Seek and Find

by serpent_and_sage

Summary:

Hermione Granger constructed a predictable life for herself following the war. However, she realizes that within the constraints of control there is no room for want. In an uncharacteristic move, she flees her life in London to visit Neville, who works as a gardener at the Zabini Estate in Italy. The Estate, now a wellness retreat for elderly witches and wizards, is also the refuge of three of her Slytherin classmates that she has not seen since the war. This is a story of overcoming assumptions, judgmental garden gnomes, flowers, and the quest for contentment.

**Complete**

Notes:

And so the journey begins!

A massive thank you to my three beta readers: bookishteddy, my first real friend in the fan fiction community, Allison, who has been a part of my Harry Potter journey since the very beginning, and lauraloveschristmas, who always notices the small things! I love you all.

Chapter updates will be posted weekly on Monday, unless otherwise specified!

Come hang with me on socials @taylorewestonauthor

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

“And what do you think of the predictions that you are on track to be the youngest Minister for Magic that the wizarding world has known?”

Hermione blinked twice. This was actually a very common question. After a cursory waltz down memory lane, most interviews turned quickly to her professional achievements over the past three years: So, you were the brains of the “Golden Trio.” Tell me about what that was like…Defeating Voldemort at such a young age...that must have been terrifying! And how is your continued romance with Ronald Weasley?

Suddenly aware of the perplexed expression on the heavily made-up face of the Daily Prophet reporter, Hermione cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Apologies, would you mind repeating the question?”

The confused expression remained on the reporter’s face as she repeated the question. Hermione could already imagine the headline: Hermione Granger: The Brains of the “Golden Trio” Cracked at Last. Taking a deep breath in through her nose, she slowly exhaled as she redirected her attention to answering the question that had now been asked twice.

What did she think of the prediction that she would be the youngest Minister for Magic?

Immediately after the war, Hermione ignored the pleas from Harry and the Weasleys to take some time off to “process and heal” (Molly’s words). When Hermione received word of a special NEWTS level testing session organized by McGonagall for the students whose education was disrupted by the war, she dropped all other responsibilities beyond occasionally feeding herself and devoted herself to studying. Well, “disrupted by the war” was the way it was phrased in the letter that Hermione received, which seemed to her to be the understatement of the century.

Predictably, Hermione performed exceptionally well on her NEWTS and had her pick of careers within the Ministry, although most departments were more interested in her name and cultural significance than her magical capabilities. In another predictable move, Hermione chose to join the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures in the newly founded Office of House Elf Relocation. Since then, her tendency to work eighty hours a week and her voracious commitment to perfection in her work had guaranteed her rapid rise through the department. Last week, at the age of twenty-two, Hermione had become the youngest Ministry department head when she accepted the role of Head of her department.

As Hermione saw it, working was a series of homework assignments (many of which unfortunately required collaborating with less than capable people who were not willing to put in the time to do the job well) that were rewarded financially rather than with a glowing report card. It felt natural to continue to push herself just like she had as a student at Hogwarts. Now that she thought about it, very little had changed since then.

“Ms. Granger?”

Hermione’s eyes snapped back into focus. The women in front of her had moved past confusion and well into irritation at this point. She plastered a smile on her face when she noticed that she had Hermione’s attention again.

“Yes. Well. In response to your question…” Hermione began, but it seemed that her mind was insistent on holding her attention for a little while longer. Something about this question was bothering her. Did she doubt her capability to succeed as Minister for Magic? No, not particularly. Hermione was a realist, and knew that she possessed the capabilities that would make her a successful Minister for Magic. But, did she want to be Minister? That was the question.

“Ms. Granger, I apologize, but is there a problem?”

Once again, Hermione found herself yanked back to the present, where she was currently being interviewed for a front page feature on her historic professional accomplishments. But, unfortunately for the now irritated and impatient woman sitting in front of her, Hermione had no plans to complete the interview. If there was one thing that Hermione had learned as a child stuck in the middle of war, it was to trust her mind. It was the only thing that had kept Harry and Ron alive all those years. In this moment, her mind was trying to tell her something important, and she knew she needed to go somewhere quiet where she could give it her full attention.

Standing abruptly, Hermione sighed. “Yes. There is a problem. I am in the midst of a life-changing train of thought that you keep interrupting. I am going to leave now. I hope that you have a lovely rest of your day.” Quickly grabbing her rust colored knit cardigan from the back of her chair and the small beaded bag that she still carried everywhere, Hermione strode out of her office.

Mere minutes later, Hermione found herself in a small park in Muggle London where she had once seen a particularly memorable rose garden surrounding some scattered stone benches. Wrapping the chunky cardigan around herself, she sat not on one of the benches, but on the low stone wall that separated the flower beds from the gravel path. Now in uninterrupted solitude, she let herself surrender to the train of thought that had been previously interrupted.

Where had she left off? Ah. Did she want to be Minister? It seemed to be a very straightforward question, but for some reason it made her feel a queasy anxiety that she hadn’t felt since the days leading up to the final battle. That was the last time that Hermione was faced with an outcome that she could not predict. There was no way to know if Harry would be successful, if they had been correct in guessing the number of Horcruxes… Hermione had spent every moment since it was announced that Voldemort was finally dead ensuring that she would never again be faced with the unknown. Studying for her NEWTS, she knew that she would be successful if she put in the time and effort. Working for the Ministry was predictable; if you were successful in your job, there was a promotion waiting for you on the other side. Moving into Grimmauld Place with Ron, Harry, and Ginny was the epitome of predictability, as they fell into familiar patterns of behavior that had been established over the years living together in Gryffindor Tower. Her romantic relationship with Ron was predictable: he was content to spend time with Harry when she worked until 8pm every night as long as Sunday mornings she was present at the Burrow for brunch with the Weasley clan. Their sex was predictable: five minutes of kissing, five minutes of foreplay, where Ron would fondle her breasts while Hermione used a vibration charm on her wand to bring herself to orgasm, followed by eight minutes of penetrative sex in either missionary position or doggy style on birthdays and special occasions. Predictable motions with predictable outcomes.

But, this word, want, was bothering her. Upon closer examination, Hermione came to the rather sudden realization that she had not considered want for, well, a long time.

Pushing herself to her feet, Hermione began to walk, exiting the park and passing the quiet storefronts and simple, brick townhomes. The street was quiet, which meant that she could continue walking without the distraction of dodging other pedestrians.

For so long, her wants and desires were pushed to the side because of the war and her obligation to the greater good of the wizarding world. But the war was over now. Things were relatively peaceful in the greater wizarding world now. Helping Harry and keeping him alive had required her undivided attention during her years at Hogwarts. Of course, one could argue that the community of magical creatures had benefited greatly from her advocacy, but she wondered briefly if they required the same singular focus as her previous cause.

Had Hermione ever stopped fighting?

Hermione looked up, finding that her feet had taken her home to Grimmauld Place. After quietly whispering the incantation, the dull brick facade scraped into view. Hermione quickly climbed the stairs to the front stoop and burst through the front door.

_________________________________

 

When Ron Weasley stumbled out of the dark marble fireplace of Grimmauld Place at exactly 5:03pm, Hermione was pacing. She had spent the last three hours doing the things that normally brought her peace and quieted the nudging anxiety: taking a bath with a lavender potion designed to relieve stress that Neville had sent her for Christmas last year and re-reading the comfortable and familiar pages of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. When none of that had worked, she changed out of her professional robes into some linen drawstring pants that her parents had sent her from Australia and a worn jumper of no significance beyond its comfort, and, as a last resort, she had drank a quarter of a bottle of Ogden’s Firewhisky.

She continued pacing, a tumbler of Ogden’s in one hand, as she watched Ron magically clean the Floo dust from his dark auror’s uniform. Ron had stopped growing when they left Hogwarts, but he still loomed large over Hermione. He had a patchy dusting of red hair on his face, which was tanned and freckled from weekends spent playing Quidditch at the Burrow. Beyond the facial hair and the way his stomach slightly protruded over his belted pants, there was little evidence that Ron had aged. As his blue eyes looked up, Hermione stopped pacing, tilting her head, taking him in as if he were a curious scientific experiment.

Ron started. “Blimey, ‘Mione. What are you doing home so early?”

“Drinking,” Hermione replied very matter-of-factly.

Ron looked appropriately concerned. “You. Home before eight. Drinking. Is everything alright?” He moved towards her, a hand stretched out to reach her. A gesture of comfort.

Without thinking, Hermione held up a hand, signaling for him to stop. She turned away from the obvious hurt that showed in his eyes at her silent rejection of his affection. “No, Ronald. Everything is not alright. I have come to the tragic realization that I have no desire to be Minister for Magic.”

“Alright...well that’s alright, isn’t it?” Ron looked at her like he did not understand the severity of this realization. “You just got this promotion, isn’t that enough for now? You can think about what comes next later.”

“But that is the problem! I do not know what comes next. I don’t know what to work towards. I don’t know what to strive for. I have no purpose!” Hermione’s hair had an unfortunate tendency to react to her moods, and all of the effort of magically straightening it that morning was negated as wispy curls sprung up around her face.

“It’s going to be alright, ‘Mione. You’ve got me, and Harry and Gin. We are here for you.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “What do you really want, Ron?”

Ron looked startled, even offended, at this remark. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” The telltale red flush began on the sides of his neck.

“Damn it, Ronald. Don’t be dense. I mean, what do you really, truly want in life? What do you want your future to look like?”

Ron paused at this, absently rubbing the back of his hand under his scruffy chin as he considered her question. Quietly clearing his throat, he replied. “I want this, ‘Mione. What we have: life with you, spending time with Harry and Gin, time with my family, maybe a family of my own someday…” He glanced up at her, “...hopefully with you.”

Hermione was not surprised by his answer. It made sense that in the wake of the war, in the wake of losing Fred, Ron’s priorities had centered around his family and community, appreciating their company and companionship above all else. It made complete sense.

What did not make sense was Hermione’s aversion to her role in this future. Honestly, she had avoided imagining a future with Ron. She got up each morning, and there he was on the other side of the slightly lumpy mattress that they shared. It was predictable. But what Ron was putting into words now; marriage, children, forever...that was not something that Hermione liked to think about. In fact, she felt the nausea rise to her chest as she thought about it.

“‘Mione?”

Ron was looking at her, a questioning look that registered as she remembered that he had just laid his heart and soul on the floor in front of her. She met his gaze, momentarily soothed by the familiarity she saw there. But the longer she looked, the more she was filled with dread.

When she opened her mouth to speak, Hermione was surprised when a dry sob escaped rather than the logical words that her mind had prepared for her. To her continued surprise, she sank to the floor, clutching the tumbler to her chest as the dry sobs became a torrent of tears and gasping breaths. Her whole body shook, and from a distance the logical part of her observed that these symptoms resembled those of a panic attack, but that did nothing to curb the water streaming down her face.

Ron sank to the floor in front of her, gently prying the tumbler out of her hands that were eternally cold, and after gently setting it on a coffee table, he quietly enveloped her, drawing her huddled form against his broad chest. The smell of him - warm, stale coffee and fresh baked muffins - surrounded her. Familiar. Safe. A known outcome.

Her breathing slowed. The tears still streamed quietly. Gently, Hermione pushed herself away from Ron’s embrace until she sat with her legs crossed directly in front of him, their faces only six inches apart.

Looking up at him, Hermione spoke quietly. “Today, a reporter asked me what I thought about the prediction that I would be the youngest Minister for Magic. I couldn’t respond. I have been living my entire life focused on the next achievement, the next predictable outcome, and I have been living this way since I came to Hogwarts. It is what makes sense to me. But I don’t want to be the Minister for Magic. I have already spent my childhood devoted to fixing the problems of the wizarding world. But what do I want? I haven’t thought about what I want since I chose between getting an owl, rat or cat in Diagon Alley. I don’t know what the fuck I want, and that thought terrifies me.” She took a deep breath, repeating “I don’t know what it means to want, Ron.”

Ron’s fingers twitched where they rested against his black trousers, before coming up to rub his chin in that gesture of thought that Hermione was so familiar with. “Well, ‘Mione, what do you want to do about it?” His voice was quiet, displaying the rare patience that Hermione loved.

“I don’t know.” This was the truth. Her life existed in a set pattern, and this particular upheaval fell outside of the typical schedule of events. “I don’t think that I can ignore this, Ron.”

Ron crossed the distance between their folded legs, rubbing gentle circles on the side of her knee with his thumb. “Bill and Fleur have been wanting us to go see them at Shell Cottage. That could be a nice place to go for a change of pace. I know you have the holiday time built up at work since you never take any time off...”

“I need to be alone,” she blurted out, surprising herself with the conviction in her voice.

Once again, the hurt was instantaneously evident in Ron’s eyes. He withdrew his hand, and Hermione immediately felt the absence of his touch.

“Alone.” Ron’s voice was quiet.

“Alone.” Hermione confirmed, nodding hesitantly.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Ron. I feel like my world has suddenly been turned inside out and I don’t recognize it. I need to figure out what I want away from all of” she waved her arms around her, gesturing from him to the rather empty walls of the Grimmauld Place living room “this!”

“So, you need time away from us. From your family. From me.” The flush returned to his neck, a sure sign the quiet patience that Hermione loved was rapidly being replaced with the irrational temper that Ron was best known for.

“No, Ron. There is a distinct difference between me needing time for myself and needing time away from you. What I need is the space to look honestly at things without you trying to influence my objective observations.”

Ron scoffed. “I don’t see the difference. Either way, you want to leave me to go off somewhere and make a major life decision that directly affects my life too! You can’t leave me in the dark with this, ‘Mione.”

The longer this conversation went, the quieter Hermione’s logical mind became. On any other day, Hermione would diffuse the tension by leaving the room, giving them both the time to cool down before attempting to resume the conversation. However, on this particular day, it was too late. They were both on their feet, attempting to prowl around each other while also dodging the haphazardly placed furniture that was scattered around the room.

“It isn’t always about you, Ron! I have spent most of my life devoted to keeping you and Harry alive, with little to no consideration for my own well-being. I think I have earned the right to be selfish for once after keeping your asses alive for so long!”

“Oh, there it is! The “brains” of the Golden Trio! What would we have done without you to make all of the “big girl” decisions and keep us alive?” The flush was now moving up Ron’s cheeks, and his voice had raised beyond a volume that was comfortable to use indoors. “You have always thought that you were better than us, when without Harry and me you never would have made it at Hogwarts. Even now, our whole life centers around you, around your routine, around what you need. Get over yourself, Hermione.”

Hermione bent down to pick up her half-full tumbler of Ogden’s from the coffee table and promptly drained the whole glass without looking at Ron. Slowly, she turned her gaze to him, her eyes dark.

“Fuck you, Ronald.”

She turned and left the room, climbing the stairs to the room that she had shared with Ron for the past four years. She took the time to firmly shut and lock the door behind her before walking into the room, taking in the neatly made bed covered in a red quilt that Molly Weasley had given them for Christmas two years prior, the pile of dirty laundry that surrounded the empty hamper next to Ron’s dresser, the framed magical photographs of their friends and family.

Coming face to face with the floor length mirror that was leaning against one of the few sections of wall not occupied by bookshelves, Hermione paused, taking in the reflection staring back at her. Her hair had returned to its natural state: wide curls spread over her shoulders, barely covering the peaks of her breasts. With a small frown, she noted the dull brown of her hair was not unlike the color of the prized pillow case that Kreacher still wore that likely dated from before the first wizarding war. Her skin was pale, seeming to stretch tightly over her bones, and shone with a vague purple hue typically associated with the ill and elderly. Overly carved cheekbones, boney chest, protruding hip bones, and the stark blue veins; all evidence of Hermione’s tendency to forgo most meals in favor of the accomplishment of completing her to-do list. All in all, it was a rather bleak picture; the witch staring back at her with mousey brown eyes seemed to be barely scratching the surface of living.

Wordlessly, she waved her wand with precise and practiced motions, all of her clothing and possessions shrinking as they slipped into her beaded bag. She shuffled through a small drawer in the desk that sat under the dark window, stopping when she found an envelope with her name scrawled hastily on the front of it. Flipping it over, she read the return address:

Casa di redenzione
Crema, Province of Cremona, Italy

She gnawed at her bottom lip as she stuffed the envelope into her back pocket. Ignoring the photographs that covered the middle of the book shelves, Hermione finished removing her stamp on their shared space by removing all of her books. In spite of the quiet rage that coursed through her veins, she was careful to preserve their organization by genre as they too went into the beaded bag, which was still magically extended to hold an entire home’s worth of belongings. Dropping the strap over one shoulder and pulling on her beat-up trainers with her spare hand, Hermione grasped the door handle and yanked it open.

Ron hovered outside of the room, his own turmoil evident in the redness of his face and the shifting of his weight from one foot to the next. Bracing herself, Hermione looked up into his eyes.

“‘Mione,” he began, but Hermione interrupted him.

“I am going to visit Neville. He has always said that I would be welcome to visit him at the, well, farm or hotel or whatever exactly it is.”

Ron exhaled heavily through his nose, looking up at the ceiling and away from her.

“I am leaving right now,” Hermione continued. “Before I can change my mind.”

Ron’s eyes found hers again. “How long?”

“I have no idea.” Hermione fiddled with the hem of her worn jumper, the reality that she was about to go to an unknown place with an unknown outcome to face an unknown future beginning to catch up with her. As the rage dissipated, the anxiety replaced it.

“Well then. I guess that’s that.” Ron’s voice was cold, detached.

“I guess so.”

At this point, Hermione felt like she was trying to outrun the anxiety that was threatening to overtake her. She had to get out. She had to leave while she could, before the logical part of her mind reminded her of every reason why this was a terrible idea, why Ron was safe and good, and why wanting did not matter.

Hermione put her head down and brushed past Ron, speeding up to a jog as she went down the stairs and moved towards the fireplace. She barely registered the sound of Ron’s footsteps following her. Grabbing a handful of Floo powder, she turned so that she was standing in the dusty fireplace looking out into the room. Ron stood there, looking at her, his expression a mixture of rage, disbelief, and sadness.

Hermione paused, her hand poised to throw down the handful of Floo powder, poised to leave for the unknown. “Are you going to ask me to stay?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

She could see the tears spill out of Ron’s eyes as he looked back at her. “Would you stay if I did?” His voice matched hers in volume.

Closing her eyes, Hermione threw the Floo powder down. “Ministry of Magic!”

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Summary:

Hermione goes to Italy.

In spite of the many conveniences that magic afforded the wizarding world, international travel remained a royal pain in the ass. Although normally enraged by the inconvenience of the process, Hermione was temporarily grateful for the distraction of being faced with an obnoxious, bureaucratic system. She was even glad for the notoriety that came with being the owner of the name Hermione Granger, because it allowed her to expedite the process of getting an international Portkey from the British Ministry to Crema, Italy, and she only had to snap at three employees to accomplish it. Finally, after over an hour of red tape and filling out forms confirming that no, she would not be transporting Mandrake seeds from Britain, Hermione surrendered to the familiar tug of the Portkey as the world dissolved into a blur of dizzying color. Seemingly seconds later, Hermione’s feet landed on solid ground, after which she promptly dropped to her knees and vomited the Ogden’s and the remains of the cobb salad that she had eaten for lunch before her interview that day.

Hermione rose shakily to her feet, brushing off the knees of her pants as she took in her surroundings. The sun was setting, casting the open fields and dense green groves of trees in a soft, golden glow. Inhaling deeply, she noted the warm breeze that tugged at her loose curls and the fresh scent of grass in the air. The dull hum of insects resonated in Hermione’s bones, and she was pleasantly surprised to feel a sense of peace wash over her.

“Is the Missus looking for the casa?”

Hermione whirled around, eyes darting through the knee-high grasses that surrounded her, searching for the source of the small, but gruff voice. Seeing nothing but the bobbing heads of the grasses, she tentatively called out, “Hello?”

“Aherm.” The voice was definitely coming from her left, and Hermione took a small step in the direction of the sound.

Hermione had to cough to hide the giggle that threatened to escape her at the sight before her. It took her a moment to identify that she was the source of the noise, as she had fallen out of the habit of outwardly expressing her amusement. The scene was so unexpected that her mind struggled to organize the illogical image into digestible pieces.

Firstly, she was definitely looking at a garden gnome sitting astride a very large chicken. Secondly, this garden gnome, unlike the gnomes she had experienced at the Burrow, was dressed in a hodgepodge of colorful, appropriately sized knitted garments, including a purple striped scarf that wrapped around his neck so many times that his beard seemed to stick straight out from his face. Thirdly, the chicken seemed to be completely at ease with the presence of a passenger, and was even outfitted with a bridle and saddle, which, upon closer appearance, were knit as well. Fourthly, and possibly most urgently, the gnome was looking at Hermione with an unamused expression that said that he was unimpressed with her thus far.

From the far recesses of her mind, Hermione remembered that she had received extensive briefings from experts in the gnome relations department as to the proper greeting when meeting a garden gnome for the first time. Ever the star pupil, Hermione lowered to her knees, launching into a memorized series of claps, taps on her thighs, and snaps. Glancing up from her precise movements, Hermione registered that the gnome was not behaving according to custom, which would have been for him to repeat the movements back to her. Instead, his wrinkled green eyes squinted over his round, reddish nose in an expression that most resembled horror, and Hermione noted that even the chicken seemed to be offended by her current actions.

“Do you think she doesn’t speak the English?”

Hermione started to interject, but was interrupted by a tirade of loud clucking from the chicken. Apparently, the question was not directed to her. The gnome nodded thoughtfully, a concerned expression on his face in response to whatever the chicken was currently communicating.

“Hmm, yes. Missus Dromeda did tell us that sometimes the guests would be disoriented from the traveling, no?”

Again, Hermione had every intention of setting the record straight, but apparently the chicken had a lot to say in response to the gnome’s previous comment. Exhaling through her nose, she waited impatiently for an opportunity to speak.

The gnome tilted his head, glancing sideways at Hermione. “You’re correct, Myrtle, she does look ill. Perhaps she is having the forgetting disease, hm?”

“Excuse me-”

“Hermione?”

Starting, she turned her head away from the bizarre scene in front of her towards a familiar voice that she hadn’t heard in years. A long-legged woman walked towards her, bare feet seeming to hardly connect with the ground, with unmistakable waist-length blonde hair flowing behind her like a cloak. Unsurprisingly, she had a crown of periwinkle hydrangea blossoms resting on her head, casting her face in shadow.

“Luna?” Hermione blinked, bewildered, at the unexpected presence of her Hogwarts classmate.

Luna Lovegood came out of the shadows cast by the grove of trees and skipped through the grass to where Hermione still kneeled. She looked down at the witch with a knowing smile on her face. “I told Neville that you would be arriving today!” Extending a hand heavily adorned with a collection of woven bracelets, she helped Hermione rise to her feet.

Rather than fixating on the scientific impossibility of Luna predicting her arrival, Hermione gently tugged her hand from Luna’s, bringing it up to brush the wayward curls from her face. She had never been fond of physical affection, although she had learned to reluctantly accept it in her relationship with Ron.

No time for those thoughts now. Focus forward; onward.

Shaking her head slightly, she looked up at Luna. “What are you doing here?” Hermione winced; that was not her best delivery. “Apologies, Luna,” she hastily continued. “I’m just surprised to see you in Italy.”

Luna responded with a smile, completely unbothered by Hermione’s brash words. “I have been here at the Casa since the beginning! Andromeda brought me here after she learned of the estate’s garden gnome and bowtruckle communities. Quite a bit of damage to be undone, unfortunately. Their treatment under the previous property owners left much to be improved.”

“Aherm.”

Hermione had almost forgotten about the garden gnome and chicken that had been the main focus of her attention before Luna’s arrival. Their collective mood towards her seemed to have only worsened, although both seemed to be relieved to see Luna’s presence.

“Oh lovely! Hermione, I see that you have made the acquaintance of Sergio, one of the gnomes that honors the Casa with his presence, and his trusty steed, Myrtle.”

“Well, you see-” Hermione tried to begin.

“The Missus was most confused upon her arrival, Most Gracious Luna, and then she began a rather complicated dance, and we were thinking that perhaps she was having a fit, or perhaps she was not speaking the English.” Sergio looked accusingly at Hermione, who was having a very difficult time computing all of the new information confronting her at once.

A small laugh escaped Luna’s lips. “Sergio, please forgive Miss Hermione. She is an old friend and seems to have forgotten that the Greeting Dance is a typical custom of the British garden gnome communities, but is not customary when greeting the gnomes of Italy.”
She smiled at Hermione as if she were placating a small child. “Hermione, you look exhausted. The Blibbering Humdingers are clouding your aura. Oh well, nothing to be done about them at the moment. Follow me.”

Still reeling, Hermione forced her feet to follow Luna’s skipping steps. The taller witch covered ground much quicker than Hermione, and she had to pick up her pace to keep up. Glancing down, she saw Myrtle the chicken trotting alongside her, looking every bit like a gallant steed from a fairy tale.

They followed the field along the edge of the grove of intermingled oak and pine trees until they came to a well-worn footpath that passed into the dark trees. With a wave of her wand, Luna summoned a swarm of fireflies to surround them and illuminate the path. In awe, Hermione followed, trying to take in as many details as her brain could catalogue: the gnarled trunks of the trees, the glowing purple mushrooms that grew at the base of the trunks, the thick layer of vibrant green moss that covered the forest floor.

Only a minute later, they emerged from the small wood onto a gravel road, and Hermione followed Luna as they turned to the left. The fireflies that accompanied them through the wood dissipated, seeming to dissolve in the twilight. In the fading light, Hermione could see that they were approaching what appeared to be the entrance to an estate. Huge stone pillars framed an ornately carved iron gate, and a formidable stone wall stretched on either side of the gate as far as the eye could see.

With an ominous groan, the gates opened as Luna approached. Hermione felt the familiar tingle of protective wards as she passed through the entrance, glancing up at the huge stone gargoyles that guarded the gate.

“Welcome to the Zabini Estate, or what is now called Casa di redenzione.” Luna briefly smiled back at Hermione before continuing.

They walked along a perfectly straight gravel road that was lined with immaculately pruned cypress trees spaced equally every fifteen feet. Hermione found this order and symmetry extremely comforting and felt the bubble of anxiety shrink slightly. In the distance, Hermione could see that the road ended at the foot of what seemed to be more of a castle than an estate, with warm light twinkling in the many windows, showing that there were at least four stories to the large stone structure.

The Zabini Estate. Hermione vaguely remembered Blaise Zabini from Hogwarts. A Slytherin. A formidable academic opponent in her advanced Arithmancy classes. He seemed to escape some of the scrutiny aimed at his housemates who had direct connections to Voldemort through their parents, although there were rumors that his mother was a sympathizer who escaped to Italy after the Department of Mysteries attack.

In the wake of Voldemort’s defeat, the Ministry had focused their prosecution efforts on rounding up anyone who had been even remotely connected to Voldemort. It was concluded by the Wizengamot that the most fitting punishment for the old pureblood families that had chosen to follow Voldemort was to strip them of their financial wealth, in the hopes that their political influence would be nullified. In addition to emptying their Gringotts vaults, all of the family properties and estates were turned over to the Ministry to be repurposed to serve the greater good of the wizarding world. Hermione had been involved only somewhat in this process through her work, guaranteeing the freedom and rehoming of the many house elves that were displaced. She knew that Malfoy Manor was now an orphanage, the Goyle Estate was a rehabilitation center for those suffering from potion addictions, and Nott Manor was a primary school devoted to bringing together Muggleborn children with their wizarding peers in the years leading up to their Hogwarts admission.

Hermione recalled arguments between Harry and Ron in the wake of these Ministry policies coming into effect. Ron felt that the loss of material goods was not a sufficient punishment for those who sympathized with Voldemort, and thought they all should have been condemned to Azkaban. Harry, on the other hand, advocated for a less extreme approach that focused more on rehabilitation and re-education rather than punishment. Harry was a far cry from the paranoid boy who had stalked Draco Malfoy through the halls of Hogwarts during their sixth year. While Ron emerged from the war embittered and seeking revenge, Harry couldn’t easily dismiss his understanding of the vast gradient that existed between good and evil. His life had been spared by the wife of a Death Eater, who chose her role as a mother over that of a loyal follower. The memories revealed by Severus Snape in the last moments of his life had stuck with Harry, and he was reluctant to join in the Ministry witch hunt against those wizards who could not be directly connected to the horrific reign of Voldemort. He had seen too much to simplify the world into black and white.

As usual, Hermione found herself too busy keeping the peace between her two best friends to formulate her own opinion on the matter. In general, she tended to agree with Harry’s more nuanced approach to life, whereas Ron’s complete certainty in his opinion left no room for questioning. What Hermione was certain about was her aversion to the Ministry using her, Harry and Ron as the ultimate symbols of victory over Voldemort. She dreaded the charity galas and anniversaries of battles that they were coerced into attending, where they were asked to cut ribbons and give speeches about the victory of goodness made up of hollow words.

The fact that the three of them were employed by the Ministry left them very little room to protest their role as entertainment for the greater wizarding world. Out of all of them, Ron was the most gracious, smiling and shaking hands with anyone who approached him, delivering on the general public expectation of what it would be like to meet the Golden Trio. Harry, when thrust into the public spotlight, embodied apathy; his public smile was more of a grimace, his handshakes quick and reluctant, and any attempts to converse with the Boy Who Lived ended quickly after only receiving monosyllabic responses.

Hermione spent their public appearances alternating between remembering the mechanics of breathing, hiding in the shadows of Harry and Ron, and taking frequent trips to the loo to recuperate. It was difficult for her to remember that there had been a time when she stood in the Room of Requirement directing an army of her peers through defensive spells, completely at ease with being the recipient of their undivided attention. Somewhere along the way that unabashed confidence slipped out of her grasp, to the point where Hermione had expended significant energy to avoid any and all public obligations related to her work, opting instead to hire solicitors to speak on her behalf in the more public hearings that required a representative from her department. If Hermione was in the habit of being honest with herself, she might have considered that there was something to be concerned about in her aversion to the public eye, but instead, she told herself that she was being efficient by delegating those tasks to someone else.

___________________________________

 

When they arrived at the wide, paved lot in front of the large estate, instead of climbing the curved stone stairs that led to the front doors, Luna led them around the exterior of the building. Night had fully arrived, and although Hermione struggled to identify the details of their surroundings, Luna walked confidently onward. Hermione could barely make out what appeared to be an ornamental garden with bushes and tree branches hanging low over their path. The impressive estate loomed large above them, and by the time they had passed out of its shadow, Hermione had concluded that the main building was at least as large as an average Muggle hotel.

Luna led them further away from the warm lights of the estate. They passed through extensive gardens, and Hermione could see the glass panes of long greenhouses glowing in the distance. As Hermione’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she tried to look beyond Luna to see their destination. There was something about being suspended in the unknown darkness that was making Hermione’s nausea, which had been dormant in favor of focusing on the immediate moment, return with a vengeance.

It was soon apparent that their destination was a large stone cottage nestled under the shadows of tall trees. As they approached, Luna opened a small, wooden gate that led to a pathway leading to the front door. Large and rather chaotic looking plants loomed on either side of the path, momentarily distracting Hermione from the building before her. Turning forward, her mind noted the large windows, the soft light bleeding out of them, the feeling of time preserved in a physical thing. Wordlessly, she followed as Luna jumped up the two stone steps to the small front porch.

Luna turned around, looking behind Hermione. “Sergio, Myrtle, thank you for your bravery and guidance in helping me bring Miss Hermione home safely.”

Hermione looked down, startled, realizing she had completely forgotten about their odd escort. Sergio replied to Luna’s words with a flamboyant bow from atop Myrtle. “It is always our pleasure, Most Gracious Luna.” With that, Myrtle ran purposefully off into the darkness.

Turning back to Hermione, Luna smiled as she reached for the door handle. “Welcome to the cottage.”

Hermione hesitantly followed Luna through the front door. She was immediately struck by three things: firstly, the disorganized softness of the large open space, secondly, the smells of freshly baked bread and chamomile tea, and thirdly, the shocking combination of people sitting around a wooden table about fifteen feet in front of her.

Hermione froze, blinking, as four sets of eyes all turned to stare at her.

A dull roar slowly crescendoed in her head, and Hermione was frozen, any autonomy over the movement of her body forgotten in the overdrive of her mind attempting to reconcile the image in front of her. She vaguely registered someone saying her name, but was unable to form words to respond. And, in all honesty, Hermione was completely at a loss. Her mind had finally cracked under the sheer pressure of computing new and unfamiliar things, and she watched helplessly as black curtains began to close, beginning in the outer corners of her eyes and moving inwards. As the world went dark, Hermione surrendered, collapsing to the floor and hugging her knees in a desperate attempt to remember how to breathe, how to be, how to see, how to-

Rough, warm hands gently grasped her shoulders.

Hermione.

Through the roar in her head, Hermione thought that she heard her name, but it sounded muffled, as though it had been spoken underwater.

Hermione.

Her nails scratched furiously at her forearm, trying to remember what was real, fighting the panic. Breathe. You know how to do this. It is simple biology. Don’t think, just breathe. Count. You know that helps. That was her own voice. She knew that voice.

Hermione.

What the fuck is happening to her?

Hermione.

Can’t we do something?

Hermione.

The voices became quieter, the darkness called, and Hermione felt the moment when she slipped away.

Notes:

Thank you to everyone who is reading along thus far!

Again, all of the love to my betas: bookishteddy with the plot Zoom calls, Allison talking to me on the phone at all hours letting me talk through everything, and lauraloveschristmas with the details. I wouldn't be here without the support of you three!

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Hermione came to in a panic, immediately sitting up, searching for familiarity, for reassurance, for something known. Her senses slowly connected with her mind: she was laying on a worn leather couch and wrapped in a soft, plaid afghan; the familiar man sitting on the low table next to the couch now sported a very handsome and well-groomed beard, and behind him the dull glow from a red brick fireplace bathed the room in quiet light.

“Hermione. Are you alright?” Neville Longbottom’s voice still carried the same musical tone from their years at Hogwarts. His face was leaner and tanned to a rich olive from his work outdoors. Glancing down at his clasped hands, Hermione noticed coiled vines and flowers tattooed around his fingers, continuing up his arms to where they disappeared underneath his shirt. His green eyes looked down at her with concern, and she noticed the slight twist of his mouth that normally was trained into a smirk was turned down into a small frown.

Swallowing, Hermione nodded. “I am so sorry for intruding,” she began. “I should have owled first. The circumstances of my departure were, ah, rather, well, sudden.”

“Nonsense. You know you’ve had a standing invitation to visit for years now.” Neville started to reach for her in a gesture of reassurance, but hesitated when she flinched.

Propping herself up on her elbows, Hermione looked beyond Neville to survey the room. Her initial examination of the space had been rudely interrupted by her unsolicited “episode.” The general color palette of the space was soft and warm, with a barely there pink tint to the plastered walls. The furniture was mismatched: leather couches, upholstered chairs, a collection of mismatched throw pillows, and tucked in a corner, a leather barber’s chair. Other than the fire, the room was lit by terracotta wall sconces that circled the living area. Floor to ceiling windows lined the far side of the room. Rather than framed art, small sketches and watercolor paintings covered the walls, and every flat surface housed some sort of potted plant life. Although the chaos of the place immediately set Hermione on edge, there was something distinctly artistic about how all of the mismatched pieces fit together.

“Hermione?”

Glancing back at Neville, she realized that he had been speaking to her. Grimacing, Hermione moved to sit up completely, hugging the comforting softness of the afghan to her chest as she faced her friend.

When Neville realized that she still wasn’t going to speak, he began slowly. “Has that, you know, what just happened...has that ever happened before?”

Hermione very seriously considered lying. No one knew about her episodes. How she had managed to keep Ron in the dark for four years still remained a mystery to her, but he was never known for his powers of observation. Ginny had found her cowering in a Grimmauld Place broom closet once, but she had managed to convince her friend that it was a one-time occurrence. However, given that this day had already gone about as badly as it possibly could, she figured she had nothing to lose.

“Yes. Unfortunately, it happens rather often. I normally am able to minimize them by maintaining a predictable routine, but, well, I was overwhelmed and taken by surprise…”

With a jolt, Hermione remembered what had brought on her episode in the first place. Whirling around, Hermione surveyed the now empty chairs scattered around the large table. Sighing quietly, Hermione turned back to Neville.

“Before. Did I imagine them? Or were they really here?”

“Yes. They have been here for a year now.” Neville looked her firmly in the eye. “Hermione, I know how things are in Britain right now, but they are not the people you knew back at Hogwarts. This is one of the few places in the world where they can, well, live.”

Hermione stared at him, her mind working in overdrive. Intellectually, she grasped the meaning of the words that Neville was saying. But, what were they doing here? Why was Neville defending them?

Letting go of the blanket she still clutched to her chest, Hermione made a waving gesture with her hands, deciding to dismiss Neville’s concern. “Neville, please. I do not hold the same beliefs as the Ministry.” What her exact beliefs were she could not define, but that was beside the point.

“But-” Neville gestured to the spot in the doorway where Hermione had previously collapsed, raising an eyebrow at her.

Hermione glared at her friend, exhaling loudly through her nose as she stood and began pacing in the open space adjacent to the couch. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, turn. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, turn. The rhythmic movement allowed her mind to focus back on the conversation at hand.

“Neville, for fuck’s sake. Today began as a completely normal and predictable day. I drank the coffee that Ron prepared incorrectly, which was predictable. I wore the same blue robes that I always wear on Tuesdays. I had the cobb salad from the Ministry cafeteria for lunch, which always has too much dressing on it. Again, predictable. I had an interview with an obnoxious young blonde from the Prophet. She asked me the normal questions. It was all manageable. But then, she had the audacity to ask me how I felt about becoming the youngest Minister for Magic.”

Hermione looked expectantly at Neville, obviously waiting for a reaction. He raised his eyebrows back at her. “Ah, Hermione, I’m not sure where you have been, but people have been talking about you being the youngest Minister for years now.”

“Neville, how did you decide that you wanted to be an Herbologist?”

Knowing better than to fight the sudden change in topic, Neville replied. “Well, Herbology was my favorite subject while we were at Hogwarts. After the war, I realized that I didn’t want to waste my time doing something meaningless. So, I did what I wanted, and, after my brief stint as an intern under Sprout, I came here with Andromeda and Luna.”

“Exactly, Neville. You did what you wanted.”

“Yeah, but so did you, right? You’ve always held a torch for helping magical creatures.”

Looking up, Hermione saw that her friend was not mocking her with his comment. She saw in his eyes the same sincerity that she had seen in Harry and Ron’s when she told them of her intention to pursue a career with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

“That’s what I don’t know, Neville. I don’t know what I want. What I do know is that I like to achieve. Achieving feels safe. Set a goal. Establish actionable steps. Take said steps toward that goal. Accomplish that goal. Repeat. This is what my life has been, well, since before the war. Today, in that bloody interview, I realized that I am once again at the ‘repeat’ portion of the cycle, and the next goal is not one that I care to accomplish.”

Neville took a deep breath, calmly regarding the witch before him. “And Ron?”

Hermione looked sharply at him. “What about Ron?”

“What does he think of you being here?”

Hermione decided that she had shared more than enough about her personal life for the evening. “Not now, Neville.”

“But -”

“I said, not now!” Hermione snapped at him. Merlin, she had forgotten how persistent Neville could be in his effort to be a good friend.

“Fine,” Neville conceded. “In the meantime, you are welcome to stay here as long as you would like. There is a loft next to the attic where you can sleep.”

Finally, Hermione stopped pacing. Leaning her hands against the back of the leather couch, she offered her friend a small smile. “Thank you, Nev. Truly.”

Bracing his large hands on the knees of his flannel pajama bottoms, Neville pushed himself up to his feet and approached the witch who, even with the volume of her curls, only reached his chest.

“So. Are you ready to see them?”

Grimacing, Hermione looked up at him. “Not particularly, but I might as well get it over with.”

Barking out a deep laugh, Neville moved toward the back of the large cottage, beckoning Hermione to follow him with a jerk of his head. When Hermione remained rooted to the spot, he paused.

“Are you going to be okay?”

Nodding, Hermione moved to follow him.

Neville passed the abandoned chairs around the dining table and opened a set of French doors that opened to the warm night. Following him absently, Hermione’s fingers tapped on her left forearm; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Repeat.

____________________________

 

Hermione followed Neville down the steps that led from a small stone patio directly behind the cottage toward a small group of people gathered on an oversized quilt in the middle of a field, illuminated by what appeared to be the same fireflies that Luna had conjured to aid them in their journey earlier in the evening.

As she and Neville approached, Hermione once again watched as four sets of eyes turned to watch them.

Luna waved brightly at them. “Hermione! You’re alive!”

Neville groaned as Hermione blushed furiously. It seemed that age had done little for Luna’s sense of social decorum.

“So, Granger. You aren’t going to pass out on us again, are you?”

Hermione hesitantly turned to the voice, facing the three sets of eyes that had taken her by surprise earlier.

Pansy Parkinson. Theodore Nott. And...Draco Malfoy. The three now-adult Slytherins lounged together, as though they found strength in their close proximity to each other. Although Hermione was vaguely aware that social norms indicated that she should be responding to Pansy’s comment, her mind was determined to take a moment to truly examine them. As usual, Hermione surrendered to the demands of her mind.

Pansy was beautiful. The black haired witch who had been described as “pug faced” was left in the past, and the woman sitting in front of her looked like something out of a French movie. The jaw-length bob with short bangs, the ivory silk dressing gown that reflected the light from the fireflies, and the long legs that she stretched out in front of her painted a picture of confident elegance. Glancing back at her face, Hermione noted that the expression Pansy wore was not the one of disdain that Hermione remembered from school, but rather one of cautious curiosity.

On her right sat Theodore Nott. Well, more like Theodore Nott was sprawled upon the blanket, looking very much at home in this particular setting. Hermione had limited memories of him from their years together at Hogwarts, although she recalled him being a quiet boy who performed well in most of their shared classes. This Theo in front of her had a mop of curly brown hair that rested on the crown of his head, and he wore a vividly colored Hawaiian shirt and acid wash jeans rolled up at the ankles to reveal bare feet. An easy smile played at his lips, but Hermione could see that the smile barely concealed a similar cautiousness to the one she had seen in Pansy’s eyes.

Almost hesitantly, Hermione let her eyes wander to the last figure, who sat slightly removed from the rest of the group. This was definitely not the Draco Malfoy that Hermione remembered from his trial over three years ago. This man leaned back on his hands, staring back at her with open wariness. His unmistakable platinum hair had grown out to the point that it now hung loosely underneath his ears. His previously pale skin showed evidence of frequent exposure to the sun. Rather than the dark formalwear that was characteristic of the boy she had known in school, this man wore a torn and stained white t-shirt and jeans in similar condition. An intricate tattoo took up the entirety of his left arm, but Hermione’s eyes could not make out the details.

Turning back to survey the whole group, Hermione noted all of them observing her with looks that definitely now communicated concern. Apparently her detailed surveying had taken longer than the typical response time. Pansy raised her eyebrows at Luna, who smacked her lightly on the shoulder in response.

Clearing her throat, Hermione spoke. “It seems that I owe you all an apology for my initial reaction to seeing you here.” Hermione’s right hand went subconsciously to her left forearm, where her fingers began tapping. “I, well, I don’t handle surprises particularly well, and, ah, I was surprised to see you here.” Cringing at her inability to properly articulate at the moment, Hermione looked around to gauge their responses to her clumsy apology. Luna smiled, Pansy looked confused, Theo’s smile seemed genuine, and Malfoy...well his expression was completely unreadable.

It was Luna who spoke next. “Well, now that we have established that Hermione does not appreciate surprises, can we all enjoy some of my homemade kombucha? I’m honestly not entirely sure about the consumer experience on this one; I forgot about it in the cupboard for a couple of months, but the flavor is quite nice!”

Neville moved forward to join the group on the blanket, gesturing for Hermione to join them. He settled in an open spot next to Theo, and Hermione thought she must have imagined the warm glance that Theo gave her friend. Hermione walked hesitantly to the remaining open spot between Malfoy and Luna, who was now holding a huge Mason jar of orange-colored liquid.

“Lovegood, are you trying to kill us?” Although Pansy’s tone was teasing, Hermione saw a kindness in her eyes that she had never seen before. “The last batch made me hallucinate my dead mother, and I could go five lifetimes without wanting to repeat that experience.”

A wide mouthed laugh erupted out of Theo. “Pans, you know you loved it. You finally got to tell that foul hag how you really feel about her shoving you into corsets when you were eight years old.”

Shuddering, Pansy gracefully summoned six mismatched jars from a basket set off to the side on the grass. “I truly don’t miss that foul bitch.”

Luna began to pour generous servings into each jar, not giving much thought to the accidental drops landing on the quilt. “Pansy, I’m sure your mother had some redeeming qualities…”

“Absolutely not. Good riddance.” Pansy distributed the drinks as Luna finished filling the last jar. When she handed a jar to Hermione, their eyes met briefly. Pansy offered her a small smile, which Hermione returned.

Once everyone in the group held a jar of Luna’s rather mysterious beverage, Neville cleared his throat. Hermione had observed that while Luna had the most natural social ease with the Slytherins, Neville seemed to be the de facto leader of the group.

“Let’s toast to Hermione joining our rather unconventional family. Welcome to the place where we leave the past behind us in favor of sunburns-”

Everyone looked at Malfoy, who rolled his eyes with a low groan.

“-dirt in unimaginable places-”

Neville and Theo shared a look that had Pansy pretending to gag and Malfoy wrinkling his nose.

“-Pansy’s surprisingly delicious cooking-”

Pansy did an elaborate twirling bow with her free hand as the others lightly clapped, all somehow managing to maintain hold of their beverages.

“-full moon swimming-”

At this, Theo threw his head back, howling at the sky. The rest of the group laughed.

“-and the sincere peace that one can only find at the end of a hard day’s work.”

Luna and the Slytherins raised their glasses at the last comment. Hermione followed suit.

“Saluti!”

“Saluti!” The others loudly replied to Neville, all stretching awkwardly across the quilt to make sure that they clinked jars with every member of their small group. Hermione joined in, figuring that when faced with a new location and culture, it is generally advised to observe the behavior of the locals and imitate them.

Hermione watched as the others took tentative sips from the jars. Theo’s eyebrows jumped up. “Luna, you fucking angelic witch! This is by far your best batch yet.” Theo promptly drained the rest, summoning the jar of kombucha to his hand with a quick flick of impressive wandless magic.

Luna smacked her lips together quietly. “Hmm, yes. Theo, I have to agree with you. I think that the addition of elderberry extract makes all the difference.”

