cup of tea she had abandoned before bed and gave it a contemplative gaze. tea wouldn't be so bad either. She laughed to herself out of pity for a moment before doubling back into the room to grab her wand. Rewarming the beverage didn't take much self convincing, as a trip to the kitchen was both risky and a lot of work, but it still gave her a sense of shame nonetheless. afraid to go downstairs, to face the ones who love you most. She sighed into the cup, taking a long sip of earl gray as her feet led her to the tub down the hall.
Making sure to place a silencing charm on the room before doing so, Hermione began to draw steaming hot bathwater into the basin. She undressed slowly, yawning as she stripped herself of her oversized sleep shirt, then melted into the inviting warmth. She hadn't bothered to put her hair up, her brown ringlets falling across her shoulders to kiss at the rising water. Lazily, Hermione leaned her head back against where the rim of the tub met the wall and shut her eyes for what felt like a single moment before suddenly jolting forward - a sharp pain ricocheting across her skin.
Hissing as the water lapped against her forearm, Hermione's eyes darted down to the protruding scar, a gift from Bellatrix. Though it was normally an ugly sight, it appeared each cursed slash had swollen into a pink peak tipped by white. Evidently, she had been scratching at herself again without noticing, an unfortunate habit that formed alongside the survivor's guilt that sat lofted in her chest. The heat of the water seared her irritated skin, causing her to wince once more before lifting her arm to rest on the rim.
Breathing felt like a series of sighs - heavy, shifting tones that weighed heavy on Hermione's lungs; a burden. A pinch of frustration began to build in the back of her throat, her eyes just barely stinging with the idea of tears. Baths had always been one of Hermione's favorite ways to unwind, with the exception of reading for pleasure, but now even submerging herself in the water conjured memories of long endured pain. It felt as though nothing would ever be the same as it had been before the war, as though nothing would be enjoyable, or familiar, or relaxing. With her eyes clamped shut, she pressed the tips of her toes firmly to the opposite end of the tub, pressing until some more of her body had slipped beneath the warmth, until she hit the dull point of pain. Her submerged hand sat flat along the bottom of the basin to steady the rest of her, dead set on letting the sadness pass through her like a ghost.
SSSCCCRRRREEEEECCCCHHHH!
The horrid noise caused Hermione to jump yet again, her barely formed concentration dissipating back into the air. Confused, she twisted her head towards the room's small, circular window. what in the bloody hell… A different owl - one much smaller than Iris, with a pudgy middle - sat outside, harshly clawing at the bathroom window. Attached to its standing leg was a scroll, rolled tightly against the bird's ankle. Quickly, Hermione stood in the bath with such excitement that she nearly toppled over, reaching out to grasp a towel from the nearby shelf and wrap it around her middle for decency's sake. Hurriedly, Hermione pushed open the round window pane and, without hesitation, extended her hand for the owl to inspect.
"Now, who are you?" She asked politely, bowing her head slightly at the creature. "Is that letter for me?"
The owl squawked, hopping once towards her and extending its leg in return.
"Oh, thank you!" Hermione breathed, her fingers trembling ever so slightly as she fumbled with the twine. Her damp feet slightly melded with the floor, water cascading down her legs to create a small pond beneath her. With her dry hand, she unrolled the tiny scroll, reading each line as it appeared individually.
Granger,
Feeling adventurous? Personally, I'm Nott!
You have desire, and I have answers.
Care to floo? If so, please provide
a time and place (no Wednesdays!).
TN
Hermione's brow furrowed as her eyes came to the end of the letter, a twinge of disappointment in her chest. For it had not, in fact, been a response from Draco. Rather, it had been a vague message from his close friend, the one and only, Theodore Nott.
a/n: hope you enjoyed the read! next chapter, we'll be checking in on draco - buckle up!