Pansy nodded appreciatively, looking across the quilt at Hermione. “You lucked out, Granger. Lovegood’s experiments rarely come out this good.”

Hermione took a tentative sip. It actually was quite good. Hermione typically stuck to safe drinks: red wine, the hard apple cider that Molly Weasley made every year, and Firewhisky. This beverage was bubbly, light, a bit sour, and flavored with honeydew, ginger and elderberry. The first sip immediately sent a heady tingling throughout her body.

In that moment, Hermione realized with some horror that this was the first time that she had tasted something new in the past three years. It didn’t take very long for the people in her life to learn that she reacted negatively to new things. There were three restaurants that they ordered from, and Harry and the Weasleys all knew Hermione’s order. Dinner at the Burrow rotated between Molly’s beef roast and baked chicken. Somehow, Hermione’s culinary experiences had fallen under the same spell of control that had taken over the rest of her life.

Hermione burst into peals of unexpected laughter. The others immediately dropped their conversations and looked at her, expressions ranging from confusion to shock.

“I-” Hermione struggled to take in enough air between laughs. “This is just so fucking incredible!” The blank expressions and stares remained. “What?”

It was Neville who spoke, his slightly asymmetrical smile growing. “Hermione...It’s just surprising to hear you laugh-”

“-And curse! Bloody hell, Granger, are you secretly fun?” Theo wiggled his dark eyebrows at her, a mischievous smile showing off the dimples in his cheeks.

Attempting a serious face, Hermione replied. “Oh no. I am definitely the antithesis of fun.”

Theo winked. “Sure, sure, Granger.”

Laughing in response, Hermione allowed her mind a moment to consider her current surroundings and company. Neville and Pansy argued back and forth about planting something called frisée in the garden, Malfoy and Luna were leaning forward, conversing quietly about grafting a different oak species to appease the Bowtruckles. The group was relaxed, and Hermione observed that it seemed like this was a frequent activity based upon the ease with which they existed in each other’s company. It reminded her of being at the Burrow, except that this was a group that not only did not share familial blood, but had fought on different sides of a war.

As Theo seamlessly joined the conversation about Bowtruckle habitats, Hermione found her gaze lingering on the man that used to be Draco Malfoy. Of course, she reminded herself, he was currently Draco Malfoy, but her mind was having trouble reconciling her memories of him with the man sitting beside her. This man had a ruggedness about him that did not compute with the whiny boy who cried after an altercation with a Hippogriff. From this closer distance, Hermione could see that his hands were heavily calloused and covered in small white scars. Although subdued, his deep voice occasionally joined in. That was not the voice of Draco Malfoy.

Hermione had to objectively observe that this man was handsome. It was not a comfortable observation to make. It was an observation that had a myriad of implications that Hermione was not ready to consider.

Shaking her head slightly, Hermione filed that particular line of thought away for later consideration. Breathing deeply, she returned to silently observing the group, allowing a tiny glimmer of relief to wash over her.

____________________________________

 

An hour later, Hermione followed Neville up a creaking wooden staircase to the top floor of the cottage. To her left, a tight spiral staircase wound up to what Hermione could only assume was the attic. Neville gestured to a wooden ladder that stood about twice Hermione’s height, the top disappearing into a round hole in the ceiling.

“Your spot’s up there. There should be linens on the bed.” He paused, looking down at her. “You know that you are welcome to stay here for as long as you need to. Andromeda will be thrilled to have you here. I do have to warn you though. If you are here for longer than a day, you are going to have to find some way to contribute to the property. I know Pansy and I could use the help in the gardens until you find something more long term. I’ll take you up to see Andromeda in the morning.”

Hermione smiled sadly, grateful for the directness of her old friend. “Thank you, Neville. I know I owe you an explanation, but, thank you. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.”

Nodding, Neville gently squeezed her shoulder. The gesture spoke louder than any words he could have spoken. “G’night.”

“Night, Neville.”

Hermione turned, pulling herself up the smooth rungs of the wooden ladder. Reaching the top, she looked around her, taking in the small loft space. The room was shaped like an oval, with a ceiling of sloped wooden beams that radiated in a sunburst pattern from a round skylight in the middle. In front of her, floor to ceiling windows sloped down away from her, showing an uninterrupted view of the night sky. A twin mattress lay on the floor next to the windows, and a pile of quilts and pillows were stacked neatly on top of it. A series of wooden hooks lined one of the interior walls, and a small writing desk sat nestled in a corner. The space was lit by a magical stained glass lamp that stood on the desk.

Bare. Utilitarian. The space was perfect, and after an evening where just about everything confronting Hermione was an assault of the unfamiliar, she was grateful for the simplicity of the space. Deciding to postpone the momentous decision of whether or not to unpack, Hermione picked a midweight blue quilt and an appropriately bouncy pillow, and, after divesting herself of her bra and knickers, she settled into the bed.

For a moment, she considered beginning her comprehensive review of the events of the past twenty-four hours. She knew that she was delaying the inevitable, but instead of unleashing the flood of anxiety that would surely accompany the closer examination of her recent decisions, Hermione nudged that line of thinking to the side.

Suddenly overcome with sleepiness, Hermione rolled over to gaze out of the windows at the area behind the cottage. As her eyes fluttered shut, her mind barely registered the image of a figure with pale blonde hair standing alone in the night.

Notes:

I want to thank anyone and everyone who is reading this story; I am having so much fun writing it, and I hope that you continue to connect with the words I am putting together!

As always, so much love to my three betas: bookishteddy, lauraloveschristmas, and Allison. You all make the magic happen.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

When Hermione woke the next morning, the sky above her was just beginning to glow. Rolling over to lean on her right elbow, she absently rubbed her eyes. After a brief moment of panic, she established three things that she knew in that moment to be certain: one, she had slept in a cottage in Italy, two, she had departed her life in London without notifying anyone (other than Ron) of her plans, and three, she needed to schedule at least four hours of uninterrupted time to process the previous two things.

Never one to dawdle in bed, Hermione pushed herself up off of the mattress, pausing to stretch her arms above her head. Hermione had always been an early riser, finding that she was more successful in her daily endeavours when she allowed herself the time to awaken properly.

Grabbing her beaded bag from where it hung on a wooden peg, Hermione selected clothing that she felt would be proper for where she found herself, although she was not particularly confident that she had all of the necessary information to make a definitive decision. A minute later, Hermione had pulled on a soft, black long sleeved t-shirt, green linen overalls (another gift from her mother), wool socks, and a pair of brown Blundstone boots. Digging around in her bag, she pulled out a small round mirror. With a wave of her wand, the mirror expanded, and she propped it up on the desk as she pulled her hair back into a single French braid that reached down between her shoulder blades.

Slinging her beaded bag across her body, Hermione climbed down the ladder to the narrow upstairs hallway. Underneath the spiral staircase at the end of the hall, the door to the communal bathroom was open. Slipping quietly inside and shutting the door behind her, Hermione was pleased to see that the large room was extremely clean and well organized, although the quantity of plant life filling the space made it seem more like a greenhouse than a bathroom. Two stone sinks sat on a simple tile counter, and a large claw-foot tub was nestled underneath a wide window. A wooden medicine cabinet stood above the toilet, and when Hermione opened it, she saw that all of the shelves were filled with personal items with the exception of the bottom shelf. Hermione took note of the empty spot before closing the cabinet and returning to her morning routine: floss, brush teeth, wash face, apply sunscreen.

Back in the hallway, Hermione walked quietly; the four doors to the other bedrooms were all closed. Tip-toeing down the main staircase, Hermione came to a stop as she saw that she was not the only early riser in the house.

There, in the bright kitchen that opened to the rest of the main common space, Draco Malfoy was putting a large copper kettle on the stove. At the sound of her footsteps coming to a halt, he looked up, eyes narrowing as he took her in.

Hermione raised her hand in an awkward wave. “Morning.”

He nodded silently in response, turning back to the tall, green granite countertop. Hermione watched as he grabbed a canvas sack from one of the cabinets and began spooning dark ground coffee into a French press. Unable to help her curiosity, Hermione moved forward, leaning on the kitchen island that housed the stovetop as she watched him. After filling the bottom of the press with the grounds, he put the bag back into the cabinet and grabbed a small spice jar of a reddish brown powder. Unscrewing the lid, he shook the jar three times over the open French press. An unmistakable smell filled the air.

She couldn’t help herself. “Cinnamon?”

Glancing back at her over his shoulder, he nodded again. Putting the jar of cinnamon away, he turned to face her completely, leaning back against the countertop and crossing his arms across his broad chest. Today he was obviously dressed to work outside, with leather boots to go with his jeans and a plain white t-shirt. His hair, which had been hanging loose the night before, was pulled back into a bun, although pieces were already threatening to escape.

“So.” He looked directly at her, and Hermione had to stop herself from looking away from the silver eyes that seemed to drill right through her defenses.

“So.” She replied.

Draco cleared his throat. “Do you live here now?”

“I’m not entirely sure.” Hermione’s right hand moved to her left forearm, fingers itching to begin tapping.

“I don’t follow.”

Sighing, Hermione attempted to find the words to explain something she had not yet had appropriate time to fully process. “I don’t know if I live here. I don’t know how long I will be here. I do know that I am not in England, I am not leaving my house in three and a half minutes to arrive at the Ministry ten minutes early, I am not going to submit my briefing on improved wolfsbane brewing protocols to the Wizengamot by the afternoon deadline…” Horror spread across Hermione’s face as a wave of nausea overtook her and the counting and tapping against her forearm began in earnest. “I, I, oh Merlin, what have I done?”

The man in the kitchen hadn’t moved, but continued to watch her closely. For a moment, Hermione thought she saw concern cross his face, but it was immediately masked by cold indifference.

When he spoke, his voice was low and calm. “Granger. Breathe.”

For some reason, Hermione had a much easier time obeying this voice than the one that typically resided in her head. Inhaling through her nose, she exhaled slowly, never breaking eye contact with him.

“Again.” A command.

Hermione’s body responded willingly, repeating a slow deep breath. Her fingers quieted, and the hum of anxiety stilled.

The kettle shrieked, shattering their eye contact. Hermione stood, frozen, as Draco poured the boiling water into the French press, watching as his large hand pushed the press down to the bottom. Opening a different cupboard, Draco pulled down two mismatched mugs. One had a rather innocent looking cartoon green dragon painted on one side, while the other had a botanical drawing of a head of garlic carved into it. Filling both with coffee, Draco placed the second mug on the counter in front of her.

“Black?”

Shaking her head, Hermione replied without thinking. “Splash of milk and two sugars.”

Nodding, Draco placed a ceramic sugar bowl and a large jar of milk in front of her. He watched silently as she prepared her coffee with shaking hands.

“Thank you.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

A single nod later, Draco took his own cup of coffee (black, Hermione noted) and walked out the back door, leaving Hermione blinking, bewildered, adding yet another event to the increasingly long queue of things that needed to be processed at a later time.

_______________________________

Two relatively uneventful hours later, Hermione walked with Neville through the vast network of gardens, orchards, and greenhouses that separated the cottage from the main estate. Plant life exploded all around them; edible, decorative, and magical plants were intertwined in a tapestry of vivid colors, textures, and smells. Neville occasionally paused to point out a particularly interesting plant specimen, and Hermione listened attentively as her friend shared his knowledge and experience.

There was something refreshingly real about Neville that remained unchanged through the years. Although much of her time at Hogwarts was spent engaging in some irresponsible but necessary pursuit with Harry and Ron, Hermione frequently sought out the company of the kind, brown-haired boy she now walked with. Neville, although painfully clumsy and prone to losing personal belongings throughout their childhood, had been quite autonomous in comparison to her other two Gryffindor friends. Their friendship had blossomed during Quidditch matches that neither of them were invested in, long weekends studying in the library, and a shared love of the American musician Billie Holiday. While Harry and Ron required her attention, Neville simply appreciated it.

Departing the gardens, they entered a huge stone patio partially shaded by wisteria-covered pergolas. Elderly witches and wizards sat on cushioned wicker furniture, engaged in activities ranging from quiet conversation to wizarding chess. Hermione was relieved that she and Neville were ignored by the guests as they wove between the small groups.

They passed through a huge open doorway into a vast lobby that embodied every stereotype of Italian wealth that Hermione could imagine. She only had a brief moment to take in the Renaissance paintings, gold accents and cream upholstered couches before she had to catch up with Neville, who strode confidently down a brightly lit corridor that opened off of the lobby.

Pausing briefly in front of a dark wooden door, Neville knocked three times, waiting for only a second before pushing the door open. Gesturing for Hermione to follow, they stepped into an ornately decorated study.

A tall woman with eerily familiar curling brown hair faced away from them, shuffling through the piles of parchment that covered the large desk. Dressed in black slacks and a starched white blouse, she looked more like a Muggle business owner than a member of the wizarding world.

“Neville, darling, Sergio informed me that we had an unexpected visitor-” Her deep voice came to a surprised stop as her eyes fell upon Hermione. Her eyes, lighter and wider than the ones seared in Hermione’s memory, sparkled in recognition. “Hermione Granger, what an honor. You look positively terrible, are you here with Mr. Weasley for a holiday? I must admit, we generally cater to a more senior clientele, but I’m sure we could drum up something to your taste.”

Hermione paused, mouth agape, unsure of how to respond. The woman in front of her, although obviously not the witch who haunted her dreams, bore such a haunting similarity to her that it took all of her self control to remain still and standing. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Neville gesturing furiously between the two witches, disapproval apparent on his face.

The woman continued, unfazed. “Apologies, my dear. As is apparent from Mr. Longbottom’s negative reaction to my initial comment, it would appear that I have overstepped in some way. Now, would you mind clarifying for me: are we not discussing the fact that you appear to be malnourished and exhausted, or are we not discussing you and Mr. Weasley? I want to make sure to avoid future missteps.”

Neville sighed loudly. “Andromeda, I know how seriously you take your New Year’s resolutions, but can’t your policy of absolute honesty be tweaked to allow five minutes of polite conversation when meeting someone new?”

“Neville, our world is plagued by dishonesty and deception, and I refuse to be a part of it.” Turning her attention back to Hermione, Andromeda Tonks looked her directly in the eye. “Miss Granger, I apologize if my comments were in any way harmful to you. However, I stand by the fact that you do not look well. It is concerning to see such a bright light in the wizarding world reduced to a barely flickering flame.”

Taken aback, Hermione considered her words. Her previous few encounters with reflective surfaces echoed the words Andromeda now spoke to her. Attention to her physical well-being had fallen to the bottom of her list of priorities over the past year. Within the Ministry, attention to work and progress were deemed significantly more important than the petty matters of physical health. Ginny had attempted to bring up her deteriorating appearance multiple times, but Hermione brushed off her friend’s concern as nagging.

Now, under the scrutiny of the formidable witch standing before her, Hermione suddenly found the words that she had been seeking over the past twelve hours. “Andromeda, thank you for your hospitality. I...well, it would appear that I am in need of some help. I am not entirely sure what that means, but I think that I need to take a break from my life, I mean, my life back in London. I need some time to, well, think, and I would like to do that thinking here, if you will have me.”

The older witch looked thoughtfully at her. Although formal in appearance, Andromeda carried herself with an easy confidence that reminded Hermione of a certain blonde Slytherin who used to strut throughout the halls of Hogwarts.

A slow smile began around her eyes and spread to the rest of her face. “Miss Granger, we would be honored if you stayed with us for as long as you would like. People seem to find their way to Casa de redenzione when they need it the most.” Turning to address Neville, she continued. “Let’s set her up working in the gardens with Pansy. We are approaching a busy spring and I know you could use the help.”

“Pardon me, Andromeda. I have almost no gardening experience, but I have extensive knowledge about working with magical creatures. Perhaps I-”

“Hermione, please excuse my crude language, but what you need is to get the fuck out of your head and spend some time in the dirt.”

Neville tried and failed to stifle a laugh. Hermione’s eyebrows shot up, unable to decide if she was amused or horrified by Andromeda’s words.

The older witch gave them one last look before turning back to her desk, an obvious sign that the conversation was over. As they turned to leave, Andromeda called over her shoulder, “Oh, and if you see Teddy, please remind him that he needs to receive clear consent before he plays tag with any of the guests. They are starting to complain.”

Chuckling, Neville shut the door behind them. Turning to Hermione, he cocked an eyebrow. “Well? What do you think?”

Hermione shook her head, an expression of disbelief and awe on her face. “She has absolutely appalling manners and she seems to be frighteningly perceptive. I’ve never met anyone like her before.”

Neville’s laugh echoed through the empty hallway as he led Hermione back out the way they came. “She takes some getting used to, but I couldn’t ask for a better boss. Beyond minor opinions about her preferred species of broccoli, she’s given me complete autonomy over the care of the grounds.”

“Well, well, well. When Pansy owled me the news I didn’t believe it. But here you are, in the flesh. The Gryffindor princess is gracing us mere mortals with her presence.” A smooth baritone voice filled the hallway as the unmistakable figure of Blaise Zabini walked towards them.

Hermione stared, noting with some appreciation that he cut an impressively handsome figure, although his fashion was more suited to the romantic lead of a Jane Austen novel. A billowing white blouse contrasted with the deep mahogany of his skin, and what looked like a short velvet cape was fastened to his shoulders with sparkling pins. Gold rings adorned his long slender fingers, and his knee-high black riding boots were polished to perfection.

“Zabini, I see you remember Hermione Granger from Hogwarts.” Neville offered an unnecessary introduction.

“Salazar’s bollocks, Longbottom, don’t be dense. Of course I remember her.” Blaise approached Hermione, head tilted as his dark eyes glittered. “And, what, may I ask, brings you to Italy, little lioness?” The last two words came out as a purr, and Hermione felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up straight.

Taking a step back to put some distance between them, Hermione replied, “I am here to visit Neville, and Andromeda has invited me to stay for...a while.”

Blaise clapped his hands, a wide smile showing off his straight white teeth. As the child of two dentists, Hermione couldn’t help but be impressed by his dental hygiene. “Magnifico! Another lion is joining the pack of freeloaders that take advantage of my endless generosity.”

“Zabini, you and I well know that is absolute horseshite.” Neville retorted, the expression on his face telling Hermione that this was a frequent and ultimately good-natured dance between the two men. “You should worship the ground that Andromeda walks on; we all know that she’s the only reason you still get to live in this outrageous palace you call a home.”

“Oh, Longbottom,” Zabini said with a wink. “You know I would do much more than worship that woman if I was given the opportunity.”

“Ugh, keep that to yourself, mate.” Neville looked vaguely ill. “Coming for dinner tonight?”

“Perhaps. I’ll see what Pansy is cooking.” Turning to Hermione, he offered her a low bow. “Granger, may this be the beginning of a long and fruitful friendship.” With a smile, he twirled and marched past them down the hallway.

Neville shook his head. “Slytherins,” he mumbled under his breath.

Hermione shook her own head in response, unsure of how many more absolutely baffling social interactions she could handle.

“Come on, let’s head back to the cottage.” As they began to retrace their steps from earlier, Neville turned to look at her. “How are you doing? I know this is a lot.”

Laughing, Hermione replied. “I honestly don’t know, Nev.”

“You know, Hermione, it’s okay to not know. Most of us go through our lives never knowing.”

____________________________________________

 

Hermione sat at the small desk in the loft, reviewing the three completed letters spread out neatly in front of her as she snacked on a ripe plum she’d found in the kitchen. With a sigh, she reviewed her words for the fourth time.

Minister Shacklebolt,

It is my most sincere hope that this letter finds you well. I must apologize for my unexpected absence from the Ministry today. You and I both know that I do not make a habit of shirking my professional duties, and I am sorry for any inconvenience my absence has caused. I have had a personal problem arise, and I am going to be taking some time away from the office to give it my full attention. Based upon my records, I have accumulated three months of paid vacation leave, and I would like to begin using that as soon as possible. Although my timeline may change, three months seems like more than enough time to sort out my current predicament.

I would like to recommend Gemma Forsythe fill my role in my absence. She is more than qualified and is up to date on all of our current projects. If her placement is approved, I will send her all of the necessary documents related to our upcoming cases. It is my professional opinion that she is up to the task.

Thank you for your understanding of these unexpected circumstances. I may be reached by owl at this address whenever you need me.

Hermione Jean Granger

Satisfied with her correspondence to her boss, Hermione folded the letter and placed it in an envelope. Setting it off to the side, she picked up the next letter.

Harry and Ginny,

First of all, I am perfectly safe and fine here in Italy. I’m here with Neville and Luna. It looks like I am going to be working as a gardener, and yes, I am just as appalled as you are. I don’t know how long I am going to be here, but for the moment I think this is what I need. Please take care of Ron and don’t let him do anything stupid.

Love you both.

-HJG

Stuffing the letter less ceremoniously into another envelope, Hermione hesitated before picking up the last one.

Dear Ron,

I am safe. I think that I am where I need to be right now.
Do you love your job as an auror? It seems to me like you do. When you come home after solving a particularly complex case, I can see your eyes alight with the same passion that I see in Ginny’s eyes when she talks about Quidditch. Have you ever seen that light in my eyes?
Please do not come here. Please don’t ask me what I want; I am not ready to answer that question yet. What I do know is that I love you, and yet I know that I need to be here. Can I have both at the same time? Can you forgive me if I stay for a while?

I’m sorry if this doesn’t make sense; I don’t understand it either. It is my sincere hope that my time here will bring answers to these questions.

Don’t forget to wash your robes with cold water; you know that the hot makes the red bleed.

Yours,
Hermione

Notes:

Thank you to everyone who is reading along so far! Your comments and kudos bring me so much joy. I am currently working on Chapter 9, and can't wait for you to see where the story is going.

Love and gratitude to my betas lauraloveschristmas, bookishteddy and miiisterbear.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Summary:

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Notes:

Thank you all for following along thus far! I am so grateful to the readers of this story. Writing this has brought such joy and light to my life, and having people reading this fic is just the icing on the cake. Thank you!

Having sent her letters with a beautiful barn owl, Hermione began the walk from the main house back to the cottage. She was given the afternoon to get settled in and would begin working in the garden the next day. She estimated that if she moved slowly enough, she could have twenty minutes of uninterrupted thinking time as she walked through the estate.

For a brief moment, Hermione acknowledged the quiet ache in her chest as she thought of the one letter she hadn’t needed to send. Although it had been three months since the sudden loss of her parents, she was still adjusting to the hole in her life that they had previously filled. Her father had taken up flying as a hobby, and for years her parents had enjoyed the freedom of flying their small plane around Australia. The authorities informed her that the crash had been a result of an engine malfunction, and by the time their plane had been found there was no hope of saving them.

But that was an ache to put aside for another time. Hermione forced her mind to return to the carefully constructed agenda of items to consider relating to her current situation.

Sending the letters carried significant weight in Hermione’s assessment of her current situation. Although she could logically identify that she was presently in Italy, and that the events of the past day had truly taken place, a small part of her mind clung to the possibility that this was an elaborate and immersive dream. However, that fragile belief was shattered the moment she sent official notice to the Minister that she would be taking some time away from work.

From what she had observed thus far, Hermione could appreciate the potential benefits of life at the Casa de redenzione. The Hogwarts alums who shared the cottage seemed to coexist peacefully, even exhibiting signs of trusted friendships. That morning, Hermione had watched from the couch as Theo, Pansy, Neville and Luna engaged in a practiced dance around the kitchen, each of them preparing their individual breakfasts while somehow avoiding collision. Out of the whole group, Draco seemed to be the most removed; Hermione hadn’t seen him since their bizarre interaction over coffee that morning.

She couldn’t get past the observation that the small group seemed genuinely content: not the giddy happiness that one feels on the first day of vacation that can never be sustained, but also not the resigned apathy that was so common among the witches and wizards who worked in the Ministry. Somewhere between the two there was contentment, a relaxed gratitude for the little things.

When was the last time that Hermione had experienced that type of contentment? Hermione recalled feeling relief after Voldemort died. She remembered feeling pride when she received a promotion. She remembered feeling safe when she sat at the long table at the Burrow, surrounded by Weasleys. She remembered the quiet hum of arousal when Ron covered her smaller body with his larger and softer one. But contentment? Beyond simply being happy, contentment required surrendering to the moment and finding joy in things simply as they were without chasing whatever came next.

In that moment, Hermione decided that she wanted to experience contentment. That was a truth she could accept. While the greater question of want in her life remained unanswered, striving for contentment seemed like an appropriate first step.

Hermione allowed herself a moment of relief; amid the chaos, establishing a concrete goal felt like a small victory.

The next matter demanding Hermione’s attention was her spontaneous departure from her life in London. It was extremely out of character for Hermione to make rash decisions. It was also unheard of for her to go to a new place without first doing extensive research. However, as she walked through the verdant gardens under the gentle Italian spring sun, Hermione found that she couldn’t bring herself to regret her choice to come to Casa de redenzione. At least for the moment, it seemed like the right place to be. She was skeptical about having to work in the gardens, as she had struggled with the intuition and nuance required to be a successful Herbology student at Hogwarts. Additionally, it had been years since she had engaged in anything that could be remotely considered manual labor. However, the potential for physical discomfort was outweighed by the draw of spending time surrounded by such beauty.

Another decision made. She would stay in Italy, at least for the moment. Her feet continued to walk obediently, allowing her attention to remain with her thoughts.

Onward to the next agenda item. Ron. Ignoring the nausea creeping in, Hermione attempted to construct an accurate picture of her relationship as objectively as she could.

At this point, she had known Ron for half of her life. He had been present through all of her formative years; it was impossible to imagine herself as a witch without Harry and Ron by her side. The three of them were a unit, three stars combining to create a single constellation.

Was she happy in her romantic relationship with Ron? If one thing had become abundantly clear to Hermione in the past day, it was that her meticulously controlled life in London left very little room for things like want, desire, or contentment. Her life after Hogwarts was designed to maintain a baseline feeling of normality, but it prevented her from ever surpassing that. Ron accepted his role within this system without any pushback or judgement. He never complained that they never went out to the establishments in Diagon Alley, or that Hermione rejected most physical affection, or that most evenings she chose to curl up in bed with a novel rather than socialize with Harry and Ginny in the living room.

The feeling she most associated with dating Ron Weasley was security. He was perfectly predictable, a quality that Hermione had come to value above all others in the years since the war. She and Ron coexisted effectively, although their passions had always existed outside of their relationship. Ron loved to be surrounded by people, whereas Hermione preferred one-on-one conversations. Hermione could talk for hours about magical theory or her most recent read, while Ron would rather discuss Quidditch statistics. Ron was indifferent about Muggle music; Hermione had a record player and an extensive record collection, a hobby which connected her to her late father.

Hermione knew that there was more to an effective relationship than shared passions, an understanding which came from her exhaustive reading of Muggle literature. Just because her relationship with Ron didn’t look like the other relationships that she saw around her didn’t mean that there was anything wrong with how they chose to be together. What she needed from a partner was not romance or devotion or intellectual stimulation; she needed someone reliable and safe.

A realization suddenly hit her: in her life, security and happiness were interchangeable. Hermione felt the most happy when she was secure. Therefore, by extension, Hermione must be happy with Ron.

Rather than feeling relief at this revelation, Hermione heard the familiar hum of her anxiety begin - a persistent buzz behind her ears. She naturally fell into the rhythm of counting her steps; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, repeat.

If she was, as she had decided, happy in her relationship with Ron, then what was she doing in Italy? Why hadn’t she taken him up on the offer of going to spend time with him at Shell Cottage away from London? Thinking back to the letter she had just sent did nothing to ease her current state; while she had assured him of her love, her words had clearly voiced her doubt. Used to finding clarity and certainty in following a logical train of thought, Hermione felt unmoored, faced with trying to reconcile contradictory information.

Only an hour earlier, Hermione had sat at the small desk writing Ron’s letter. Even now she could vividly remember the moment of clarity when she chose which words she would use to communicate that she would be staying in Italy. Why did those words not fit with her current conclusion? If she knew that she felt happiness and security with Ron, why was she telling him to stay away? Ron would receive the letter and read those carefully chosen words, and knowing Ron, she could easily assume that he would think the worst.

What had she done?

The roar in her head reached an unbearable volume, and the dark curtains began to close over her eyes. Panicking, she realized that she had not been paying attention to her surroundings. In the two seconds before her vision completely closed, Hermione barely registered that she was on a stone path completely surrounded by large flowering bushes and small decorative trees. Plunged into sudden darkness, she stumbled, tripping over what felt like a low stone wall. She fell to her knees on soft ground, but her arms and face pitched forward into a tangle of sharp branches.

“Fuck!” she shrieked, trying to disentangle herself while causing minimal harm to her personhood. Although the physical sensation of the scratching wood momentarily distracted from the tsunami of anxiety that had crashed upon her, the second she was freed her body curled upon itself with no regard to her current location in a garden bed. Resigned to the fact that she had passed the point of avoiding the episode, she spiralled down, surrendering to the darkness.

___________________________________

 

Granger.

Granger.

Listen to my voice, Granger.

Can you do that for me?

Stuck within herself, she had a distant thought that the feeling was the most similar to being deep underwater, with the sensation of pressure building in her ears and lungs. From far away, the vaguely familiar voice called to her like a song. She imagined swimming towards the sound, willing her body to stretch towards it, inexplicably certain that she would be able to breathe once she reached it.

Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, Granger.

Hermione remembered that she had hands, and willed her muscles to listen to the voice. As she swam closer to the surface, she could begin to make out the catch of rough fingertips on the skin of her hands. With a push against the mental fog, Hermione curled her fingers inward, connecting with foreign skin.

Good. That’s it. Don’t let go.

Hermione tightened her hands, feeling larger fingers intertwined with her own. The hands squeezed back.

“Breathe, Granger.”

Obediently, Hermione inhaled through her nose. She was overwhelmed by the scent of cedar wood and a faint hint of masculine sweat. Shakily, she exhaled through her mouth with a small sigh.

The hands squeezed hers again, somehow communicating a question. She felt herself break through the surface of the darkness, and felt relief when her senses came back on board. She could feel the heat of the sun on her face, wood mulch poking her through her overalls, the slight burn of scratches on her arms. Her hands squeezed back.

When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to be looking up into the face of Draco Malfoy. The sunlight illuminated his silver eyes, reminding her of glittering shards of glass. The suggestion of a blond mustache shadowed his upper lip, and based on the sheen of sweat covering his face, he had been doing some sort of challenging physical work recently. The t-shirt that had been clean when she’d seen him in the morning was now marred with dirt smudges and grass stains.

Rather suddenly, he released her hands and stood up from where he had been kneeling in front of her. Wiping his palms on his jeans, he cleared his throat.

“I told you, Mister Draco, there is something very wrong with this one.”

Hermione turned towards the small, familiar voice. There, astride a perturbed looking Myrtle, sat Sergio, the garden gnome. Today, his knit accessories included a yellow poncho and white-spotted red bucket hat that perched crookedly on his head. He shook his head at her, and she wondered how this small, magical being could channel a look of disapproval that rivaled Minerva McGonagall.

Blushing, Hermione addressed the gnome. “Greetings, Sergio.”

His expression remained unchanged. “What is the reason for your strange behaviors, odd one? I have never met one like you before.”

Hermione scoffed, all shame forgotten. “Odd one?”

“Yes, this is what we are calling you,” Sergio nodded solemnly. “From when you arrived, you have been doing things with no sense. Making strange clapping dance, and now you are falling into Mister Draco’s beautiful bushes.” He tutted, turning to look up at the tall blonde man, who looked to be fighting an amused smile. “Mister Draco, Sergio will ask the others to keep an eye on this one. We will make sure that the flowers are protected from her.”

Before Hermione could defend herself against the outlandish mischaracterization that Sergio was perpetuating, Draco spoke. “Thank you, Sergio. Your concern for the flowers is appreciated.” He cast a quick glance down at where Hermione still sat in the flower bed before continuing to address the gnome. “I think I have this situation under control, but thank you again for your protection.”

With an indignant humph, Sergio leveled one last look at Hermione. It was a look that said that he had definitively concluded that she was a liability and needed to be watched closely. Taking the reins up in a small hand, Sergio and Myrtle trotted away, disappearing around a bend in the path behind a particularly enthusiastic moonflower bush.

“Merlin, Granger. What did you do to piss him off?” Draco’s deep voice questioned.

Covering her face with her hands, she groaned. “My entire career has centered around the appropriate and respectful treatment of magical beings within the wizarding world. I have extensive knowledge of the history, customs, and social norms of British garden gnomes. I always had excellent rapport with the gnomes at the Burrow, and was even invited to their summer solstice vigil. Who knew that their Italian counterparts would be so ornery?”

The wizard raised a blonde brow. “The brightest witch of our age, bested by a garden gnome and a chicken.” The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Hilarious, Malfoy.”

The tall blonde laughed, a low chuckle that Hermione felt in her bones. Once he quieted, he looked directly at her. “So.”

Hermione swallowed. “So,” she replied.

“Are we going to keep pretending that this isn’t happening?”

“That what isn’t happening?”

Draco gestured to where she sat in the same place where she had collapsed earlier. “You. Whatever is happening to you that causes you to spontaneously faint.”

“I don’t spontaneously faint.” Hermione replied, a sharpness entering her voice.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, excellent.” His voice instantaneously reverted to the sarcastic drawl of the bully who had tormented her younger self, although it retained its lower timbre. “So we are going to pretend that you are perfectly fine, that you didn’t collapse on the floor at the sight of some big scary Slytherins, and that you didn’t just collapse into the Christmas rose that I have spent the past year convincing to grow here. Sergio does have a point; it seems like we do need to protect the flowers from you.”

Hermione met his eyes as she shakily rose to her feet, brushing off the wood mulch that seemed to completely cover her. “I am perfectly fine.”

“Granger, you are completely fucking delusional.”

“I am fine,” she repeated, her voice rising in volume.

“Well then, Granger-who-is-fine, I will leave you to whatever it was you were doing when I found you curled up in the dirt. Best of luck to you.” With one last shake of his head, he turned and walked away.

Hermione stood, frozen to the spot, attempting to understand what had just happened. Draco Malfoy had helped her. Draco Malfoy then accused her of having some sort of problem, and when she denied it, he reverted back to the same sneering boy he had been at Hogwarts.

She was angry. How dare he accuse her of, well, anything? Even if, objectively, there was some truth to his comment: yes, she had fainted twice, yes, the fact that she could not control the episodes was problematic, yes, she was currently shoving that problem away for another day, which could be misconstrued as her behaving delusionally. But, on principle, Draco Malfoy, the ex-Death Eater, perpetuator of pureblood ideals, childhood bully, had no business criticizing her life choices. With a frustrated huff, Hermione began walking down the path in the direction she believed the cottage to be.

After five minutes of walking, it became obvious that she was lost. This did nothing to improve her mood; and for a moment, Hermione submitted to the rage and, throwing her head back, yelled a long string of expletives that she thought beautifully captured her thoughts about Draco Malfoy. She felt considerably lighter after this, taking a moment to shake the tension out of her shoulders. Resigned to the fact that she was most likely not taking the most direct path to the cottage, Hermione decided to pay more attention to her surroundings.

In this section of the gardens, tall fruit trees were surrounded by a guild of smaller plants, making it impossible to get her bearings. Most of the fruit trees were heavy with blooms, and although Hermione had limited plant knowledge, she recognized the pale pink of cherry blossoms, the purple apricot blossoms, and the fragrant white apple blossoms. The air vibrated with the hum of bees, and an intoxicating sweetness surrounded the trees. Compared to the plain suburban home where Hermione had grown up, this place was a paradise.

The low bough of an apricot tree hung over the path, and she paused, drawing it closer to her face. Closing her eyes, she took a deep inhale. Hermione couldn’t help the smile that slowly spread over her face. Her job at the Ministry hadn’t allowed for much free time, and the time that she wasn’t working she mostly spent sleeping or reading. Looking back, Hermione could fondly remember being at Hogwarts when, on a rare sunny afternoon, they would go out to bask on the damp grass that surrounded the Black Lake. Although she remembered fighting Harry and Ron at the suggestion that they do something other than study, she couldn’t deny that she always felt rejuvenated after time spent outside.

“Granger?”

Opening her eyes, Hermione ducked under the branch and came face to face with Pansy Parkinson.

“Pansy! I was just -”

“Please, Granger,” Pansy snorted. “You’re surrounded by a bunch of plant nerds here, never apologize for smelling the flowers.”

Letting out a small laugh, Hermione looked at the explosion of plant life that surrounded them. “It’s incredible here. I can’t quite believe that something this beautiful exists.”

Pansy nodded, tucking a piece of her black hair back behind her ear. “I know what you mean. Half the time I feel like I’m living in a dream.” She turned her gaze back to Hermione, who watched as the witch’s eyebrows shot up. “Bloody hell, Granger. What happened to you?”

Remembering her wrestling match with the rose bush not too long ago, Hermione grimaced, tentatively running her hands over her hair. “Is it bad?”

Pansy shook her head, an amused look on her face. “Well, your hair is fine, but your face and arms are covered in scratches. Honestly it looks like you got into it with a kneazle in heat.”

Hermione looked down, seeing small scratches on her hands and tears up and down the sleeves of her shirt. “Delightful.” Hermione couldn’t help the sarcastic quip that slipped from her lips.

Snorting, Pansy began to walk down the path, beckoning Hermione to follow her. “Come on, Granger. You’re obviously lost -”

Hermione started to protest, but Pansy held up a hand to stop her. “Absolutely not, Granger. You are a bloody mess, and based on what Sergio has told me it is best not to leave you unsupervised for extended periods of time.”

With an exasperated groan, Hermione followed the witch, marveling at her ability to retain her elegant appearance while working outdoors all day. She wore a flowing mauve blouse tucked into high-waisted cropped trousers that hung just above a pair of low-heeled black ankle boots. Her short hair was worn down, but a brightly colored scarf pulled it back from her face. A pair of leather gardening gloves were tucked neatly in her back pocket.

Pansy slowed, allowing Hermione to move alongside her. As their steps fell into sync, the taller witch continued. “So. What brings the Golden Girl of the wizarding world to hide out here with the outcasts?”

Glancing sideways at the dark haired witch, Hermione noted the expression on her face. It initially looked to be curious, even friendly, but upon closer examination there was an accusatory glint in her eyes. Puzzled, Hermione replied carefully. “I needed to get away to think for a bit.”

Pansy let out a small laugh. “Granger, we may be in Italy but we still get the Prophet. I know that you just got promoted to be the youngest department head in Ministry history, and that you are still living a fairytale romance with the ginger Weasel. What could you possibly need to get away from?”

“I, well -”

“You’re a war hero. The ‘Brightest Witch of Her Age’ who saved the world from The Dar- Voldemort. I mean yes, everyone talks about Harry Potter, but we all know who kept those knuckleheads alive for all of those years. People must fight for the opportunity to do things for you, to speak with you. You’ve got the world at your feet. You could do anything that you want. Do you even realize the power that you hold?”

“Power?” Hermione blurted out, incredulous, her voice rising as she responded. “What power do I have if I cannot leave my office without being bombarded by strangers wanting something from me. Beyond going to work, I never leave my house anymore. I cannot move freely throughout the world without someone recognizing me.” She took a fuming breath, pausing before she continued. “Do you know that people touch me? They literally touch me. Everywhere I go, people touch my arms, my hair; they grab at my clothes. They hand me babies to hold without asking. What do I know about babies? People think that they have a right to have every part of me, but what kind of power do I have if I am violated everywhere I go?”

“Granger, I -”

“I know that I have no right to complain about my life. About anything, really. My side won. I should be grateful to be alive. I am able to freely pursue a career at the center of the wizarding world, which is a remarkable feat for a Muggle-born from Hampstead. The sacrifices that we made paid off, and the world is a better place because of it. I should be happy, trust me, I know. But honestly, I would give it all up -- the Ministry job, the galleons, the celebrity -- to be invisible again.”

The witches fell into a heavy silence as they continued to walk.

Hermione was the first one to speak. “‘My side didn’t win.”

“What do you mean?”

“We all won. Everyone won when Voldemort fell. I refuse to believe that it would have been better for any of us if he had won, even the ones who, well, were loyal to him…”

“Just say it, Granger. We are the kids of the Death Eaters.”

Sighing quietly, Hermione continued. “Fine. Even for the children of the Death Eaters. I don’t think that a future where Voldemort won was a future that you truly wanted to be a part of. I don’t care what any of you did during the war. We all did unspeakable things to stay alive.”

They emerged from the winding paths of the gardens into an open grassy field. Hermione could see the cottage roof jutting above the flowering trees in the near distance. Turning to Pansy, she offered her a hesitant smile. “Thank you.” Hermione walked away, now confident in her ability to reach her destination.

“Granger!”

Hermione looked back over one shoulder, seeing the witch regarding her with a curious expression on her face.

Pansy continued. “Watch out for the flowers, yeah?”

Snorting, Hermione turned and continued across the field toward the cottage, her focus returning to the gentle caress of the sunlight on her face.

Notes:

Eternal love to my betas: lauraloveschristmas, bookishteddy, and miiisterbear. Our group text brings me eternal joy. Love you guys.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Notes:

Brief reference to recreational drug use in this chapter.

Later that evening, the cottage residents occupied the open downstairs area. The windows and large French doors were thrown open to the warm evening air. Hermione sat in the corner of the living room, perched on the leather barber’s chair with a book. She hovered on the periphery, unsure as to where she fit into the group. They all seemed to know their place and responsibilities without needing to discuss it, and the lack of clear communication regarding their roles meant that Hermione could not rely on observation to determine where she fit in. She felt as though she should be doing something to help, but was unsure as to what that was. In the interim, she surveyed the witches and wizards that she now lived with.

Pansy reigned in the kitchen, attempting to instruct a distracted Luna who kept braiding the green onions that she was supposed to be chopping. Hermione was fascinated by the confidence that Pansy displayed, moving seamlessly between magical and Muggle techniques to prepare what looked to be a feast. She was fondly reminded of Molly Weasley preparing Christmas dinner at the Burrow.

Draco sat on a metal stool at the kitchen island and seemed oblivious to the chaos around him, fully absorbed in reading a book. He looked freshly showered, and he wore his damp hair down. Round, wire-framed glasses perched on his nose, and it was with determination that Hermione moved her eyes elsewhere in the room. She had very intentionally avoided him since her episode earlier that day, deciding that she would prefer to not be on the receiving end of his scorn again.

Blaise had swept into the cottage earlier, his appearance once again reminding Hermione of a Regency era prince. It was obvious that he felt at home there as he dragged one of the wingback chairs to face the kitchen so that he could converse with Pansy and Luna while they cooked. Currently, he and Pansy were animatedly arguing about the menu for a formal dinner that was upcoming. Pansy wanted the estate chef to make something with the French breakfast radishes that were ready to harvest, but according to Blaise, their coloring “clashed with the palette of the evening.”

The final two residents of the cottage were halfway up the darkened staircase, doing a very poor job of concealing their current activities. Any questions that Hermione had about the nature of the relationship between Neville and Theo were immediately clarified as she tried not to watch the two men pressed against the wall. She couldn’t help the blush that spread over her whole body when she saw their hands disappearing under fabric as the wizards hungrily devoured each other’s mouths. At the sound of a low groan echoing down the stairs, Hermione decided that she needed to relocate herself in an effort to give the wizards some privacy.

Getting to her feet, she walked hesitantly toward the kitchen. She paused just outside the perimeter of the conversation, unsure of her next move. At the sound of her approach, Pansy glanced up, immediately beckoning Hermione to join her.

“Granger, can I trust you with a knife?”

At her question, the others in the kitchen looked over to see Hermione’s response. Nodding quietly, she moved towards Pansy, who directed her to a pile of multi-colored potatoes next to a wooden cutting board on the counter.

“Knut-sized chunks. Put them in the pot when you’re done.”

Hermione, who had spent significant time helping Molly in the kitchen at the Burrow, grabbed a large knife and began to cut the potatoes as instructed. She felt a familiar wave of relief wash over her at the relaxation that came with doing a repeated motion with her hands. Once her movements fell into the rhythmic pattern of slice, slice, slice, scoot, repeat, she allowed her attention to drift to the conversation going on around her.

“And that, Pans, is why you should let the most experienced among us make decisions pertaining to aesthetics,” Blaise concluded.

“Blaise, you should be deeply concerned about the size of your ego,” Pansy replied. “If it continues to grow uninhibited you will have a hard time convincing anyone to spend time with you. I mean, there’s a reason that you live alone up in that huge house with all of the old people.”

“Have I reminded you that you are an insufferable bitch recently?” Blaise snapped back, although Hermione could hear the love buried under the scorn.

Pansy barked out a laugh. “Daily, darling. You remind me daily, and yet you keep showing up here to eat my food.”

“It’s not my fault that the current health trend among geriatric wizards is vegetarianism,” Blaise whined. “I miss steak. Someone of my delicate disposition shouldn’t have to suffer a life without steak.”

 

“You won’t have to wait too long for the culinary tides to turn, Blaise. I sense a shift in the wind,” Luna chimed in.

“Wha-” Blaise started to ask, before seeming to change his mind. “Nevermind. Draco, will the crabapple blossoms be ready for Saturday?”

Hermione heard an undignified snort from the kitchen island. “I really think that you should reconsider your choice in centerpieces, Zabini. I don’t think they set the right tone for a celebratory event -”

“Mate, you know that I love you, but the second you started wearing denim on a daily basis you lost the right to have any aesthetic opinions whatsoever,” Blaise’s voice retorted. “Those flowers tie the whole thing together -”

“For fuck’s sake, you’ll have your flowers. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though.” Draco’s low voice sounded almost bored by the exchange.

“He’s right, you know,” Luna added. “It would really set the wrong tone -”

“You too?” Blaise sounded exasperated. “Lovegood, on a good day you look like you’re tripping -”

“Don’t be a dick,” Pansy snapped.

“I’m not trying to be a dick, Pans, I am purely observing that these two have no understanding of the level of detailed planning that it takes to throw a proper gala, and I am choosing to ignore all of their criticism.”

Luna’s voice jumped in: “I would actually classify Draco’s comment as a professional recommendation, not a criticism.”

Malfoy’s low laugh briefly filled the kitchen.

“Enough, children!” Pansy raised her voice to be heard over the laughter. “Granger, put the potatoes in here. Luna, stop whatever you are doing and put the green onions in a bowl. You two set the table.”

Hermione obeyed the witch, sliding the potatoes into the large pot with the sharp edge of the knife. She awkwardly tried to get out of the way as a grumbling Blaise and Malfoy lumbered into the now-cramped kitchen space. In an effort to avoid the wizards, Hermione bumped into a gleeful Luna, who took her accidental physical touch as an invitation for an enthusiastic hug. After a few seconds of agony, a flustered Hermione extracted herself and retreated to the living room, where she watched the chaos that unfolded before her.

“FOOD IS READY!” Pansy yelled to the room. None of the others in the kitchen seemed to find this abnormal, although Hermione noted that Malfoy quietly grimaced at the raised voice. The thud of footsteps signaled the approach of the two wizards who had been hiding on the stairs. Neville’s normally placid face held a loopy grin, and his hair showed evidence of tousling. He must have seen Hermione’s curious expression, because he blushed profusely as Theo walked up behind him, wrapping his hands around his waist and resting his chin on the bearded wizard’s shoulder.

“THEO! GET YOUR BLOODY CHICKEN THE FUCK OUT OF THE KITCHEN!” Blaise’s shout caused Hermione to jump.

Theo rolled his eyes, extracting himself from Neville with a groan. “Don’t talk about Lester like that, he’s sensitive!” Theo called out. Hermione watched him walk behind the counter, where Blaise was cowering with a look of disgust on his face.

“Hey buddy, did you come in to have some dinner with us?” Theo bent down out of sight, and then promptly rose up with a very disgruntled rooster in one arm. The bird’s bright red comb leaned almost completely to one side, covering one of its bulging eyes. His feathers were a dark black that glinted green in the soft cottage light.

Hermione glanced over at Neville, who watched the man and the chicken with a bemused smile. Seeing her look, he whispered, “We normally kill most of the roosters to eat in the early spring, but Theo took a liking to this one. They’ve been inseparable ever since.”

She couldn’t help the look of disbelief that crossed her face.

“Don’t ask. He’s very protective of him,” Neville continued.

Pansy walked out of the kitchen, the huge pot suspended in the air in front of her. “Theo, babe, you know I love you, but Lester cannot sit on the table.”

Theo pouted, his lower lip jutting out dramatically. “Pleeeeeeeease?”

The pot came to rest in the center of the table with a whoosh of Pansy’s wand. Rolling her eyes, she fixed the man and rooster with a glare. Lester, at least, had the decency to look nervous. “I live in a house full of whiny man-children. I hate you all.” After a brief pause, she amended, “Except for you, Lovegood. You’re in a category of your own.”

The blonde witch beamed at Pansy, who rolled her eyes again.

“I take great offense in being included in whatever this is.” Blaise went to the largest and most cushioned chair at the table, gracefully sitting down. He grabbed a cloth napkin from a stack on the table, and with a dramatic flourish, draped it over his lap. “Can we dine, please?”

“For the last time, Blaise, you don’t live here,” Pansy grumbled. “Sit. Eat. Theo, Lester can sit AT the table, but not ON the table.”

Hermione joined the gravitational pull as they all made their way to the table. Everyone seemed to move subconsciously to their predetermined place. Hermione waited, watching to see where an opening would appear for her. She catalogued the group: Blaise at the head of the table, Pansy on his left, then Luna, then Theo, with a forlornly clucking Lester tucked under one arm, then Neville at the opposite head, then Malfoy, and then, an empty chair. Resigning herself to a dinner of avoiding making eye contact with the blonde on her right, Hermione slid into her seat and watched silently as the meal commenced.

The natural ease of the group that Hermione had observed when she first arrived was heightened in the enclosed space of the cottage. Everyone took turns filling their bowls with ladle-fulls of Pansy’s stew while Neville sliced a loaf of freshly baked bread. Luna heaped piles of some sort of salad onto the plates at each spot, completely disregarding any input about portion size. Once his bowl was filled, Theo levitated a large pitcher of some sort of pink beverage that filled the empty glasses that clustered around the center. Within minutes, everyone had a full plate, bowl, and glass in front of them.

Immediately, the room was filled with the sounds of quiet chewing, appreciative hums, and the clink of cutlery on the ceramic plates and bowls. Once again, Hermione found herself thrust into the unfamiliar without an escape plan. Her pickiness around food was not something that she was proud of; in fact, it was a source of great shame for her that her taste buds had become so constricted in past years. In this moment, however, faced with a plate full of untried things, she longed for the security of Molly Weasley’s roast chicken. Hesitantly, Hermione dipped her spoon into the stew, careful to only get a tiny bit of the broth. Bringing it to her lips, she took a tentative taste. It was simple, with a hint of garlic, onion and…celery? There was just the right amount of salt, and enough pepper that the back of her throat warmed. Her initial assessment was positive enough that she ventured in for another bite, this time carefully filling her spoon with an equal combination of potato, some leafy green vegetable, and a small chunk of beef. After a few slow chews, she relaxed, having concluded that this meal was not only safe, but delicious.

As she became more comfortable with the meal in front of her, Hermione turned her attention back to the conversation.

“What is the event this weekend?” Theo was asking.

“It’s the monthly bingo tournament,” Blaise replied.

There was a moment of silence before the table burst into laughter. Hermione found herself laughing along with them.

“Blaise, the event is a bingo tournament? Mate, we need to get you out of there,” Theo wheezed between laughs. Lester seemed perturbed by the jerking movements, and chose that moment to crow in solidarity with the rest of the room.

This only caused the group to fall deeper into laughter. Even Draco, who, from what Hermione had observed so far, was not one for loud displays of emotions, surrendered to a wide, open chuckle. Neville shook in silent laughter, tears shining in his eyes. Luna looked around the group gleefully, as though she was just delighted to be included.

“These are old people, Blaise! They don’t give a shit about color palettes or canapés,” Pansy gasped, trying to catch her breath.

Neville wiped his eyes. “I’m with Pansy on this one, Zabini. Based on the greenhouse tour I gave yesterday, I don’t think the guests will be able to tell the difference between plum, eggplant, and mauve. One bloke grabbed a moon cactus thinking it was his wife’s arm.”

Blaise glared at them. “I’m sure that some of the guests appreciate the effort that I put into making sure that their experience at the Casa is one of beauty.”

“I think it is wonderful that you bring beauty to those who are preparing to depart from this earth,” Luna chimed in. “Besides, if it brings you joy to put this much effort into preparing a dingo tournament -”

“Bingo,” Blaise muttered, as the room once more erupted in laughter.

Luna continued as though there had been no interruption. “- then I think you should, although I still recommend that you listen to Draco about the flower choice…”

Pansy sighed, a small smile on her lips. “Lovegood, you are officially too good for this world.”

The laughter faded as the witches and wizards nodded along with Pansy’s statement. It was Blaise who spoke next, turning his attention to Hermione.

“So, Granger. I haven’t seen you since you were leaping over a pile of rubble in the Great Hall during the Battle doing something heroic. What have you been up to since then?”

All eyes turned to look at her. Taking a deep breath, she spoke, observing with some disappointment that her voice wavered slightly. “Well, after...that, I studied for my NEWTs, got a job at the Ministry, and have been working ever since.”

“Hmm. I guess that is predictable,” Blaise replied.

“Still hanging with the Chosen One and the Ginger Sidekick?” Pansy inserted, cocking an eyebrow. “Let me guess, the dynamic duo are...Aurors now?”

“I live with Harry, Ron, and Ginny, and yes, Harry and Ron are Aurors.”

Theo chuckled, and the others at the table turned to look at him. He put up his hands in defense. “I’m sorry, but come on! It’s too predictable. The Golden Trio continues to save the world even now!”

“Theo…” Neville muttered.

“Sorry, sorry.” Theo cast a glance at Hermione across the table, a mildly apologetic look in his eyes.

“So how did all of you end up living here?” Hermione spoke quietly into the silence that now blanketed the table.

“Well, as I’m sure you know,” Blaise began, pausing to glance at her. “About three months after the Dar - Voldemort fell, the Ministry started rounding up anyone remotely related to his cause.”

Hermione did know. The highly publicized trials had been at the center of all wizarding media for almost a year following the end of the war. It was decided early on that the Ministry would focus their attention on those who bore the Dark Mark, but it was undeniable that the children of the Death Eaters received intense scrutiny and public criticism. After their parents had been carted off to Azkaban to receive the Kiss, their recently of-age children were brought to trial as well. Hermione had managed to avoid most of the highly publicized trials, but was occasionally forced to represent any magical creatures that were found on the estate properties. From her brief exposure to the proceedings, they had been the ultimate example of the systematic annihilation of anyone and everyone connected to Voldemort.

“After the trials,” Blaise continued. “We were all left without homes and black-listed from any jobs in the wizarding world. Neville took most of us in, although none of us want to go back to living with his Grandmother, sorry man.” Neville shrugged, unoffended. “When Andromeda was asked to take over my family estate, she reached out to see if Neville would care for the gardens, and I guess we came along as a package deal. Not like we had any other options.”

Glancing around the table, Hermione saw the rest of the group had fallen into a contemplative silence.

“It worked out. Andromeda let us start over and make a life here. I got to stay in my childhood home, live away from the world that cast us out, and be surrounded by my favorite assholes.” Blaise gave the table a wry smile. “All in all, I would say it was a win.”

Hermione took a second in the quiet to organize and catalogue the information that Blaise had just shared for further consideration. She was especially perplexed as to why Neville would have taken in the Slytherins, especially since he had been witness to the atrocities that they had committed at Hogwarts under the guidance of the Carrow twins during their seventh year. She made a mental note to ask Neville about it later.

Pansy snorted. “It’s amazing what happens when you put a group of people together in a cottage with nowhere else to go.”

“Cheers to that,” Neville added with a small smile. Hermione watched as his hand reached out to grasp the back of Theo’s neck, his thumb rubbing slowly across the wizard’s skin.

The conversation naturally segued to Blaise telling stories about the elderly guests that came to stay at the Casa de redenzione. It sounded like Andromeda catered to retired witches and wizards who were looking for a relaxing and rejuvenating getaway. Given the longevity of most magical people, the majority of the visitors were well into their hundreds. Based on the conversation, it sounded like the cottage residents were mostly separated from the guests. Neville and Luna both offered daily tours as a part of their job duties, but the others had limited exposure to the goings-on of the estate, instead focusing their work and energy on the grounds surrounding it.

When the meal organically came to an end, Hermione was shocked to notice that she had not only eaten but enjoyed all aspects of the meal. Beyond the stew, the freshly baked bread was soft, the salad was sweet without being too bitter, and, according to Neville, the pink beverage was hibiscus tea, which tasted like a combination of floral sweetness and muted mint.

Eager to contribute to the clean up effort, Hermione helped Neville magically transport the empty dishes to the kitchen sink where Theo had set the scrub brush to work. It seemed that those who hadn’t helped prepare the meal naturally took up the task of cleaning the kitchen afterwards. Hermione listened with fascination as Neville explained that the three different buckets lining the counter were separated by scraps the chickens could eat, general compost, and meat scraps. While Hermione helped Neville and Theo with the dishes, Draco took a damp rag and wiped down the kitchen counters and the table.

Once the kitchen and table were cleaned, everyone organically dispersed, only sharing quiet “good night”s before separating for the evening. Once again, Hermione found herself swept along in the group’s familiar dance, unsure of where she fit but surrendering to their rhythm.

___________________________________

 

About an hour after the cottage residents had retired to their rooms, Hermione found herself pacing her small loft, unable to sleep. While the evening had fallen into the overarching category of success within her mind, there was still too much to be considered and digested. Too much for her to attempt sleep. So, she resigned herself to pacing the small space: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, repeat. She was forced to shorten her steps, which then pulled her focus from the thoughts that currently required her attention.

With a sigh, Hermione pulled a long cardigan over her Muggle sleep shorts and worn Cranberries t-shirt and made for the ladder. Her bare feet barely made any sound on the wood floors as she crept down the staircase. Passing through the kitchen, she opened the French doors to the patio behind the cottage.

The night was mild. She kept waiting for the chill to settle on the skin of her bare legs, but it never came. The barely-there breeze was soft and warm. Hermione set her sights on a large willow tree that was illuminated by the light of a crescent moon. She continued down the stone steps, stepping tentatively onto the grass when the steps ended. When she found the ground to be soft, she continued more confidently. The ground sloped gently downward, and Hermione could hear the distant trickle of a creek that was hidden in the darkness ahead of her.

As she approached the base of the willow tree, she noticed two things. Firstly, there was a wooden picnic table tucked under the hanging branches, situated so that in the daylight there would be an uninterrupted view of the stream and whatever lay beyond. Secondly, someone was already sitting at the table.

The blonde wizard looked up sharply at her approach. After a brief moment of silent assessment, he seemed to decide that she didn’t warrant further attention and went back to whatever was occupying his attention. Hermione considered her options: she could turn around and find another location to do her thinking, or she could sit at the opposite end of the table, taking full advantage of the perfect spot to spend an evening of rumination. Making up her mind, Hermione walked to the other end of the table from where Draco sat on the bench and perched, sitting on the tabletop with her feet resting on the bench seat.

Although there was a good five feet of space separating them, the tension of unsaid words filled the air. Glancing over at the wizard, Hermione saw that his fingers held a small rectangle of what looked like parchment. On the table in front of him, two small cloth pouches were opened. His long fingers reached into the first one, pulling something out that he then carefully placed in a line down the middle of the parchment. Whatever it was released a sweet and sticky smell into the night. Next, he reached into the second pouch and pulled out a small piece of something that he then crumbled between his fingers, sprinkling it into the parchment as well. Taking a breath in through her nose, Hermione immediately recognized the distinct smell of marijuana, thanks to many evenings of Harry and Ginny splitting a joint in the dreary backyard of Grimmauld Place. According to Harry, it slowed his gears enough to fully relax and be present. According to Ginny, it made her tingly and ravenously hungry.

Draco tucked one edge of the parchment around the pile in the middle, and then carefully rolled it up. Hermione could not help but be fixated on the way that his long fingers nimbly worked the parchment into a tight roll, simultaneously delicate and deft. He brought the rolled paper up to his mouth, slowly licking from one end to the other before smoothing the edge down with the side of his thumb. Once sealed, he pinched one end of the rolled parchment, twisting it to a point.

He shifted his body to the side to pull his wand out of his back pocket as he stuck the rolled parchment into the corner of his mouth. Inclining his head, he brought the tip of his wand to the pointed parchment; after a moment’s pause the tip of the wand glowed orange and a line of smoke rose from the end of the parchment. Hermione watched his shoulders rise, evidence of him taking a deep inhale. After a moment of suspense he exhaled, twin trails of smoke curling from his nostrils. He grabbed the base of the rolled parchment between his thumb and pointer finger, pulling it away from his mouth.

He turned toward Hermione, catching her open stare. “I would offer you some, Granger, but I suspect that you’d decline.” His voice had the gravely quality of someone who had just woken up.

She answered by shaking her head. “What is it?”

Draco snorted a laugh. “A spliff.”

“A spliff?”

“It’s a combination of tobacco and weed.” He brought the spliff back to his lips, taking another deep inhale.

“And what is to be gained by combining those two substances?”

Again, Draco laughed quietly. “Speaking for myself, a simultaneous heightening of attention and a quieting of my thoughts.”

Hermione pondered this combination of sensations, trying to imagine the experience of being suspended between two things that, from her experience, were intrinsically connected.

Draco continued. “It could help with your problem.”

Hermione stiffened. The words hung in the air between them.

“I don’t have a problem.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. Her fingers moved to tug on the sleeves of her cardigan.

“Fucking hell, Granger,” Draco muttered.

“I’m fine, Malfoy,” Hermione continued.

“Sure you are, Granger. Sure you are.”

Silence descended over them. Taking a deep breath, Hermione hugged her arms to herself, settling in to think. She ignored the wizard she shared the space with, although occasionally the distinctly sweet smell of the spliff drifted across her awareness.

Time passed in the way it only can at night, when one minute oozes into the next, impossible to distinguish. Hermione drifted in and out of her mind, completely relaxed in the dark stillness that surrounded her. A lingering question came into focus.

“Does it help with your problem?” Even her whisper shattered the silence.

The wizard at the other end of the table didn’t look up from where he gazed out into the night.

“Sometimes.”

Notes:

This story continues to bring so much joy into my life. I really appreciate your comments; as I continue to learn more about these characters it is so helpful to see them reflected in your eyes!

My betas are my favorite people in the world. Our group text brings me laughter every day, and our Zoom brain storming sessions give me so much clarity about the direction this story is going. This story would not be here without you: bookishteddy, miisterbear and lauraloveschristmas.

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Once again, Hermione woke when the sunbeams burst through the loft windows. In spite of her late night, she felt rested, pleasantly surprised to find her mind clear and refreshed. She quickly dressed, groping through her beaded bag to find appropriate attire for her first day of working in the gardens. She settled on a worn pair of jeans and a purple long-sleeved t-shirt that she’d had since third year. Her boots were downstairs; yesterday Theo had scolded her for wearing her footwear in the house.

After a brief stop in the bathroom to complete her morning routine and ensure that her French braid from the previous day was still intact, Hermione went downstairs. The open living area and kitchen were empty. She sighed, relieved that she would not have to face another human being this early. As she approached the kitchen, she saw the mug that she had used yesterday sitting in the middle of the counter. It was full of coffee that was still steaming, obviously under a stasis charm. For a moment, she considered that the coffee likely belonged to someone else in the house.

However, a quick glance around the room reaffirmed that she was alone. Taking a moment, she considered the information that she had about the cottage residents thus far. Hermione had observed that people tended to stick to predictable morning routines on work days. This meant that, at this early hour in particular, the only other person in the house who was likely to be awake before her was the same person who had been awake before her the previous day.

She had watched Draco make his coffee the previous morning and remembered that he took his black. The coffee currently sitting on the countertop was a softer brown color with pale swirls where the added milk hadn’t fully incorporated.

Glancing around once more, Hermione decided that she would like to claim the cup of coffee for herself. However, her cautious nature outweighed her need for caffeine, and she muttered a quick sequence of spells that checked for common poisons or contaminants. When the spells came back clear, she removed the stasis charm. Tentatively, she lifted the mug to her lips and took a small sip.

She couldn’t help the hum of contentment that escaped her throat. The coffee was made to perfection: two sugars, splash of milk, and the unmistakable warmth of cinnamon. Her attention was pulled from her analysis of why the perfect cup of coffee was waiting for her by a small, stemmed flower that lay on the counter next to where the cup had been.

The delicate flower had a ring of pale blue petals circling a smaller white bud with yellow stamen in the center. The few leaves that remained branched off of the stem, their green color tinged with an undertone of blue.

Carefully, she picked up the flower and brought it to her nose. It didn’t have a particularly strong smell, beyond the scent of freshness possessed by most plant life.

“Blue columbine.”

Hermione jumped at the sound, whirling to look at the intruder. Luna waltzed into the kitchen, clothed in a rainbow mumu.

“Interesting,” Luna continued.

Hermione blinked slowly. “Pardon, but what exactly is interesting?”

“Well, everything, really.” Luna smiled in that knowing way that made Hermione want to shake the blonde witch’s shoulders.

Resigning herself to the fact that she was not going to get any usable information out of Luna, Hermione carefully cast a charm to preserve the flower before slipping it into her pocket.

____________________________________

 

After a breakfast of yoghurt, granola (apparently homemade by Pansy) and fresh berries, Hermione followed Pansy and Neville through the gardens towards the complex of glass-paned greenhouses.

“So, you are going to start out by helping Pansy with the harvesting this morning, and then after lunch you’ll water in Greenhouse B where the vegetable seedlings are currently kept,” Neville continued. “We have extra gloves in the shed. Make sure to take water breaks, and, well, Pansy’s the boss, so listen to her.”

Glancing at Pansy, Hermione was slightly uncomfortable with the smile on her face.

Pansy seemed to notice her discomfort. “Relax, Granger. It’ll be fun. Just two witches in the Italian countryside, frolicking through the gardens of an ancient estate. What could possibly go wrong?”

Neville rolled his eyes. “You are insufferable.”

Pansy skipped alongside him, placing her arm around his. “You know that there is not another witch or wizard alive that you would trust with a knife in your gardens, Longbottom.”

Sighing, Neville conceded. “Fine, Pansy. You win.”

Arriving at one of the greenhouses, Neville opened the glass door, holding it open for the witches to enter first. Hermione started at the wall of hot, humid air that filled the building. She couldn’t help the urge to breathe in through her mouth, feeling the warm air fill her lungs.

Tables that reached Neville’s waist were situated in four long rows running the length of the building, with enough space between them for two adults to walk abreast. On the tables, shallow wooden boxes housed thousands of vibrant green plants that looked to be in their first weeks of life.

“Welcome to Greenhouse B. This is where you will be this afternoon. We start all of our annual vegetables and herbs in here before transplanting them in the garden.” Neville smiled lovingly as one of his large hands gently touched the tops of the young seedlings. Seeming to remember that he had an audience, he cleared his throat and turned back to a large wooden cabinet that stood next to the door. Opening it, Neville pulled out a small pair of leather gloves and tossed them to Hermione. She was pleasantly surprised when her reflexes took over and she caught them both from the air.

“Pansy, here’s the list for today.” Grabbing his wand, Neville summoned a long piece of parchment from a small Muggle mailbox that was nailed to the wall. Seeing Hermione’s curious expression, he explained, “It has a companion in the kitchen, and each morning they send us a complete list of what produce they need for the day.”

“It’s quite brilliant, really,” Hermione murmured, moving to examine the magical item more closely.

“Alright, Granger. Let’s go.” Pansy was already walking out the door.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder at Neville, who silently mouthed Good luck.

Once outside the greenhouse, Pansy led them to another larger wooden shed that was nestled under a tree. Pansy pulled both doors open, grunting in a rather undignified way as she did so.

“Right. Granger, grab a wheelbarrow. Also, there on the wall, pick a harvesting knife. No, no, not that one, you’ll slice your tiny fingers off...Yes! That one is better. Now come on.”

After sliding the small sheathed knife into her pocket alongside her wand, Hermione very clumsily attempted to navigate the metal wheelbarrow backwards out of the shed, stumbling multiple times. “There has got to be a magical solution to improve this medieval contraption,” she muttered under her breath.

Pansy laughed. “Trust me, we’ve tried. Any magical adaptations to the estate wheelbarrows have resulted in almost catastrophic thunderstorms. Neville has been trying to study it, but at the current moment it defies any past understanding of magical weather laws.” She paused, moving to where Hermione was still struggling with the wheelbarrow. “Here; try to keep your arms straight, and then use the strength of your legs to push it forward.”

Hermione glared up at the taller witch, feeling a spike of resentment at her height and beauty. “Ah, of course, my ‘leg strength.’ Must have forgotten that back in London.”

“Well, you have to start somewhere. Follow me, and try to keep up.”

Hermione found that it was much easier to navigate the wheelbarrow moving forward. Pansy led them through the maze of pathways that cut through the estate gardens.

Again, Hermione was struck by the abundance of life surrounding her. As she followed Pansy, she observed familiar edible plants that she knew from Molly’s small plot at the Burrow were interspersed with flowers, larger bushes, and small trees. At least every fifteen meters there was a larger fruit tree that had smaller plants growing in the shade of the wide branches.

Abruptly, Pansy came to a stop near the base of a small tree. Waving the parchment list to hover in front of her face, she pulled her black framed sunglasses off of her nose. “Salad greens.”

Hermione set down the wheelbarrow, circling around to stand beside Pansy. Following Pansy’s gesture to the bed in front of them, Hermione saw a blanket of greens and purples growing in the shade cast by a thorny raspberry bush. Lowering to her knees on the rock border of the path, Pansy gently gathered the leaves of one of the small lettuce plants, exposing the base where the leaves disappeared into the soil. With practiced grace, she unclipped a small knife from her belt. With one slice she cut the leaves, leaving about three centimeters at the base of the plant. Replacing the knife and grabbing her wand, Pansy conjured a large wicker basket that plopped into the pathway next to where she knelt. Dropping the lettuce leaves into the basket, she looked up at Hermione.

“Got it? Make sure to leave enough room at the base; they will grow a new set of leaves in a month or so. We are going to take this whole patch today, so start on the other side and work towards me.”

Settling on her knees a short distance from the other witch, Hermione imitated her actions: gather, slice, toss into the basket, repeat. Hermione eased into the repeated motions, relishing the peace of having her hands occupied. Her mind relaxed, summoning the lingering question of the coffee and flower that had waited for her that morning. She was finally free to think-

“Granger. I’m sorry about yesterday.”

Jerked from her thoughts, Hermione glanced over at Pansy, who was looking down at her hands as they continued to harvest. “What about yesterday?” she asked.

Pansy continued, an edge of honesty in her voice that Hermione hadn’t heard before. “I’m trying to apologize for the whole ‘your life must be perfect’ bullshit. It’s obvious that you’re pretty fucked up from it all and I’m sorry for assuming.”

Hermione turned to glare at Pansy, indignant. “Fucked up? I am not ‘fucked up.’ As I told Malfoy yesterday, I am fine.”

“You talked to Draco yesterday?” Something in Pansy’s tone shifted.

“Well, I wouldn’t classify it as talking. He found me in the garden after an...episode and accused me of being unwell in some way. ” Hermione paused, choosing her next words carefully. “I honestly don’t understand what I’ve done: one minute he is almost kind, and then the next he behaves as if I have personally wronged him.”

Pansy looked at her, a small, sad smile on her face. “Give him a break, Granger. Draco isn’t one to immediately let people in.”

Hermione considered Pansy’s words. “Fine, but I still don’t take kindly to the accusation -”

“-For fuck’s sake, Granger!” Pansy interjected. “I know that you’re used to hanging out with those Gryffindor idiots, but you can’t pull that shit here. It is obvious that you are unwell, and if some Slytherins in Italy are the first ones to call you out on it then you should probably reevaluate your friendships.”

“Reevaluate my friendships?” Hermione scoffed, unable to compute the accusation. “My friends happen to be the most important thing to me in the world. As we have had to prove repeatedly over the past ten years, we would die for each other.”

Pansy shook her head as though Hermione was missing the point. “Sure, your friends are heroes. There is no need to remind me.” She paused, leveling a look directly at Hermione. “But, seriously, you’ve been here less than a week and you’ve already had two panic attacks that I know about.”

“They’re not -” Hermione started to argue.

“It’s a panic attack, Granger.”

“I think I know perfectly well what is happening with my own body -”

“It’s a fucking panic attack.” Any lingering patience in Pansy’s voice was gone. “I know because I had to watch one of my best friends go through the exact same thing.”

Hermione tried to summon a certainty that she didn’t feel. “I have it under control.”

Pansy’s features softened slightly, but her voice still held the authoritative air of a parent scolding a child. “You obviously don’t. Listen, I know you have absolutely no reason to trust me, or even listen to me. You’ve made your opinion about us very clear.”

“I haven’t -”

“It is what it is, Granger. But pretending that nothing is happening isn’t going to work here. We are all dealing with our own shit; you know, exiled children of Death Eaters and all that. Why do you think we’re all here? We are lucky enough to wake up each day in a beautiful place with people who let us determine our fate without the weight of our past mistakes. We don’t have time to save you from drowning every time you jump into the Black Lake without a bubblehead charm.”

Hermione stared at the witch, appalled at the entirety of their conversation. Pansy returned the stare, daring her to respond.

Turning her focus back to the task her hands had continued to do of their own accord, Hermione considered Pansy’s words. There was an uncanny similarity between her words and what Draco had said to her the previous day. There were now two people who had accused her of somehow being in denial. But beyond the accusation of denial, Pansy had accused her friends of not truly caring about her. That, Hermione could not abide with.

“They don’t know.”

Pansy glanced up from where she had also returned to her work. She waited, silently encouraging the other woman to continue her thought.

“My friends don’t know. Ron and Harry don’t know about the episodes,” Hermione continued. “I had a system at home. A very good one. I had everything under control there.”

“How exactly did your system work?” Pansy asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.

Hermione gnawed on her lip, struggling to understand why she was sharing something she had never put into words with Pansy Parkinson, of all people. “No surprises. Everyone around me knew what I liked and stuck to it. Everything was scheduled. Everything was consistent.”

“And did it actually work?”

Hermione shrugged. “Not particularly. Most humans are dreadfully unpredictable creatures. Harry and Ron though...they are creatures of habit. It’s been that way since the beginning. That makes them feel safe. They are never more content then when they are together with Ron’s family eating something cooked by Molly Weasley.”

They had reached the middle of the patch, and quiet fell over them as they each harvested the last of the lettuce. When they’d both tossed the leaves into the basket, Pansy rose to her feet, grabbing the basket. Waving her wand, she shrunk it to the size of a plum, and set it down in the wheelbarrow. Hermione rose to her feet, taking a moment to dust off the knees of her jeans.

Pansy turned to her, one hand on her hip and the other brushing her short bangs off of her forehead. “They still should have noticed.”

Hermione looked down and closed her eyes, not ready to give that thought her attention.

“Next on the list is cabbage. Let’s go, Granger.” Pansy had already turned away, striding down the path in the opposite direction, letting her last comment hang unanswered.

 

____________________________________

By the time they finished harvesting, the sun was approaching midday and the wheelbarrow that Hermione pushed was overflowing with shrunken baskets, bushels, and bags of freshly harvested produce. Beginning to feel the strain in her arm muscles, Hermione followed Pansy down a path that wrapped around the far side of the estate from where Hermione had followed Luna the evening of her arrival. She sighed in relief as their path led under the dense shade of the Norwegian spruce trees that grew close to the high estate walls. Approaching a low archway in the stone wall, Pansy gestured for Hermione to follow.

They emerged in a wide stone chamber that seemed to be the combination of a pantry and a workroom. Curing meat, garlic braids, and bundled herbs hung from the exposed wooden rafters, while floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with rows of preserves, canned foods, and the widest variety of squash and pumpkins that Hermione had ever seen. Wide wooden tables filled the middle of the room, where bustling men and women were engaged in a variety of tasks: kneading dough, stuffing sausages, grinding herbs and spices, and one older woman seemed to be using her wand to carve designs into plump risen loaves of bread. The room was loud, but even more noise filtered out of a wide doorway on the other side of the room.

Pansy confidently entered the eye of the storm, and Hermione felt like she had no choice but to follow. “Jacopo!” Pansy called out over the noise. “Your veggies are hereeee!”

“Affrettatevi, you lazy peasants! You want me to serve this mush and call it pasta?” A booming voice rang out from the doorway. Hermione had to hide her surprise when a very small man trundled through the doorway, a flour-covered white apron tied around his substantial midsection. He glared at Pansy, who wiggled her fingers back at him in a mocking wave.

“You. Veggie girl. Did you bring me the things?” He spoke with a strong Italian accent.

Pansy rolled her eyes dramatically. “Only the best for you, Jacopo.”

His eyes narrowed. “You will call me chef while we stand in my kitchen, girl.”

“Whatever, cuoco.” Pansy turned and flounced out of the kitchen the way they’d entered. A string of Italian words that Hermione suspected were rather unsavory erupted out of the tiny man as he gestured toward the dark haired witch. Unsure of what to do, Hermione turned and followed her, trying to avoid the glare that the chef leveled at Pansy’s retreating back.

“What was that?” Hermione asked, catching up with Pansy’s long strides.

Pansy’s delight with herself was evident in her skipping steps. Hermione struggled to remain abreast with her as they walked back into the winding paths of the gardens.

“That, Granger, is Jacopo. He’s the estate chef. He doesn’t like me, because I never hesitate to point out the shortcomings of his cooking.” She took a few more steps. “He also says that he doesn’t trust a skinny woman who cooks. He thinks it means my cooking isn’t good.”

“Speaking from limited experience, I would say that he is incorrect in his assessment of your cooking.” Hermione kept her gaze forward as they walked.

Glancing quickly at Pansy, she saw a small grin dance on the witch’s face.

__________________________________

 

By the time they arrived back at the cottage, the midday heat blanketed the estate in a hazy delirium. As Pansy had explained, they all took an hour break in the middle of the day to eat a slow lunch and rest before returning to their various jobs.

After a quick whirlwind of preparation in the kitchen, the six of them were sprawled out on a quilt underneath the small grove of peach trees behind the cottage. Lunch consisted of salami, bread, herbed goat cheese, basil pesto spread, sliced apples, and dried figs. All of them opted to eat with their fingers rather than restrict themselves with plates and utensils.

Compared to the dinners that Hermione had participated in, lunch was a quiet affair. Neville leaned back against a tree trunk with a dozing Theo braced between his thighs. Pansy lay on her stomach, propped on her elbows as she absently munched on apple slices. A sketchbook lay open in the grass in front of her, and she was glancing between the paper in front of her and a particular tree that she was drawing. Hermione immediately recognized the soft lines of her drawing, identifying Pansy as the artist of the many sketches covering the walls of the cottage. Luna lay on her back, humming absently to herself, twirling long pieces of grass together into some sort of abstract art piece.

Once again, Draco sat as far removed from the rest as he could while still being considered a part of the group. He reclined on an elbow, holding a book open with one of his large hands. Hermione had immediately noticed the title: The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. She opted against asking him about the Muggle book, but added it to her growing list of Draco’s out of character activities. She also opted against watching him repeatedly brushing back the stray pieces of hair that fell into his eyes.

Pulling her focus back to her own book, Hermione resisted the urge to push up the sleeves of her shirt to find relief from the heat. Absently scratching at her forearm, she let the words wash over her, surrendering her attention to the detailed account of the evolution of merpeople societies in the Mediterranean.

____________________________________

 

The afternoon found Hermione standing side by side with Neville in the greenhouse. After carefully instructing her on how to adapt the Aguamenti charm so that only a gentle mist emitted from the tip of her wand, the two of them worked their way up and down the rows of tiny seedlings. Hermione watered the plants while Neville gave individual attention to each, checking the leaves and stems with remarkable delicacy for a man with such large hands.

Hermione was the first to break the comfortable silence. “So. You and Theo.”

Neville raised a dark eyebrow at her. “What about me and Theo?”

“How long has that been happening?”

Neville chuckled.

“What?” Hermione asked, indignant.

“Promise not to be mad, ‘Mione,” Neville began. “But Theo and I have been together since sixth year.”

Hermione gaped at him. “Excuse me?! Sixth year? But...what!?” She struggled to formulate her questions into words.

“I was just starting to figure out that I was into blokes, and, well, you know that Dean and Seamus were together by that point -”

“Dean and Seamus?” Hermione couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Bloody hell, Hermione, I knew you were focused on school, but you can’t have been that oblivious. They literally groped each other all the damn time.”

Hermione thought back on the two Gryfindors she had known for most of her life. “I just thought they were really good friends…”

“I’m not sure about you, Hermione, but I don’t typically let my good friends rail me under the Quidditch stands.”

“I, well…” she began.

“Oh, I forgot, you’ve been in a relationship that is the dictionary definition of ‘letting your good friend rail you’ for the past four years.” Neville let some sarcasm creep into his voice, which Hermione chose to ignore.

“But what about you and Luna? I thought that you were together!” Hermione was still trying to fit this information to what she knew about one of her closest friends.

“What Luna and I went through that year with the Carrows...leading the DA, trying to protect the younger students the best we could...we relied on each other. We weren’t entirely alone, but you know the powerful connections that are forged during war. It’s like what you have with Ron and Harry. No one on the outside understands.” Neville chuckled. “When people assumed that we were dating, neither of us felt inclined to correct them. I wasn’t quite ready to let the world know that I fancied wizards over witches, and we both know that Luna has a superhuman ability to ignore what others say about her.”

They shared a quiet laugh. Hermione completely understood the connection that Neville described having forged with Luna. He was right; what Hermione shared with Ron and Harry was incomparable.

“Back to you and Theo…” She attempted to prompt Neville to return to the origin story of his current relationship with a curly haired Slytherin, but a more serious expression had settled onto the face of the wizard standing beside her.

“There is a lot about those final years at Hogwarts that you missed. You, Ron, Harry, well, you were quite distracted. The rest of us had lives that you missed out on.”

Hermione listened to her friend, relieved to hear that there was no resentment in his voice. He was simply speaking the truth. While they all had been involved in the formation of Dumbledore’s Army during their fifth year, the three had become increasingly distanced from their peers in the time leading up to their departure to search for the horcruxes.

“I’m so sorry that I wasn’t there. I’m sorry that I missed it.”

Neville glanced back at her with a small smile. “You’re here now.” He went back to work, bending down to bring his face close to the tiny dark green leaves of the seedlings she was currently watering. Hermione’s eyes were drawn to the tattoos that covered both of his arms. They were beautiful. The colors were subtle, mostly greens, browns, oranges and reds, and vining plants gracefully braided up and down his arms.

“They suit you,” she said, nodding at the ink covering his arms.

Neville laughed. “Well they hurt like hell, but there’s a weird calm that comes over you once they’ve been working for about an hour. I’ve been going with Malfoy down to a shop in Crema for the past year. This one was completed about a month ago.” He paused, a sly grin on his face. “You actually might like it.”

Hermione scoffed. The idea of Hermione Granger with tattoos was about as preposterous as the thought of the Ministry allowing their employees to forego wizarding robes in exchange for Muggle jeans. Although, after seeing Draco Malfoy, the prince of pureblood culture, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, anything was possible.

Notes:

Beta love to the squad: miiisterbear, bookishteddy, and lauraloveschristmas.

Thank you all for reading along so far!

Italian Translations:
Affrettatevi - Hurry Up
Cuoco - Cook

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

The first weekend caught Hermione by surprise. For some reason, she had assumed that their work would continue; the kitchen at the main estate of course served guests on the weekends. However, she was surprised when Pansy informed her that they had both Saturday and Sunday to do as they pleased. When Hermione asked about the produce for the kitchens, Pansy explained that there were refrigerators that they used to store the produce for the weekend.

“So, what do we do?” Hermione had asked as they put their tools away on that Friday afternoon.

Neville laughed as he walked out of the greenhouse to join them. “Whatever we want,” he stated, matter of fact.

The expression on her face must have shown her confusion.

“Relax, Granger. Most of us just lounge around the cottage, sometimes we go swimming at the quarry, or if you need a dose of Muggle culture you can always go to Crema. There’s a spot just out of town where we Apparate when we go.” Pansy tucked her hair behind her ears. “You’re free to do what you like.”

Pansy and Neville were correct, as Saturday morning came and went without any schedule or structure. After drinking the cup of perfectly prepared coffee that was once again waiting for her and stashing the simple sprig of pine that had been left beside her mug, Hermione watched the other cottage residents move seamlessly from the structure of the week into the open freedom of the weekend.

Theo and Neville, armed with straw hats and old beach towels, disappeared around mid-morning to bike to a swimming hole that the rest of the group sounded familiar with. Luna spent the day in the kitchen bent over a cauldron, making some sort of remedy for the seasonal allergies that were affecting the gnomes. Hermione attempted to keep Luna company, but could only watch her for a few minutes before the chaotic way that the blonde witch tossed in ingredients forced her to relocate for her own sanity and safety.

Draco and Pansy spent most of Saturday out in the orchard laying on the same quilt that they used for their lunch picnics. From what she could see, Pansy was drawing, while Malfoy was fully engrossed in a book.

There was something shared between the two of them - something about the way that they seemed to be more at ease with each other than anyone else. Hermione remembered that they had been a couple during their years at Hogwarts, but whatever existed between them now did not seem to be romantic in nature. She noticed little things at first: when they were together at meals, Pansy tried to situate herself close to him, and they would speak to each other in low whispers, seemingly oblivious to the others around them. Hermione had also noticed her eyes frequently gravitated to the tall blonde man, but all that she saw in Pansy’s eyes was worry.

Hermione had briefly watched them from the window before the feeling that she was intruding on their privacy drove her away. Unsure of what to do with herself, Hermione aimlessly wandered until she stumbled upon a hammock strung up in the grove of beech trees that bordered the orchard. She spent the morning curled up with her book, the gentle rustle of the leaves and the buzzing of insects relaxing her.

She only realized that she had fallen asleep when she felt the nudge of someone pushing the hammock. Blearily opening her eyes, Hermione looked up into Pansy’s dancing brown eyes.

“Good morning, Granger.”

Hermione struggled to adjust herself to a sitting position in the hammock, which proved to be nearly impossible to do without tipping herself out onto the ground. By the time she extracted herself and was shakily standing, Pansy was doing a very poor job of concealing her laughter.

“Sorry, I must have drifted off.” Hermione scrubbed at her eyes, willing them to fully open. Glancing up through the trees, Hermione saw that the sun was beginning to approach the horizon.

Pansy waved off the apology. “I just wanted to let you know that all of us are going to go into Crema tonight and you’re welcome to join.”

Hermione paused, letting the words register. “Well, um, thank you for the invitation, but -”

“No,” Pansy interrupted.

“No?”

“Granger. You’re coming with us.” Pansy’s tone indicated that this was a topic that had already been decided.

“I am?”

“Yes. You are. If I could trust you to actually relax and have fun here on your own I would let you stay, but we both know that is not what would happen. Come on, we’re leaving soon.”

Reluctantly, Hermione followed Pansy back to the cottage, still trying to blink away the post-nap haze that filled her head. She wasn’t one for naps and found herself struggling to shake the confusion at her current state. Once they were up the stairs to the top floor, Pansy paused in the doorway to her bedroom.

She looked Hermione up and down, critically squinting at her. “Wear something fun, yeah?”

Unable to muster a response, Hermione nodded, continuing down the hall.

Twenty minutes later Hermione stood downstairs, fidgeting with the wooden buttons of the light cardigan she wore and attempting to avoid eye contact with the two wizards who shared the space with her. Theo seemed content to ignore her as well, although occasionally she caught him eyeing her with a quizzical look. Draco leaned against one of the large windows, seeming lost in thought as he looked outside. Hermione immediately noted that both men had cleaned up, and compared the simplicity of Draco’s white button up to the colorful floral print of Theo’s linen shirt.

Wear something fun, Pansy had said. Hermione was not entirely sure how the meaning of those words applied to clothing, and, glancing down at the simple floral dress that reached her knees, she was almost certain that she still did not fully understand Pansy’s directive. It was a dress she hadn’t worn since Ginny had gifted it to her for her birthday. Her adult wardrobe consisted of professional robes, dress robes, and assorted jeans and t-shirts that she wore on weekends. In an effort to be quick, Hermione had piled her curls on top of her head in a bun that threatened to explode out of the elastic that held it in place.

The three of them collectively sighed in relief when Pansy skipped down the stairs, breaking the stiff silence. Neville and Luna followed closely behind. Hermione tried to quiet the envy that she felt seeing Pansy; the witch looked absolutely stunning in a tiny, pale blue silk dress that exaggerated the length of her legs and the deep black of her hair. She was one of the rare people who could wear makeup that complemented her features without overpowering her natural beauty.

The dark haired witch surveyed the room. “Ready?” She didn’t wait for a reply before ushering them out the door, somehow managing to maintain her air of elegance while doing so.

As the group departed the cottage, Hermione fell into step alongside Luna. Her hair hung loose with a thin braid falling down the middle of her back, daisy blooms woven in with yellow ribbon. She reached out and tugged on one of the curls that had escaped Hermione’s bun. “You look absolutely delicious,” her voice sang.

Blushing furiously, Hermione opened her mouth to respond.

“Don’t worry, I know that you do not share my appetite for witches. I just thought that you should know.” Luna skipped ahead, leaving a trail of daisies in her wake.

_______________________________

 

Their destination turned out to be a small restaurant and bar on the outskirts of Crema. The establishment was mostly outdoors; half of the wide stone patio was filled with scattered tables and chairs, while the other half remained open. Twinkling lights hung above them in long strands, and potted plants and vines covered the wooden fence that bordered the patio.

Although Hermione was surprised to see how at ease the others seemed in a Muggle restaurant, she chose to keep the observation to herself. It seemed that the staff was familiar with the group, and she watched Pansy exchange polite kisses with a number of the waiters. The sun was just beginning to set, but already the patio was full of other diners. When they settled in at their table, Hermione saw the others collectively relax. From her seat between Pansy and Neville, she had a view of the traditional Venecian architecture that lined the wide streets of the Italian city. In the changing light, the mostly white walls glowed a pale orange.

A pretty waitress took their drink orders in heavily accented English, and within a minute all of them were quietly sipping their beverages. Hermione surveyed the group, comparing each individual to their drink order. Luna, rather surprisingly, ordered straight tequila, and asked for a very specific brand that she claimed “Did an excellent job of clearing noxious brain fog,” whatever that meant. Theo ordered a rather extravagantly garnished mixed drink that was a golden yellow in color. Neville drank a local beer from a glass, and Pansy sipped white wine. Draco ordered straight whisky, a move so predictable for the wizard that Hermione had to stop herself from rolling her eyes when he ordered.

Hermione, at Pansy’s encouragement, ordered a bellini, and found that she enjoyed the cold blended drink that combined the gentle sweetness of peach and the tang of champagne. Humming in appreciation of the beverage, she looked up to see Pansy grinning at her.

“I noticed that you like peaches.” Pansy’s voice was nonchalant, but Hermione could see the joy barely concealed on her face.

When the waitress returned to take their dinner order, Pansy ordered for the table. Again, Hermione had the feeling that everyone around her was living in a particular pattern that hadn’t been explained to her. Unable to read the Italian menu, she was left with no choice but to trust in Pansy’s culinary tastes. For a moment she considered reclaiming control, considered asking Pansy to translate the menu so that she could find a predictable option, but before she knew it the waitress was gone, leaving her once again at the whim of people who still felt like strangers.

The conversation flowed from there. Pansy brought up the monthly estate dinners that the cottage residents were invited to attend. Based on the reactions of the group, these dinners were generally looked forward to as an event with excellent food and plenty of alcohol to make the company of the geriatric wizards more entertaining. That then led to speculation over whether or not Andromeda would ever reciprocate Blaise’s affections. The group was divided on this one; Pansy, Luna and Theo believed the older witch would ultimately take him up on the standing invitation to join him in his bed, while Neville adamantly disagreed, citing Andromeda’s excellent taste and experience. Draco recused himself from that particular debate, claiming that it was “deeply sickening to think of a member of his family in a sexual manner.”

Hermione was curious to hear Draco openly claim Andromeda as a member of his family; based on her memory, Andromeda hadn’t been on speaking terms with the Malfoy family during the war. Not for the first time since coming to Italy, Hermione had the distinct feeling that there was a shared history to the group sitting around her at the table that extended beyond their time together at the Casa de redenzione.

Theo launched into a detailed description of the new breed of goat that Andromeda had agreed to invest in this year. According to Theo, their temperament and milk were significantly milder and sweeter than the current flock that lived at the estate. Hermione listened curiously as Theo gave an update on all of the domesticated animals that were housed on the estate grounds, including horses, goats, sheep, chickens, ducks, and ten cows for milking. At least half of the animals on the estate were currently pregnant, and Theo was carefully monitoring their pregnancies, as close proximity to magic was known to have an impact on the reproductive cycles of some non-magical animals. Luna chimed in at that point, noting that Trudy (one of the garden gnomes the group was apparently familiar with) was experienced with animal births and could assist Theo.

Luna then asked Draco about the project to cross a Central American orchid with a magicis obice, a drooping vining plant that was able to filter out unwanted magic from its immediate surroundings. Through listening to the conversation, Hermione learned that Draco’s work at the Casa was not only in the care and upkeep of the flowers and decorative gardens, but also in experimenting in plant breeding, especially between magical and non-magical species. Apparently he worked closely with the gnomes, who held a wealth of knowledge regarding the magical plants that had historically been grown on the grounds. One of the greenhouses was entirely devoted to their work.

By the time the food arrived at the table, Hermione was beginning to feel the hum of her drink along the surface of her skin. Plates full of traditional Lombardy dishes filled the table, and, just as they did during their dinners at the cottage, she watched the group fill plates with a combination of all of the offered dishes. Once again confronted with unfamiliar food, she tentatively tried small bites of everything. Pansy was kind enough to explain the dishes to her, giving a brief overview of the ingredients and general flavor experience. Quickly, Hermione determined that while the risotto milanese and mixed green salad were delicious, the ossobuco was too rich for her taste buds.

She was relieved that the others carried on the conversation without including her. As they moved on to their second round of drinks, she noticed the subtle increase of volume in their voices and the way that their laughter rang out over the muted conversations at the other tables.

Sitting at the table in the open air as the twinkling Muggle lights overtook the dim light of the evening, Hermione felt the full weight of the past week settle on her shoulders. Rather than an unbearable burden that left her breathless, she felt a quiet resolve, a deep trust that for whatever reason she was where she was supposed to be.

Music began to play, signaling a shift in the atmosphere of the restaurant. It was upbeat, featuring a female vocalist singing in Italian. Hermione watched as other restaurant patrons got up from their tables, laughing as they flocked to the open area that was now revealed to be a dance floor.

Looking over at Pansy, who seemed the unofficial leader of the evening plans, she saw a delighted glint in her eyes as she grinned at Hermione.

“No.” Hermione’s voice rang out, halting the conversation as the rest of the table turned to stare at her, their confusion evident on their faces.

“Yes,” Pansy replied, her grin somehow growing to light up her whole face.

“Absolutely not.” Hermione glared back at her. For a moment she considered making a hasty exit, retracing their route from the Apparition point in her head, but a quiet thought suddenly demanded her attention.

Hermione liked to dance.

Focusing all of her attention inward, she considered the thought. She liked to dance. A wave of childhood memories of dancing around her parents’ living room as The Beatles played on the record player flooded her senses. Beyond simply being fond of dancing, she truly loved it. Her last experience of dancing had been the Yule Ball that she attended with Viktor, but the happy memories of waltzing under the twinkling ceiling of the Great Hall were overshadowed by the horrible fight with Ron that had ended the evening. Of course there was that night with Harry as they hunted for the horcruxes, but that had been a tiny slice of joy in an otherwise terrible time in her life.

How had it been so long since she had danced?

A quiet clarity settled over her, and she returned her attention to the table. Everyone still looked at her. Her eyes couldn’t help but graze over Draco, comparing the boy she’d watched waltz in his stiff dress robes so many years ago to the man now sitting here, slouched back in his chair with an arm slung over the back of Theo’s chair next to him. While outwardly relaxed, there was a tension evident in his shoulders, a nervousness in the way his fingers never seemed to still, and a sharpness to his gaze that spoke of a deep distrust in the world surrounding him.

Tearing her eyes away from him, she looked back at Pansy, who still leveled a questioning grin at her from across the table. “Fine. Buy me a shot of something strong and then I will consider dancing.”

“Yes!” Pansy immediately waved her hand to signal the pretty waitress who had helped them earlier.

Neville chuckled, lifting his glass to drain the rest of his beer. Slamming it down on the table, he looked around at the rest of them. “Come on now, bottoms’ up.”

Everyone obeyed, lifting their cups to finish their drinks as Pansy spoke briefly to the waitress.

“Is there a particular occasion that is leading you to bully us into intoxication, Longbottom?” Draco’s low voice asked as he traced the lip of his glass with a long finger.

Pansy reached over and smacked him on the arm. Draco, to his credit, merely rolled his eyes at the hit.

“What? It’s a valid question,” Draco continued.

“Since when do you need an excuse to get pissed?” Theo laughed. “It’s a bloody Friday, we are young, and terrifyingly attractive. That’s occasion enough for me.”

The waitress returned, a tray of small glasses filled with a clear liquid balanced in one hand. Pansy helped her distribute the glasses around the table until everyone had one.

“Do I want to know what this is?” Hermione tried to whisper to Neville.

Pansy interrupted. “It’s grappa, Granger. It’s an Italian liquor. Honestly, you probably won’t like it, but it does the trick.”

She raised her glass, pausing to tuck a stray strand of her straight black hair behind an ear. Hermione and the rest of the table followed suit, the twinkling lights reflected on the surface of their raised glasses.

“Saluti!” Theo called out at a volume that Hermione knew was too loud. To her surprise, his call was echoed at tables around the restaurant, where loud cries of salutations combined in a celebratory chorus.

Hermione threw back the shot, transported in her memory to the parties at Grimmauld Place in the months following the war. While there had been the ingredients for celebration: booze, music, their surviving friends crowded into the dark living room, there had still been a sadness that permeated those events. Now that Hermione compared those nights to the warm spring air, the genuinely happy cheers, the music ringing out in the night, she wondered if this was her first experience of a truly happy celebration, a night that was free from the dark stain of sadness and death, free from the weight of war.

The irony of her current company did not escape her. It did not make sense that her first taste of happily chasing intoxication with her peers would be in the company of three people who had grown up despising her.

But that was a thought for another time. The grappa was bitter, but the warmth rushed through her veins and she felt herself relax another fractional amount. When an unsolicited smile spread over her face, she didn’t question it.

Next thing she knew, Pansy dragged her to her feet, tugging her to the open area of the patio that was now filled with people. While the music was unfamiliar, the rhythm and catchy beat coursed through Hermione’s veins, and she felt her body find the familiar sway of chasing the music. The whisper of the alcohol reached her head, and she allowed her eyes to flutter shut as she focused on the melody. She could not understand the words, but it was beautiful, and she felt her smile widening, imagining that this was a song of love, of Italian love that could only be experienced by someone dancing under twinkling Muggle lights on a warm spring evening.

Close laughter brought her awareness back to her immediate surroundings. Their group had all followed Pansy to the dance floor, and Hermione saw that they had formed a loose circle. Her eyes drifted around the group, and she smiled, seeing her own relaxation and joy reflected on their faces. Neville and Theo had turned to face each other, foreheads touching as their bodies moved together. Luna swayed, her hands seeming to trace the invisible trails of the breeze in the air around her. Pansy bounced to the beat, her head rolling from side to side, the occasional giggle escaping her lips.

Hermione couldn’t help it. What was it about this new man who drew her in, who demanded her attention? It would be a stretch to call what he was currently doing dancing, but he was definitely moving his body. His movements didn’t match up with the beat, and there was an awkwardness to his movements that was endearing. There was a red flush spreading up the long lines of his pale neck, and pieces of hair fell out of his bun, curving along the sides of his carved face. Her fingers itched to tuck it behind his ear. When her eyes moved to his, she saw that he was already looking at her. Their eyes met, and she could hear the look on his face. It was a look that said, I am happy here. She met his eyes, and she hoped that her smile clearly replied, I am happy here too. She held his gaze, breathless, before a blush overtook her face and she tore her eyes away from him.

Closing her eyes again, Hermione let her body begin to lead, letting her mind rest and step back from the steering wheel. Her feet moved, and the rest of her body followed. She spun, feeling the way that her loose curls caught and tickled the skin on the back of her neck.

The song changed, but it carried on the upbeat energy that already filled the air. Hermione was oblivious to anyone else who danced around them, all of her focus and energy on the music and the small group who surrounded her. At some point, Pansy reached for her, and they laughingly twirled each other. Soon Luna joined in, and the three witches wove in circles around each other, their giggles ringing out over the music. Neville and Theo detached from their intimate embrace, and soon all of them were laughing and dancing together. Vaguely, Hermione was aware that she was fully approaching pissed. Not pissed to the point of being physically incapacitated, but pissed to the point where her mind no longer held the same tight control that she was accustomed to. While she relished in the quiet and freedom that she felt, there was another sensation that she could most liken to what she imagined freefalling would feel like. While it wasn’t frightening, it was a bit disconcerting.

The next song was slower, and as their bodies adjusted to the shifting rhythm, Hermione was suddenly aware of the sweat beading on her face and dripping down her spine. Theo and Neville found their way back into each other’s arms, and Pansy seemed to be pulled by gravity towards Luna. Soon the two witches were locked into each other, their tall, long bodies meeting. Hermione watched as Pansy carefully brushed the long blonde hair off of Luna’s pale shoulders before gently settling her hands on them. There was a softness to Pansy’s eyes that she had never seen before, and Hermione turned away from them, feeling as though she was intruding on an intimate moment.

Now that four of their group were coupled, that only left one other familiar person on the dance floor. Her eyes drifted back to him. His silver gaze was already on her. In a rash moment of decisiveness, Hermione closed the distance between them, lowering her eyes to the rough stone of the patio. She moved slowly, but her steps didn’t falter until she stood directly in front of him.

One of his hands rose to fill the space between them, and it turned, palm facing upwards. She watched her own hand move, drawn toward his. She froze, their flesh almost touching, and felt the pulse of the air between them. Closing her eyes, she reached out, closing the distance between them. Her chest constricted when their skin touched, a flood of awareness rushing to the point where their bodies met. She shuddered as his fingers closed around hers, his larger hand dwarfing hers.

She held her breath, waiting for the inevitable itching discomfort that she had come to expect with human touch. It didn’t come. Instead, her cold hand warmed with the contact from his skin, and she watched, detached, as their fingers slid to intertwine. A laugh bubbled up from her chest at the absurdity of it. She tilted her head back, meeting his gaze.

His expression was more open than she had previously seen it. He was flushed and sweating, and some of the tension that she associated with his constant blank expression had melted away. There was a challenge in his eyes, as though he was waiting for her to fight him, daring her to run.

But, in that moment, she couldn’t think of anywhere else to be. Here, in an outdoor cafe, the soft yellow artificial light illuminating their faces, the music unknown while being the perfect soundtrack to this new and unfamiliar place, her body and mind free from torment thanks to the grappa that loosened her hold on herself.

Perhaps this was contentment. A glimmer of that elusive thing that she chased, that she had only ever seen on the faces of others.

The hand holding hers lifted, and following it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Within a second she was spun around, stopping when she felt him standing behind her, close enough that she could sense his presence there, but not actually touching her. His hand dropped hers, and she felt herself sink into the music again.

Swaying her hips, she had the distinct feeling that he was mirroring her movements. Rather than listening to the voice in her head that urged her to ignore him, to pretend that she was alone, she found herself basking in the tingle of warmth that his proximity gave her. The music overtook her, filling all of the space in her mind, and she danced.

When something brushed against her right hip, she started, eyes immediately darting down to identify what was touching her. Long fingers lightly brushed against the fabric of her dress. Again, she waited for the panic to settle in, watching as the hand dipped under the hem of her long cardigan, coming to rest on the thin fabric that covered her hip bone.

But the panic didn’t come. Hesitantly, she began to move. The hand moved with her, following her patterns, maintaining contact the whole time. Even with buzzing in her veins, she could feel the way the calluses on his fingers caught against the fabric of her dress. Bringing her attention back to her surroundings, she observed the beautiful blur of the night, the moving bodies that surrounded them, the smell of dancing washing over her. Letting her eyes close again, she focused inward, translating the music into movement, feeling the brush of her dress against her bare thighs, grounded by the gentle grip of a hand on her hip.

The music crescendoed, and her body responded, trying to turn, completely forgetting her current position. When she met the resistance of the hand on her hip, she stumbled forward into a hard chest. Hands were holding her hips, trying to steady her, and she grabbed onto the white shirt that filled her vision. An anxious inhale filled her nose with his smell, and she was unprepared for the shiver that slid down her spine.

There it was, the panic that came from too much human contact, from close proximity. She was suddenly aware of every place where they touched. Her skin burned, a fiery itching that spread from her toes to the top of her head. She flattened her palms against him, pushing herself away, trying to put some space between them.

Hermione needed air. Pushing her way through the now crowded dance floor, she walked toward the dimly lit street, tuning out her surroundings as she chased solitude and space. Stumbling on an uneven cobblestone, she came to a stop in the middle of the empty street. The music still filled the night, but the breeze could now touch the flushed skin of her cheeks. She sighed, swaying slightly as she let a small sigh escape.

“Granger. Are you alright?”

She turned, seeing Draco standing there on the edge of the street, his hair glowing in the darkness. His hands hung loosely by his thighs, large hands that had touched her. She looked him in the eye, finding genuine concern there.

Something unleashed within her. The insecurity that had kept her silent since her arrival was completely overpowered by the weight of not understanding, of trying to make sense of things that had no logical explanation. How was she supposed to understand the man that stood in front of her?

“What is your problem, Malfoy?” she demanded.

Draco pushed the loose strands of hair out of his face, shaking his head. “Bloody hell, witch, I was just asking if you were alright -”

“I don’t recall it ever being any of your damn business if I am alright or not.”

An exasperated growl fell from his lips as he walked closer to her, pausing about four strides away. “Are you actually angry with me for asking after your well being? Are you truly that childish?”

Hermione laughed. “Me, childish? You spent your childhood tormenting me, insulting not only my physical appearance but implying that my existence was an abomination. I have looked in your eyes when you called me mudblood, and what I saw there was a true belief in the meaning behind that word. I have only ever known you to be a cruel man. So yes, Malfoy, I am fucking angry that you have the audacity to ask me if I am alright.” Her voice rang out in the night, her chest heaving.

“There’s the self-righteous Gryffindor I remember.” Draco’s voice was rising in volume, a fire in his eyes that she had never seen. “Yes, I did do the things that you accuse me of. I’m not going to deny that, and, I will have you know, I have every intention of giving you a proper apology for my role in your past torment. But I was a child then, and who am I now? You certainly have made it clear that you have no interest in getting to know the man I am today. What do you know of how I have spent my time since the war, of the things I have done to make up for my past?” He paused, seeming to reevaluate his words. “All that I hear from your side are empty promises of a new world that is not divided by prejudice, a unified world where forgiveness is granted to those who have exonerated, when both of us standing here know that that forgiveness will never be extended to someone like me. At some point the world decided that people like Theo, Pansy, Blaise, me...we’re the exceptions who are not worthy of being forgiven.”

“I...”

“Tell me, Granger, who have you actually forgiven?”

His question waited, and they both tried to ignore the music that juxtaposed the tension between them.

Hermione found her voice again. “I have never had an interaction with you that I would consider positive until I arrived here. Honestly, you do seem different. Of course I can see that you have changed, but I don’t know how to reconcile my memory of you with who you say that you are now. Some of my worst memories include you.” Unconsciously, her hand reached up to scratch at her left forearm. She watched his eyes follow the motion, and saw the exact moment when his face tightened and he turned away from her. She continued, speaking to his back. “How am I supposed to understand that? How am I supposed to accept your kindness after all of that?”

Draco turned back to her. He sought out her gaze, holding her in place with a flash of unveiled honesty.

“Oi! There you are.”

Both of them turned as Pansy came skipping out of the restaurant, her face shining and a huge smile on her face. Luna, Neville, and Theo followed close behind her, looking disheveled and sweaty from dancing.

“We’re ready to head back. Apparently the boys need to go to bed.” Pansy called out.

“Hey, you said you were tired, too!” Theo whined, clinging to Neville’s shoulder as he tripped over his feet. The bearded wizard leaned over, brushing Theo’s curls out of his face and gently kissing his forehead.

“You coming?” Pansy glanced between the two of them, her unasked questions evident in the arch of her eyebrows.

Draco nodded, turning to walk in the direction of their Apparition point. He didn’t look back at her, didn’t in any way indicate that he had a response to her last question. Hands shoved in his pockets, his long stride put distance between him and the rest of them, his retreating form leading the way.

By the time they arrived back at the cottage, Hermione was struggling to keep her eyes open. The warmth of the grappa had faded to a dull buzz in her head. Her conversation with Malfoy played in a loop over and over in her head. Wordlessly she followed as they all left their shoes at the door. She became aware of her surroundings once again as she watched Draco separate from the group, walking barefoot toward the back door.

Hermione paused at the foot of the stairs. Everyone else had gone upstairs ahead of her. She considered her options. The alcohol in her system had made her brave, had brought her to say things to Draco that she had only ever imagined telling him. Now, fighting off the sleep that threatened to pull her under, she took a deep breath and followed him.

When she arrived at the table he was already smoking, the same familiar sweet smoke swirling around him. His face was shadowed, so any answers she might have gotten from his expression were hidden to her.

Hermione paused before sitting. “May I?” Her voice, merely a murmur, still sounded too loud in the sanctuary of the willow branches.

“Sure.” His voice was gruff.

Just has she had before, she sat on the tabletop and rested her feet on the smooth wood of the bench. While it wasn’t cold out, she gave in to the urge to wrap her arms around herself, pulling her cardigan tight.

Draco cleared his throat. “I don’t want to talk.” There was an authority to his statement.

Quietly, Hermione let the breath that she was holding out through her chapped lips. “That’s fine.”

At one point she closed her eyes, focusing her attention on the spots where the air met her bare skin, on the whisper of the willow leaves, on the catch of her feet against the wood. The smell of his spliff came in waves, alternating with the distinct smell of rich soil and vegetation that constantly permeated the estate.

When she found herself drifting off, she rubbed her eyes and tried to get to her feet without disrupting the gentle stillness that had settled between them. Sliding from the table, she started to walk back to the cottage.

“Granger.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

She turned back to find him standing there, a tall shadow with his hair and shirt standing out against the darkness.

He continued. “You have to decide if you truly believe that people can change, and if that change is enough to outweigh past wrongs.”

Hermione stood, unable to will her body to move, as he walked away from her, past the willow tree and the picnic table concealed underneath its branches, until his figure was swallowed by the night.

Notes:

Thank you all so so so much for continuing to read along with me. I am currently chaperoning a school trip sitting in an Airbnb at 6:30am, still so excited to continue to bring this story alive. The betas did major work helping me through this one: lauraloveschristmas, miiisterbear, and bookishteddy. You are the true MVPs.
Also, for those readers who like to have music to set the mood for a story, I listened to the Call Me By Your Name soundtrack while writing this whole chapter :)

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Hermione woke up with a throbbing headache. She lay there, eyes closed, taking slow inventory of her body. The arches of her feet ached, and her stomach was in her throat. Groaning, she opened one eye, looking out at the treetops that barely swayed in the morning air.

It was Sunday. How had she only arrived on Tuesday?

All rational thought left her as a wave of nausea washed over her body. Knowing they kept hangover potion in the bathroom, she blearily climbed down the ladder and pushed open the bathroom door.

She blinked in confusion at the scene in front of her. Luna reclined in the bathtub, humming as bubbles in the shapes of whales and dolphins danced in the air above the tub. Her hair was piled up on top of her head, and Hermione had to rub her eyes to confirm that yes, there were tiny bubble fish that seemed to be nibbling at the skin of her cheeks.

Remembering herself, Hermione quickly mumbled an apology and started to back out of the steaming room.

“No need to run, Hermione. The Crumple-Horned Snorkacks buzzing around your ears seem to indicate that you have a serious question on your mind.” Luna tilted her head, looking Hermione up and down as if searching for something. Recognition sparked in her bright blue eyes, and she nodded her head as a large smile spread across her face. “You know, writing it all down can help. It could clear up all of the...well…” She didn’t finish her sentence, instead waving her hands in the general direction of Hermione’s head.

Unsure of how to respond, Hermione tried to smile, cringing at the lurch of her stomach. Muttering a thank you and apology, she grabbed the vial from the cabinet and retreated from the bathroom.

Downing the potion, she took a deep breath as she felt the headache fade. Quietly, she went downstairs, judging by the angle of the sunbeams that it was still quite early.

When she saw the steaming mug on the counter, she was surprised. She thought that perhaps in the wake of their argument the small daily gesture would be forgotten. But no, there it was, and after taking a sip, she saw that it was once again prepared to perfection.

But what drew her eyes was the plant on the counter next to the cup, just where there had been plants before. This time it was a dark-leaved plant with wide leaves and tiny purple flowers. A fine prickly fuzz covered the leaves and the stem. Smelling the flowers, she picked up on a faint cucumber scent. Borage, she thought to herself, remembering how Molly Weasley would put fresh borage flowers in water on hot summer days.

Taking her coffee and the plant with her, she made her way back up to her loft. She used a wandless Wingardium Leviosa to bring the coffee up the ladder with her. Once in her room, she placed the coffee on the small desk and immediately went to her beaded bag.

Less than a minute later, she held a small leather journal. It had been a Christmas gift from Percy Weasley a few years ago, and she had never found the time to use it. Sitting at the desk, she opened the book to the first page, smoothing the pages and smiling at the familiar crack of the spine. Picking up the muggle pen that sat on the desk, she began to write.

___________________________

Week 1: Sunday
A sprig of borage was left by my coffee.

Tonight he had his book with him. I still cannot understand how Malfoy can so casually read Muggle literature. How dare he casually read one of my favorite books? I thought about asking him about it, but the quiet was so gentle that I couldn’t interrupt it with my voice. I am going to make note of my questions here so that I can ask him later. Perhaps.
What do you think of Gandalf as a representation of a wizard?
Can good truly triumph over evil?
The author shows us that the actions of one small creature can change the world. Do you believe that?
I kept waiting for him to bring up our argument, to ask me about forgiveness. But nothing came.

No episodes today.

____________________________

In all of the uncertainty of her new life in Italy, one thing had emerged as a constant. Each night, about an hour after everyone had retired to their rooms, Hermione would walk down the stairs, out the back door, and to the table under the willow where she would join Draco Malfoy.

It became their nightly routine. Or, perhaps it was already his routine and then she inserted herself into it. It wasn’t that her time spent sitting in the darkness with Malfoy was enjoyable or pleasant, but it was consistent. He never greeted her. He always sat on his end of the table, his long fingers occupied with rolling a spliff, while she perched on the table top and rested her elbows on her knees.

The words that they spoke were few, but Hermione had learned that although Draco spoke infrequently, the words that he did choose to vocalize were full of significance. It was as though he had limited time, and each word needed to convey a lifetime worth of meaning.

She was still haunted by his last words from the night when they’d gone out in Crema. Hermione had always considered herself to be forgiving, but did Malfoy have a point?

___________________________

Week 2: Monday
A sprig of belladonna was left by my coffee.

He was already reading when I arrived. As a reader myself, I understand that the act of reading is an unspoken signal that you are not open to conversation. But, how can he expect me to honor that when he is reading a book that so blatantly contradicts everything that he stands for? It is preposterous. But I honored the silence, too afraid to break the peace that settled between us in the darkness.

One episode today. I had gotten used to having strawberries with my yoghurt and granola each morning, but today there were none. Malfoy found me and called me back from the darkness.
What is wrong with me? Why am I like this?

Week 2: Tuesday
Another sprig of belladonna was left with the coffee.

When he was reading again, I couldn’t hold in my questions any longer.
You are reading Tolkien, I informed him.
Very astute, Granger, he replied.
Do you like it?
He laughed. I don’t make a habit of spending my time doing things that I don’t like.
But it’s a muggle book.
Yes. It is.

I didn’t know what to say to that. I let the silence fall back over us, digesting his words.

No episodes today.

_____________________________

The days oozed by, and she felt herself slowly thawing in her new environment. Something about the warmth and stillness of the Italian spring days warped Hermione’s experience of the passage of time, and beyond the contrast between the soft nights and the hazy days, there was little to mark the hours. While there was some sort of rhythm that remained consistent from day to day, there was just enough of the unexpected to prevent Hermione from fully surrendering to the mindless repetition that she was accustomed to in her work.

While the work days typically followed a familiar pattern, things began to change as the days grew warmer. Most days still began with harvesting with Pansy, although occasionally Neville pulled her away to help with planting or larger projects. Hermione could objectively understand that everything related to gardening was time sensitive, but she still resented the sudden changes to her routine.

In the garden, Hermione remained grossly incompetent, and relied on instructions from both Pansy and Neville before doing anything. In addition to the mostly familiar annual vegetables that they harvested for the kitchens each morning, Pansy began introducing Hermione to the magical plants that were interspersed through the gardens. Sanguinum purus was a tall plant with long, wide leaves that spread from the central stem. According to Pansy, when ground, the leaves released a sudsy substance that witches used to remove bloodstains. Hermione didn’t want to think about why the usage of such a plant was common knowledge. On a slightly less sinister note, the campanis ridibundus, or “laughing bells” were a low growing groundcover with tiny purple bell-shaped blooms that giggled to attract nearby pollinators.

 

_______________________________

Week 2: Wednesday
A sprig of coriander was left with the coffee.

He didn’t bring his book. Out of nowhere, he asked me what my favorite birthday present was. Why would he want to know that? When I told him that it was a first edition of The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, he looked confused.
A Muggle poet, I told him. I was met with silence.
When I asked the question back to him, he took a minute to respond.
My freedom, he finally replied.
I couldn’t help myself when I asked: from what?
He didn’t answer, and left to go inside.

One episode this afternoon. I managed to hide in the bathroom until it passed. I don’t think anyone saw me.

 

Week 2: Thursday
A fern frond was left with my coffee.

Have you ever been to America?
I did not expect this question from him. I shook my head.
He hummed, a low sound that I could almost feel vibrate in my own chest. It’s different there, he continued. The war never happened there. The people are full of light, but there is no appreciation for it. They walk around, grumbling about how their steak is cooked, with no gratitude for their lives.
I asked him if he liked it there.
When he laughed, it was cold, harsh. I don’t get to forget it, he said. I don’t want to.

Two episodes today. Neville asked about Ron again. I think that I miss him, but I don’t know what to do with that. I am here; he is there. I think that I want to be here. Neville tried to help, but it didn’t work. I don’t know why but the darkness called and his voice didn’t keep me grounded in this world.

________________________________

She learned more information about the other inhabitants of the cottage, mostly gleaned through passively listening to dinner conversations. Their meals changed constantly to reflect whatever produce was ripe or ready to harvest. Pansy’s dexterity as a cook was put to the test, and Hermione had watched the witch’s creativity at work when she made a feast from three aubergine, two unnaturally large rutabagas, and some overly ripe tomatoes. Blaise joined them frequently, and he always brought the most recent gossip regarding the appallingly inappropriate behavior of the geriatric guests of the Casa. Pansy and Neville debated the merits of different plant species, with Draco occasionally chiming in with an opinion. The group was frequently subjected to Theo’s long-winded speculation that the long-term influence of proximity to magic had given the animals more human traits, and given her interactions with Myrtle and Lester thus far, Hermione was inclined to agree with him.

Unfortunately, Hermione’s relationship with the estate garden gnomes continued to be rocky. As she began to see more of the small residents in her work in the gardens, it quickly became obvious that Sergio had shared his opinions about her with the rest of the gnome community. One Tuesday, when she was crawling on her hands and knees through a particularly large elderberry bush, she found herself face to face with five female gnomes who appeared to be assisting an injured lizard. When Hermione offered them a small smile, the gnomes fled, screaming in terror about the “Bringer of Death.” In all honesty, Hermione was much more concerned about her lack of acceptance by the gnome community than her relationships with the humans in the cottage.

 

___________________________

Week 2: Friday
A sprig of rosemary was left with my coffee.

Tonight he asked about Emily Dickinson.
Why is she your favorite?
She has a way with words; she finds the truth in roundabout ways.
Would it be safe to guess that you have something of hers memorized?
I had to laugh at that. Yes, it would be safe to guess.
Can I hear it?
My favorite line immediately swam to the forefront of my mind. My voice was a whisper when I said: I have been broken, but -- I hope -- into a better shape.
He took an audible deep breath. That’s beautiful.
My small smile was swallowed by the night.

I don’t know why, but it doesn’t seem like Theo is very fond of me. It isn’t outright hostility, but it feels like he doesn’t trust me. When I asked Neville about it, he told me to give him time.

I had an episode in the garden today. Pansy made sure that I didn’t destroy any plants and sat with me until I came out of it.

Week 2: Saturday
A petunia flower was left by my coffee. Luna helped me identify it.

He didn’t talk tonight. I kept waiting for him to speak, for him to start the conversation, but nothing ever came. I even tried: How was your day? But nothing. Nothing but the smoke clouding around his head, the whisper of his fingers on paper, the deep breath as he inhaled. Nothing.

Luna took me to Crema. We rode Muggle bikes, which I hadn’t done since I was a child. I laughed. No episodes today.

_____________________________

Italy was changing her. Within the first week of spending most of her time outdoors, the deep purple under her eyes had faded, and the freckles that she remembered from her childhood summers returned to her nose and cheeks. After so many years of being celebrated for her work ethic -- working through her lunches and eating only when she found a spare moment -- she was struggling to adjust to the culture of work at the Casa de redenzione. The midday break was sacred; the one time that Hermione offered to work through lunch to get ahead on their afternoon tasks, Pansy immediately dismissed the idea as insanity.

After the first time that Hermione had opened the shared bathroom to find Neville and Theo in a compromising position, she learned to knock on any closed doors before entering. Hermione had grown accustomed to seeing Harry and Ginny in varying levels of undress throughout Grimmauld Place (much to Ron’s horror), but something about seeing the two large men together left her blushing and flustered. Neville had still been reluctant to tell her the full story of how he and Theo had come to be involved. It was obvious that the two men had a long and meaningful history, based on the little things that they shared: quick touches when they passed in the kitchen, the laughter that came from under the door of Theo’s room when she finally tiptoed down the hall late at night, and the way that when Theo got that far away look in his eyes, Neville would quietly take his hand and lead him to a private place away from the others. Hermione couldn’t help but feel curious about the couple, but she decided to wait it out, certain that her friend would share when he was ready.

Although not outwardly hostile towards her, Theo remained withdrawn around Hermione. She found his behavior curious, but did not fixate on it, choosing instead to focus her time and energy on rekindling her friendships with Neville and Luna, and exploring the new and tentative friendship that was growing between her and Pansy.

Hermione remained hesitant around the dark-haired witch, unsure of the motivation behind her seeming sincerity. She knew that they were both different people; time had changed them. Everything about Pansy was unexpected. While her outward appearance suggested elegance and decorum appropriate for a young woman in pureblood society, in actuality Pansy cursed like a sailor and frequently asserted her opinions with little to no regard for how they would be received. Hermione was still surprised every time Pansy looked her in the eye to tell her, “Granger, you look like shit today,” or “It’s hotter than hell out here, why are you wearing long sleeves again?”

___________________________

Week 2: Sunday
A scarlet zinnia was left by my coffee. I now rely on Luna to help me identify them. After casting a preservation charm on them, I put them in the pages of this book, although I am not entirely sure why I am keeping them.

Tonight, he told me that he doesn’t like to listen to music.
What kind of person doesn’t like music? I asked him this.
He said it distracts him from being alive.

I could have said nothing, I could have let the silence return around us. But for some reason, in the safety of the darkness, I told him that I love music, that the words and notes bring me unparalleled joy.

He listened, nodding occasionally as I spoke. When I was done, we returned to silence.

No episodes today.

Week 3: Monday
A daffodil was left by my coffee.

I asked him why he makes me coffee.
I’m already making it for myself, he replied. I didn’t know what to say to that.
The flowers are nice, I added.
He responded by raising an eyebrow at me, a look of wariness on his face. That did not make sense, but I didn’t ask for a further explanation.

It was bloody hot today. At the creek during lunch, Pansy asked me why I never get in the water. She said I must be burning up in my long sleeves. She wasn’t wrong. Before the darkness took me, I heard Malfoy’s voice reminding me to breathe. Why do I listen to him? Why, when I am falling, does his voice catch me?

_______________________________

As April turned to May, their lunches moved from the orchard to the willow-shaded banks of the stream that flowed behind the cottage. After eating, Hermione watched as they all migrated to the water. Luna, Pansy, and Theo wasted no time in stripping down to their knickers and splashing about like children. They seemed to have no regard to modesty, which Hermione found perplexing. Even with Ron, Hermione was extremely private about her body, preferring to change her clothes alone, and insisting that the room was dark before they had sex. The level of ease in their skin that Luna and Pansy both exuded was intimidating to Hermione.

Eventually, at Theo’s urging, Neville would lose his shirt and roll up his pants to join them. The four of them waded in the knee-deep water, eventually flopping down to submerge themselves as much as possible. The joy was clearly written in their wide smiles and loud laughter. A small part of Hermione imagined joining them. She wondered how a smile like that would feel on her own face, wondered how that kind of laugh would sound coming out of her mouth. But for some reason that still hovered just out of reach, the idea of bare skin and sky and water and eyes felt like too much.

Inevitably, Hermione and Malfoy would end up alone on the bank, watching the carefree frolicking. Hermione alternated between watching the sunlight reflecting on the water and casting sideways glances at the man sitting just far enough away from her that their distance discouraged casual conversation. In the bright midday light, it was even harder to find the similarities to his childhood appearance. Every new behavior that she observed from him directly clashed with the carefully constructed idea of him that she had cemented in her mind. The pointiness of his features had transformed into a sharply defined jawline and a regal nose. His blonde eyebrows arched gracefully over the silver eyes that seemed to catch everything, although most of the time his brows were furrowed, either in worry or intense concentration. The mouth that had so frequently been curled up in a sneer, now favored a relaxed frown. Looking at him now, she realized that the last version of him she remembered seeing in the immediate wake of the war had obviously been suffering some version of malnourishment. The hollowed out cheeks and slender neck had filled out and now matched the rest of the man who obviously worked with his body and spent time in the sun.

_____________________________

Week 3: Tuesday
A Lily of the Valley was left by my coffee this morning. It was beautiful.

Tonight, he asked me why I like music.
I told him that it reminded me of my father, of weekends spent in record stores, of dancing and hope.
What is a record store? He asked.
A place where you can buy music, music that is preserved on a large disk. You can listen to it anytime. For some reason, I elaborated, explaining that records were actually an older musical technology, and most people actually preferred to listen to CDs or even now MP3 players.
He seemed to be genuinely interested. Why do you use records if they are so outdated, he asked.
I clumsily tried to explain the grainy quality of records, how it gave the music texture, the satisfying image of records organized by color on a bookshelf. I blushed when I realized how wrapped up I was in my description.
The look he gave me communicated nothing.

Maybe Luna was right. Writing things down isn’t as bad as I thought.

No episodes today.

Week 3: Wednesday
A sprig of blue salvia was left with my coffee today.

Tonight he asked me about my work.
I told him about the projects we were currently working on, about the legislation to benefit the magical creatures who were traditionally marginalized within the wizarding community and the initiatives to provide more opportunities to those marginalized creatures.
He asked me if I enjoyed it.
I told him that it felt like the right thing to do, and that I had always wanted to help others, especially if it meant that future generations wouldn’t have to suffer prejudice at the hands of the wizarding community as I had.
A tense silence fell over us.

No episodes today.
__________________________

There was a part of her that still was not sure of the permanence of her time at the estate. Her commitment to spending three months away from her work had been an impulsive decision, and a tickle in the back of her brain reminded her of the life and career that sat, stagnant, waiting for her to return. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was wasting the opportunity to truly bring about change in the wizarding world that her career success had provided her. In quiet moments, her thoughts returned to Ron. She tried to imagine him receiving her letter, tried to imagine the look on his face, tried to have faith that he would understand the meaning in her words, that yes, she still wanted him, but right now she needed space.

_____________________________

Week 3: Thursday
A stunning purple hyacinth bloom was left by my coffee this morning.

He apologized. He didn’t look at me when he said it, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of him as the words fell out of his lips, his eyes hidden behind a piece of his hair that had escaped his bun.
I owe you an apology, he said. My past treatment of you was formed out of ignorance, and I am sorry for my role in bringing hardship to your life.

I couldn’t speak, and I was shocked when I felt the burn of tears filling my eyes. I looked up, trying to will the moisture away. When that didn’t work, I tried to walk away, trying to put as much space between us as I could. When I stumbled, the ground came up to catch me, and I couldn’t help the sob that escaped my chest. I didn’t look back as I retreated inside to the loft.

How dare he? How dare he say those words, become someone else, show that his change went beyond the external transformation?
____________________________

Friday morning she woke slowly, feeling that distinct emotional hangover that came in the wake of moments of vulnerability. She followed the same pattern she did every day: long-sleeved shirt, some sort of long pants, and her hair pulled out of her face. She couldn’t summon the energy for a braid, opting instead for a chaotic bun on top of her head. Some sixth sense told her that today was not going to go well.

As always, her coffee was waiting and hot when she arrived downstairs. At least Malfoy had the decency to behave predictably in some areas of his life. And, as there had been every other day, a flower sat next to it. Rich white petals surrounded a small yellow center; it almost looked like a white rose. She was twirling the large flower between her fingers, taking in the gentle scent when the back door slammed open. Looking up, her eyes met cool silver. Of course she had to be holding the flower when he walked in. She held his gaze as he walked toward her.

“This came for you.” His voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

Hermione looked down, seeing that he held an envelope out to her. She reached for it, careful to avoid touching his fingers. After the previous night’s conversation, whatever fragile understanding had been established between them felt shattered, raw, frayed. Immediately, she identified the familiar handwriting. Ripping open the envelope, she unfolded the piece of paper within.

Hermione,

I’m sorry, we tried to stop him. By the time you get this, he will be well on his way. You know how he gets.

Again, I’m sorry.

-Harry and Ginny

The roaring filled her ears like a dam bursting. Her knees buckled as her back slid down the cabinets until she sat on the cold floor. She gripped her left arm through her shirt, digging her nails into the lean flesh. She felt him before she saw him, large hands gripping her shoulders, his breath soft on her forehead.

“Damnit, Granger. Breathe.”

Her breath came out in gasps. “I, I…” she tried to form the words between heaving inhales. “I don’t think I can do this…”

“Yes you can. Breathe.” The commanding tone cut through the noise, and she opened her eyes. He was so close to her. So close that she could see the hint of blonde facial hair on his upper lip, so close that the gray of his eyes swirled like the eye of a storm. He was too close.

“Breathe,” he repeated. His eyes held hers, but remained veiled, not communicating any emotion.

“In through your nose, slowly, good. Now out through your mouth...again. Do it again.” Everything faded but the sound of his voice. She wondered how she could simultaneously feel safe and yet trapped; grounded but without roots. Her body followed his voice while her mind screamed to resist.

After a few shaky breaths, she tore her eyes away from his, feeling a sense of relief at the broken contact. She looked down at her hands, at the letter that was crumpled in her fist.

“Ron. He is coming here.”

Notes:

Whew y'all. This chapter has undergone open heart surgery many times to get here. I hope you enjoy it!
I know I am behind in replying to comments...please know that I see them and each one means so much to me!! Replies are coming soon.
As always, we wouldn't be here without the betas: Lauraloveschristmas, bookishteddy and miiisterbear. They are the reason I'm here!

Thank you all for continuing to read along on this journey!

Chapter 10

Summary:

An early update for you all!

Each minute dragged by. Hermione was so distracted by possible scenarios that could play out upon Ron’s arrival that Pansy quickly gave up on asking for her help. She followed the dark-haired witch in a daze, trying to push away the roar that constantly threatened to overtake her. Each noise caused her to jump, whirling around to see if she could catch a glimpse of that familiar red hair.

Her mind whirred. Ron was coming to Italy. He was already en route, which meant that there was nothing she could do to stop him. She had to watch, helpless, as the confrontation she had been trying to avoid hurtled toward her at the speed of light. She was torn, suspended between a burning desire to see Ron, to fall into his familiar orbit, and a feeling that it was too soon, that seeing him could shatter the fragile balance she had found here.

Somehow she made it to midday, and after leaving the produce in the kitchens, Hermione silently followed Pansy back to the cottage for lunch. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she catalogued a reminder to herself to thank Pansy at a later time. Really, the quiet detachment had been appreciated.

Other than Luna’s loud rendition of an Irish sea shanty, lunch preparation was a quiet affair. Once they were settled on the quilt beside the stream, conversation arose naturally. Hermione watched it all in a daze, the hum of voices washing over her, her brain unable to grasp the meaning of any of the words that surrounded her.

After they finished eating, the others gravitated to the stream, their laughter muted and distant. She felt the tingle of his gaze cut through the fog, and, in an effort to be subtle, slowly slid her eyes over to look at him.

The second their eyes met, Draco turned away from her, gracefully pushing himself to his feet and going to stand at a distance from the rest of the group. He leaned against the trunk of a young willow tree, only the shadows of his back visible from where she sat. Hermione blinked; she could have sworn that for a second she saw worry on his face, but dismissed it as imagination, letting her mind return to its fitful musings.

“Hermione!”

Shaking her head, she focused in on Luna, who was looking down at her with that frustratingly placid smile that always managed to drive Hermione to the brink of rage.

The blonde waved her hand in Hermione’s face. “Ah, there you are. Welcome back. I was just saying that your visitor has arrived.”

The second that the words registered, her eyes darted towards the cottage. She couldn’t see anyone there.

Luna seemed to register her confusion. “Sergio is bringing him now. They will be here at any moment. Hmm, you might want to clear the Blibbering Humdingers from your ears before he arrives. Could send the wrong message.”

How does one prepare for the inevitable? How could she possibly prepare to see Ron, the man she loved, the man who she had left behind? Hermione let her eyes travel over the group surrounding her, wondering when she had begun to feel sure in their presence. Most of them were avoiding looking directly at her. Neville looked worried, a furrow on his tan brow, but her breath stuttered as she caught Malfoy looking at her from where he still leaned against the tree, his eyes reflecting her panic.

“Come on, Hermione. Let’s go meet them.”

She turned to Neville, grateful for the interruption. Getting to her feet, she wordlessly followed him as he led them back towards the cottage. They walked in silence; the taller wizard intentionally slowed his steps to match hers. They walked through the cottage, only pausing briefly for Neville to water a plant that apparently needed his immediate attention. As the front door shut behind them, he stopped, putting a gentle hand on her arm.

“I take it that you didn’t know that Ron was coming.” His voice was quiet, matching the concern in his eyes.

She shook her head.

They resumed walking, following the well-worn path that would take them through the gardens to the main estate. After a minute, Hermione took a deep breath, finding the words that had escaped her up until that point.

“I asked him not to come. I told him that I needed time, that I wasn’t ready to answer his questions.”

Neville’s silence was an invitation for her to continue.

“I told him that I still want to be with him, but that I needed to take this time for myself.”

“Do you love him?” Neville’s voice cut through her train of thought.

Hermione’s response was automatic. “Of course I love him. It’s Ron.”

Neville seemed to consider her words before responding. “Okay. Well, I’m guessing that you will want to take the afternoon off to spend some time with -”

“No.” Hermione shook her head, a stubborn angle to her jaw. “He is the one interrupting my work day. He can tag along if he doesn’t want to wait for me.”

Neville chuckled. “Always one to have your priorities sorted.” His eyes squinted, peering through the trees ahead of them. “Well, here he is.”

Following his eyes, Hermione saw the flash of red hair that she’d been searching for all morning. A storm of emotion raged within her; she was unable to distill the individual feelings from the chaos. What she could immediately identify was how nervous she was for this reunion.

She felt the shift in the air when his eyes met hers. As he came fully into view, she quickly catalogued the familiar pieces: ruddy freckles, khaki pants, green and yellow Holyhead Harpies t-shirt, canvas rucksack slung over one shoulder, and a wide smile. Such an honest smile, she thought, feeling her own mouth mirror his as they moved towards each other.

Warm fabric and large arms surrounded her as he crushed her into his chest. Hermione held her breath as she resisted the urge to put some distance between them, to create the space to breathe, to find the words that she needed to say to him. Overpowered by his smell, his Ron-ness, she surrendered to the embrace.

His lips moved against her scalp. “‘Mione, you scared me. So bloody bad, love.” The gentle vibration of his voice was comforting.

Rather than answering, she let her hands grasp the fabric of his shirt as she focused on her breathing. In through the nose, hold it, out through the mouth.

“Neville! It’s great to see you, mate.” Ron seamlessly pulled Hermione into his side as he offered a hand to Neville.

Neville accepted the handshake, a sincere smile on his face as he responded. “Likewise, Ron. How’ve you been?”

“Much better now,” Ron chuckled as he looked down at Hermione, who attempted to avert her gaze.

Neville looked down at his feet, quietly clearing his throat. “Well, ah, it’s good to have you here, Ron. Hermione, see you at the greenhouses, yeah?”

Once she nodded her understanding, the bearded wizard turned away from them, his footsteps crunching in the gravel.

The second they were alone, Ron wasted no time in grabbing the sides of her face and pulling her into a heated kiss. His lips captured hers with a ferocity that momentarily took her by surprise. There was no hesitation as his tongue entered her mouth, curling and exploring. Hermione, temporarily frozen, felt like she was watching the exchange from above. But the heat, the low groan as their bodies found each other, the way that his skin felt like her own; it was too much and she melted into him, her hands reaching up to gently touch his rough cheeks.

With a shaky exhale, Ron pulled back slightly, breaking their kiss. “Hi,” he whispered against her lips.

“Hi,” she whispered back. As if suddenly remembering where they were, Hermione stepped further away, putting some distance between them. Scrubbing her hands over her face, she took a deep breath. “I actually need to return to work now.”

Ron looked confused. “Work?”

Sighing, Hermione tugged on the hem of her shirt. Already, she was dreading the inevitable explanations and conversations that this day would require. “Yes, work. Everyone who lives here has to work in exchange for their room and board. It is a work/trade system.”

“But, what do you do? Isn’t Neville a gardener? Last time I checked, you did worse in Herbology than I did.” A small grin played at the corner of his mouth.

She rolled her eyes, musing on how easily they fell back into familiarity. “Thank you for the unnecessary reminder. But yes, I do work in the gardens. In the afternoons I water the greenhouses, which is what I am currently late to do.” She paused, momentarily unsure of what to say. “You can wait in the cottage if you’d like, or you are welcome to join me. You don’t have to work or anything; you can just sit while I water.”

“Ah, I guess I’ll come along with you. I am here to see you, after all.”

Hermione offered him a small smile. “It’s good to see you, but Ron, I asked you -”

“Let’s talk about it later, okay?” The tone of his voice was pleading. “Please, ‘Mione?”

After a moment of consideration, she nodded, deciding that it would probably be best if they didn’t have this conversation out in the middle of the very public gardens. When she turned to walk in the direction of the greenhouses, Ron easily fell into step beside her, slinging an arm around her. Taking a deep breath, she concentrated on not succumbing to the urge to shake its heavy weight off of her shoulders.

_________________________________

 

The walk to the greenhouses had been quiet; Hermione knew that there were words that needed to be said, but didn’t know where to begin. Ron, for his part, seemed to be waiting for some sort of explanation from her, his impatience evident in the way he kept absently snapping his fingers.

She had managed to ignore it in the open air of the gardens, but once the glass walls of Greenhouse B surrounded them there was no escaping the snapping sound. He repeated the motion in a seemingly random pattern, and everytime Hermione let herself relax into a moment of quiet she was abruptly jarred by another snap.

Taking a deep breath, she turned to face the wizard. She paused for a moment, noticing things about him that she hadn’t before. The blue of his eyes was dull in comparison to the vivid hues evident in the eyes of the cottage residents who spent their days outside. Before, Hermione had always considered Ron to be tan, but now she could see in him the same sallow hue that she had observed in herself before leaving London. Whatever world she had been trapped in, it seemed that he was still stuck there.

“Why are you here?” Although her voice was quiet, there was a force behind it; there was no point in dancing around the issue at hand.

Ron seemed shocked by her question. Before he could respond, Hermione continued. “I told you not to come; I told you that I needed time.”

The look of confusion remained on his face. “But, you love me.” His voice quavered slightly.

“Of course I love you, Ron. But -”

“I didn’t think that you would be gone this long, ‘Mione. I was alright giving you a day or two, but this? How am I supposed to feel about this?”

Hermione stuttered slightly before finding her words. “I, I don’t know...but…”

Ron moved toward her. “I want to be with you. I want to have you in my home and in my bed. I want to come home from work to find you curled up on the couch with a book. You living in another country isn’t a part of that picture.” His hands slid up her arms, catching on the fabric of her shirt before they settled around her slender shoulders, softly squeezing.

Deep breaths in through her nose, deep breaths out through her mouth.

She surrendered to her mind, briefly tuning out the refracted light of the greenhouse, the itching of her skin where hands squeezed her and the gentle smell of Ron that drowned out the usual smell of soil.

“‘Mione?” Ron’s voice cut through the silence, and she drifted back to the surface, blinking up at him. His face was closer now, his brow furrowed with worry as he peered down at her.

Burying her thoughts for later consideration, Hermione smiled gently up at him. “I’m here.” She wasn’t sure which of them she was assuring.

Ron lowered his forehead to gently rest on her head. “I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered. There it was, the warmth of his breath, the smell of stale coffee that was so familiar, so Ron.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured back.

They stood there for a moment longer, unsaid words hanging between them.

It was Hermione who shook herself free. “I really need to water these seedlings.” She brushed stray hairs out of her face as she took her wand out of her pocket. Glancing back at the redhead, she offered him a small smile. He returned the look tenfold, leaning back against one of the tables as his eyes hung on her. Turning back to the plants, Hermione let herself focus on the task in front of her; a small sigh escaped her lips when the gentle mist coming from her wand hit the warm skin of her face.

By the time Hermione wrapped up her work duties in the greenhouse that afternoon, Ron was looking miserably bored. Hermione tried to summon some hint of guilt, but at the end of the day he was the one who had ignored her wishes by visiting unannounced.

“What now?” he asked, poorly disguising the frustration in his voice.

“Now we go back to the cottage and help with dinner.”

____________________________

Everything happened at once. They’d arrived back at the cottage, and as they were adding their shoes to the rather large pile of footwear that sat on the front stoop Ron asked the obvious question: “How many people live at this place?”

At that exact moment, the front door flew open, revealing a freshly showered Theo. The wide grin that spread across his face immediately froze when he saw the red-headed wizard standing there.

“Weasley.” Theo’s voice was cool and detached.

The blood drained from Ron’s face. “What in the bloody hell is he doing here?” He looked down at Hermione, obviously demanding an explanation.

“Ron, um, well, Neville and Luna aren’t the only ones who -”

The other cottage inhabitants must have sensed the commotion at the front door. Hermione watched as Draco, Pansy, Luna, and Neville came into the entryway, forming a loose semicircle behind Theo.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” The disbelief on Ron’s face slowly morphed into indignation.

“Weasel,” Pansy sneered. Hermione noted the way the pretty witch’s face had lost all of the gentle elegance that Hermione now associated with her. In its place, contempt twisted her features into a cruel smirk, and Hermione had a fleeting feeling of gratitude that she was not on the receiving end of that look.

“Oh hello, Ron!” Luna chimed out from behind Theo. “Would you like to come inside?”

The other cottage residents turned to Luna. Hermione could see in their body language that they were unsure as to whether or not they wanted to invite Ron into their home. She knew, on some level, that it was her role as the bridge between her boyfriend and her housemates to offer some sort of explanation and attempt to make peace. However, she was rendered speechless, her voice trapped within her body even as her fingers began their familiar tapping pattern. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Looking up, she made eye contact with Neville. He must have registered the panic in her eyes, because he sighed and stepped forward to stand next to Theo. “Ron, come on in. I don’t think any introductions are needed. And please, try to be civil.” He glared at the red-headed wizard, who muttered indignantly as he placed a hand on Hermione’s lower back, pushing to guide her inside.

It was silent as the cottage residents moved into the practiced motions of dinner preparation. Hermione was able to snap out of the daze for long enough to instruct Ron to sit on the couch out of the way, knowing that he would be resistant to helping with the cooking. Given his upbringing under the watchful gaze of the Weasley matriarch, Ron had developed an unfortunate habit of expecting that certain household tasks fell under the jurisdiction of witches.

As Hermione sliced cucumbers and carrots for the salad that Pansy had planned for dinner, she cast furtive glances over at her boyfriend. For some reason his presence felt at odds with the space, like a dissonant note in an otherwise harmonious piece of music. Perhaps it was the expression of disbelief and barely veiled disgust that he did not try to conceal as he watched the rest of them bustle around the kitchen. His presence seemed to affect the others as well; Theo fully descended into a stormy silence, brushing off Neville’s quiet attempts to comfort him. Any sarcastic quips that normally filled Pansy’s kitchen were absent, replaced by the sounds of slicing, grating, and stirring.

Draco set the table, his movements quick and deliberate. Hermione noticed that his face was completely devoid of emotion, which was not that unusual for him. However, the tension in his shoulders and the way that he flexed his large, scarred hands seemed to hint that there was something brewing under his serene exterior.

Out of the whole group, Luna was the only one who was either blissfully ignorant to the awkward silence that held the room or was choosing to be herself in spite of it. She waltzed into the living room, sitting in a chair across from Ron. With a sincere smile, she launched into a barrage of personal questions: How was Ron doing, what was he doing for work these days, had he considered Kundalini yoga to assist with his shallow breathing problem.

The second that Ron was occupied in conversation with Luna, Theo moved around the kitchen island, coming to a stop inches away from Hermione. “What the fuck were you thinking, inviting him here?” His whisper was cutting, and the large knife still held in his hand did little to ease the bite of the statement.

“I...I…” She started to respond.

Neville came up from behind Theo, grabbing the man’s broad shoulder to put some distance between him and Hermione. “Damnit, Theo,” he whispered, loud enough for Hermione to hear. “She didn’t know he was coming.”

Theo rolled his eyes. “Of course you defend her, Nev. She shows up here unannounced, and we are supposed to smile and change our lives to accommodate her little breakdowns, and now this fucking asshole chases her here. Who’s next? The Chosen One himself?” His final words came out as a hiss.

“Stop it.” Neville grabbed the front of Theo’s shirt. The two men towered over Hermione, and she watched the intensity of their gaze as they silently battled for control. It was Neville who spoke first, his voice a gentle whisper. “We’re better than that. We don’t let them decide who we are. Don’t let their assumptions about you come true.”

Theo held his gaze for a moment before closing his eyes and letting his forehead come to rest against Neville’s. Hermione looked down at her knife, not wanting to be a spectator of their intimate moment.

Picking up the cutting board with the veggies she had completed chopping, she crossed the kitchen to where Pansy was assembling the salad in a huge wooden bowl. Seeing her approach, Pansy waved her wand, and the veggies flew through the air, neatly arranging themselves around the perimeter of the salad. Her eyes sought out Hermione’s, and when they met, her eyebrows raised in a silent question.

Hermione nodded. “I’m fine,” she muttered.

While it was obvious that Pansy didn’t believe her, she turned, levitating the salad over to the table. Everyone naturally gravitated to their usual spots and began to sit. There was a tense moment when Ron watched Draco move to the seat on Hermione’s left, but then, when the seat at the head of the table where Blaise normally sat was empty, Ron naturally moved to sit there on her other side.

The meal began in silence. Even the practiced movements of placing large servings of the colorful salad onto each plate, slicing the fresh baguette and passing the soft, herbed goat cheese spread from one person to the next felt strained: there was a tension in the air that felt strange. In a moment of clarity, Hermione thought back to her first night, remembering how apart from these people she had felt, like she was a stranger witnessing a family in motion. But this time it was different. At some point she had become a part of this family, had learned to speak the quiet language of sharing a home together, and now she was here watching Ron, someone she had always considered to be the closest to her, intrude on their space just as she had.

Hermione watched as Neville reached over to brush a curl out of Theo’s face, a gesture so familiar to them that she didn’t think twice about it. A fabric-covered thigh brushed against hers, and she glanced sideways to see Ron looking at her, a not-so-subtly incredulous look on his face. Lowering her brows, she shook her head, silently begging him to not put into words whatever thoughts were inspiring his current expression.

It seemed that her warning was either not understood or intentionally ignored.

“So, Nev. How did you end up here?” Ron’s voice reverberated over the silent table.

Neville calmly replied. “Andromeda asked me if I’d come here to help with the gardens. It was a good opportunity, so I took it.”

“And the rest of you? How’d you end up here?” Ron addressed the rest of the table. Hermione held her breath, looking down at her plate.

It was Pansy who responded. “Well, Weasley, since you asked so kindly, we were also asked by Andromeda to come and work here.”

“And you all live together here, in this house?”

“Yes, Ron.” A hint of impatience was creeping into Neville’s voice. “We all live here together, just as we all lived together after Hogwarts.”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up and he choked out a laugh. “You’re joking.”

“No, mate, I’m not joking.” Neville’s eyebrows furrowed as he stared across the table at Ron. “You don’t get to show up here and criticize them. You have no idea what they’ve done for -”

“What they’ve done? You’re fucking kidding me, right Nev? Or have you forgotten the war?”

Neville shook his head. “You don’t get to talk to me about the war. You weren’t there for the worst of it. Sure, yes, you were protecting Harry, but what we went through at Hogwarts...ask your sister about that year. See what she says about what they did.” He gestured to the Slytherins who sat silently at the table. “You don’t get to pass judgement on things that you don’t understand.”

It felt like everyone else in the room disappeared as the two wizards spoke, their voices rising in volume as a palpable tension filled the air.

“So what? I ignore the fact that Fred died? Should I pretend that none of that happened and pretend that they had nothing to do with it?” The familiar red flush spread up the sides of Ron’s neck.

“Fucking hell, Ron. I never said that. I’m trying to tell you that you are approaching these people with a set of assumptions that aren’t true, and if you actually paused to listen -”

“So Malfoy doesn’t have the Dark Mark on his arm, huh?” Ron leaned out to look over Hermione to where Draco sat, fists clenched on the table, his face stone cold and still. “Come on, show us your ink. Or are you ashamed?”

“Back the fuck down, Weasel. Leave Draco out of this,” Pansy’s voice hissed.

“Leave him out of this? Do you remember what he said to her when we were at Hogwarts?” Ron pointed at Hermione. “The names he called her? Does he have any idea of the damage he did?”

“Ron, don’t…” Hermione started.

“No, ‘Mione. I won’t stop. The fact that he is sitting here, alive and free, when he should be in Azkaban is a fucking travesty.”

“That’s enough,” Neville stated. “Ron, you know I love you mate, but you are a guest in our home, and I will not let you speak that way about anyone sitting at this table.”

Hermione recognized the look in Ron’s eyes. It was the same look that was there when he’d left her and Harry on the Horcrux hunt, or when Harry had been selected for the Triwizard Tournament. It was a deep cruelty that made such a rare appearance that Hermione almost forgot that it existed.

When Ron spoke, it was a sneer. “Must be some magical cock, mate, if you’re letting a Death Eater fuck your -”

“Don’t you fucking dare finish that sentence.” Theo interrupted, anger buzzing through his voice. “The fact I haven’t hexed your bollocks off is a testament to how much I love the wizard you are currently insulting, and you even have the audacity to claim to be his friend.” He shook his head before continuing. “You know nothing. You know nothing of our allegiance in the war, of what actually happened at Hogwarts. You three swooped in to save the wizarding world after being gone through that bullshit they tried to call a seventh year, and now you get to be the Ministry poster children for all things good in the world.”

Neville reached to Theo, putting a protective hand on his chest in a quiet attempt to calm him down. But the wizard pushed Neville away, leaning forward with his elbows on the table and looking like he could jump out of his seat at any moment.

“Do you know what was going on at Hogwarts while the three of you were away?” Theo continued, his voice shaking with emotion. When Hermione looked at him, she saw moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes. “The Carrow twins took over and there was almost nothing the teachers could do about it. Sure, some of them tried to help, but they were just trying to stay alive like the rest of us. Within the first week back the Carrows started asking the older Slytherins to help ‘discipline’ any of the students who resisted their rules and control. I joined Neville in resisting almost immediately, doing what I could to protect the younger students from the worst of it. I willingly joined your side, turned my back on my family, all while keeping up the ruse of being a loyal servant to the Dark...to Voldemort.” He lifted a hand, pointing a finger accusingly at Ron. “So no. You don’t get to come into this house and insult us. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck about how you view me, but you don’t get to insult him.” He pointed at Neville, who watched Theo with an expression of combined anguish and pride. “Not after all that he has done for this world.”

Ron sat completely still, slowly blinking. Hermione couldn’t take her eyes off of Theo, her mind reeling in the wake of his admission. The dull roar that began in the back of her head sounded like the crashing of waves on a rocky beach. She tried to breathe as she focused back on Ron.

“Is that true?” It was a quiet question, directed at Neville. Hermione could see the confusion etched on his brow.

Neville intertwined his tattooed fingers, looking down at them and taking a deep breath. “Yes. Theo and Blaise joined the DA at the beginning of the year, and helped us while still keeping up the appearance of being loyal to the Carrows. Pansy and Malfoy did what they could -”

“You mean trying to give Harry up to Voldemort and identifying Hermione when we were captured at Malfoy Manor? Is that how they helped?” The flush was rapidly returning to Ron’s face.

Hermione’s fingers brushed against the raised skin on her forearm, her nails digging in, trying to cling to reality. No. Not this conversation. Not now. She fought to inhale through her nose, battled to exhale out of her mouth, but she couldn’t get enough air. The roar rose in her ears. She watched, unable to respond or react as Ron turned to her, reaching out to grab her shoulders as her body caved in on itself, no longer able to hold herself upright. She barely heard the scrape of a chair as someone got up from the table. As her vision closed, the roaring in her ears diminished, leaving her suspended in the underwater world with nothing but the burning of her lungs and the echo of voices above her.

Hermione! What is happening to her?

Weasley. Let me help her. She knew that voice, trusted that voice.

Are you out of your fucking mind? Get away from her!

Seriously, Weasel. Let him help her. He’s the only one who knows how to get her out of it when she’s like this.

What do you mean “When she’s like this?”

Ron, mate, this happens a lot…

What did you all do to her?! The voice was too loud, and she felt her body try to move farther away, to find the quiet again.

I’m not going to hurt her.

Don’t you dare touch her, Malfoy.

Dammit, Weasley. Just let me help her and then I’ll leave you both alone. She faintly registered loud scuffling noises and vocal protests.

She felt firm pressure on the outside of her shoulders.

Granger.

There was the voice again.

Take a slow breath in through your nose.

Her mind latched onto the instructions, focusing all of her effort into a shaky inhale through her nose.

Good. Now let it out through your mouth.

Why was it so easy to follow that voice, to surrender control of her body to it? She was aware of her lips parting to let the breath escape.

That’s it, Granger. Keep doing that.

Her awareness was slowly coming back to her body. She felt the hard chair underneath her, felt her sock-covered feet where they curled back around the legs of the chair as if she were afraid to fly away, and the tension in her hands that gripped the denim fabric that covered her legs.

“Open your eyes to let me know that you’re back.” His voice had lost the echoing underwater quality, now exuding the familiar low vibrations that she usually only heard in the darkness under the willow tree.

Again, she couldn’t help but obey. Her eyes fluttered open, and his face slowly came into focus. Stainless steel eyes stared into hers, and she felt naked, exposed, like he could see too much. She saw a flash of something cross his face, and then he quickly retreated, removing his hands from her shoulders and stepping away from her. Her eyes followed him as he turned away, walking past Theo and Pansy who stood by the kitchen, not turning back as he walked out of the room. There was an almost burning feeling where his hands had been.

She was suddenly painfully aware of the rest of the room. Her eyes found Ron, who looked down at her with his face twisted in a mixture of pain and confusion from where he stood next to Neville. Ron had never mastered the fine art of hiding his emotions, and she watched as each feeling and thought was displayed clearly on his face.

Hermione knew. She knew the hurt on his face, and she felt the ache mirrored in her own chest. Shakily, she stood up, closing the space between her and Ron. Her hand reached out to him, and his caught hers as soon as it was within reach. Silently, she pulled him towards the stairs, and he followed. When they reached the ladder to the loft, she didn’t look back before climbing up, knowing that Ron would follow.

Notes:

This chapter and the next have been an emotional rollercoaster! Hopefully you are getting the first glimpse of the backstory of what ties Neville, Luna, and the Slytherins together.

Beta LOVE to the squad: lauraloveschristmas, bookishteddy and miiisterbear. Your friendships keep me grounded and full of joy. Thank you for the editing and the love.

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Summary:

Mild lemons ahead.

Notes:

Sorry this is a shorter one!
Buckle up.

Ron rounded on her the moment they were both standing in her small loft. “What the hell was that, ‘Mione?”

Hermione felt raw and undone, still clearing the lingering echoes from her head. Collapsing on the edge of the mattress, she rested her head in her hands. She couldn’t summon the energy to say anything but the unfiltered truth. “It was a panic attack.”

“A panic attack? Has that ever happened before?” She could hear his footsteps pacing the small space, the waves of energy radiating off of him filling the room.

“Yes. They’ve happened for a long time. Since the war ended.” She swallowed, glancing up at him.

“But…how...” he sputtered, confusion knitting his thick brows. After a moment of silence, he continued. “How did I not know?”

At the sound of his broken voice, Hermione felt the familiar sting of tears in her eyes. Her chest constricted, and she struggled to hold onto the truth, the need to say it all. “I was very good at hiding them, and, the, you know, routine, it helped too. It kept things safe and predictable.”

Closing her eyes, she felt the shift of the bed as Ron sat down on the mattress next to her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The emotion was evident in his voice, and when she glanced over at him, she wasn’t surprised to see moisture in his eyes too.

“I didn’t want to worry you. You seemed so happy, and after Fred… I didn’t want to add another burden to your life.”

“But I would do anything for you, you know that right? I would have helped you.” His voice broke. “You’re my best friend. I wish you would have let me help you.”

Hermione looked up at the ceiling, willing the unshed tears to stay in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Ron.” She felt the first drop slide down her cheek. The air in her chest threatened to burst, but she clung to her last thread of control, holding it in. “This is part of why I needed to come here; why I needed this time to myself.” The breath broke free. “I don’t think that I’m okay,” she choked out, finally surrendering to the sobs.

Beside her, Ron ran his hands through his hair, clenching his jaw in defiance as slow tears slid over his freckles. “I should have noticed. I should have seen that something was wrong. I was so determined to get things back to normal after the war, to go back to spending time with my two best friends without worrying about saving the bloody world.” He paused, taking a slow breath. Almost tentatively, he reached out to her, taking her hand and interlacing their fingers. “Before you left, you asked me about what I want. I’ve been thinking about it, and I already have all that I want. I love our life. I love that we get to live with Harry, even if it means seeing him snog my sister twice a day. I love that we get to see my family every week, and I get a reminder of what we fought to protect. I love how easy it is to be around you, I mean, hell, I almost know you better than I know myself at this point.”

When Hermione saw the sincere, teary smile on his face, something broke within her. Fresh tears streamed down her face, but she took a deep breath and forced herself to form the words that she needed to say. “I don’t know if that’s what I want,” she whispered. “I’ve always been drawn toward problems that can be broken down into small and controllable pieces. That’s why I was always drawn to subjects like Arithmancy, Potions, and Charms. There is a proper formula or technique, and if you follow that formula or technique exactly, you are guaranteed success. I’ve tried to approach my life like a complicated problem; following a formula, controlling any and all variables, and constantly moving forward, looking for one single correct answer.” A small laugh choked out. “I don’t think life is supposed to be lived like a problem with one definitive answer. But that’s how I’ve been living it so far. I thought that our life was the answer. I thought that working at the Ministry, making a real difference in the world was what I had always wanted; I fought in the war for that right. For the chance to find that one singular answer to life. But...I don’t know if I’ve found it yet.”

Ron squeezed her hand. “Are you happy? With our life back in London?”

“I thought so. I truly did. But would this happen to me if I was happy? Would I avoid new things at all costs if I were truly happy in my life? I don’t know; I just don’t know.” The air around them pulsed in the wake of the honest words shared between them. There was a relief that settled around them, a collective exhale, and she shifted to rest her head against Ron’s broad shoulder.

She felt his lips ghost along her scalp, his gentle kisses causing a shiver to travel down her spine. “Let me take you home, ‘Mione. We can figure it out together; we can both take some time off of work…” His voice trailed off as his free hand began to trail up and down her back.

In that moment, there was nothing in the world but the two of them, nothing but Ron, her Ron who had given her his love unapologetically. Her Ron who loved simply, who had found his happiness by surrounding himself with the ones he loved. Her Ron who had come to Italy for her. She was lucky to have him, to have his love, to be included in the constellation of family that surrounded the Weasleys. With them, there was security and safety.

When Ron shifted his body towards her, her body mirrored the movement. When his hands moved to cradle her cheeks, hers moved to the nape of his neck. When their wet faces met in an urgent kiss, it was her tongue that parted his lips, initiating the dance.

Ron let out a groan as their tongues met, and he surged his body forward, pinning her to the mattress underneath him. Hermione sighed into his mouth when the planes of their bodies met, the friction of their combined clothing causing her to arch against him, wordlessly asking for more.

Leaving her lips to trail kisses along her jawline, he whispered. “Tell me what you want.”

Some of the haze cleared as his question registered. What did she want? Her body wanted more, wanted to feel the hum of release, wanted to feel skin on skin. “Touch me,” she whispered into the warm air above them.

One of Ron’s hands reached between them to dip under the hem of her shirt. She shivered as his fingertips touched skin. “Where do you want me to touch you?”

She tried to ignore the growing frustration in her body, her body that wanted him, after all this time, to know what she wanted without needing to ask. How could he not know? Sure, their sex life had grown stagnant, and yes, she was always the one who brought herself to climax with her wand, but how did he still not know? She ground her hips into him, her breath catching as the apex of her thighs connected with his growing shaft. “Anywhere. Everywhere. Just touch me.”

Ron’s hands continued to trace the skin of her stomach, stopping short of the hem of her jeans and the underside of her breasts. She tried to move into him, tried to tell his hands where she wanted them to go, but the weight of his body held her in place.

With a growl of impatience, Hermione tugged his t-shirt up his back. Seeming to pick up on the gesture, Ron lifted himself up to allow her to fully remove his shirt, exposing the curling red hair on his chest and the soft flesh of his belly. Before he could return his attention to kissing her, her hands went to his belt, fumbling with the buckle as their heavy breathing filled the space between them. Ron groaned, kanting his hips forward as her fingers grazed his erection.

Somewhere in Hermione’s mind, she observed that it had been years since this kind of heat and passion had existed between them. The urgency with which Ron tore off his trousers and pants reminded her of their early days together after the war, desperate for a reminder that they had lived, that they had each other. Seeing that his attention was still occupied removing his own clothing, she resigned herself to the fact that she would have to undress herself. She made quick and efficient work of it, even taking the time to fold the clothes before she set them on the floor next to the mattress.

The second that she was naked, solid arms surrounded her and drew her back down to their previous position. As their bodies found each other, Hermione was startled to realize that their skin was illuminated in the twilight, and she was suddenly overcome with a need to cover herself, to hide her scars from the light. Oblivious to this, Ron bent down over her, capturing her mouth in a slow kiss as he clumsily parted her folds, dipping his fingers into her. When they found moisture, he moaned in approval, shifting himself so that his shaft was aligned with her center.

With a grunt, he filled her. Hermione winced at the slight sting, but was distracted as his hips began to move, snapping forward, thrusting into her body. She arched to meet him, seeking friction for the ache that remained unresolved. Just when his pelvis met her body, finally providing the friction she sought, he would retreat, leaving her body begging for something. His breathing grew ragged, and she felt the sweat on his skin as she dug her nails into his freckled shoulders.

“How does it feel?” Ron ground out between thrusts. Based on the irregularity of his breathing, Hermione knew that he was close. Their current position was not giving her the relief that her body needed to achieve release, and for a moment she weighed stopping him, claiming her pleasure, but something stopped her. She just nodded, closing her eyes as the dance of their bodies continued uninterrupted.

Ron’s mouth touched her neck, nipping and biting at her skin as he mumbled, “Yes..yes... Hermione, yes…” He let out an urgent groan as he came, clinging to her body as he stilled, prolonging their closeness. Opening her eyes, Hermione found herself blinking away tears as she traced gentle circles on his shoulders, momentarily struck by the familiarity of them in this position, struck by how well she knew the pattern of his red hair on the crown of his head that nuzzled into her neck.

Something about the quiet, about the dusk that was descending around them, compelled Hermione to say the words that she knew were true without losing herself in imagining the fallout.

 

“Ron,” she whispered. “We need to talk.”

Silence greeted her words. His body shifted under her hands as he pushed himself up to sit next to where they had been sprawled across the mattress. She winced as he slid from her and she felt the sticky release trickling down her thighs. She grabbed her wand where it sat neatly stacked with her clothing, casting a quick Scourgify on both of them before turning the wand onto her own abdomen and muttering a contraception spell. Reaching down to put her wand back where she’d found it, she turned back to Ron. His eyes were still dazed as he looked down at her. Suddenly self conscious of her nudity, she scooted up to lean against the pillows that were piled at the top of the bed and slid under the blankets, trying not to notice the way her hands had begun to tremble.

Once she had the blankets pulled up to cover her chest, she tried to smooth out any wrinkles in the fabric, anxious to do something other than look at the man sharing her bed. “I don’t think that this is working.” She silently reprimanded herself for how small her voice sounded.

“What do you mean?”

Hermione tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “I don’t think that our relationship is working.”

“What about it isn’t working?” Ron lifted himself up, the bed moving under his weight as he moved to sit cross-legged facing her. His voice was flat, poorly veiled confusion evident in the small frown that played on his lips.

“I don’t know if what we have between us is enough to build a life on.” She let her mind take over, putting words to the whispers of doubt that had slowly been building over the past three weeks. “I hear you when you say that you want us to have a life together, but I don’t think that I can be the person that you want me to be, the person who fits into that life with you.”

Ron’s voice rose in volume. “Well then tell me: what do you want, ‘Mione?” There was a desperation in his eyes that made her feel sick. “Tell me and I’ll do it. If it means keeping you, I’ll do anything. Don’t you see that? I will do anything for you!”

The silence that followed his words was the kind of silence that follows the final note of a symphony; a waiting silence full of anticipation for what comes next.

This time she didn’t try to stop the tears that burned as they squeezed out of the corners of her eyes. “I don’t know what I want, but I know enough to know that what we have right now isn’t right for me. And you shouldn’t have to bend yourself, change who you are into someone else for me, or for anyone! Don’t you want more than this?”

“How can you say that? I don’t want anyone other than you!” The heartbreak was clearly written on his face.

“But who actually am I, Ron?” She shot back, unable to keep the words from spilling out now that the dam was broken. “I’m afraid that you love the idea of me, the me who fought in a war with you and was full of fire. The me that kissed you in the Chamber of Secrets. But look at me! I am not that girl anymore. Did you know that until I came here I hadn’t eaten anything new or different in four years? Or that I only ate lunch two out of the five work days of the week? Can’t you see that I am not okay? I can barely take care of myself, Ron. How are you okay with being with me like this!”

Even in the dusk, she could see the wet streaks that painted his freckled skin catching the low light. “I’m okay with it because it’s you. We are Ron and Hermione. This is what we fought for. We’re supposed to be together forever. How can you be okay with giving that up?”

She could see him searching her face for an answer, and took a shaky breath before continuing. “I don’t want to give you up, Ron, but I don’t think that I can be with you like this anymore.”

Her words hung in the air between them. Everything slowed down as they watched each other, watched the weight of the words settle on their shoulders as they each considered the implications of what life would be like in this new world where they were not one.

Breaking the silence, Ron spoke, his voice quiet, resigned. “Why are you doing this?”

Hermione couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. The red of his hair, the freckles, the gentleness of his mouth even as it frowned, so familiar that sometimes she felt that she knew his features better than her own. “Don’t you ever wonder if there is something more for you out there?”

He let out a harsh laugh. “Honestly, no.”

“Ron, I have given you nothing but breadcrumbs since the war. I’ll never be able to thank you for the way that you let me live as I needed to, but don’t you ever imagine being with someone who wants to hold your hand, who wants to visit Diagon Alley with you on the weekends, who wants to play Quidditch at the Burrow with you and your family? Can’t you imagine that there is something more out there?”

“But if we, if you and I aren’t...what will happen to us?” His voice wavered, fear and desperation lacing every word. “To us and Harry? To our family? What will we become?”

She fought the impulse to reach for him, choosing instead to reassure him with her words. “Ron, I’m not done with you; I love you and you are one of the most important people in my life. We will find a way to move forward from this...I can’t imagine life without you, Harry, Ginny, and the rest of your family. They are my family too.”

“I dunno if I can do this, ‘Mione…” Hermione watched fresh tears stream down his face.

“You’re an incredible man, and you should be with someone who tells you that every single day. There is someone out there who is going to change your life, who is going to love you completely and unapologetically. I can’t be that person for you, but I know that they exist, and right now I am the one keeping you from finding them.”

“What happened to us?” He looked like he genuinely wanted an answer.

“I think that we grew up and changed.” She paused, adjusting herself so that she was sitting up, still clutching the blankets to her chest, just that tiny increment closer to where he sat in the middle of the bed. “I’m sorry, you know. I’m so sorry that this is how it ends.”

“Me too,” he muttered quietly. His blue eyes sought out her brown ones, and she saw the exact moment when he found the answer to the question that had been living on his face throughout the whole conversation. “So, this is it?”

She nodded. “This is it.”

Just as she was about to descend into her mind, Ron’s voice interrupted. “Can I stay the night? Sleep next to you one last time?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. A part of her wanted to say no, wanted to be alone and sit under the full weight of what had just happened. But she could give him this last thing, give herself this last night.

“Of course.”

Ron offered her a sad smile, just wide enough for the dimples in his cheeks to barely show in the gentle moonlight that now surrounded them. Hermione was grateful when he took the time to put his pants on before climbing under the blankets beside her. She rolled away from him, facing the glass that separated them from the night.

A warm breath rustled the hairs that curled against her neck, and she could feel the nudge of knees against the back of her legs. A hand came to rest on her hip.

“Is this okay?” Ron whispered.

“Sure,” she replied.

Hermione held her body still and closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure how long she lay there, but it felt like hours had passed when familiar, gentle snores filled the room. Her eyes opened, and she looked out into the night sky. The silhouettes of the trees stood tall against the stars, illuminated from behind by the moon.

She couldn’t help it when her eyes drifted down to the willow tree that stood alone at the edge of the field behind the house. Her eyes widened when she saw the figure standing in full view, not hidden by the drooping branches where it normally would be at this time of night. The moon was bright enough that she could see that his face was turned upwards, blonde hair hanging loose along his long neck.

He was looking up at her.

Hermione inhaled sharply and then immediately froze, not wanting to disturb the sleeping man in her bed. She carefully turned to lay on her back, tracing the beams of the ceiling and trying to calm her pounding heart. When her eyes finally closed and sleep took her, her last thought was that, for the first time in three weeks she hadn’t spent the evening in the dark, at a picnic table surrounded by willows, in the company of Draco Malfoy.

Notes:

I know, I know, you're here for the Dramione. I am too; trust me, it is coming. But I want to give Ron an honest exit from Hermione's life, one that feels real and raw to the Hermione that I am creating in my story. I'm not sure how many of you can relate to Hermione in this, but I know that I have been in that situation, where all of a sudden I just know that a relationship isn't meant to be. So, anyways. Dramione is now full swing ahead.

Thank you all so so so SO much for following along with this story. Your reviews and comments and engagement keep the fire in me to keep writing!

The beta's did major work in the conception of the idea of this chapter. Bookishteddy FaceTime'd with me as we talked through the breakup, Lauraloveschristmas and Miiisterbear as always cleaned up the details and argued over grammar. I love you all.

Chapter 12: Chapter 12

The sun felt too hot when Hermione pulled slowly out of sleep. Cracking one eye open, she had to squint against the early morning beams that refracted through the windows, warming her bed.

She was alone. Her eyes took in the way the blankets were rumpled on the other side of her small mattress, and she could still smell the lingering warmth of the man who had spent the night in her bed. She felt the spot where he had slept: cold. He must have left a while ago.

Ron was already gone. Beyond leaving Italy, Ron was leaving her life, leaving a hole in her world that he had filled in some way or another for most of the last ten years. Sure, he would still be in her life -- her words the night before had not been an empty promise; she fully intended to fight to preserve their friendship. But at that moment, sitting up in bed with the sheets tangled around her bare legs, she was suddenly painfully aware of a deep ache in her stomach as she considered this new world, this world without Ron.

Even in leaving her life in England behind and coming into a completely new world in Italy, she had the consistent stability of her relationship with Ron. Even though she had been away from him, he had been an anchor in the storm of the unknown that her life had become.

Now that Ron was gone, there was nothing holding her in place, no routine to keep her mind from overtaking her life, no safe haven. She was rudderless in the sea with no idea of where to go next.

Somewhere in her mind, a new thought gained traction and fluttered to the forefront. She was free. She was now free to be in this new place, accountable to no one but herself. Freedom. The word tasted funny on her tongue. Had she ever really been free?

Hermione stood up, walking quickly to the peg where her beaded bag still hung. Without pause, she reached in, rummaging for a second before she found what she was looking for. She had to stick her other arm in as well, and with a small grunt of effort, she carefully drew out a large, rectangular wooden box. With reverence, she moved to one corner of the small space and kneeled, placing the box on the ground. Her thin fingers lifted the lid, revealing an old record player.

She only looked at it for a second before lowering the lid again. Her fingers traced the wood grain as her mind was momentarily lost, and a line of unshed tears appeared, clinging to her dark lower lashes. Blinking, she rose to her feet, resuming her typical morning routine.

Fully clothed, she paused on the ladder before her view of the small space disappeared. A small smile ghosted her lips as she looked at the familiar box on the floor next to the perfectly made bed; a piece of herself in the otherwise empty space.

______________________________

 

Neville was standing in the kitchen when she walked in, leaning shirtless against the counter, his flannel pajamas slung low on his hips. Hermione froze, too startled at seeing someone else to say anything other than a quiet, “Oh.”

“Morning.” Neville offered her a small smile. “I was going to make you coffee but it looks like someone beat me to it.” He nodded toward where her mug sat, exactly where it did every morning.

Hermione shuffled past him, ignoring the curious tilt to his head as he watched her grab the mug with one hand and gently pick up the delicate white-petaled flower. She barely looked at the flower before muttering a quick stasis charm and putting it into her pocket.

“Does your coffee typically come with a flower?” Neville asked.

Hermione looked up at him sharply, shrugging her shoulders before giving her full attention to her coffee. After taking a long sip, she looked back at her companion who seemed to have no intention of leaving her alone.

“You’re up early,” she said, lifting an eyebrow in question.

Neville looked at her, holding eye contact. “I owe you an apology for last night.”

Hermione took another long sip of coffee.

He continued. “I just couldn’t stand by while he insulted them. I know what people think, and I know that they have done terrible and unforgivable things. But they have atoned; what they did for all of us that year...Hermione you will never understand what that meant, how many kids they saved from torture.”

Hermione let the words sink in before nodding. “I know, Nev. Ron was completely out of line last night. His words were intentionally cruel, but you know how it is, since he lost Fred...I don’t know if he will ever have room for forgiveness, and I can’t blame him for that.”

Neville reached a tattooed hand up to scratch his beard. “So, is he still here?” The question was tentative.

She shook her head. “He left while I was still sleeping.” One of her fingers came up to absently trace the rim of the mug.

“And is that...good? Bad?”

“Good.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I think that it’s good.”

“And the two of you, are you still together?”

“No. Not anymore.”

Neville’s only reaction was the way his eyebrows rose slightly as he took a drink from his mug, which, Hermione noted, was painted with brightly-colored smiling mushrooms that looked like they came from a Disney movie.

“Are you okay?” He looked earnestly down at her.

“Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. But, I think so?”

“Well, we all do something together in the afternoon to remember, if you’d like to join.”

Hermione was confused. “To remember what?”

Neville looked surprised. “It’s May 2nd, Hermione. It’s the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.”

How had she forgotten? It was such a defining day, an unforgettable day that had forever changed their world. For the past four years, Hermione had spent that day at the Burrow in the company of Harry and the Weasleys, mourning the loss of all who had fallen in the shadow of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was always a somber affair, full of tears, a quiet dinner, and minimal conversation.

“Of course I’ll be there,” Hermione replied. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Neville shrugged. “Pansy usually starts cooking around noon, and she can always use the help. It’s not a great day for her.” He paused, offering her that classic, crooked smile. “I’m glad you’re here, you know.”

Hermione was momentarily overwhelmed by the feeling that those words summoned within her. She reached a hand out, giving Neville’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Thank you,” she whispered, trying to ignore the burning in her eyes.

________________________________

 

Hermione found her way back to the hammock where she had spent the previous weekend. She noticed that the blossoms from the fruit trees in the orchard were beginning to fall, littering the carpet of grass with flowers, their color only just beginning to fade into brown. The last of the morning cool was fading, replaced by the humid heat of spring.

Hermione tried to get lost in her book, but the carefully researched observations of the esteemed merfolk sociologist Jamison Klimt couldn’t hold her attention. There was too much noise, too much internal change that threatened to spill out of her ears, and after reading the same sentence for the twentieth time without retaining a word, Hermione closed her book with a snap. Her movement jostled the hammock, which swayed gently back and forth, effectively rocking her.

The wide branches above her criss crossed in no particular pattern, the quivering leaves a vivid green that seemed too vibrant to truly exist. Patches of the solid blue sky peeked out between the branches. She took a deep breath, bringing some of her scattered attention to the present.

Ron had come and gone, a whirlwind of life changes distilled into one day. How could something that had lasted for so long end so quickly? In the month she had been in Italy, a piece of her had remained behind in England, tied to the only man who had held her romantic attention since her brief crush on Viktor Krum. They had come of age together, navigated sex and intimacy and romance, defined all of those things for each other.

For the first time in the ten years that she had known Ron Weasley, Hermione tried to imagine someone else. Not anyone in particular, but a nameless and faceless someone, taking Ron’s place. Would she have to start from scratch, learning their likes and dislikes, their body, their preferences? Would she have to tell them what she wanted: how, where she wanted to be touched? The thought overwhelmed her.

She grabbed her book and climbed out of the hammock, only slightly less clumsily than the last time, and walked back to the cottage. She wanted company, wanted to be around people. It was an unfamiliar feeling, since she normally preferred to relish the opportunity for solitude when it was offered, but something about today had her seeking out the others.

The unmistakable sounds of clattering pots and pans filtered through the open windows as Hermione walked up the stone steps to the back of the cottage. She nudged the door open, immediately overcome by the smell of something burning.

“Bloody fucking FUCK!”

Hermione’s eyes widened as she took in the scene currently unfolding in the kitchen. Clouds of smoke filled the air, and the little that she could see of the counters showed that they were littered with every possible item related to the process of cooking. She vaguely made out a pair of bare feet sticking out below the smoke.

Hermione took her wand out of her back pocket and said a quick spell, vanishing both the smoke and the acrid scent that accompanied it. Her spell revealed a frazzled looking Pansy, almost unrecognizable in her stained t-shirt and what looked like silk pyjama shorts. Her hair was pushed back from her face with a stretchy headband, causing her bangs to stick straight up in the air, surrounding her head like a static halo.

“Oh. Granger. Hey.” Even her voice matched the defeated appearance of the witch standing in front of her.

Hermione raised a cautious eyebrow. “You okay?”

Pansy waved a hand dismissively. “Fine, totally swell over here. You?”

“Fine as well.” Hermione gnawed on her lower lip for a moment, weighing her options. “Do you need help?”

“Well, I don’t need your help, but you’re welcome to help if you’d like to.” Pansy glared at her, daring her to comment on the current state of the kitchen.

Hermione only offered her a small smile in response. “Tell me where you need me.”

Within a minute, Hermione was fully engrossed in helping Pansy in the kitchen. She set the sink up with a perpetual dish washing spell, and, at Pansy’s instruction, began chopping an actual mountain of apples into thin slices.

The two witches worked in silence, although Hermione could sense the other witch’s anxiety in the rushed and imprecise movements as she whirled around the kitchen. Finally, Hermione put down the knife, telling Pansy that she would be right back.

She ran up the stairs, her bare feet echoing in the hallway as she moved quickly to her ladder. She only took a moment in her small space, grabbing the things that she was looking for before returning downstairs.

Pansy looked up from where she was assembling some sort of small sandwiches, raising one eyebrow in a silent question as Hermione set the wooden box on the kitchen island. She opened the lid, revealing the record player that she hadn’t used since coming to Italy. Pansy said nothing, but watched Hermione with curiosity plainly written on her face. Hermione touched her wand to the box, feeling the tingle of magic in her arm as the spell to generate Muggle electricity caused the record player to buzz to life.

Under one elbow, Hermione had a record, which she gently drew out of its faded paper sleeve. Careful not to touch the ridged black surface with her fingers, she placed the record on the turntable, gently lifting the arm and letting it fall on the outer edge of the disk. As it began to spin, the telltale gravelly scratching sound brought a clenching pain to her chest, a beautiful pain of fond memories and family.

As the scratching faded to the quick strumming of guitar, her eyes drifted to Pansy. She couldn’t contain the smile as Pansy’s mouth dropped open in a most undignified way, her awe unfiltered and true at the music coming out of the simple wooden box.

“How…” the dark haired witch started.

“It’s a Muggle thing. A record player.” Hermione paused, suddenly feeling presumptuous in bringing this into their space, into Pansy’s space. “I can take it back upstairs if you -”

“No! No. I like it.” Pansy looked directly at her, a small smile playing on her unstained lips. “Can it go any louder?”

With a laugh, Hermione waved her wand, the volume swelling right as Stevie Nix’s voice joined in harmony: When times go bad/ When times go rough/ Won't you lay me down in the tall grass/ And let me do my stuff?

The mood lightened with the addition of the music. The kitchen slowly transitioned from the scene of a catastrophic storm to discernible dishes taking form. A cold tortellini salad was tossed with basil pesto, bright tomatoes, crisp sweet peppers, and mozzarella. The sandwiches were smeared with goat cheese, arugula, roasted aubergine, and a balsamic glaze. The apples Hermione had sliced were neatly organized on a huge gallette, which Pansy was now brushing with an apricot preserve glaze.

“Granger, can you do me a favor please?”

Hermione looked up from where she was slicing a cucumber for yet another of Pansy’s dishes. “Of course.”

“Would you mind grabbing me some fresh mint? There is some growing under the plum tree next to the big potato patch.”

“Got it.” Hermione brushed her hands against her jeans.

As she slid into her boots on the front porch, she resisted the urge to push up the sleeves of the long-sleeved blouse that she wore. While the white fabric was loose and flowing, the increasingly warm days were testing her resolve.

Her path to the mint patch led her through most of the garden in the general direction of the greenhouses. She noticed the spring flowers beginning to wilt as new buds covered the early summer flowers. The vivid pops of color as peppers and tomatoes began to ripen caught her eye among the perennial plants that remained largely unchanged as the seasons bled from one to the next.

She saw the dark green leaves of the plum tree peeking out above the smaller shrubs. Turning onto the paving stone path that would pass directly under its branches, Hermione froze.

The expanse of bare skin barely reflected the light, the thin sheen of sweat revealing the sloping muscles of his back. Any doubt of the identity of the shirtless man that currently knelt in the mulch at the edge of the path was immediately banished as she took in the bright blonde knot on the back of his head. Her eyes traced the gentle line down the long neck, over the curve of the bare shoulder, past the obvious tan line of someone who spent their time outside wearing a t-shirt, down the unmarked skin of his forearm, to his hands. His large and scarred hands somehow summoned an unreal gentleness as they carefully cut the stems of the tall poppies that grew around him and then placed the flowers into a wicker basket.

When his head suddenly turned towards her, Hermione tried to suppress the startled jump. One hand pressed against her pounding heart, she offered him an apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” she said. She tried to hold her smile, but the cold glare that he responded with quickly melted the expression, leaving her standing, unsure of what to do next.

“Don’t you know that it’s impolite to sneak up on people?” He leaned back to sit on his heels, his hands coming to rest on his denim covered thighs. The familiar drawl was back; even the arch of his eyebrows was quintessentially Malfoy. “Although I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You seem to think that you can come and go as you please without any regard to the rest of us.”

“Excuse me?” Hermione tried to piece together his words, searching for some hidden meaning that she couldn’t quite grasp.

“This place,” Draco started. There was a bitterness in his voice that was new, that didn’t fit into either of the versions of Malfoy that Hermione had begun to separate in her head. The past Malfoy was cold, insecure, and cruel, the newer Malfoy was sharp, quiet, and serious. “We all rely on each other here, Granger. This place only works because everyone shows up and knows their responsibilities. You can’t just decide one day that you’re not going to show up.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve shown up for work every day since I’ve been here -”

“Nevermind, Granger.” He pushed himself up to his feet, the basket of poppies in one hand as he turned to fully face her.

Hermione tried to keep her eyes on his, to ignore the deep scars that slashed across his torso. She had heard about them from Harry, and knew that the Sectumsempra spell had most likely permanently marked him. But to see them here, to see the contrast of his otherwise smooth skin and the raised pink scar tissue that criss-crossed his body, to see them glowing in the sunlight surrounded by such natural beauty… that was more than Hermione was prepared for.

Her breath audibly caught in her chest. She looked up at him, not missing the stiffness of his shoulders and the eye roll as he walked toward her, his bare arm brushing against the fabric of her shirt as he passed her, long strides leading him quickly out of sight.

Hermione watched his retreating form, her mind whirling. What had she missed?

____________________________

Pansy’s frenzied cooking spree had wrapped up in the early afternoon, and once again Hermione was ordered by the dark-haired witch to “Wear something nice.” And so Hermione found herself standing in the kitchen with the rest of the group scattered around the room engaged in quiet conversations. There was something more subdued about their energy today, not sad, but contemplative. Hermione felt herself relaxing as she helped Pansy and Theo shrink and load the many covered dishes into a picnic basket.

A knock on the door interrupted the quiet buzz of conversation. Hermione realized with some amusement that it was the first time she had ever heard anyone knock before entering, as their only visitor, Blaise, typically barged in without warning and made himself at home. Luna skipped over to the front door, and from the kitchen Hermione heard the creak of the door opening.

“Darling, you look positively deranged today,” a smooth voice announced.

“Thank you!” She heard Luna reply.

A scurrying of footsteps against the wooden floor caused Hermione to look up, and she barely made out the small blue-haired blur that launched itself at the silent man who sat reading in one of the wing-backed chairs in the living room. Hermione held her breath, cringing, already imagining the moment when the chaos collided with cold stillness.

But the crash never came. When silver eyes looked up, they thawed, even crinkled in the corners, lips mirroring the movement and actually smiling as his arms opened, catching the blur in an embrace. His head dipped, actually nuzzling the messy blue hair, as small hands came up to cling to his shoulders.

Hermione glanced over at Pansy, who watched the interaction with a satisfied smile. Catching Hermione’s look, she snorted.

“That, Granger, is my answer to anyone who dares to say that Draco Malfoy is a soulless bastard,” Pansy murmured.

Hermione still stared, stared as the blue hair faded to a bright blonde that perfectly matched the man that currently held him closely to his chest.

“Who...” Hermione started.

“Teddy dear, give your cousin room to breathe!” Andromeda swept into the room, closely followed by Blaise and Luna. Even though she was dressed more casually than the first time that Hermione had seen her, Andromeda still managed to retain her regal demeanor in flowing navy trousers and a white embroidered blouse. Her sharp eyes swept the room, nodding in approval at what she saw. When her gaze settled on Hermione, she raised a calculating eyebrow. “Well, Miss Granger. Italy seems to agree with you. I am pleased to announce that you no longer look like the walking dead.”

Hermione blushed before replying with a hesitant “Thank you?” She still couldn’t quite assess whether or not Andromeda’s moments of unfiltered honesty were intended to be a compliment or an insult.

“Shall we?” Blaise asked the room at large, his clothing ensemble entirely black, with a green silk scarf fastened around his long neck.

Everyone got to their feet, moving toward the front door. Pansy took the picnic basket from the counter, and Hermione watched as Neville and Theo each grabbed a stack of blankets that were folded on the couch. Blaise held what looked like a folding lawn chair, while Andromeda’s hands were empty. The sound of footsteps faded as quiet conversations resumed as the group began to filter out into the bright afternoon. Soon, it was just the two of them. Well, the three of them. Hermione watched the blonde man who still held the blonde boy close to him. Teddy Lupin. She felt the tightening of her chest as she watched Draco stand up, shifting the small boy so that he sat on one hip. There was a comfort between the two of them, a familiarity that told Hermione that this was not the first time that Draco had held the boy close to him.

Draco paused, a small frown on his face, as he looked down at the floor beside the chair where he had been sitting. Hermione’s eyes followed his, and she saw the wicker basket full of poppies tucked next to him.

“I can carry it.” Her voice rang out across the room, her mind trying to catch up with the words she had just spoken. Her feet carried her towards him, closing the space that separated them. Glancing up, she saw his eyes following her movement; cold, calculating, wary, without a glimmer of the warmth she had seen before.

She stopped just in front of him, looking up at him as she whispered, “I got it.” Kneeling down, she grabbed the basket and shifted it so that the handle rested in the crook of her elbow. Standing again, she offered him a small smile before turning toward the door. She heard the creak of the floorboards as his footsteps followed hers.

She quickly caught up with the rest of the group, still aware of the crunch of Draco’s boots where he walked behind her and the murmur of two small voices, one high and soft, and the other low and musical, as they engaged in quiet conversation.

Hermione was content to walk alone, to watch and listen to the gentle waves of conversation that drifted around her. Their path led them past the estate, up the long driveway, and into the woods where Hermione had followed Luna and Sergio when she first arrived over a month before. Instead of following the established route, Neville led them off on a smaller footpath. Very little sunlight filtered through the thick trees, and moss covered the forest floor.

After only a few minutes of walking, they arrived in a small clearing. A stream bubbled along one edge of the opening, and lichen-covered stones lined the banks. With practiced ease, Neville and Theo began to spread the blankets to cover the bare ground in the center of the clearing. Blaise unfolded the wicker chair, ceremoniously gesturing for Andromeda to sit. Hermione watched with curiosity as the older witch offered him a wink as she took her seat. The others formed a circle, settling themselves and getting comfortable. Hermione found herself sitting between Luna and Blaise. Teddy had immediately settled himself into Draco’s lap, giving Hermione her first view of the young boy’s face.

Her breath caught; she was looking at the perfect combination of Remus and Tonks. There were Remus’ strong and expressive brows, Tonks’ slightly upturned nose, Remus’ slightly larger bottom lip and the clever sparkle that had only left Tonks’ eyes in death.

The boy must have felt her gaze, and he offered her a small wave. Hermione couldn’t help but smile back. Glancing up slightly, she caught Draco’s blank expression as he looked back at her. Swallowing, Hermione looked down at her hands where they were folded in her lap.

Luna pulled a simple beeswax candle from her bag, crawling forward to place it in the middle of their circle. With a wave of her wand, a small flame fluttered into existence. Once she was settled back in her seat, silence fell over the group.

Neville’s musical voice broke the silence. “Every year, on this day, we gather to remember those who were lost. We try to remember them in a space that is free of judgement, free of the weight of good and evil, but instead embracing of loss in all of its forms. We also celebrate those people who we continue to love but are not with us today, and celebrate our growth and transformation since that day.”

Clearing his throat, he continued. “I am so grateful that I was not the Chosen One. I think about it every day. Of course I pity what Harry experienced, but I do not envy that role. I want to celebrate my parents, who lost themselves at the hands of Bellatrix. Sure, they’re still here on this earth, but they are not with us, not with me. I miss them. Sometimes I forget about how many people died, and I feel terrible about it. Is this the guilt of surviving? But then, I remember to choose joy, to live for those who cannot. Me living my life to the fullest in no way diminishes the lives of those who are gone, I would actually argue that it honors them. Learning to love and heal with you all, I am reminded of what we have gained in the wake of the war.”

His words were met by silent nods. Hermione watched as Theo reached a hand out to grasp Neville’s, their fingers tightly interlacing.

Theo was the next one to speak. “Well, I’ve never been as good with words as Nev, but today I am just happy that I am here, that I am alive, and that I have the chance to grow up. I don’t miss my dad. I’m glad that he’s locked up; he was a useless prick who never did me any good. Sorry, ‘Dromeda,” he muttered, but the older witch seemed unphased. “Sometimes I still have dreams about that year. I honestly don’t remember much of the battle itself. To me, the real horror was that whole year. But, I want to remember Vincent. He was a bloody fool, who never had the brains to question what his dad told him. But he was loyal, and didn’t deserve his fate. We tried to get him, to show him another way, but he was too far gone to be helped. I wish we could have saved more of them who didn’t know there was another way.” He paused, looking over to where he and Neville still held hands. “But yeah, it keeps getting a little bit better every day.”

“There are too many losses to remember them all as they deserve in this space that we have made here, so this year I will talk about Colin.” Luna’s voice had taken on a serious quality that Hermione rarely heard. “He was younger than us, but he was just as committed to the defeat of Voldemort as everyone else. He captured the world on film, and his photographs were a window into the lives of the children who fought the war. A window into our lives. We were those children, fighting the war that the adults brought upon us. Sometimes it feels like we are still at war in our minds, not fully able to accept this new and peaceful world.”

By this point, Hermione had identified that they were going in order around the circle, meaning that it was her turn to speak. Her mind still whirred, digesting the words of those who had gone before her. But, taking a shaky breath, she began to speak.

“This is all so...new. I usually spend this day surrounded by a family deeply in mourning. It is a day where we remember all that is lost. And I understand that; I miss the people who were lost as well. I...I think what is so different is that you are all focused on what is now, and what good has come in the wake of the war, and I don’t know if I’ve ever considered that perspective.” Before she could overthink the words that her mind had queued up for her to share next, she continued. “I haven’t felt safe since the war. Intellectually, of course, I know that I am not in danger, but I cannot seem to remember that. In England...I barely lived. Since coming here, I think I may not be so afraid anymore. I think I have been a part of a world that is chasing the past, trying to return the world to what it was before the war, but I don’t think that that is the world that I want to live in.”

She let out a shaky breath, the weight of her words lifted from her shoulders. Luna’s slender hand reached over and gave her knee a gentle squeeze.

“I never feel right participating in this.” To Hermione’s right, Blaise began to speak. “Sure, I was there for the beginning of that year, but I was already here with my mum by the time the worst of it happened. I can’t decide if I resent the fact that she protected me from the months leading up to the battle, or if I am grateful that her maternal instincts decided to finally make an appearance.” He chuckled ruefully. “But what I cannot stand is that I left you all there. That I abandoned you for the worst of it. I hope that you know how much I love you all, and that I would go to the ends of the world for you.” His voice cracked on the last word, and glancing over at him, Hermione saw the glimmer of a tear sliding down his dark cheek. Pansy, who sat on his other side, reached out a hand to gently wipe a tear from his face before turning back to the group and beginning to speak, her voice strong.

“If I could have my way, we would do nothing today. I would like to shove this day as deep into my memories as I can and forget. Yes, Nev, of course the war was about more than this one day, but this one day was the worst day of my life. And I feel guilty saying that, because I am still here. I didn’t lose my life. But in a way, I did.” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I spent every day of my childhood looking up to my family, following their directions and their footsteps. Sure, I complained about my mother, but I wanted to be her someday. More than anything, I wanted them to look at me and say: We are proud of you. But that never came. That year, at Hogwarts...I knew, somewhere in my head I knew that what I was doing on orders from the Carrows was wrong, but I refused to believe that my parents would have asked something of me that was wrong, or evil. I trusted them. I held on to the possibility that it might win my father’s favor, and that, more than anything, was my reason for living. When the Dar- Voldemort gave the ultimatum to give up Potter, I thought that it was my chance, finally my chance to prove to my father just how much I loved him. But even after that, even after turning against my peers, my father shunned me, disgraced by my mere presence. It shouldn’t have taken me so long to see them for what they were. I should have known… and today, I feel sorry for my role in the whole thing. I know that we were kids, but still, I wish I had been able to see what I see now.”

Hermione let Pansy’s words sink in. Everything that she was hearing in this forest, the honesty, the vulnerability, it was all showing her that she knew so little about these people, and she had still held on to certain assumptions about them. Her thoughts were interrupted by a deep voice that she knew too well, that she knew better than the man the voice belonged to.

“I am not one for speaking much anymore. It seems like the world has suffered enough at the whim of Malfoy men, and the least I can do is shut up and listen. You all know this, but I was a blind fool, and I will never fully shake off the shame of my actions. Most days I don’t think that I deserve forgiveness, deserve all of this,” he gestured vaguely at the group around him, “and I certainly don’t think that I deserve all of you. But Fate apparently isn’t done with me, so here I still am.” There was a long moment of silence. “I miss my mother. I can never know for sure, but I feel like she was another victim of circumstances. She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

The boy on Draco’s lap reached for one of his large hands, grasping it with his tiny fingers and bringing it to rest on his lap. With a small frown, Teddy began to speak. “I don’t remember my mum or my dad, but I know that I would have liked them a lot. Grandma tells me stories about them all the time, so I sort of feel like I know them. I guess that they were very brave and helped a lot of people.”

There wasn’t a dry eye among them as Teddy finished speaking. Andromeda reached down to where he sat, ruffling his hair that remained bright blonde.

The woman sat back in her chair, looking around the circle at the young adults who were gathered around her. “When I look at all of you, at what you have lost at such a young age...my heart breaks. I think we all hoped that we had solved the problems of the wizarding world the first time around, but obviously there was more to come. What I hope for you all, what I hope is the silver lining that comes from that chaos and terror, is a willingness and commitment to life and love.” She smiled, wiping a tear from her smooth cheek. “I was so lucky to have love, to know a deep love with Ted, even though it was for a shorter time than I would have wanted. I want that for all of you. I want you to know the feeling of someone completely uprooting all that you thought you knew about the world, to look into their eyes and know that they are as much a part of you as your blood and your bones. I hope that you can choose to have a life of love, and choose to see the joy in the little things.”

Andromeda’s final words seemed to hang in the air, and Hermione felt a lone tear slide down her face. Luna crawled back toward the candle that still burned in the middle, and gestured for Teddy to join her. His face serious, Teddy crawled over to join Luna. She nodded encouragingly at the boy, who closed his eyes and blew the candle out.

Draco was the first one to stand up, and Hermione was surprised to see a hint of red rimming his eyes, as though he had succumbed to the emotion of the moment along with the rest of them. From her position sitting on the ground, his height was even more pronounced. She couldn’t help but watch him as he walked around the circle to grab the basket that she had carried from the cottage.

Everyone else slowly rose to their feet, coming to stand around Draco. Hermione, unsure of what was happening, stood as well. Draco began handing out bunches of the poppy flowers. When he handed her the flowers, she offered him a small nod of thanks, which he returned.

Someone nudged her shoulder, and she looked over to see Pansy, flowers in hand, giving her a questioning look.

“So, what did you think?” The witch sounded almost hesitant, as if she was unsure of what Hermione’s reaction would be.

Hermione considered the question before responding. “It was...honest and sincere. I’ve never thought about the war in this way; as something that was a catalyst for positive change.”

Pansy smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. It was all Luna really. That first year that we were here, we all felt like we should be doing something, and she just told us to follow her into the woods. Next thing we knew, we were here. It’s been tradition ever since.”

“What do we do with these?” Hermione held up the vibrant red flowers that they both held.

“The red poppy is a symbol of remembrance of those who have fallen in war. We trim off the stems and let them float down the stream. It’s a quiet way to honor those who are gone.” Pansy paused, looking over at where Draco knelt down next to Teddy, helping the boy break the stems off of the flowers, leaving just the large blooms. “It was Draco’s idea to incorporate poppies.”

Something tickled the back of her mind, but for the moment she looked down at the flowers in her hand. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, quiet enough that she wasn’t sure the other witch heard her.

Hermione watched to see which spell Pansy used to cut the stems from the flowers. She repeated the incantation and wand motion, and smiled as the perfectly cut blooms sat nestled in her palm.

The group migrated to the edge of the stream. Looking around, Hermione noticed that everyone seemed to find their own space, slightly removed from the others, as though this were an individual activity rather than a group one.

Carefully, she lowered to her knees at the edge of the stream, feeling the soft ground sink beneath her. She set the five flowers to the side, picking one up and holding it reverently in her cupped palms. Unsure of what to do next, she instead focused on remembering.

The first flower, she dedicated to Dobby, whose bravery had saved their lives in their escape from Malfoy Manor. She gently laid the flower on the surface of the water, watching as it immediately was caught in the gentle current, swirling and bobbing until it disappeared out of sight behind a mossy boulder. The second flower, she dedicated to Lavender Brown, her Hogwarts roommate who she never understood, who she never made the effort to know, who lost her life too soon at the brutal hands of Greyback. The third was dedicated to Fred, whose passing had dimmed the light of the entire Weasley family.

She picked up the remaining two flowers together, noticing how they overlapped in her hands. Hermione couldn’t help the tears that gathered in her eyes. Mum and Dad, she thought, gently bringing the flowers to the surface of the water. She hesitated before freeing them, just letting the cold water filter between her fingers, wetting the flowers, but still trapping them within the protection of her cupped hands. Let them go, her mind whispered. As her hands withdrew, her eyes blurred, and she furiously rubbed them, not wanting to miss the moment when the two flowers disappeared around the rock. Blinking away the last of the tears, she caught the exact moment when the two poppies, still touching in the swirling current, swept out of sight.

__________________________________

It was a warm night. Hermione sat at the picnic table, still full from their earlier meal and slightly tipsy from the prosecco that they’d been drinking all evening. She could hear laughter and cheers from the open windows of the cottage, smiling fondly at the thought that this was her life.

After setting the flowers afloat, they had feasted on Pansy’s cooking, sprawled together on the blankets, sharing stories, sharing memories of those who were lost in the war. There seemed to be an unspoken commitment in the group that these stories would be joyous and would paint the fallen in a beautiful light. Hermione was able to join in telling stories about Remus and Tonks. Teddy especially loved the story of the time when Remus had sent a wad of gum up Peeves’ nose, the whole group joining in with the boy’s laughter at Neville’s description of the raging poltergeist.

Once the meal came to a natural conclusion, they all made the easy walk back to the estate. Teddy and Andromeda returned to the main building for the evening, and Hermione couldn’t help but watch the tender farewell between the small boy and the tall blonde wizard. Blaise joined them for the evening, and once they returned to the cottage, the younger adults fell to drinking and sharing some of the less appropriate memories. Draco, Theo, Blaise and Pansy shared childhood stories of the demands and expectations of Pureblood culture, including Theo’s dramatic retelling of how his father had given him “the talk” at age twelve after Theo mentioned a pretty girl at school.

At Pansy’s urging, Hermione had shared the record player with the group. None of them had ever experienced Muggle music in any form, and they all quickly decided that Queen was the favorite out of the older Muggle artists that Hermione had shared with them. Once the music was introduced to the evening, conversation quickly devolved into dancing and drinking.

Now, as she sat out under the willow, the sounds of merriment filled the night. She was slightly sweaty; dancing with Pansy and Blaise was a very athletic endeavor. She’d slipped out the back door, seeking a moment of quiet.

She couldn’t believe that her day had begun with waking up alone in the aftermath of her breakup with Ron. And now, after the afternoon spent remembering in the forest and the evening of conversation and music, Hermione felt oddly settled in her life. This was her life. Her life was in Italy, working in the garden, spending her days with people who were rapidly becoming her friends. It was a good life, the kind of life she had fought to have.

The gentle swish of denim came into the periphery of her hearing, approaching from the direction of the cottage. Hermione glanced back over her shoulder.

Draco walked toward her, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his elbows, revealing the tattoos that covered his left forearm. He held a drink loosely in one hand that swung by his side. The expression on his face was serious, as though he were deep in thought.

He stopped alongside the table where she sat, looking out into the night. He didn’t move to sit down.

“So.” He didn’t look at her when he spoke. “You’re back.”

Hermione was confused. “I never left.”

He snorted out a laugh. “You know what I mean. You’re back here, in this spot, where we sit and do Merlin-knows what in the darkness.”

“Are you...is this about last night?” Hermione fumbled with her words. Again, there was something she was missing.

“Oh yes, and where is Weasley?” His tone was biting.

“He left this morning.”

“And will he be returning to grace us with his presence?”

Hermione turned to face him, glaring at his pale profile. “No, I don’t believe that Ron will be returning.” She stared at him, at the sharp angle of his furrowed brow. “Do you have a problem with me, Malfoy?”

“You didn’t show up.”

Watching him closely, Hermione had a feeling that those were not the words he had intended to say. She took a slow inhale, piecing together something that hadn’t made sense about him, about his behavior. The image of him watching her from the window the night before as she lay beside Ron rose to the forefront of her mind.

“I’m sorry.”

Her apology was met with silence. Without looking at her, Draco turned on his heel, walking back up to the cottage, where the warm light and laughter spilled out into the quiet of the night.

Notes:

The album that Hermione plays for Pansy is Rumours by Fleetwood Mac, and the first track is Second Hand News.

Thank you all for your patience with this chapter! Now that school is out, I should be back to regular updates. I plan on replying to comments this week (I am so excited!) and I appreciate everyone who has stuck with this story so far.

Beta love to the gang: bookishteddy, lauraloveschristmas and miiisterbear. You are my chosen village of women and you make this happen.

Chapter 13: Chapter 13

Hermione spent the night tossing and turning, and when the first glow of dawn filled her room she got out of bed. So much had happened and changed so quickly, and there was a quiet suspense that had settled in her bones, whispering the question: Now what? The ground underneath her was shifting, her world morphing into something that she wasn’t sure she was prepared for.

What was she supposed to do now? There were choices that she hadn’t had to consider in the past. Of course, she would go back to her job at the Ministry once her three month stay was complete, but in the meantime...how did she want to spend her days? Did she want to commit to friendships, true friendships, with those who had previously tormented her? Now that she wasn’t tied to Ron, would she find someone else? Did she have to find someone else?

Hermione was halfway down the ladder when the familiar roar began to fill her ears. She slid clumily down the rest of the way, stumbling as her feet hit the wooden floor. She staggered down the hall and into the bathroom, her breath choking out in small bursts, determined to make it somewhere safe before she had to fully surrender to the panic. She barely managed to slam the door shut before crawling into the large ceramic tub. Her body curled in on itself, her cheek pressed against the cold surface as her vision closed and the roaring reached an unbearable crescendo.

She had no sense of the passage of time. Everything in that echoing underwater space was constant and oppressive. The only thing grounding her to the world was the struggle to remember the mechanics of breathing, each inhale taking monumental effort, and each exhale a tiny moment of relief.

Somewhere, she felt something shifting her body, gently moving her until she was surrounded by warm pressure. The warmth held her, and she let herself sink into it, seeking something from it that she couldn’t name. On her next inhale, she vaguely recognized something familiar about the scent, but her mind couldn’t formulate a complete thought to connect the information.

I’ve got you. Take slow breaths, Granger.

She had been here before. This was a voice that she could trust, could follow, and she knew that it was the safest way out of the darkness.

Slow inhale. Good. Now hold it for me...and exhale. Do it again.

Why were these words so easy to follow? Her body, over which she had no control only moments before, willingly followed the verbal instructions. Her senses prickled back to life as her breathing slowed. Her body was upright. Her cheek no longer touched smooth ceramic, but soft fabric that smelled faintly of cedar…that was the scent she’d been unable to identify earlier.

Keep breathing, Granger. Are you ready to come back?

The warmth that surrounded her continued to hold her tightly, gently moving in sync with her slow breaths. She felt safe, protected. Where she was now, no longer drowning in the still water, but floating right on the surface, was somewhere she wouldn’t mind staying for a while. As long as whatever it was that held her was there, she would be okay.

Come on, Granger. Open your eyes.

The command was a whisper on her neck. Taking one last inhale, she let her eyelids drag open. Immediately, the soft light overwhelmed her, and without thinking, she closed her eyes again, turning her head to burrow back into the warmth.

“Granger.”

Hermione felt her whole body freeze. She almost didn’t want to open her eyes, didn’t want to shatter the peace that had settled so deeply in her body. But her eyes opening, and a brief sweep of her gaze confirmed that yes, she was currently curled up in a bathtub enveloped by Draco Malfoy. There was no mistaking the arms that held her tightly, or the long legs that bracketed hers, gently pressing into her skin.

“I...Malfoy…” Hermione started to say. In a burst of movement, she forced her stiff body to crawl to the opposite end of the large tub, where she resumed her huddled position, which was considerably less comfortable without the male body that had previously held her. Warily, she looked at him.

One of his legs stretched out to lay along the bottom of the tub, so long that his bare foot almost reached her. He wore flannel pyjama pants and a simple black t-shirt. His hands rested on his thighs, flexing before clenching into fists. There was something softer about him. He looked directly at her, and there was no doubt that his expression was one of worry as his jaw tightened.

Their eyes met, and for a moment something opened between them, something honest and maybe even real in the way his silver eyes connected with her brown eyes. It was Draco who looked away first, reaching a hand up to push his loose hair back from his face.

“Why do you keep helping me?” Hermione whispered.

“That’s a stupid question, Granger.”

“I happen to disagree,” she snapped back. “It’s a completely fair question.”

He released a sigh, shaking his head before looking back at her. “How could I not?”

Hermione didn’t know what to say to that. She looked up, vaguely registering the different shades of green from the plants that surrounded the tub. “What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re in pain.” His voice brought her attention back to him. “But there are things that can help,” he added softly. There it was, the openness in his eyes that she had glimpsed earlier.

Nodding, she pushed through the uncomfortable vulnerability of holding eye contact. “Please. I just want it to stop.”

“Okay,” he replied, and Hermione had to close her eyes to fight tears that threatened to spill. She didn’t want to cry. “Look at me, Granger.” She shook her head; she couldn't stand the thought of him seeing her like this yet again. She felt the tub shift slightly, and heard the diffused rustling of cloth. “Hey. Look at me.” He was close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. She opened her eyes, sharply inhaling when she saw just how close he was to her. His face was level with hers, and she tried to quiet the fluttering low in her abdomen as she took in the increasingly familiar arch of his blonde brows, the easy curve to his lips, the silver swirl of his eyes. “You’re going to be okay, you know that right?”

She searched his face for any sign of insincerity, for any sign of the sneering, mocking boy who had resurfaced the night before. But all that she saw was him, this new man who continued to show up when she needed him.

“How can you say that?” She couldn’t stop the tears. “How do you know?”

He didn’t hesitate before responding. “Because you’re Hermione Granger.”

She couldn’t help the laugh that broke through her silent tears, and she reached a hand up to brush away the moisture that streaked down her cheeks. Rubbing her eyes to clear away the blur, she looked back at him.

His body had gone rigid where he knelt in front of her, his eyes fixated on something. Following his gaze, she saw what had captured his attention. She’d completely forgotten that her arms weren’t covered. The pinkish-white raised scars on the inside of her left forearm, spelling out the eight-letter slur that Hermione carried with her every day, were fully visible.

“I...I should go.” Draco’s voice cut through her panic. She looked up at him, at the poorly concealed horror on his face as he quickly climbed out of the tub, closing the bathroom door behind himself as he left her just as he’d found her, alone in the empty bathtub.

____________________________________

Somehow, Hermione had managed to complete the morning routine that originally brought her to the bathroom, shoving down the frayed emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. When she finally climbed back up to the loft, she’d collapsed on her mattress, raw and exhausted from her interaction with Malfoy in the bathtub. She only realized she’d fallen back asleep when she woke later, sprawled in the exact same position that she’d fallen into.

By the time Hermione made it downstairs, the sun was breaking over the tall trees that surrounded the cottage; it was far later than she normally started her day. She had to bite back a shriek of surprise at the sight of Neville and Theo reading intertwined on the long couch, as she was used to being the only occupant of the cottage awake in the early morning.

Coming around to the kitchen, she saw Pansy busily stirring something in a large mixing bowl. The witch looked every bit a Pureblood heiress in her long silk robe as she glanced back over her shoulder at Hermione.

“Morning, Granger. You certainly slept in today.” Her tone was teasing, but in a good-natured way that Hermione was beginning to warm to.

Hermione rolled her eyes in response, naturally gravitating to where her cup of coffee still sat in its usual spot on the counter. As she took her first sip, she picked up the delicate pink flower that sat next to it, wincing when tiny thorns on the stem pierced her skin.

“What’s that?”

Hermione looked up at Pansy’s question. The witch’s dark eyebrows were furrowed as she curiously stared at the flower that Hermione still carefully held between her thumb and middle finger.

“It’s a flower, I think,” she responded carefully.

“No shit, Granger,” Pansy retorted. “But from where?”

Hermione chewed the corner of her lip while she considered her response. There was no reason not to say; the coffee and flowers were left in a public place where anyone could see them. But still, there was something that felt private about the small morning gesture that had become so much a part of her life here.

Deciding that Pansy was the closest thing that Hermione had to a girlfriend in her current life, she decided to risk honesty. “Malfoy leaves them. And coffee.” She held up her mug as evidence.

Pansy’s eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise combined with a small hint of amusement. “And how long has that been happening?”

“Has what been happening?”

“Malfoy. Leaving you flowers.”

Hermione took a deep breath before answering. “A month?” She watched as Pansy shook her head, the look of surprise morphing into amused disbelief. “Why?”

Pansy tilted her head, seeming to search Hermione’s face for something. A sudden look of realization dawned on her face, and Pansy actually let out a small laugh. “You’re fucked. Completely fucked.” She laughed again. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Now Hermione was becoming annoyed, as she hated to be a part of conversations when she did not have all of the necessary information. “What don’t I get?” She heard her voice take on an edge of defensiveness.

Pansy turned back to the bowl on the counter, muttering loudly enough that Hermione was able to hear every word. “I forget that Muggle-borns don’t know about all of this...”

“Pansy, what are you talking about?” Hermione made an effort to keep her voice lowered, but her frustration was poorly concealed.

Black hair swished as Pansy looked back over her shoulder at Hermione, whose curls were beginning to spring free of her single french braid as she became more agitated. With a sigh, Pansy responded. “You like research and information, Granger. There’s a library up at the main estate. I’m sure Andromeda would be happy to let you use it.”

Hermione was tired of the riddles. “And what exactly am I researching?”

The look Pansy gave her perfectly demonstrated just how dense she thought Hermione was being. “The flowers, Granger.”

_______________________________

As soon as Hermione finished washing up her breakfast dishes, she began the walk to the main estate. Her loose, linen shirt paired with a simple floral skirt still felt like too much clothing in the heat that was already settling in the late morning air.

Walking down the now familiar paths that led through the gardens, Hermione let her attention wander to the singing of the birds, the aroma of herbs and soil, and the vivid bursts of color from the flowers.

The flowers. Pansy’s last words played on a loop in her head. Again, Hermione had the feeling that she was missing something obvious. A part of her immediately had an irrational fear that her time away from the office was somehow dulling the sharpness of her mind.

When she arrived at the expansive stone patio behind the estate it was empty of guests; Hermione continued, finding one of the oversized glass doors unlocked. Once inside, Hermione hesitated, glancing around for anyone who could possibly lead her in the direction of the older witch who was in charge.

The large open room was quiet, with the exception of a short and well dressed man who hummed to himself as he performed graceful cleaning charms on the floor-to-ceiling curtains that lined the windows. Hermione tried to wave at him to get his attention, but he appeared to be fully engrossed in his current cleaning duties.

“Pardon me,” she finally called out.

The man turned gracefully on one heel to face her. “Buongiorno! How may I help you?” He had a musical voice, and spoke English with a strong Italian accent.

Hermione smiled politely. “Hi, yes, I was hoping to speak with Andromeda?” She realized that she probably couldn’t just waltz in and demand an audience with the boss lady. “I live in the cottage and work in the gardens,” she added quickly.

A smile spread on his face. “Ah yes! You must be the English girl who looked like death!” He turned and began walking down one of the hallways, beckoning for her to follow. Hermione made the conscious decision not to dwell on the man’s words, assuming that they were the result of one of Andromeda’s infamous “moments of honesty.” For such a short man, he moved very quickly, and Hermione almost had to run to keep up with him.

He led her down a different hallway from the one she had initially visited when she first came to the estate with Neville. It was bright with lightly stained wood paneling and rather flamboyant paintings of tropical birds.

They came to a stop in front of a simple door. The man gave three sharp knocks against the wood frame. Clicking footsteps approached from the other side of the door which swung open to reveal a perfectly put-together Andromeda.

“Good morning, Pietro. Ah, Miss Granger! Lovely to see you.” Andromeda offered her a sincere smile. “Please, come in.”

Hermione followed the older witch into the room, which turned out to be a formal sitting room, complete with cream-colored couches, crystal floor lamps and pale green wallpaper. She led them to two chairs that framed a table laden with a tea service and a plate of scones.

Andromeda sat, gesturing for Hermione to do the same. Once they were both settled, Andromeda prepared two cups of tea.

“Cream and sugar?” She looked questioningly at Hermione.

“A splash of cream and two sugars, please.” Hermione watched as the witch patiently completed their cups of tea, not wanting to interrupt what appeared to be very focused work.

Finally, they both had tea in hand, and Andromeda looked expectantly at the younger witch. “Well, Miss Granger, as much as I would love to believe that you are here to spend some quality time with me, I know better than to get my hopes up.”

Hermione wasn’t sure how to respond.

“That being said,” Andromeda continued. “What brings you for a visit?”

Hermione took a slow sip of tea to gather her thoughts. “I have been informed by Pansy that I am supposed to be researching something about flowers.”

Andromeda raised her eyebrows. “Researching something about flowers?”

Sighing, Hermione set down her teacup. “Honestly, I don’t entirely understand what I’m supposed to be looking for. However, according to Pansy, I’m missing something blatantly obvious about flowers.”

Andromeda cleared her throat. “Miss Granger. As much as I would love to aid you in solving this riddle, I am going to need you to cut the roundabout crap and speak directly.”

This was why she had come here: to get answers. “Ever since I arrived, Malfoy has been leaving me a cup of coffee each morning. I’m not entirely sure why he does it. He probably just has extra, and so he makes me a cup so it doesn’t waste. Next to the cup of coffee, there is always a flower...or sometimes a leaf or sprig of something else.”

She looked up at the other witch, trying to gauge her reaction. Andromeda only nodded slowly.

Hermione was tired of being patient, tired of missing some key piece of knowledge that it seemed everyone else around her understood. “So...what am I missing?”

Andromeda shifted in her chair, crossing one ankle over the other. She took an unhurried drink of tea before setting the cup and saucer on the table. Resting her elbows on the arms of the chair, her fingers steepled below her chin.

“Flowers and plants carry meaning,” Andromeda began. “Most of those meanings originate in different mythologies from around the world, but historically flowers and foliage have, beyond their beauty, carried additional and distinct meanings. These meanings have been consolidated, to the point where there is now a rather consistent language of flowers. In many Pureblood households, exchanging flowers with another family can be a means of political maneuvering, but the most common application of the language of flowers is in the process of courtship.”

Hermione blinked, her mind churning as she took in this information, trying to fathom that each flower, each plant over the past month had meant something, had meant something beyond a kind gesture.

She didn’t know how to respond, overwhelmed by the need to think, alone, about what she had just learned. She began to get up, intent on escaping the now stifling room, but then her mind caught up and she remembered what Pansy had said.

“Books,” she blurted out. “Sorry, I mean, do you have any books? With the meanings of the flowers?”

“Of course.” The smile Andromeda gave her was almost sad, as if the witch knew that some form of disappointment lay ahead. As Andromeda moved to the door, Hermione followed.

They left the room, turning down the hallway, their footsteps echoing in the quiet. As they walked, the older witch continued. “If I may, I would like to suggest that if my nephew has been giving you flowers, it is most likely an effort to communicate something to you that he is not ready to say out loud.”

The hallway ended abruptly, opening up into a high ceilinged room that was full of bright, natural light. Looking around, Hermione saw that it was a large library. The walls were filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with wide windows spaced in between. The shelves were painted white with simple gold accents, enhancing the already bright room. Loveseats and chairs upholstered with a deep green velvet were organized in small groups, creating a variety of intimate seating areas.

Hermione momentarily forgot the recent revelation that had set her emotions on edge, completely in awe of the beauty that surrounded her. “This...it’s stunning,” she whispered.

Andromeda’s laugh broke her out of her daze. “Well, I’m glad to see someone else around here appreciates it. You’re welcome to visit anytime, day or night.” She walked to a shelf, tracing the spines with a finger as she tilted her head to better read the titles. “Here we are,” she said, pulling two adjacent books off of the shelf.

She turned back to Hermione. “History or practical guide?”

“Practical, please.” Hermione didn’t even hesitate, knowing that at the moment she needed to have concrete information. She accepted the thick, worn book that Andromeda handed her with a smile. Gently, she leafed through the pages, relieved to see that there were detailed paintings of flowers covering the pages in addition to the written meanings that corresponded with each flower.

“Keep it as long as you need.” Andromeda interrupted her browsing.

“Thank you for your help.”

“Of course.” As Hermione turned to depart, a light touch on her arm stopped her. Turning back around, Andromeda offered her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, but I… My nephew. I know enough about his past to know that he has most likely never given you a reason to view him with any sympathy, but he has made a true effort to change. I did not get the opportunity to know him before, but the man he is now is kind, loyal, and deserving of the good in the world.” She held Hermione’s gaze, her belief in the words she was speaking evident in the fire contained in that look.

With a nod, Hermione broke away from the eye contact and left the room.

__________________________________

 

Half an hour later, Hermione sat at the picnic table under the willow with the book from the estate library, her journal, and a very large jar of iced coffee in front of her.
She was hesitating. For some reason, actually opening the book, reading the words, identifying the flowers that lay pressed and preserved between the pages of her journal, felt like a monumental step, one that she was not entirely ready for.

Her relationship with Draco Malfoy was already confusing enough. The simple gesture of coffee in the mornings and the way it had felt to dance with him in the club contrasted with everything she thought she knew about him.

They certainly were not friends, while simultaneously sharing little pieces of their lives that carried great meaning. Their late nights under the tree, although frequently silent or with minimal conversation, were a welcomed constant in her life. And how could she deny the fact that for some unknown reason, of everyone in her life, Draco understood her panic attacks better than anyone else?

And now, there was yet another layer. The flowers, which Hermione had interpreted as a gesture of kindness and convenience, held an unknown meaning that she wasn’t sure she was ready for.

She took a deep breath and opened her journal, carefully extracting the first flower.

______________________________

 

The door slammed behind her, reverberating through the cottage and disturbing what had previously been a calm afternoon. Her magic was already threatening to overflow from the curls that had fallen out of her bun. She could feel the sparks racing up and down her arms, and she flexed her fingers before slowly forming two tight fists. The only sliver of control that she retained was concentrated on not accidentally setting the entire cottage aflame.

Coming to a stop in the middle of the open space, Hermione screamed: “WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?”

Notes:

The bathtub scene surprised me; it wasn't a part of my outline, but once the words started, there was no stopping them! I hope you enjoy this one; Draco and Hermione are slowly circling closer together...don't worry, the collision is coming.

HUGE amounts of love to the Slytherclaw beta squad on this chapter. I rely on their wisdom so much, and they have each left their permanent marks on this story through plot suggestions, helping me find the perfect words, and sharing their own vulnerable life experiences to better inform the real human journey that these two characters are experiencing. Lauraloveschristmas, bookishteddy and miiisterbear, you are the reason this is here. Love y'all.

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

The quiet that had previously blanketed the cottage was shattered with her scream.

Neville, Theo, and Luna, who were playing some sort of card game on the floor of the living room, looked up at her as if she had sprouted horns.

Hermione stalked towards them, well past caring about anything other than locating the current recipient of her wrath. “Where. The FUCK. Is Malfoy.”

“Uhh, Hermione, please calm -”

“If you tell me to calm down, Neville, I will make you wish you’d never been born.” The low growl she’d directed at Neville was abandoned as she yelled to the cottage once again, “Someone had better tell me where I can find that unbelievable blonde -”

“Check the gardens,” Theo interrupted, actually holding his hands up in a gesture that was either meant to pacify her rage or demonstrate that he was unarmed. “He’s usually out in the gardens.”

Hermione took a shaky exhale, regaining enough control over her emotions to feel slightly embarrassed about her outburst. Plastering a smile that more closely resembled a grimace to her face, she said, “Thank you, Theo,” before turning and running out of the door.

Her journal was grasped tightly in one hand as she ran into the maze of paths that wove throughout the garden. She had no defined destination in mind, her sole focus trying to spot a flash of platinum blonde. While her lungs burned with the effort of running, her legs found the familiar rhythm that years of summers playing football had left ingrained in her body. Inhale for two steps, exhale for two steps.

The afternoon sun was hot, and soon she was sweating. But still she ran, her pace unchanged, as she continued to weave up and down the stone paths. She turned away from the greenhouses, moving closer to the estate.

There it was. The flash of his bright hair barely visible in the distance through the low branches of trees. She ran faster, turning on a path that would lead her towards him, already gathering her rage, filling her lungs to tell him exactly what she thought about…

But she stopped. Her boots skidded on the gravel as she slowed to a standstill. She crept forward, careful to be as quiet as possible, as she peered between two branches.

Malfoy was there, unmistakable between his height and the hair. But he wasn’t alone.

Teddy was with him. The young boy’s hair, once again, was turquoise. They stood in a small clearing of closely cut grass, and Teddy held a Muggle football between his small hands. He threw the ball in the general direction of the larger wizard, but the ball barely flopped to the ground between them.

She was far enough away that she couldn’t make out their quiet conversation, but she watched as Draco bent down to pick up the ball, knelt on the grass, and gently tossed it back to the boy.

This back and forth continued between them. Hermione wondered if either of them knew that the ball was intended to be kicked rather than thrown, but that minor detail didn’t seem to deter them from their fun.

She couldn’t take her eyes off of Draco, this softer side of him one of the layers that did not compute. Already her idea of him was fracturing and coming back together as something new, different, changed.

And now, after what she’d read, after what she’d learned about the flowers… None of it made any sense.

She took a defeated breath; she would have to wait to confront him later. As she turned to walk back to the cottage, she cast one last lingering glance over her shoulder, trying to ignore the feeling in her chest as she watched the man play in the dappled sunlight.

______________________________

Draco didn’t return to the cottage before dinner. The rest of the cottage residents had come to the conclusion that it was best to ignore Hermione, seeing as any attempts to engage her in conversation were met with stony silence. She sat on the couch, knee bouncing, her stare fixated on the front door. Even when Pansy brought a plate of food over for her, Hermione ignored it in favor of watching and waiting.

When the door finally opened, the whole room held their breath.

Hermione felt her entire body tense as she watched the blonde man walk into the room. It only took him a second to notice her stare, and his eyes narrowed as he watched her rise to her feet.

She wasted no time moving to block his path into the kitchen. “Outside. Now,” she hissed up at him. She didn’t wait to see his reaction, turning away to quickly grab her journal from where it rested on the couch before she walked out of the open back door, ignoring the curious looks of the others who were sitting at the table.

She led them down to the willow tree, the swish of denim behind her the only evidence that he was following her. When she reached the table -- their table -- she whirled around, turning to walk directly back at the man who followed her.

When he stopped, she brought both palms up to shove roughly into his chest. He stumbled back before he found his footing.

“What the FUCK, Malfoy?”

He looked startled, but didn’t move to put any distance between them. “Granger, I don’t know what you’re -”

“The flowers. I know about the fucking flowers.”

Draco took a few steps back, bringing a large hand up to push the flyaway hairs that never seemed to stay in place.

Hermione waited for him to respond, to say something, but he kept his face downcast as he nudged at the grass with the toe of his boot.

The pressure in her chest burst, her voice breaking as she cried out. “Say something!” She knew that she sounded pitiful, hysterical even, and yet couldn’t muster the capacity to care.

“What do you want me to say?” When Draco looked back up at her, his eyes were closed off, revealing nothing.

Hermione wrenched open the pages of the journal she was still holding. She swept a trembling finger over the page of notes written in her tiny and meticulous script. “The morning after my first panic attack here, you left me blue columbine.” She took a quick breath, glancing up at him. He avoided her gaze. “Columbine means foolishness, but blue means tranquility. What was that supposed to mean, Malfoy?”

Looking back up at him, she watched as he slowly shook his head, his eyes closing as a pained expression of resignation filled his face.

“The next morning,” she continued, focusing on reading the information in front of her as if she were delivering a population report on a pixie colony to her boss at the Ministry. “You left a piece of pine. Pine means hope and pity. The next day, we went dancing in Crema, and the next morning you left me borage. Borage means directness, and after our argument the night before, I guess that is logical.” She took a shaky breath through her nose. “For the next two mornings, you left me belladonna, which means silence, and in the wake of two nights of us not speaking, that is also logical.”

“Granger,” Malfoy began, his low voice threatening to break her focus.

“No, Malfoy. The next night we talked about Tolkien, and you left me a sprig of coriander, which means hidden worth and merit. Was that a commentary on Tolkien’s merit? In the Muggle world, at least, his worth is a very publicly agreed upon thing. But, anyways...the next night you asked me about my favorite birthday present, and the following morning you left a piece of fern. Fern has three meanings: fascination, magic, and sincerity, so I am not even going to attempt to understand what you were trying to say. The next night you talked about America…” she swallowed, her voice dropping to a lower volume. “You said that you don’t get to forget the war, and the next morning you left a sprig of rosemary, which means remembrance.” She let herself steal a look at him, but immediately returned to the page when she met the cool gray of his stare. “The next night you asked about Emily Dickinson.” Most of the vitriol that had fueled her up to that point had faded, leaving her with only the words on the page in front of her and some internal force driving her to speak those words out loud. “The morning after, you left a petunia flower, which means a soothing presence.”

She couldn’t look at him now, not at this point, not with the words that she was about to speak out loud. “The next night you were quiet. More quiet than you’d been. The next morning there was a red zinnia, which means constancy. That night we talked about music, and the next morning there was a...a daffodil, which means: the sun is always shining when I’m with you.” Her words were spilling out of her now, almost as if she were afraid that if she stopped she would be unable to start again. “That night I asked you why you made me coffee, and earlier that day helped me through another panic attack. The next morning there was a Lily of the Valley. It means trustworthy, or…”

“Or what, Granger?” His voice was barely a whisper as he interrupted her stalling speech.

“Or ‘you make my life complete,’” she whispered back. Immediately she continued on, not wanting to dwell on the weight of the words she had just spoken. “The next night you asked me why I like music so much, and the following morning there was a blue salvia, which means...I think of you. The next night you asked about my work at the Ministry, and I made a comment about wanting to fight the evil in the world. The following morning there was a purple hyacinth, which means: please forgive me; I’m sorry.”

She had to pause to breathe. She was almost to the bottom of the page, and she wasn’t sure that she was ready to be done, to begin the conversation that came next. But her mouth opened of its own accord and she kept going.

“You apologized that night, and I...I didn’t take it well. A gardenia was left the next morning, which means: you’re lovely, or secret love.” She rushed through the last words. Pushing a wayward curl out of her face, she continued. “Then Ron came. That night I...I didn’t go to the bench. I saw you there, but I didn’t go. The next morning there was an anemone. It means forsaken. And then last night and today. You were angry with me last night, and then this morning, you helped me in the bathtub.” Hermione reached between the pages, carefully drawing out the preserved flower that had been left with her coffee that morning, careful to avoid the tiny spines that covered the stem. “I don’t know what this one is.”

Now she let herself look at him. He stood, hands shoved into his pockets, brow furrowed as he looked at the flower cradled gently in her hands.

His lips parted, and she watched his tongue trace the pointed ridge of his upper canines as he seemed to consider her words. Clearing his throat, he took a small step towards her. “Wild rose,” he said, his gaze leaving her hands and rising to seek out her eyes. “It is a representation of the symbiotic relationship between pleasure and pain.”

Hermione looked at him, vaguely aware of the fact that her mouth was open, trying to form words that her mind had yet to organize into cohesive thoughts.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” Her voice was pleading, any anger now fully replaced with uncertainty, vulnerability.

Draco sighed, turning away from her to look up at the sky that was just turning from the blue of afternoon to the purple of dusk. “I don’t know how to say what I want to say to you. I can’t say it.”

“Why not?” she asked, willing her mind to work in overdrive, connecting the pieces that were still swirling around her.

“You’re Hermione Granger and I’m Draco Malfoy.”

“Damnit Malfoy, stop speaking in riddles! Yes, my name is Hermione Granger.”

“And we both know that Hermione Granger is more than your name.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Hermione Granger is more than just a name. You are a symbol, an ideal, a character in a story of success and victory and overcoming obstacles and defeating evil. And in that same story that we are living in, Draco Malfoy is also more than just a name. Draco Malfoy is a symbol of wrong, the embodiment of the evil that you fought to overcome. In every way, I, Draco Malfoy, am the opposite of you. In this story, Draco Malfoy doesn’t get to be friends with Hermione Granger, doesn’t get to care about her well being or in any way deserve her kindness or attention. If Hermione Granger deserves it all, Draco Malfoy deserves nothing.”

Hermione stared at him, letting his words sink in. She could see the rise and fall of his chest as he looked out at the fields that spread on the other side of the stream. She blinked before moving herself until she stood in his direct line of sight. “Is that really what you think?”

Draco shrugged, averting his eyes to look over her head. “It’s the truth, Granger.”

“I actually disagree with you, and I think your story is utter bullshite. The Hermione Granger that you describe? That’s not who I am. I am broken, dysfunctional, and have only recently figured out that I have any say in the path that my life takes. And you? I don’t claim to know you, but what I have seen of you here is not the Draco Malfoy that you describe. You have repeatedly helped me when I have done nothing to deserve your kindness. You are not the man you tell yourself you are.” She tried to quiet the stuttering in her chest when his eyes met hers, silver meeting amber, a moment of shared honesty that neither of them had time to guard themselves against. “Why are we letting some story rule our lives? I refuse to be defined by that idea. We get to choose whether or not we live out a story determined by other people.”

Draco brought a hand out of his pocket, pinching the proud bridge of his nose as he shook his head. “It’s not that easy…” he began.

“I actually think that it is.” Hermione was surprised by the strength in her voice, and she let her words hang in the air between them as she turned away from him, feeling the brush of soft grass against the arches of her feet as she returned to the warm light of the cottage.

_____________________________

 

When Hermione woke the next morning, her head was still swirling in the aftermath of their conversation. Her dreams had been overflowing with flowers and stages filled with elaborate wooden sets of Hogwarts and manors and willow trees.

As she climbed out of bed, her whole body felt like it was buzzing with energy. Hermione bounced on her toes as she looked out the window. It was barely light outside, and a thick mist hovered over the fields that stretched beyond the cottage.

As Hermione started to dig through her bag for her typical clothing, she paused, withdrawing her hand. She held a pair of white and gray trainers that she hadn’t considered in years. She thought she probably wore them last when they were on the run in the Forest of Dean.

It was a Monday; the start of a new work week, and based on the lack of sunlight, she was up far earlier than necessary. She made an instantaneous decision. She returned to her bag, shuffling around until she found what she was looking for.

A minute later, she stood in the bathroom, surveying herself in the tall mirror as she finished the single French braid that went down the center of her head. She wore a tight athletic shirt made of stretchy material and a small pair of running shorts. The trainers were laced tightly on her feet.

Satisfied that her hair was out of the way, she quietly crept down the stairs and into the kitchen. As she filled a jar with water, she let her eyes glance over the counter, noting that her coffee wasn’t there yet. For a moment, she let herself consider the possibility that maybe he was done leaving her coffee, that perhaps somewhere in that conversation he had decided that whatever the gesture was was no longer relevant, no longer needed. However, it was earlier than her normal waking time, she assured herself.

After draining the glass of water, she was out the front door, picking up speed as she ran down the stairs and down the front walkway. As she nudged through the gate, she turned onto the wide path that would lead her into the gardens.

She began to run, letting her stride widen as she found the familiar rhythm of breath. While her impromptu run yesterday had been fueled by rage, it had served as a reminder of the peace that Hermione had found in running during her summers at home. She smiled, thinking of the months spent practicing at the pitch for hours each day, thinking of her unending drive to improve, to get faster and stronger and more skilled. It was always ironic to her that at Hogwarts her friends considered her to be clumsy and unathletic based upon her lack of ease upon a broom, when in reality she was one of the better football players in her age group.

The familiar burn spread through her calf muscles and up into her thighs, and she mourned the loss of years of hard earned muscle. Between the war and her maddening work schedule that immediately followed, Hermione’s body had wasted away, with no physical evidence of the athlete that she once was. But, the last month of manual labor was beginning to have an effect on her body beyond the tan flush of her skin and the freckles that now covered her face. Muscles she hadn’t remembered losing were returning, and she felt more at ease in her body than she had in years.

She let her feet carry her, not caring about the route or destination. Her surroundings beyond the ground ahead of her faded into a blur of muted colors, and she felt her mind relax into the rhythmic movement of her body.

Her thoughts turned to the previous night. Somehow she still had more questions than answers now that she understood the meanings of the flowers that Draco had been leaving her. She couldn’t fathom that he could actually have meant to say some of the things the flowers communicated. It wasn’t possible. But then listening to him explain his idea of the story that they were all living; his words had broken something in her.

She wasn’t sure why hearing him voice how little he thought of himself was so jarring to her. He’d said something similar in the clearing that weekend when they were remembering the Battle of Hogwarts. How could this man who lived here in Italy not see the extent of his change?

A thought crossed her mind. She had been both unwilling and unable to see the changes in him. Even in their shared nights of conversation at the table under the willow tree, Hermione had been trying to fit every new piece of information that he revealed about himself into her carefully constructed template of who Draco Malfoy was supposed to be.

The steady pounding of her feet against the gravel path came back into her awareness. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been running, but she was now rounding the side of the estate building and came out on the front drive. Her lungs were just beginning to burn, but she continued at the same pace down the long driveway, the carefully pruned trees standing like tall sentinels in the dawn.

When she reached the twin gargoyles that guarded the gate she turned around. It was harder now to maintain the steady stream of her breath when her body wanted to take desperate gulps of oxygen to soothe the tightness in her chest. As she ran back, her steps slowed, and she could already feel the tightness in her legs that signaled later soreness. Almost suddenly, sweat broke out on her skin, and she tried to wipe it away from her eyes with the sleeve of her now damp running shirt.

By the time she started on the path that led back around the side of the main estate, Hermione had slowed to a walk. While her pride was bruised by her lack of stamina, her years of playing football had taught her the cost of overdoing it. She tried to catch her breath, forcing herself to slow the heaving of her lungs in an effort to quiet her racing heart. A stitch began to burn in her right side, and she pressed her fingers into her skin as she took deep breaths.

When she made it back to the cottage, she was immediately greeted by the unmistakable smell of coffee and cinnamon. After nudging her trainers off by the door, she walked through the living room, rounding the corner and entering the kitchen.

Draco was there. Freshly showered, his hair hung loose and damp around his ears. He was already dressed for work. He looked up at the sound of her quiet footsteps, assessing her with a puzzled expression on his face as he poured coffee into two mugs.

“Morning,” Hermione offered tentatively as she refilled the jar she’d previously used with water.

“What are you wearing? And why are you wet?” Draco asked, eyes raking up and down her body with a puzzled expression on his face.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m wearing running clothes.”

“Running clothes? Is that a Muggle thing? Special clothes for running?”

She tried to contain the laugh that bubbled in her chest, resulting in an undignified snort. Blushing, she covered her mouth with her hands as Draco’s arching brows rose in amusement. That only made her laugh harder.

“It’s for exercise!” She managed to get the words out between breaths. “Muggles run for exercise. I used to do it all the time when I played football -”

“You, Hermione Granger, played football?” Draco interrupted, his mouth gaping open as he regarded her with disbelief.

She glared back at him as she drank the entire jar of water. Setting the glass down on the counter with perhaps more drama than was necessary, she crossed the kitchen to where he stood leaning back against the counter. She reached an arm around him to grab her cup of coffee, trying to ignore the chills that danced up her spine as her hand brushed against his bare arm. With her coffee, she retreated back to the opposite counter.

“Yes, Malfoy. I played football. For years. I was very good.”

He looked like he didn’t believe her. “But I’ve seen you on a broom, Granger...you weren’t exactly…”

“Please don’t finish that sentence.” She cut him off with a raised hand. “The physical aptitude needed for broom riding is in no way connected to the athleticism required to be a successful football player...”

The conversation continued as they both sipped their coffee. Hermione tried to explain the nuances of Muggle sports to Draco, who was still stuck on the fact that Muggles voluntarily spent hours running and kicking a ball around.

When her cup was empty, Hermione washed it by hand, as she’d left her wand in her room. Setting it to dry on the towel that sat on the counter next to the sink, she turned back to the tall wizard who was still drinking his coffee.

“Thank you,” she said, suddenly hesitant; she wasn’t used to this kind of open friendliness between them in the light of day.

Draco ducked his chin in a nod in response.

Just as she made to leave, his voice interrupted.

“Wait, Granger.”

She turned back to look at him. One outstretched hand held a long stemmed flower, the large bloom consisted of tiny pale pink blossoms creating a puffy, cloud-like shape.

She looked up into his eyes as she took the flower from him, the unmistakable question written in her eyes.

“Valerian.” His voice was quiet, and she watched as he rubbed his palms against the fabric of his jeans.

“And?” she asked, quietly.

“Readiness,” he replied.

Notes:

OH MY GOODNESS your comments on the last chapter gave me so much joy! I'm sorry for leaving you all with a cliffhanger, but I hope the reveal was worth it! It is so fun to let Draco and Hermione drift closer together...so much more Dramione is coming down the pipeline! Just wait :)

Thank you to the Seek and Find beta squad for the editing and wording help on this one, and for validating my intuition when I make changes. Lauraloveschristmas, miiisterbear and bookishteddy...you make the world go round. Grateful for your friendship and wisdom. Love you all.

Chapter 15: Chapter 15

Draco Malfoy was plaguing her thoughts. Well, perhaps plaguing was too harsh of a word, but since that morning he had wormed his way into her mind so absolutely that it was impossible to ignore him. It would have been manageable if his presence was restricted to her head, but unfortunately, due to the fact that she lived in a house with him, he was everywhere.

As Hermione absently ate her breakfast of yoghurt and granola, she couldn’t help but watch the way his hands held an almost humorously small wooden spatula that he used to push bangers around a sizzling pan. When he sat down at the table to eat, she noticed that he properly used a knife and fork to slice his food into perfect bite-sized pieces. When Luna began to tell an elaborate story about traveling in the Andes in search of a legendary phoenix colony, Hermione watched his face light up with genuine interest as he listened.

Even as the work day began, she found herself almost constantly checking her surroundings, hoping to catch a flash of platinum hair through the dense green of the gardens. What was wrong with her? She attempted to rationalize this current change, this current fixation on her co-worker's behavior and whereabouts.

Objectively, something had changed between them over the weekend. At some point between Ron leaving and the revelation about the flowers, the way that she and Malfoy interacted had shifted slightly, perhaps bordering on friendly. Yes. It was friendly, what was happening between them now.

But the messages of the flowers still gave her pause. Hermione wasn’t ready to think about the flowers. In fact, the whole situation would be quite simple if it weren’t for the flowers: Draco Malfoy used to be a git, now he was a changed man, and they were becoming friends. Very simple. But, if even half of the flowers were given sincerely...

“Granger!”

Hermione jumped as Pansy’s voice interrupted her spiralling thoughts. She glanced over at the witch who was harvesting tomatoes on the other side of the pathway. The morning sun illuminated her face, so there was no question as to the expression Pansy clearly wore. She was glaring at her.

“What?” Hermione asked.

“You’re squishing them.”

Hermione tipped her head to one side. “Squishing what?”

“Fucking hell, Granger. The tomatoes!”

Hermione looked down at her hands that were currently gripped so tightly around a massive tomato that sticky juice was running down her arms. Wincing, she released the now pulverized produce, trying to keep her messy hands from touching the rest of her clothing.

Muttering something under her breath about clumsiness and disrespect, Pansy retrieved her wand and cast a Scourgify, removing the juice and seeds and leaving her skin clean.

“What’s with you today?” Pansy arched a brow at her, fixing her with a calculating stare that communicated that there was no escaping the question.

Hermione brushed a wayward curl out of her face. “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

Pansy laughed. “I mean, Granger, we both know that’s bullshit, but if we are playing pretend I can go along with it.” She paused before continuing, her eyes dancing with humor. “You’re actually blushing!”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione glared at Pansy. “I just...there’s a lot on my mind.”

“Does this have anything to do with the flowers?”

“I...I don’t know if I should…”

“Okay, fine. How about this: who do you normally talk to about, I don’t know, confusing personal stuff?” Pansy had abandoned harvesting tomatoes, instead sitting back on her heels as she gave Hermione her undivided attention.

“Uhhh,” Hermione started, trying not to fidget as her discomfort grew. “No one?”

Pansy looked horrified. “Seriously, Granger? Didn’t you have girlfriends at Hogwarts?”

“Well there’s Ginny, but I was dating her brother...so I never really talked to her about anything.”

“So then who did you talk to about the Weasel?”

Hermione took a moment to consider the question before answering. “Well...no one, really.”

“Fuck. Okay.” Pansy smoothed her hands down the front of her jeans before looking back at Hermione. “You need to get on board with the basic concept of having girlfriends.”

“I’m perfectly fine with the idea of having female friends, Pansy. It’s just that…”

“If I might interrupt, Miss Pansy?” A small gruff voice called out as the bushes that bordered the patch of tomato plants rustled.

 

Hermione had to suppress her groan when Sergio emerged. Today he was wearing what looked like a crocheted one-piece flight suit, complete with three-dimensional daisies sewn all over the garment. On his head was a more traditional pointed hat.

“But of course, Sergio. What can we do for you today?”

The gnome frowned, deepening the already well-established furrows on his small face. “I is actually having something to add to the conversation you are having with the odd one,” he replied.

Pansy did a poor job of concealing the glee on her face, and Hermione could have sworn that the witch shot her a look of wicked delight. “I’m sure that both Hermione and myself would benefit from your wisdom.”

Sergio solemnly nodded before approaching the two witches. He took a moment to smooth a patch of mulch, even gently removing two beetles that were scurrying through the dirt before he sat down.

He turned to Hermione. “Odd one, we are not supposed to be doing life alone. This is why we gnomes are living in communities with many families and children all together. None of us is having the strength to do it all.” He paused to twirl the ends of his long beard between his gnarled fingers. “From watching you, you are one who thinks she must be doing everything alone. You are needing people but you are not letting them in.”

Hermione was fully aware that her mouth was wide open in a completely undignified way, however, she was too busy processing the rather astute psychological assessment she had just received from an ornery garden gnome. She looked over at Pansy, not quite sure what she hoped to find, but Pansy just gave her a knowing smile, as though receiving sage advice from Sergio was a daily occurrence.

Before Hermione could gather her thoughts into a coherent response, Pansy jumped in. “It’s okay to talk about your life with other people. It’s perfectly normal to need other people. How do you think we all learn what it means to be a witch in this fucked up world without talking to each other?”

“Research?” Hermione offered. It was immediately apparent that her answer was incorrect based on the twin looks of horror on Sergio and Pansy’s faces.

Sergio’s bushy brows furrowed. “While I am not liking the way Miss Pansy is using vile words around the ripe tomatoes, she is speaking the truth. Especially on the subjects of courting and mating I am learning from my elders the rules and the proper motions for making the lady gnomes feel the most pleasure.”

Pansy did a terrible job of concealing a snort with a cough, while Hermione felt her entire face flush. She briefly weighed her two options: let Sergio continue to give his potentially graphic advice, or risk the potential fallout of honesty.

She was surprised at how easily she made her choice. “I’m not particularly good at needing other people. I’ve always been the one keeping things together, coming up with the plan, and responding to the needs of others.”

“Well, none of us can do it alone,” Pansy responded. “Why go through it all by ourselves when we could ease the burden by leaning on each other? We’re all still broken. It’s obvious here. Why do you think we are all here in Italy? Why do you think we still live in a house together? ” She paused, a look of sympathy crossing her face. “There’s no shame in it.”

A slow swallow was her only response to Pansy’s words as she averted her eyes. Leaning on each other. Isn’t that what she had done with Harry and Ron? Wasn’t that the gift of being a piece of the fabled Golden Trio? Sure, there were things that they understood about her life that no one else did, but had she ever been able to truly lean on them, surrender her command over gravity and fall, trusting that they would catch her?

“Magic is happening when you stop seeking and just look around at what is in front of you.” Sergio’s quiet voice eased her out of her meandering thoughts. “You never know what you will be finding there.”

___________________________________

After lunch, Hermione made her way to the greenhouse, pausing to pick a ripe strawberry from the plant that spilled over the rocks and into the path. She closed her eyes, savoring the burst of bright sweetness. Sunshine, she thought. It tasted like sunshine.

Once inside the humid building, Hermione wasted no time before beginning the slow and repetitive process of watering the young seedlings. By this point, she knew just how long to hover her wand over the wide trays to provide a deep enough watering without drowning the fragile plants and causing root rot.

When the door shut with a bang, Hermione looked up, smiling when she saw Neville walk in.

“You seem like you’re doing better,” he said. He took a red handkerchief out of his back pocket, sweeping it across his forehead.

She couldn’t help but laugh. “I guess so?”

“No really, Hermione. You look much better.”

Hermione shrugged. “I’m feeling good.” She took a moment, considering her earlier conversation with Pansy and Sergio. “I went for a run this morning.”

Neville looked flabbergasted. “Running? Why?”

Her laugh sounded too loud in the enclosed greenhouse, echoing off the glass panels. When Neville raised a curious brow at her, she couldn’t help but laugh again. “Malfoy said the same thing.”

Now both of Neville’s brows were up, and a small grin played at the corners of his mouth. “Malfoy? It seems like the two of you have gotten closer?”

Once again, Hermione’s thoughts returned to her earlier conversation. There is nothing wrong with needing each other. Swallowing her apprehension, she spoke. “I’m not sure, but somehow it seems like he understands me, which makes absolutely no sense, but somehow does?” She was vaguely aware that she was doing a terrible job of articulating what she was trying to say. “I think we are both trying to change, to break out of some sort of constructed idea that the world has of who we are, when neither of us fill those roles anymore. Does that make sense?”

She was surprised to see Neville nodding along with her words. “Absolutely. At some point the wizarding world decided we were heroes, and we haven’t been allowed to become anything else.” He took a deep breath, scratching at his beard. “I think that’s part of the reason why I fell in love with Theo. He has never held any of those expectations of me. I get to simply be myself with him, and all that he has ever wanted is for me to show up to be his partner. It’s hard to find someone like that, but I think we deserve it.”

She shrugged in response.

Neville continued. “Seriously, Hermione, we deserve it. We deserve to find joy in this life, to live and to actually breathe without fearing for our safety. We deserve to fall stupidly in love and behave like the teenagers we never got to be.”

Hermione wasn’t sure what to say in response to him. Certainly she hadn’t found what Neville had, but she had had something with Ron. Something real that was now over, that had maybe been over for longer than she cared to consider.

“Will you do me a favor?” Neville asked.

Hermione nodded, silently encouraging him to continue.

“Would you please go over to Greenhouse C for me? I’m out of microryza fertilizer and need some for the artichokes I am potting up today. Malfoy should have some.”

Narrowing her eyes, she looked up at her friend. “Malfoy should have some?”

Hermione saw right through Neville’s feigned look of innocence as he smiled down at her. “What? You’re friends now, aren’t you?”

Hermione was fully aware that sticking her tongue out at the wizard was petulant and childish, but she couldn’t help it. Tucking her wand into her back pocket, she gave Neville one last glare as she left the greenhouse.

It was a short walk to where Greenhouse C stood. Unlike the other two greenhouses that were intentionally placed in a clearing where no trees would interrupt their sunlight, Greenhouse C was nestled against the base of three large trees that provided partial shade.

For a moment, Hermione considered knocking on the small door. However, she immediately dismissed the idea as being exceptionally daft and opted for gently pushing the door open.

Immediately, she was struck by a wall of heat and humidity. Almost instantaneously she felt beads of sweat break out across her skin. Taking a deep breath, she felt the thickness of the air like a balm on her lungs.

When she actually began to register her surroundings, her breath caught in her throat. Everywhere she looked was green; greens in every shade imaginable overflowed the three stone beds that stretched the length of the greenhouse. But even beyond the vividness of the foliage that threatened to overtake the space were the flowers.

Hermione had never seen flowers like this. The richness of their colors didn’t seem possible; she had only ever seen those colors represented on canvas, never in the natural world. Purples, blues, reds, yellows, and magentas splashed across her vision.

“Granger?”

She almost had to laugh at the image before her. It was too perfect to be real, and if she hadn’t been living the moment herself she wouldn’t have believed that this moment was candid.

Draco Malfoy had ducked under a wide leaf that grew into the narrow path between beds, somehow managing to emerge between a tower of vivid cerulean blossoms and what had to be a magical flower, given the fact that there were long orange, yellow and red tentacle-shaped petals undulating in the still air.

To see him like this, to see his monochromatic skin, hair, and white t-shirt contrasted with the explosion of color that perfectly framed him; it had to have been composed by an artist. Every little detail just added to the beauty of him in this space. The pieces of hair that always escaped his bun framing his face, the sheen of sweat that reflected the dim light, the way that his grey eyes seemed even more silver next to all of the green; he was objectively beautiful.

And when he took another two steps closer to her, Hermione remained frozen, unable to take her eyes off of him. Somewhere in her mind a voice was telling her to hide her reaction, to cover the truth with an expression of indifference, but in that moment, she couldn’t summon anything beyond the overwhelming feeling that she was supposed to be here.

If she was staring it didn’t matter, because he met her eye contact and didn’t look away. They were closer now. His face remained impassive, the only opening to him the swirling pools of his eyes. She found herself searching them, looking for something in the silver that she could hold onto.

When she felt the rough pad of his thumb brush across the skin between her upper lip and nose, her body’s reaction was involuntary. Her breath stuttered, chills swept from her neck down to her feet, and an unmistakable heat settled low in her abdomen. When something changed in his eyes, a simultaneous darkening and warming, she was sure that her own mirrored a similar message. Want.

“You’re sweating,” he whispered just as his thumb lifted from her skin.

The sudden absence of his touch washed over Hermione like ice water. She was immediately aware of their position, the silent message in her unguarded eyes, and the thousands of implications of this.

She took a step back from him, aware of the blush that likely now had spread up her neck and across her cheeks. She tore her eyes away from his before she could see him react. She knew she wasn’t ready for that.

Scrambling for a way to escape the current charged cloud that surrounded them, Hermione let out a nervous laugh, resisting the urge to tap her fingers along her forearm to the familiar refrain of one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. That was something concrete that she could hold onto. Something she could control.

Still looking anywhere but at him, she spoke. “So, um, Neville asked me to ask you if you have any, ah, microryza?” She risked a quick glance at him. His eyes still held the same dark warmth as before. She had to look away.

Draco cleared his throat. “Sure, I’ve got some. Wait here.”

Hermione watched his retreating back, trying not to look at the way the damp fabric of his t-shirt stuck to the broad muscles that framed his spine, or the way his denims clung to his…

Absolutely daft, Hermione, she silently scolded herself. This was daft. She didn’t want...whatever this was. She shouldn’t want like this. She had a purpose: a purpose to find who she was away from expectations and pressure and career.

The rustling of leaves alerted her to his return. She schooled her features into a mask of indifference as he once again emerged, once again framed by the rich colors, once again beautiful. But she was prepared this time, and while she felt her insides melt at the sight of him, she remained upright and outwardly indifferent.

“Here,” he said, handing her a small cloth sack. It felt heavy in her hand.

“Thank you,” she replied, offering him a half-hearted smile.

He nodded in response.

Unsure of what else needed to be said, she turned, walking slowly toward the door. She dragged her feet, something delaying her departure. She was waiting for something. It was still silent when she reached the door. As she pulled it open, she cast a glance back to where he had stood, but there was nothing but the silent cacophony of life and color.

Notes:

Thank you all for your patience with this chapter! I always overestimate how much downtime I will have to write on family vacations, and this one was no different!
All of the gardening/plant references are thanks to my husband, who practically lives in the soil.
The beta squad pulled their weight on this one. miiisterbear and lauraloveschristmas came in with the grammar advice and my dear friend bookishteddy went through the chapter line by line with me. Thank you three for your time, commitment and love. Also, for anyone who care, lauraloveschristmas and I met in person and it was MAGICAL.

If you don't already connect with me on TikTok, come say hi @romensreviews :)

Keep the comments coming! I love reading them.

Chapter 16: Chapter 16

The week passed in a now familiar pattern. Each morning Hermione woke just as the dawn was beginning to hint at breaking, pulled on her trainers, and ran. So far she hadn’t covered any further ground; her muscles still screamed in protest each time she moved from a walk to a jog. But the rush was still there, the familiar quieting of her mind as her body and breath took over.

She’d return from her run to find coffee waiting under a stasis charm, always in the same garlic mug that Draco had given her on that first morning. However, unlike before, there were no flowers waiting with the coffee. She struggled to reconcile the slight pang she felt at their absence; had she come to expect the daily gesture?

When Thursday afternoon arrived, Hermione found herself exhausted as she toed off her boots on the front porch. She and Neville had been moving the raspberry and blueberry bushes into larger pots, which they then had to move from one greenhouse to the other. As a result, Hermione’s back and arm muscles ached, in addition to the now familiar painful stiffness of her legs.

She didn’t realize that she’d audibly groaned until Pansy, who followed closely behind her, laughed. “Granger, I knew you were the oldest among us, but this is just pitiful!”

“Shut it,” Hermione snarled, not in the mood for teasing. “I’d like to see you after moving bloody heavy pots all afternoon.”

Pansy kept laughing, obviously unphased by Hermione’s attempted threat. “Well, lucky for you, it’s the full moon tonight. That quarry water will cure whatever ails you.” With a patronizing pat on Hermione’s head, she turned to run up the stairs.

“Wait,” Hermione called out as she started to climb the stairs, gritting her teeth as she tried to ignore her protesting body. “That’s tonight?”

A dark-haired head popped out of one of the rooms along the main hallway. “Yes, Granger. Tonight. The full moon.” Pansy wiggled her brows. “It’s a bloody good time.”

Hermione took a deep breath. She wasn’t typically one for any sort of activity that could be qualified as a ‘bloody good time’ on non-weekend days, but she had a suspicion that any voiced protests would be immediately shut down. She exhaled with a sigh. “Fine. And what exactly does one need to bring for this bloody good time?”

Pansy shook her head as her mouth curved up in a smile. “Nothing really. We ride bikes there, and then whatever you feel comfortable swimming in. It’s quite simple, really.”

Nodding sharply, Hermione rushed to the end of the hallway before climbing the ladder, the rush in her head fully drowning out the pain from her sore muscles. Finally in the sanctuary of her room, she collapsed face down on her mattress. Swimming. Bloody hell.

____________________________________

In the end, it was only Hermione, Pansy, Luna, and Neville who rode bikes down the wooded path, while Draco, Theo, and Blaise chose to travel above them by broom under a Disillusionment charm. It was pleasant, lazily pedaling along the slightly bumpy dirt roads under a canopy of dappled shade. They traveled away from the estate in a direction that Hermione had never been.

The road turned to cracked pavement as they came into a very small town. A faded wooden sign read: Portico. Neville seemed to know where they were going as they passed old stone cottages and the occasional goat on the side of the road. Neville slowed, pulling his bike to the side as they arrived at what looked like a small, roadside cafe. Hermione and Luna waited with the bikes as Pansy and Neville stepped inside.

“Have you ever been in the water on the full moon, Hermione?” Luna asked.

“I don’t believe so,” Hermione replied.

Luna beamed, a wide smile showing most of her teeth. “There’s nothing quite like it. There’s a rush, a clearing of all of the daily gunk that stands between you and the core of your magic. It’s a cleansing, really.”

Hermione silently browsed the information that she had catalogued in her head for any research or evidence that aligned with Luna’s claim. “Perhaps there were early worshipers of Artemis who engaged in such a practice…”

“Oh, it’s nothing so academic,” Luna assured her, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her attempted assurance had the opposite effect on the witch. “I was actually quite pleased to convince everyone to commit to this once a month; no one would go with me at Hogwarts...something about not wanting to swim with the squid.” She didn’t notice the horrified look on Hermione’s face. “She’s really very friendly when you give her a chance.”

The cafe door jingled. Neville held a stack of four pizza boxes, while Pansy struggled with two paper bags. Glancing around, Pansy set the bags onto the ground next to her as she got out her wand. One quick wave later, both bags were shrunk, along with the pizza boxes that Neville now held in the palm of his hand. Quickly, Pansy piled the shrunken items into the wicker basket that was attached to the front of her bike.

The whole process took maybe fifteen seconds. Hermione blinked, looking between Neville and Pansy, who both looked at her with twin expressions of nonchalance.

Pansy shrugged. “What? We’ve done this a few times.”

It was one of those moments that reminded Hermione that she was still a stranger here, that her housemates had a history and life that was well established before her arrival. Sure, she was acclimating to their life here, and yes, the group had graciously included her, but there was still a collective memory that they shared that Hermione wasn’t a part of.

As they resumed peddling, their path led them out of the tiny town and back into the forest. The dirt road was made up of two overgrown tire tracks, hinting that this wasn’t a frequently traveled path. The ground dipped below them, and they sped up as the road curved around a bend into a shallow valley.

It was Neville who stopped first. Hermione could see nothing unique about where they stopped, but at his instruction, they all pulled their bikes off of the road and stashed them in an overgrown hedge.

They only had to walk through the woods for about a minute before the trees thinned, and Hermione caught her first glimpse of the quarry. It was situated in the middle of a
clearing, with far reaching branches overhanging the edges of the wide pool. The water was an almost uncannily clear blue, like sea glass, and the purple sky of dusk reflected on the smooth surface. The pool was considerably larger than she’d imagined, almost more of a small lake. One side of the pool was bordered by a series of tall, granite rocks that stretched over two meters high, while the other sides had grassy banks. From where they stood, she couldn’t see the far end of the water, as it curved out of view behind the large boulders.

Soft footsteps signaled the arrival of the rest of the group. Blaise led them, somehow managing to pull off a matching linen shirt and trouser set made of palm frond-patterned fabric, while Theo and Draco wore their usual attire. The three of them were mid conversation, and something that Theo said brought the other two men to laughter.

Hermione couldn’t help the fact that her eyes were immediately drawn to the way Draco’s entire face transformed when he laughed, the way his sharp cheekbones flushed and his silver eyes lit up from within. It was a beautiful thing: watching someone so rooted in practiced seriousness melt into unabashed joy.

Her musings were interrupted as the group gravitated to the soft grass that bordered the quarry. Neville enlarged a quilt that he and Blaise spread, as Pansy returned the bags and pizza boxes that they’d picked up along the way to their original size.

Soon the group was assembled in a now familiar way: sprawled, laughing, and eating. In addition to the simple but elegant margherita pizzas, Pansy had brought wine, salami, olives, and fresh bread to eat on the side.

“So,” Blaise began, dramatically licking the tips of his fingers clean. “There’s a party this weekend.”

“An old people party?” Theo questioned around a large mouthful of pizza.

Wrinkling his nose at the lack of manners, Blaise continued. “If you are interested in technicalities, then yes, Theo, there will be mostly elderly people in attendance.”

“And are we invited?” Pansy had a wicked smile on her face as she clasped her hands together in front of her.

Heaving an overly loud sigh, Blaise nodded.

Theo, Pansy, and Luna erupted in a chorus of cheers. Neville smiled, while Draco simply shook his head.

“Granger, are you ready for your first old people party?” Pansy asked, her eyes alight.

“I’m not sure?” Hermione was hesitant to give a definitive answer before having more information.

“I can guarantee that you’ve never seen anything like it,” Theo chimed in.

Blaise groaned. “You lot are doing an absolutely shite job of selling the experience of a Casa party. Hermione, it is an elegant affair complete with dining, live music, dancing and...plenty of libations.”

She almost jumped at the sound of Draco’s voice joining the conversation. “It’s complete and utter debauchery, Blaise. Don’t oversell it.”

Blaise glared at the blonde wizard. “You say that like you aren’t delighted to join in, Draco.”

Hermione watched Draco roll his eyes.

The conversation continued easily, flowing freely without much form or organization. When the meal was done, they all continued sipping from the plastic cups that Neville had brought along for their drinks. Hermione had chosen prosecco, savoring the way the bubbles burst along her tongue.

It was no surprise that Pansy and Theo were the first to move into the water. Hermione watched the ease with which they stripped down to their swimsuits, fighting the discomfort that settled in her gut. Pansy’s pale blue bikini with tiny white polka-dots perfectly complemented her body, while the vivid pink of Theo’s short trunks contrasted his tan skin and brown curls.

They climbed up to the low granite cliffs that lined one side of the quarry. Once they were both standing on the edge, they grasped hands, launching into the water with twin screams that shattered the quiet.

It was Theo who first broke the surface of the water with a huge grin. “It’s fucking perfect!” he called out to the rest of them. Pansy surfaced a second later, immediately instigating a splashing battle with the wizard. Their laughter and the sounds of the water filled the clearing.

Blaise and Luna were the next to get in. Blaise’s tight black trunks seemed austere next to the ruffle-covered one piece that Luna wore. Rather than jumping off of the cliff, the two of them moved down to the grassy bank, choosing a slow entry rather than a sudden one.

Neville shifted where he sat on the quilt, casting a quick glance over at Hermione. “Do you want to get in?”

She shrugged, attempting nonchalance. “Maybe in a little bit. I’m good for now.”

He gave her a worried look. “Are you sure?”

“Neville, I’m fine.” She smiled up at him. “Really.”

After giving her one last look, Neville hastily stripped down to his simple board shorts before scrambling up to the rocks that Pansy and Theo had jumped off of. With a running start, he launched himself over the water.

“Cannonballlllllll!” he roared, tucking his knees to his chest as he landed with a massive splash.

Hermione laughed; it was good to see her friend so happy and carefree. She glanced over at Draco who was also watching the group in the water with a small smile on his face.

“How are they so free?” Hermione asked, almost surprising herself, watching as Blaise took a handful of Luna’s long hair and placed it over his head as the others dissolved into laughter.

“I think they made the choice to be,” Draco responded with a shrug. She watched his throat dip in a slow swallow before he turned to look at her. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

Hermione nodded. For some reason the prospect of going for a walk with Draco Malfoy felt very different from spending time alone each evening on a picnic bench with him. Why did it feel so different?

They both rose to their feet. When Draco began to walk up towards the rocks where Pansy and Theo had jumped in, she felt her heart sink. But they continued past the point where they had jumped, the path leading them through the trees where they began to grow more thickly at the edge of the clearing. The sounds of the others splashing and laughing grew muffled as they continued to walk, their path winding down from the rocks and ending at a stretch of sand. Looking up, Hermione saw that they had ended up at the far end of the quarry on the other side of the large rocks, hidden from view but still able to hear the faint sounds of the others. The sand where they currently stood sloped gently into the water, forming a crescent moon-shaped beach.

As soon as they both stood on the sand, Draco knelt down, fingers working quickly to untie the laces of his boots. When they were both undone, he pulled them off before peeling off his socks. Once he was barefoot, his head tilted back and he let out a loud sigh. Hermione had to hide a smile when she saw his long toes wiggling in the sand.

He turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow. “Do you want to swim?”

Hermione couldn’t help the nervous shuffling of her feet. “No, I’m alright here, but you should go ahead.” She tried to force a reassuring smile on her face.

His eyes traced her movement as she reached her right hand up, subconsciously touching her forearm. She tried to play it off as simply scratching an itch, but couldn’t miss the whisper of understanding that crossed his features.

His hands moved to his waist. She stopped breathing as he unbuckled his belt, not bothering to pull it from the belt loops before unbuttoning and lowering the zip on his denims. Hermione was frozen in place as she watched him bend down, gracefully stepping both legs from his jeans before casting them unceremoniously off to the side.

Draco was left standing before her wearing nothing but a white t-shirt and a very tight pair of black boxers that left nothing to the imagination. But as much as her eyes wanted to take him in as a whole, all of her attention was immediately drawn to the cruel, white scars that slashed across the broad muscles of his thighs. Even with the pale ivory of his skin, the raised scar tissue stood out unmistakably. Deep stripes criss-crossed each other in a pattern of violence, leaving more skin scarred than not.

Hermione choked on a breath as her eyes rose up to look at his chest, knowing that underneath the thin fabric he bore identical scars across his skin. “Malfoy…” she started.

When she looked up at his face, his eyes captured hers in an open stare. “The Dark Lord was rather displeased when I failed to kill Dumbledore. My return home after that night was… not one that I remember fondly. I guess that he found it fitting to punish me with the same spell that Potter had bested me with. And so he used Sectumsempra against me until he was confident that the message was received.” He let his eyes drop, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. “Honestly, it’s no less than I deserved.”

“That’s not true.” The words leapt out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“While I can appreciate the sentiment, I am going to have to politely disagree.” His tone was sarcastic.

Hermione found herself growing frustrated. “It’s absolute bullshit and you know it. You were a child, Malfoy, and beyond that, I wouldn’t wish that,” she gestured to his legs, “upon my worst enemy.”

He rolled his eyes, clearly dismissing her point.

In a moment of clarity, Hermione reached for the hem of her sweater, pulling it up and over her head without hesitation, leaving her in nothing but the simple black bikini top that hadn’t seen the light of day in over seven years.

Her skin prickled at the sudden contact with the warm night air. She tried to breathe as she felt Malfoy’s eyes come to rest where she knew they would; in the shadow of her left breast. Shakily, she brought a hand up to trace the edges of the dark purple and violet scar that radiated out from her ribcage, curving down and around her side, and journeying up into the valley between her breasts.

The pain in his eyes was obvious as his gaze rose up to meet hers. “Dolohov,” she whispered, letting her eyes drop to the sand between them. “End of fifth year in the Department of Mysteries. I spent most of the summer in St. Mungo’s while they tried to contain the curse.” She smiled ruefully, still looking at the ground. “They managed to contain the negative effects, but the physical reminder remains.”

She looked up at him, following his eyes as he looked down at her left forearm. Her chest froze for a moment, just as it did every time she truly looked at the word still carved into her flesh. Mudblood. She licked her lips, suddenly aware of how dry her mouth was. Her eyes darted up to his face.

“I’ve decided that people can change,” she whispered. “You asked me before, and I do. I do believe that people can change.”

She searched his face for a reaction, catching a brief flash of something in his eyes before he turned away from her, looking out over the water.

“We should get in.” His voice was low, barely above a whisper.

“Sure,” she whispered, swallowing a tinge of disappointment. He took off his shirt, leaving him only in his boxers. Hermione tried to conceal the shaky breath that slipped from her lips as she watched him move slowly toward the water. Still looking at him, she unbuttoned her cut-off jean shorts, stepping out of them and casting them aside in the sand, leaving her exposed in a bathing suit for the first time since she had been cursed all those years ago.

Draco didn’t stop when he reached the water, continuing until it pooled around his waist. He turned back to quirk a brow at her. “Coming?” he asked.

Hermione slowly dipped a toe in the water. It was right on the cusp of warm and cool, almost the same temperature as the night air that surrounded them. She took hesitant steps forward, growing more confident when her feet continued to meet the soft sandy bottom. When she came level with Draco, she kept going, pushing off the bottom and twisting on her back so that she floated on the water, letting her eyes drift up to the round moon that sat against the night sky.

She heard a gentle splash next to her as Draco broke the surface of the water, his hair hanging loose and water dripping off of his face. She moved to where she was treading water upright, bringing them closer together.

Draco’s feet must have been able to touch the bottom, because his body was still as he watched her. She ducked her head under; it was silent, echoing, and yet comforting, so different from the water in her head that trapped and held her prisoner.

When she came up, she reached a hand up to wipe the water from her eyes, kicking to keep her head above the surface.

“Can you touch the bottom?” His voice was low.

She shook her head.

“Here.” She saw the wavering outline of his pale arm extending towards her. It was pure instinct that she reached out to meet him.

Her hands wrapped around the offered forearm. His skin was cool under her touch, smooth against the tense muscle.

She felt her face flush, suddenly aware of their close proximity. In an effort to avoid his eyes, she looked down at the skin under her hands, breath hitching as she took in the intricate tattoo that now surrounded the branded Dark Mark.

The mark was still there, unmistakable in shape and quality. However, what drew Hermione’s eye were the intricately tattooed flowers that surrounded it. Some she recognized, surprised to see the rich red of poppies, columbine blossoms twisting around each other, and the unmistakable thin rosemary leaves bordering the curve of the snake. Others were unknown to her, but somehow, rather than a chaotic collage of blooms, each flower and color complemented the next. It reminded Hermione of the abundance of life that overflowed the gardens of the estate, particularly the flowers that were cultivated by Draco’s own hands.

She hesitated slightly before loosening her hold on his arm, freeing one of her hands. When her finger touched the tattooed skin, she heard the hiss of Draco’s exhale. As her finger continued to trace the swirling colors, she let her eyes drift back up to him.

All of his attention was fixated on the movement of her finger on his skin. Hermione let herself look at him: the focus of his brows, his barely parted lips, and his --

“Oh, there you two are!”

They both jumped, turning to face the sound of the voice that had interrupted them. As they turned, Hermione pushed herself away from the wizard, trying to put an acceptable distance between them.

Luna smiled brightly, the upper half of her face covered in what Hermione immediately recognized as a Muggle snorkel set. It seemed to be designed for children, as there were bright orange starfish painted around the edges of the mask.

“I’ve been chatting with the salamanders,” Luna continued, seemingly oblivious to the flushed faces of the two people who were avoiding looking at each other. “They think it will be a clear night for the moon.”

Both Draco and Hermione looked up, unsurprised to find a completely clear sky above them, with the full moon already close to reaching the apex of the sky.

“Looks like the salamanders were right.” Hermione winced; her voice sounded too bright and loud.

“Well, do you want to come and join the rest of us?” Luna asked. “If not, I’m happy to tell them that you two are having a private moment.”

Hermione rushed to speak before Draco could open his mouth. “Sure. Yep. We’ll come.” She started to swim towards Luna, casting a quick look back at Draco, who moved to follow her with an unreadable expression on his face.

It only took them a few minutes to paddle back to where the rest of the group was swimming out in the middle of the water. As they joined the others treading water under the light of the full moon, Hermione’s attention was elsewhere.

She couldn’t seem to move away from him. Some part of her was hyper aware of where Draco was, always careful to keep him in sight. Maybe it was the almost palpable tension that now existed between them that threatened to snap at any moment. Hermione felt out of control, like she was falling towards something unknown. Closing her eyes, she took a slow breath, focusing on the water that held her body and the familiar voices that surrounded her.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Theo and Neville drifting away from the group as their previously subtle touches grew increasingly blatant. As they reached the rocky shore, their bodies fully intertwined in what looked like very enthusiastic snogging. Looking away from them and back to the now smaller group, Hermione caught Pansy’s eye.

She almost missed the pointed look that Pansy gave her before speaking. “Luna, Blaise, shall we go and get some more wine?”

For a moment, Hermione tried to hold Pansy’s eye, attempting to do that thing from films where women silently communicate with only their eyes and their eyebrows. Hermione wasn’t entirely sure what she was attempting to convey, but Pansy was either oblivious or intentionally ignoring her.

Once again, Hermione found herself and Draco Malfoy alone, removed from the rest of the group. She wasn’t sure which one of them was leading, but somehow they gradually swam farther and farther away, moving across the open water until they were back where they’d begun the evening, hidden from the rest of the quarry by the large rocks.

They drifted towards the shallows in silence. Hermione tried to steal a glance at him, but found that he was already watching her. As their eyes met each other, it felt like they were back in the greenhouse with their thoughts written clearly across their faces.

“Granger, I…” Draco began, his voice barely audible while still vibrating from deep in his chest. He let out an exhale. “Fuck.”

Hermione waited, silent, not wanting to say the wrong thing, to fracture the moment.

Draco swam closer to her before finding his footing, standing with the water gently lapping against his chest.

“I want…” he started.

“I want,” she heard her voice reply.

His eyes met hers, fully open and bright. She watched the heavy rise and fall of his chest, resisting the urge to reach a hand out to follow the trails the droplets of water made down his neck and torso.

She waited, her heart pounding, feeling like she was nearing whatever she had been falling towards. Every part of her body was aware of him, drawn to him, and in that moment, she made a choice.

Hermione pushed off of the sandy bottom, surging towards him. When the skin of her hands met his chest, she had to close her eyes against the instant relief that swept through her. She didn’t stop, looping her hands behind his neck and pulling his face down towards her.

His eyes never left hers as she finally closed the distance between them, her chest brushing against his, and with one final breath, their mouths met.

It was simple, at first, a meeting of still lips as her hands pulled him in closer. Her eyes fluttered shut; she was completely lost in the crash landing of finally falling. She didn’t even consider stopping the quiet whimper that escaped her chest.

Whatever had been holding Draco back fractured. His mouth initiated the dance, drinking up anything that she offered. His hands, those hands that she had watched, came up to grasp her thighs under the water, lifting her until she could wrap her legs around his waist, slotting their bodies together.

Their kissing grew more urgent, desperate. It was Hermione who first dipped her tongue in between his lips, and Draco’s answering groan encouraged her exploration. Soon, their mouths were a tangle of lips and tongues and gasping breaths as their bodies melted into each other.

One hand tangled into his loose hair as the other traced down the side of his neck before coming to rest on his chest. She let her hand curl, trailing her nails over his impossibly soft skin. Draco responded by gently nipping at her lower lip with his teeth between kisses.

The heat between them was growing all consuming. Hermione had never experienced this, the burning inferno that could be created between two human bodies that desperately craved each other. She needed more, needed to somehow ease the fire in her body, and she rolled her hips against him. She released a breathy moan into his mouth as his hands came to grasp her hips, holding her still.

He broke the kiss, bringing his forehead to rest against hers. Their heaving breaths mingled in the air between them.

“Not like this,” he whispered, bringing his lips to press a quiet kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“What?” Hermione barely registered the words he was saying, her mind and body still aflame.

“I…” he started, his voice choking with restraint. “Just not like this, Granger.”

Hermione was in a daze as he helped her untangle her legs from his waist, gently easing her body back into the water. She acutely felt the absence of his touch as his hands released her.

She searched his eyes for an answer, any answer that would make sense of how they got here, what they had done, or why he had stopped them. The darkness of his eyes surrounded by a tiny sliver of silver reflecting the moonlight gave no doubt as to his lingering desire.

For a moment, it looked like he was about to say something, but he turned and swam toward the shore, dipping his head under one last time before walking up the sloping sand and out of the water. As the sheets of water fell off of his back, she observed him, observed the contrast between the ease in the movement of his lower body and the tightness of his shoulders and neck, a neck that she now knew through the pads of her fingers.

Hermione only lingered in the water for a moment before following him, momentarily chilled by the night air meeting her wet skin. She watched as Draco retrieved his wand from the pocket of his discarded trousers, casting a quiet drying spell on himself. She moved to her clothes, opting to relish in the cooling effect of the water on her body rather than drying herself magically. She pulled on her shorts, and bent down to grab her sweater. As she lifted it to pull it over her head, she was startled to feel a hand on her arm, effectively stopping her movement.

Draco stood there in front of her. She watched as one of his hands bridged the space between them, and she inhaled sharply as he began to gently trace the large scar that wrapped around her rib cage. A chill traveled down her spine, shivering at the sensation of his long fingers traveling from her side to the skin just below her breast. She froze completely, not daring to breathe, as the finger continued upward, coming to rest on her sternum. Her eyes closed.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, and she felt the absence of his touch as she heard the sand’s slight crunch under his feet.

Releasing her breath, she let her eyes open, but he had already turned away from her, pulling on his socks and boots. She felt like she was moving through honey as she pulled the sweater over her head, her skin still searing from his touch.

Notes:

Thank you all for continuing to read this story! I hope that you feel some relief after this chapter :) Don't worry, there is much more to come!
Your comments mean so much to me, and I am trying to take the time to read and reply to them all!

SO much love and appreciation to the three betas: bookishteddy, miiisterbear and lauraloveschristmas. You keep me on my toes and keep my writing honest. Thank you and love you all.

Chapter 17: Chapter 17

Notes:

CW: Detailed description of smoking pot and the effects.

When Hermione woke to the sound of rain, she debated skipping her morning run. It was preposterous to run in the rain. And yet, twenty minutes later, Hermione was mindlessly following the pounding of her feet as they wound through the gardens. She’d been almost immediately soaked by the constant, fat droplets pouring from the sky, and she had to reach up to push the soaking curls that had escaped her braid out of her eyes every few seconds.

The rubber soles of her trainers slapped against the puddles that had formed in the low spots along the paths, splashing muddy water up her bare legs. The thin jumper she’d pulled on was completely saturated with water, and yet the witch ran on. There was something liberating about embracing the rain, about foregoing umbrellas and macs and spells in favor of simply getting wet.

Hermione had plenty to occupy her mind as she ran around the edge of the estate. The ghosting of hands along her scar and the push and pull of lips against hers played on repeat in her head as she attempted to break the moments down into digestible pieces. She wasn’t used to this; her previous romantic encounters had been predictable and expected. Her physical encounters with Ron had been inevitable. From their first kiss in the Chamber of Secrets, there had never been a doubt in her mind that they were supposed to come together, supposed to tumble into bed in the dark of night, fumbling with buttons and clothes as they clumsily had sex for the first time: it was all inevitable and sure.

But, even in the wake of ending things with Ron, Hermione could have never have anticipated this. She wasn’t entirely sure what this was, but what she did know is that she, Hermione Granger, known for rational thought and sound decision making, had kissed Draco Malfoy last night. More unnerving than that, however, was the fact that Hermione had been the one to instigate the kiss, and, even more concerning, was the fact that it had been Draco who had stopped them from...well, whatever would have come next.

None of it made any sense. Sure, she had felt an inexplicable pull towards him since she’d arrived. Yes, he had made her coffee each morning and left her flowers with a myriad of confusing meanings. Yes, they had gotten in the routine of sitting together on the bench under the willow each night. Yes, when they spoke it was sincere and easy, but none of that had prepared her for this.

She slowed as she approached the cottage once more. She paused on the small porch, removing her soaking trainers and wringing out her single French braid. Removing her wand from where she kept it stashed in the waistband of her shorts, she cast a drying spell, careful to avoid her hair. She had made the mistake of drying her curls magically once, and had vowed never to repeat the experience again.

Once inside, she carefully made her way up the stairs, mindful not to make too much noise. As she passed down the hallway, she heard a soft humming coming from Pansy’s room.

Pansy. Hermione gave herself a moment to consider her next action, aware of the potential repercussions. She released a resigned sigh, and then moved to knock gently against the doorframe.

“Come in,” Pansy’s voice rang out.

Hermione opened the door with a muttered apology before standing awkwardly in the threshold.

Pansy was still in bed, sitting back against the wooden headboard with a sketchbook propped on her knees. A floral silk robe wrapped around her upper body, and Hermione was mildly annoyed to see how neat Pansy’s cropped hair looked first thing in the morning.

“Granger. Are you just going to stand there and stare or are you going to tell me what brings you in for an unexpected morning visit?” Although her tone was sarcastic, Pansy looked more amused than annoyed.

Hermione flushed. “Sorry. I, ah, well, I thought I could take you up on your offer.”

Pansy’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “And to what offer, exactly, are you referring?”

If possible, Hermione felt her blush deepen. “You know, to talk with another female about...things.”

Pansy let out a snort that she tried to conceal with her hand. “Oh Granger, if you could only see how pitiful you look.” She was obviously trying to keep her face neutral, but her amusement was impossible to hide.

Scowling, Hermione retreated. “Fine, I’ll just -”

“-Get over here,” Pansy interrupted, reaching down to pat the foot of her bed. Hermione rolled her eyes as she shuffled across the room and perched on the edge of Pansy’s mattress. After a few seconds it became obvious that Hermione was no longer planning on running, so Pansy continued, wincing slightly as she saw Hermione’s stormy look. “I’m sorry. You just… you should have seen your face. I really am glad that you came to me.”

Hermione looked down at her clasped hands, took a deep breath, and then looked up at the other witch. “So. How exactly does this work?”

“You talk. I listen. It really isn’t so complicated.” Pansy gave her an almost pitying look. “And you reserve the right to ignore any advice that I give, but you at least have to sit through it.”

Nodding, Hermione closed her eyes, letting herself wonder for a brief moment how she got here, about to share the inner workings of her personal life with Pansy Parkinson, of all people. “I think that I need to talk about Malfoy.” The words escaped her lips in a rush.

“I figured as much,” Pansy replied.

“It would seem that I kissed him.” Hermione kept her eyes fixed on the wall, not wanting to see Pansy’s reaction.

“So,” Pansy's voice remained even. “You kissed Draco.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

Hermione bit worriedly on her lower lip, considering the question. “I think it is important to note that I was, well, the one who kissed him, and not the other way around. And the flowers had meanings that I don’t understand...well of course I understand them, but I cannot possibly understand how he could mean those things, and then when I kissed him, it was him who stopped us, which, oh gods, did I cross a line that he didn’t want me to cross?” At some point her breaths had shortened into anxious huffs, and her voice had reached a frantic volume.

“Okay, stop.”

Hermione looked over at Pansy, sure that her panic was clearly displayed on her face.

“So. To summarize: You kissed Draco, you figured out what the flowers mean, and he was the one who stopped your kiss.”

“Yes.”

“And how do you feel about it all?”

“Well it’s obvious that Malfoy wasn’t truly interested, or else-”

“No, Granger. I asked how you feel about it all.”

Hermione had to pause. She was tempted to run, to make her escape, but this was why she came to Pansy, for some apparent feminine wisdom that she had been missing out on in her life. “I feel...confused.”

“About your feelings for Draco?”

“Yes.”

Pansy nodded thoughtfully. “Do you enjoy spending time with him?”

“Yes.” That was an easy question.

“Are you attracted to him? Physically?”

“Yes.” Hermione immediately realized that she’d answered too quickly and felt the flush across her cheeks.

“Do you want to get to know him better?”

“I think so?”

Pansy hummed as a small smile formed on her face. “Then it seems that you are interested in him.”

“I am?”

“Merlin, Granger, for someone as intelligent as you are, you are being shockingly dense!” The dark-haired witch shook her head.

Releasing a groan, Hermione brought her hands up to scrub against her face. “I know, I know, it’s just...I’m not supposed to be interested in anyone right now, much less him!”

Hermione looked to Pansy for reassurance, but instead felt something shift in the witch’s demeanor. When Pansy spoke, her dark eyes were accusing.

“And what exactly is wrong with Draco?”

Hermione was confused at the change in Pansy’s tone. “Well, he’s...he’s Draco Malfoy! He was -”

“Exactly, Granger. He was. Not, he is. You talk about wanting to redefine yourself on your own terms without the expectations of the wizarding world, and yet you still are trapped in that same way of thinking when it comes to others around you.”

Absorbing Pansy’s words, Hermione felt a brief wave of shame. A lump formed in her throat that she hastily swallowed. “I… I don’t think about him in that way, Pansy. I truly don’t. Who he is now is someone admirable, thoughtful...kind even.” A realization that was equally horrifying and exhilarating came over her. “I think that I want to get to know him better.”

Another thought came unprompted. “But, isn’t it all too soon?”

“Since you broke it off with the Weasel?”

“Yes, since Ron. Shouldn’t I wait? Isn’t there a reason why you wait?” These were the kind of rules that Hermione had not yet had to navigate in her life.

Pansy seemed lost in thought for a moment, before she focused back on the witch sitting at the foot of her bed. “Granger, our world is full of outrageous rules about how and when women should do things. From what I have gathered, all of the rules are bullshite set up by men who want to control us. But, beyond all of that, the only thing that matters is what you think. Do you think it is too soon?”

Hermione fidgeted with a loose thread on Pansy’s quilt. “I don’t know, but I feel like my whole time here has been a slow separation from Ron; even before we broke up the distance between us was growing. I know, without a doubt, that what we had is done.”

“Are you sure?” Pansy asked directly.

“Yes,” Hermione replied, a sense of relief settling into her bones.

Pansy offered her a small smile. “Okay.” She looked uncertain for a brief moment, a small furrow appearing between her brows. “Draco is important to me. He’s my family, and I would do anything for him. I just need you to know that if you aren’t serious about him, about actually getting to know him and treating him with the kindness that he deserves, then you should walk away. Please, don’t toy with him or let him be an outlet on your journey to self discovery. He deserves more than that.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile at the fire in Pansy’s words, reminded of the fierceness with which she herself had protected Harry and Ron for all of those years. She’d often wondered about the nature of Pansy and Draco’s relationship since arriving in Italy, but so far it seemed platonic, not unlike the relationship between Hermione and Harry.

Returning her attention back to her current predicament, Hermione thought of another layer that she hadn’t yet explained to Pansy.

“He stopped us. When we were...well...snogging. Does that mean that he isn’t interested?” She felt foolish voicing such things, but she was trying to let go of her restrictive thinking in favor of getting Pansy’s advice.

“Did he say anything? Or did he just stop and leave?”

Hermione felt her skin heat at the memory of his body against hers. “No, he said ‘Not like this.’ and that ‘I deserve better.’”

Pansy laughed. “Oh Granger, you are so fucked.”

Hermione’s eyes shot over to the dark-haired witch. “What do you mean? How am I fucked?”

The laughter faded to a smile. “I don’t think that you have to worry about your feelings being reciprocated. In my humble opinion, it seems like he is quite taken with you.”

Letting out a shaky exhale, Hermione let Pansy’s words sink in, unable to fully grasp their meaning.

Pansy continued unprompted. “Draco values honesty above everything else. If you want to move forward with whatever adorably awkward dance is happening between the two of you, you need to be clear and direct in telling him that you’re interested.”

Hermione nodded. That seemed straightforward enough. She could do that: communicate clearly and honestly with words.

A thought jumped into her mind unprompted. She shifted on the bed until she faced Pansy. “And what about you?”

Startled, Pansy replied, “What about me?”

“Is there a man in your life?” Hermione was genuinely curious about the answer.

“Ah,” Pansy laughed again. “Granger, the sun has set on my wizard era, and we are currently witnessing the dawn of the age of the witch.”

Hermione blinked a few times, struggling to string together the meaning of the metaphor that Pansy had woven with her words. It dawned on her. “Oh! Witches!”

The witch replied with an arched brow and a smirk. “Yes, witches.”

“Any witch in particular?” Hermione probed, unable to help herself.

The smile on Pansy’s face held an element of secret. “Well...perhaps. It remains to be seen.”

A natural quiet fell between them, and it felt like their conversation had reached an organic finish. As Hermione rose to her feet, she looked over at Pansy, who still sat reclined in her bed.

“Thank you, Pansy. For the… female conversation.”

“You know, Granger. You weren’t half-bad for a rookie,” Pansy replied teasingly.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione walked to the door before slipping out of the room and back down the hallway.

___________________________________

 

Although the rain had stopped, clouds hung low in the sky throughout the day, and during the lunch hour, the cottage residents chose to sit inside around the main table to eat. Once the meal was completed, everyone wandered off to occupy their remaining free time before returning to work.

It was in that transition that Hermione managed to catch Draco alone in the kitchen.

“Would you like to go on a walk with me?” She managed to ask quietly. She was struggling to compose herself in his presence. Now that she had tasted him, now that her skin held the memory of the lines of his neck and back, now that her lips knew the surprising softness of his mouth, it was almost impossible to feign indifference around him.

In response to her question, she watched his eyes dip down to her barely parted lips before returning to meet her eyes. “Sure,” he replied, matching her quiet volume. “I’ll meet you out front.”

Nodding, Hermione turned away from him. When she arrived on the porch, she bent down to slip on her muddy boots.

The quiet thud of the front door closing signaled Draco’s arrival, and she watched out of the corner of her eye as his deft fingers tied the laces of his leather boots. When they were both done, Hermione walked down the steps, leading them into the gardens.

For a moment, she let herself enjoy the subtle warmth of his body from where he walked beside her, close enough that she could sense him there without them touching.

“I think that we should discuss what happened last night,” she finally said, keeping her eyes trained on the path ahead of them.

The crunch of their footsteps seemed to grow louder. “I think that would be wise,” Draco’s low voice replied.

Hermione took a slow, deep breath, still not looking at the wizard who walked beside her. “I kissed you.”

“Yes you did.”

“And you kissed me back.”

“Yes.”

“And then you stopped us.”

“Correct.”

“Why did you stop us?” Hermione cringed as she registered the vulnerability in her voice.

Next to her, Draco cleared his throat. “I stopped because I… I didn’t want you to feel like you’d made a mistake.”

Now Hermione turned to look at him, unable to resist the call of him. He looked back at her, concern clearly written in the hardness of his eyes and the slight downturn in the corners of his mouth.

When she spoke, her voice sounded too breathy, too soft. “But I was the one who kissed you!”

At that, Draco let out a wry laugh. “Yes, but I didn’t want you to regret it. I want you to be certain; I need you to be certain that you want...that. With me.”

“Okay,” she said. “I er...I am certain that I want that. With you. I’d like to get to know you better, and...maybe even more than that.”

She heard the sharp intake of breath as he looked back at her. Determined to hold his gaze, she let herself drown in his eyes, and didn’t miss the widening of his pupils in the wake of her words. She was sure her own body was mirroring the same message back to him.

He tore his eyes away, looking back at the ground and bringing a hand up to brush his hair away from his face. “Alright.” The word slipped from his lips, settling in the air between them.

With nothing left to say, Hermione gave him a small nod. Immediately aware of her proximity to him, she turned to walk in a different direction, overwhelmed by a need to think, to really think and consider the implications of what had just transpired.

_________________________________

 

The smell of sweet smoke met Hermione as she walked down the gentle slope to the willow tree. She was nervous for some reason, and kept fidgeting with the hem of her jumper as she climbed up to her usual spot, perched on top of the table with her elbows resting on her knees. Draco sat just a few feet away from her.

He dipped his chin in a silent greeting, and Hermione let herself watch as his lips curled around rolled paper, his inhale exaggerating the hollows of his cheeks. Even with the coverage of the clouds, Draco’s bright skin and pale hair still shone in the dark.

“Why do you smoke every night?” she asked.

He turned to her, exhaling the smoke out of the side of his mouth so as not to blow it directly into her face. His hair was hanging loose, and he tucked a strand clumsily behind an ear, as though he were still growing accustomed to dealing with its length.

“I don’t dream when I’m high.” He took another slow drag, once again exhaling away from her. “Or, if I do dream, I have no memory of it.”

“I would like to try it.” Hermione was unclear if it was the softness of the night, the darkness of his eyes under his hooded lids, or some change that had come over her, but she didn’t even realize that she had spoken the words until they registered in her ears.

“What?” Draco looked openly shocked as he surveyed her.

What was she doing?

Living. She was living in the moment, trying something new and unexpected.

“I want to try it.” She repeated herself, looking directly at him, refusing to back away.

A small smile quirked on his lips. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

Draco stood up. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said over his shoulder as he walked out of sight.

Hermione had been offered weed before. Because Harry and Ginny smoked it frequently in the years following the war, it had always been around the house. Ron had tried it and hadn’t liked it, but for some reason Hermione had always rejected their offers. Maybe it was the fact that they all spoke about how it quieted their minds, and Hermione couldn’t fathom voluntarily relinquishing control of her thoughts.

And what had changed? She wasn’t sure, but for some reason she could entertain the possibility that maybe, in this place, with this particular wizard, she didn’t have to hold such a tight rein on herself. With Harry and Ron, even in the years after the war, she struggled to fully let go of what had become an instinct to focus all of her energy and attention on protecting them, always poised to make life-altering decisions in a matter of seconds. Maybe here she was beginning to let go.

Soft footsteps signaled Draco’s return. He sat down on the bench, closer to her than he’d been before, holding a small glass pipe in his hands. Setting it in his lap, he pulled out one of the pouches. Carefully, he removed a pinch of sticky green leaves and began to carefully crumble them into the bowl of the pipe.

“So, when you smoke marijuana, you want to only do a little bit to begin with.” He gestured to the pipe. “This will allow you to have more control over how much you inhale at a time. Also, if I may be so bold, I don’t think that you need any tobacco, and it has the nasty side effect of being highly addictive. So...here it is.” He handed her the pipe, which she held in her palm, unsure of what to do next.

Her confusion must have shown, because next thing she knew, Draco had lifted himself up onto the table to sit right beside her, the fabric of his denims brushing against her bare leg.

He laughed quietly, biting his lip like he was trying to subdue the full extent of his reaction. “I’m sorry Granger, but I can’t help but relish the moments when you look completely and utterly confused.” He positioned her left hand on the pipe, making sure that her thumb covered the small protruding hole on the side while clearly ignoring the fact that she was glaring at him. “Okay, now, when you’re ready, you will bring the pipe up to your lips, and gently inhale as I light the bud for you. When you feel the smoke hit the back of your throat, remove your thumb and take a breath in.”

He was so close to her now, his cedar and smoke smell fully overwhelming her senses. She nodded to show that she understood his instructions, appreciating the detail and specificity of his words. She forgot how to breathe as she noticed the hint of blonde stubble on his chin, immediately imagining how it would feel against the skin of her neck.

She lifted the pipe to her mouth, the glass cool against her lips. She raised her eyebrows in a question.

“Ready?” His voice was close to her ear. She nodded.

Carefully, Draco brought the tip of his wand up to the small green pieces that filled the bowl of the pipe. After a quiet spell, the tip glowed red. “Okay. Now inhale.”

Hermione breathed in. She felt a strange burn at the back of her throat, and, remembering Draco’s instructions, lifted her thumb and took a deep breath. Immediately the burn transferred to her lungs, and her eyes widened as a fit of coughs exploded from her chest.

Sweet smoke poured out of her nostrils, burning her eyes. Her throat protested as she gasped for breath between coughs. Her lungs strained to resume their normal rhythm, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the onslaught of sensation. Slowly she felt her body settle, her breathing returning to normal, and she handed the pipe back to Draco.

She gave him a sheepish wince. “Well that wasn’t particularly graceful.”

Draco’s eyes danced with amusement as he let out a low chuckle. “Would it help if I told you that I fainted after my first time smoking?” A faint flush was centered around his high cheekbones.

Hermione laughed, surprised at how easily it bubbled out of her lips. She let her eyes wander out over the darkened landscape, content to simply sit with the comforting presence next to her.

She first noticed the rush of blood to her head.

So she sat. Waited.

There was a low buzzing feeling behind her eyes that was new, and as each second passed she felt a heightened awareness of where her skin met the world.

She sat, slowly blinking.

Everything looked so soft, even the thoughts that slowly moved in and out of her head.

“How do you feel?”

She felt instantaneous relief at hearing his voice, and sighed, letting her head drift back so that she could only see the hidden grey of the sky.

“Malfoy.” His name took work to get off of her tongue. “I am feeling...odd. Unmoored.”

She felt him shift to sit even closer to her. She watched, fascinated, as one of his hands crossed the distance between them before coming to rest on her knee. The touch sent a shiver up her thigh, and her eyes fluttered closed. The hand stayed there, still, but under the gentle pressure of his calloused palm, she felt herself settle.

A soft hum came from her heart. “Thank you. That’s better.”

And so they sat there, bodies touching, feeling no need to interrupt the night with words. Hermione felt no desire to analyze or understand, content to simply experience the moment. When she felt the urge to touch Draco’s hair again, she didn’t resist. Her fingernails scraped gently along his scalp as she repeatedly combed her fingers through his hair, barely registering the small, contented smile that settled on his face. He sat still under her touch, holding his hand steady on her knee.

Her eyes felt heavy, the buzzing in her body settling deep into her bones. She knew the exact moment when Draco’s thumb began to trace back and forth along her skin. When she couldn’t hold her head up any longer, she let it fall onto the hard shoulder that was right next to her, unconsciously burrowing closer to that smell, his smell, that at some point had begun to bring her comfort.

“Let’s get you to bed, Granger.” His voice had the brokenness of the first words of morning, even lower in his chest than usual.

It was with his help that Hermione got to her feet. She continued to hold onto his hand, her smaller fingers gripping him for stability, or maybe comfort. She couldn’t be sure. She stayed close to him as he led them up to the cottage, through the back door, and into their dark and silent home.

He led her up the stairs and down the long hallway, pausing at the bottom of the ladder that led to her loft.

“Goodnight, Granger.” After a moment of hesitation, he bent down to her, placing a soft kiss on her cheek.

She felt her head tilt to meet his lips, but he withdrew, whatever truth lay in his eyes invisible in the dark hallway.

“Goodnight, Malfoy,” she whispered back, turning her focus and attention to grasping the rungs of the ladder in front of her.

Notes:

Thank you all for the continued support! Now we are fully in Dramione land and I couldn't be happier to be here.

Thank you betas for your love and attention to this project: lauraloveschristmas, bookishteddy, and miiisterbear.

Chapter 18: Chapter 18

Notes:

**Mild NSFW content in this chapter**

By mid-morning, it was obvious to Hermione that the entirety of her day was going to be spent in the company of an overly enthusiastic Pansy. From the moment Hermione had returned from her run, Pansy had made it explicitly clear that this was a fancy affair and Hermione should be thrilled to spend the day in preparation for said event. It was remarkable how Pansy, who spent her days on her hands and knees in the dirt, could almost immediately transform into the persona of a young heiress who occupied her time concerned with appearance and social status.

From what Neville had explained over coffee that morning, the party was an annual event at the Casa de redenzione. Apparently, guests reserved rooms a year in advance to ensure their presence at the gala. The general theme of the event was a nostalgic homage to the opulence of the wizarding world in the 1950s, and the music, food, and ambience were all drawn from that era. Given the age of the guests attending the event, it likely served as a reminder of more youthful times.

Hermione had learned since arriving in Italy that it was usually easier to go along with Pansy’s whims than to fight her, and so she found herself freshly bathed and sitting at the counter while Pansy instructed her to eat the simple lunch as quickly as possible. Luna had also been absorbed into Pansy’s frenzied orbit, and she sat beside Hermione looking rather content with the entire situation.

“Right. Eat up. We need to meet Blaise at the estate at half past.” Pansy bustled around the kitchen, shoving clean dishes back in their proper place with less attention to their care than was typical. “Where in the bloody hell is Theo?”

Pounding footsteps coming down the stairs signaled his arrival. He ran into the kitchen, his curls bouncing with each step. Theo plucked a plum from the basket on the counter, sinking his teeth into the fruit. Pulling his bite off with an exaggerated slurp, he flashed his teeth at the witches who were staring at him. “Ready?”

Pansy grimaced. “Gross.”

“I would say that Theo just demonstrated the only proper way to consume a plum,” Luna mused.

“Is there any particular reason that we’re going to begin the suffering of preparing for an event that is still half a day away?” Hermione asked, unable to imagine what could possibly take up that much time. Even in her preparation for the Yule Ball, she had spent under two hours on her appearance.

The only response she got from Pansy was a raised eyebrow and an eye roll as the witch turned and walked out of the kitchen with Theo close on her heels.

Hermione looked over at Luna. “What did I say?”

Luna smiled and tucked a wayward curl behind Hermione’s ear. “This is supposed to be fun. For Pansy, all of this is fun. It’s a big deal that she gets this day to call upon the joys of her childhood and live in a bit of a fantasy. It’s also rather kind of her to include you in it.” Luna paused, seeming to turn her attention inward as her eyes drifted shut. When her eyes blinked back open suddenly, Hermione jumped in her seat. “Women have a rather nasty habit of judging each other for the things that bring us joy. Pansy’s love of finery is no different than your love of books, so it is rather hypocritical of you to judge her for that.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but then she stopped to consider Luna’s words. Of course there was truth behind them. She wondered if she would ever stop being surprised by Luna’s wisdom.

Hermione had continued to carry her resentment of witches who were more inclined towards fashion and physical beauty into adulthood, where she was confronted by the meticulously put together witches in the Ministry who wore perfectly tailored robes and had mastered beauty charms. Rather than attempt to compete with them, Hermione had done everything in her power to create the image of an intelligent woman who did not have the time or energy to waste on her physical appearance. Unfortunately, under the facade of indifference, Hermione was still haunted with lingering insecurity. And, as Luna pointed out, that insecurity seemed to manifest in her being overly critical of those who were drawn to stereotypically feminine pursuits like fashion and beauty.

Glancing up at Luna, Hermione let out a resigned sigh. “Am I a bitch?” she asked quietly.

Luna laughed, a bright sound that filled the room. “Only sometimes. If it helps, it never seems intentional.” Popping a green grape from her plate into her mouth, the blonde witch extended a hand to Hermione. “Allowing yourself to enjoy this won’t make your brains any less important.”

Letting herself laugh, Hermione accepted the offered hand and followed Luna outside, where they met Pansy and Theo. She offered Pansy a small smile, and she felt her shoulders relax when it was returned. Led by Pansy, the group began to walk toward the main estate.

As they walked, Hermione caught herself looking for a flash of blonde hair in the sun; she hadn’t seen Draco all day and couldn’t help looking for him. Of course her coffee had been waiting for her after her run, but she had been hoping to see him. After the previous night… She blushed as she thought back on her rather foolish behavior. Being high had not affected her like she expected. She was anticipating something between Ginny’s extreme hunger and Harry’s blissful stupor, but what she had experienced was different. Her mind had quieted, and she’d felt incredibly content to do absolutely nothing but sit and observe the night that surrounded her. Certainly, Draco’s presence had been a comfort, but she had felt unapologetic in her simple enjoyment of the evening.

A beaming Blaise greeted them as they entered the brightly lit foyer. After a round of hugs, he led them towards a richly carpeted staircase. As they went up the two flights of stairs, Hermione looked in awe at the magical paintings that lined the walls; the artwork ranged from chatty portraits to abstract swatches of color that undulated on the canvas.

When they reached the top of the stairs, they followed Blaise down a hallway with dark wooden floors and deep green wallpaper. At the end of the hall, Blaise opened a heavy wooden door with a flick of his wand, and they all followed him in.

The room was an opulent bedroom with a massive mahogany bed placed under a green silk canopy. Gold trim bordered the tall windows, and the elegant furniture that filled the room had matching gold accents. Two sets of tall doors along one wall seemed to lead elsewhere.

Blaise immediately took command of the small group. “Ladies and Theo, please sit.” Hermione followed Pansy and Luna who flopped down on the bed as though this was a place that was familiar to them. Theo, in an unsurprising display, took a running leap onto the bed, jostling the rest of them who were already sitting.

Clearing his throat loudly, Blaise continued. “Welcome to the lair of the late Lady Zabini, who, in spite of her many shortcomings, had a fucking brilliant closet.”

Pansy let out a loud whistle, while Luna clapped her hands together. Hermione watched as Blaise walked over to one of the sets of doors and pulled them open dramatically. Pansy started to jump up, but Blaise stopped her with a raised hand. “Before we begin…” He moved over to a vanity where a collection of bottles were arranged next to thin champagne flutes. “Don’t worry, be bloody ecstatic, and get thoroughly pissed!”

The next few minutes passed in a blur of activity: Theo distributed overflowing glasses of champagne, and Pansy ushered them all into the room which turned out to be a closet that was about the size of the cottage living area. Cushioned benches were quickly transformed into chairs, and Hermione found herself sipping champagne from the comfort of an overstuffed armchair, watching as Blaise and Pansy began to look through the seemingly endless rack of gowns.

What followed was a whirlwind of fabric and color. Pansy almost immediately found a dress that Luna decided to wear that evening, and Hermione had to admit that it was perfect. It had a pale blue bodice of almost-sheer chiffon with structured boning that accentuated her slender frame and small breasts. Straps of the same fabric tied on her shoulders, and the wide skirt swept down to the floor. What made the dress unique were the stunningly realistic flowers and leaves that were sewn across the bodice and down the skirt.

Pansy found her own dress just as quickly. A deep burgundy silk gown with thin straps, a plunging neckline that somehow managed to be tasteful, and a long skirt with a thigh high slit on one side. It was the perfect combination of sinful appeal and elegance. Unfortunately, once Luna and Pansy found their gowns, their attention turned to Hermione.

Looking her up and down, Pansy gave her a small frown. “I’ve noticed that you always wear long sleeves.”

The room went quiet in the wake of her question, and Hermione felt her cheeks flush. “Yes, I would prefer to wear long sleeves.”

She glanced up to gauge Pansy’s reaction, and was relieved when the witch simply nodded. “And how do you feel about cleavage?”

Immediately, the purple scar that rose between her breasts came to mind. Taking a long sip of champagne, Hermione shook her head. “I’d rather not.”

Again, Pansy simply nodded. “And your back?”

Hermione paused to consider, coming to the conclusion that she had no reason to hide her back. “That’s fine,” she answered.

Pansy turned back to the rack of gowns, flanked by Luna on one side and Blaise on the other.

“Dark green would bring out her eyes…” Pansy started.

Blaise interrupted. “Good luck getting the Lion Princess to wear that color.”

“What about gold?” Luna’s voice interjected.

“Yes! Lovegood, you brilliant and beautiful witch.” Pansy leaned over and gave Luna a chaste kiss on the cheek. Hermione noticed that Luna’s skin flushed pink under the attention.

“I’ve got it.”

Blaise stepped back, turning to face Hermione with an armful of black fabric that glittered gold when it moved. He placed it on her lap with a huge grin on his face. “Go on, Granger. Try it on.”

_________________________________

 

Hermione was well on the way to feeling the buzz of the champagne when she stepped in front of the full-length mirror that hung on the wall to examine the finished product. Only two hours had passed since Blaise gave her the dress, and since then she had been lost in a whirlwind of grooming and beauty products. However, when she saw her reflection, her breath caught in her throat.

She looked beautiful. Well and truly beautiful. The black gown perfectly fit her body, accentuating the lines of her collar bones and her slender waist. Her hair was braided in a crown around her head, and the curls that naturally escaped the braid fell effortlessly. The makeup Luna had chosen was just subtle enough to suit her, while still matching the elegance of her gown. Gold dusted her eyelids and cheekbones, and the berry tint to her lips was barely noticeable. The charm to darken and lengthen her eyelashes accentuated the gold in her eyes.

Pansy appeared over her shoulder, looking smug and equally stunning in her dress. “Damn, Granger. We may make a proper witch out of you yet,” she smirked as she dodged Hermione’s playful swat.

Turning away from the mirror, she caught grey eyes from across the room. She must have missed him when he arrived, but her mouth went immediately dry at the sight of Draco in perfectly tailored dark grey dress robes. His hair was still pulled back in a bun, but under the exterior of sun-darkened skin there was a glimmer of the carefully polished Pureblood she’d grown up with.

She flushed under his unwavering gaze, trying to quiet her heartbeat as she resisted the urge to move toward him, to seek the ease she’d felt last night when their bodies innocently touched. It was a foreign feeling, the desire to touch someone and be physically close to them.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the loud ringing of Theo hitting his wand against his glass. Her eyes turned to the wizard who had found a blazer covered in fuschia sequins to pair with his black slacks and black button up. Blaise wore black dress robes complete with an emerald green silk scarf tied around his neck, while Neville had chosen royal blue dress robes paired with a simple linen shirt. Collectively, the wizards in the group cut a fine picture.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Theo began, immediately drowning out any other conversations in the room. “It is time for the most anticipated point in our evening: the outlining of the rules.”

His announcement was met with cheers.

“Does anyone present wish to submit a rule for our evening?” He continued, looking around the room.

“I would like to propose a rule!” Luna loudly announced. “Anytime a woman asks to touch Draco’s hair, we all drink.”

The room devolved into laughter, while Draco glared at the blonde witch who looked very pleased with herself. Hermione couldn’t help but smile at the image of elderly women preening over Draco’s hair.

“Beautiful, Lovegood.” Theo responded. “Other rules?”

“Anytime someone asks you to repeat yourself, or says something like ‘what’ or ‘eh,’ that person has to drink.” Neville’s addition was met with agreeing nods.

“When Blaise flirts with Andromeda, we all drink,” Draco added in his deep voice.

Blaise scowled at his friend. “But, if Andromeda flirts back, you all finish your drinks!”

Theo chuckled. “Seems fair.” Hermione noticed he was scribbling with a quill on a small piece of parchment. “We need a few more.”

Neville gave Hermione a quick glance as a delighted smile spread over his face. “Anytime someone asks if Hermione is actually Hermione Granger, we all drink.”

Rolling her eyes, she stuck her tongue out at Neville, who simply grinned back.

Clearing her throat, Hermione raised her hand, almost unaware of the action. Immediately, the rest of her companions devolved into laughter at her slip up. She felt herself flush as she brushed off the joke at her expense.

“Okay,” she called out over the waning laughter. “What if everyone drinks anytime someone starts a phrase with ‘When I was young…?’”

“Perfection, Granger.” Theo offered her a nod. “And those, ladies and gentlemen, are our rules.” Pulling his wand from his pocket, he waved it at the slip of parchment. Perfectly replicated copies of the paper floated to each of them, and upon a closer look, Hermione could see the rules listed in Theo’s sharp script.

“As ole Dumby would say,” Pansy started. “Let the feast begin!”

As a group, they began the journey back downstairs. Hermione was relieved that the pair of shoes Pansy had found to accompany her dress were comfortable and easy to walk in. Her eyes drifted to Theo and Neville, who walked hand in hand. She bit back a smile as Theo leaned his head in to press a gentle kiss to Neville’s neck. In response, the taller wizard turned, dropping a kiss among the messy curls that covered the crown of his boyfriend’s head.

“They are rather painfully adorable together.”

She turned to look up at Draco, who had hung back to walk next to her. His eyes were still fixed on the couple, a small smile toying in the corner of his mouth. Without much thought, Hermione moved slightly closer to him so that their arms brushed as their steps continued down the hall.

“They remind me a bit of Harry and Ginny in that way,” Hermione finally replied. She decided to voice a question that had been living with her since she’d arrived in Italy. “How do you think they are so happy? Can it really be that easy?”

They lagged behind the rest of the group who seemed eager to get downstairs to the festivities. For a moment, the only sounds were the echoing of the laughter and voices further down the hall, and subtle swishing of their fabric-covered arms brushing with each of their steps.

“I think they decided to be happy.” Draco’s words were quiet, almost muffled by the walls that surrounded them.

Hermione nodded. His words made sense. She considered the idea that happiness was a decision, that after everything their life had taken from them, Theo and Neville woke up each morning and made the decision to find happiness on that day, and with each other.

She felt the brush of skin against her hand. Unsure of whether it was accidental or intentional, Hermione reached out hesitantly, searching for the touch. Her breathing stilled when her fingers slipped seamlessly into a larger hand.

“You look beautiful tonight, Granger.” His breath rustled the stray curls that fell down her neck.

She didn’t turn to look at him, couldn’t face him like this, when she replied. “Grey suits you, Malfoy.”

They continued in silence as they began to walk down the stairs. Again, Hermione found herself relishing her proximity to the wizard, the experience of being in his immediate orbit. She had wondered, in the wake of her confession over lunch, what would happen next. This was all unknown to her, the tentative steps forward, the not knowing when and where and how things would progress. But, she was trying. She was trying to favor the voice in her head that encouraged her to dive into the unknown rather than acquiescing to the need for concrete certainty that had held her in a rigid pattern for so many years.

When they reached the foyer, Hermione was unprepared for the sight that met her eyes. Magical chandeliers hovered close to the ceiling, illuminating the open space with bright, golden light. The tall windows and doors that led to the back patio were all opened, allowing the night air to fill the room. Floating trays held champagne flutes and horderves, and flew among the crowd of guests that filled the space. An enchanted gramophone stood in one corner, and a crooning female voice singing jazz filtered into the backdrop.

Hermione was immediately struck by the age of the crowd. Sure, she had witnessed the estate guests on multiple occasions, but seeing the room full of witches and wizards who were at least in their nineties reminded her of the intention and purpose of the Casa de redenzione. Andromeda held court in the center of the room in a sparkling purple gown that flattered her form.

A calloused palm against the bare skin of her back sent a shiver of anticipation through her body. She leaned back into him, unable to resist the appeal of his touch. With a gentle increase of pressure, he led them into the crowd.

________________________________

 

By the time the first hour had passed, Hermione had learned the pattern of the party. While the room was large, she found it was easy to pick out the younger cottage residents among the older guests. She knew to keep an eye out for the cues of their game, and quickly her body warmed with the buzz of alcohol.

The rules turned out to be brilliant. She was amazed at how many women were drawn to Draco’s hair, and it was made all the more entertaining by the fact that they were all quite small and could have been his grandmother. Many even kindly requested that he bow down so they could more easily get their hands on his hair. The frequency that they were all asked to repeat themselves in their conversations with the guests became so humorous that Hermione was in an almost constant state of laughter.

Between all of the rules, they were rapidly drinking champagne. Hermione made a mental note to introduce something like this at the myriad of Ministry galas she had to attend with Harry and Ron. She was having an incredible time. She couldn’t recall ever enjoying a formal event this much. Perhaps it was the levity brought about by the champagne bubbles, or the frequent presence of Draco’s large hand on her back, or the fact that she was in the company of people she had come to regard as close friends, but she was almost giddy with joy.

The food was exceptional, and she was grateful for the nourishment to slow down the effect of the champagne. She spent a quarter hour with Pansy, traveling around the room in an attempt to sample each tray. Pansy gave a critical review of each culinary offering, which Hermione found both educational and entertaining.

Hermione found that the guests were wonderfully entertaining conversationalists as well. She found herself engaged in a discussion with Kentworth Dunlap, a magizoologist who had spent ten years in the Nile river communing with local merpeople. At another point, she met the witch who had first advocated for female participation in the sport of Quidditch. Although completely indifferent about the sport, Hermione was fascinated to learn more about how sexism had permeated the primary entertainment of the wizarding world.

After Andromeda gave a beautiful speech about peace, unity, and celebration, the floor was opened up to dancing. Hermione was reminded of the Yule Ball, and the rather formal waltzes they had been forced to learn under McGonagall's tutelage.

For the first couple of dances, Hermione watched from the side as old couples moved together, showing evidence of the beauty of time and familiarity in each other’s arms. She felt her eyes prick with unshed tears as she thought of her parents, remembering how her father would pull her mother into his arms as the Beach Boys album played ‘God Only Knows.’

However, she was soon joined by Neville who, based on the flush of his cheeks and slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, was approaching drunkenness. When he asked her to dance, she couldn’t say no.

It was easy to dance with Neville. He was a proficient and confident dancer who took his job as leader and guide very seriously. Hermione simply had to relax in his arms and let him lead, and anyone from the outside would recognize their movements as dancing. Hermione knew, of course, that her footwork was abysmal, and it was a testament to Neville’s skill that her toes remained unbroken.

After Neville, it was Blaise, who was a much more creative and exuberant dancer, whirling her about the floor in twirls and dips and spins that left Hermione breathless and slightly nauseous. When the song was finally concluded, she thanked him profusely before seeking out a tray of chilled champagne to quench her thirst. As she drained the last drop, she turned back to the dance floor.

The next song was slow and dramatic, and she watched as Blaise led a seemingly indifferent Andromeda to the dance floor. She let out a quiet laugh as she watched the wizard bow deeply before cautiously taking the formidable witch into his arms. Nearby, Theo and Neville were completely wrapped up in each other’s arms, oblivious to the world around them.

When she turned to search the crowd, she knew exactly who she was looking for. She found him almost immediately, his expression focused as he conversed with a much shorter wizard. Hermione took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, and moved to close the distance between them. She moved with purpose, dodging anyone who stood between them, until she came to a stop in front of him and his companion.

“Excuse me.” Hermione smiled apologetically at the older wizard who gave her a perplexed glance. “May I please borrow your companion for a dance?”

The wizard gave a very formal bow, gesturing to the much taller young man who stood next to him.

Hermione turned to face the companion in question, grateful to the champagne for quieting her nerves. “Malfoy, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

Draco looked down at her, and she could have sworn that her heart stopped beating at the sight of him smiling at her. It was one of those smiles that only comes with a laugh, that was so open and real, and Hermione felt the gravity of the fact that that smile was directed at her. His eyes were bright as he bowed his head and offered her his arm. Once she took it, he led them both to the dance floor.

When they joined the dancing couples scattered around the room, Draco pulled her in closer to him. His hands came to rest on her hips, and she reached up to place her hands on his shoulders. The music was slow enough that all they did was step back and forth, moving quietly together.

It was different to be close to him like this, under the bright lights of the chandeliers with the sounds of conversations surrounding them. It felt more intimate, somehow, to be close enough to smell the champagne on his breath, to see the barely-there fuzz of hair that lined his upper lip and the tiny scar that passed through his left eyebrow. The relaxed smile that didn’t seem to leave his face told her that he wasn’t immune to the quantity they had been drinking that night.

When his right hand wrapped around behind her to touch the bare skin of her lower back, she moved closer to him. When his left hand clasped her right hand, she leaned further into his side. He was all around her now; her body was firmly pressed against his torso, while his right leg had somehow come shifted to press between her legs. When the broadness of his thigh met her centre, a sharp intake of breath escaped her lips and her eyes darted up to meet his.

He met her gaze with unapologetic heat. She watched, transfixed, as his tongue lazily traced his upper lip. The size of his pupils gave no doubt as to his current intentions. His leg shifted slightly as they danced, creating friction against her body that she was unprepared for. She tried to steady her breathing, to remain unphased, but she couldn’t resist the building heat in her body that began in her lower abdomen and spread across her skin.

When his head dipped toward her, she shifted towards him. Her eyes zeroed in on the softness of his lips as they grew closer. At the last second, he instead brought his mouth to the skin below her ear. She couldn’t help but whimper as his lips met her skin in a barely-there kiss.

The sudden absence of his mouth startled her into looking up at him. Seeing that he was looking at something across the room, she turned to see what had stolen his attention. Blaise was exuberantly waving at them from the edge of the room.

Next thing she knew Draco was pulling them both across the room to where Blaise was waiting. When they reached the wizard, he glanced down at their clasped hands for a moment before giving them a knowing look.

“Is it time?” Draco asked, not relinquishing his tight hold on Hermione’s hand.

“You bloody know it,” Blaise replied, the haze in his eyes indicative of his current level of intoxication.

He led them out of the ballroom and back to the staircase they’d gone up earlier. Once they were upstairs, Blaise turned down a different hallway. The noise from the party faded, but was replaced by muffled laughter that sounded close.

Blaise pulled open a nondescript door, revealing a large and opulently decorated parlour. Currently, Theo and Neville shared a loveseat, while Pansy and Luna sprawled in two armchairs. Everyone looked thoroughly pissed.

“Finallyyyyy,” Pansy drawled, her glass of champagne dangling empty from her fingertips.

Theo jumped up to his feet, bending to give Neville a deep kiss before looking back at the room. “Alright, let’s do it.”

Draco tugged Hermione to an empty chair, gesturing for her to sit. When she raised an eyebrow in question, he just gave her a small smile. “Sit back and enjoy the chaos, Granger.” With a sloppy wink, he pulled off his outer robes, leaving him in a starched white collared shirt and grey slacks.

His slow walk allowed Hermione plenty of time to stare unabashedly at the way his slacks perfectly outlined his arse. She knew her guard was lowered from the drink, but she couldn’t summon the energy to care. The wizard had a fucking beautiful arse, and she intended to appreciate it.

When Draco reached his destination on the other side of the room, Hermione watched as he slid onto the wooden bench of a gleaming grand piano pushed to one side of the room. Glancing around, she was shocked to see Theo holding an acoustic guitar, Pansy cleaning a silver flute, and Blaise tuning a violin with practiced precision.

“What the fuck am I looking at?” she asked the room.

Neville let out a giggle that was so contrary to his masculine bearded persona that Hermione had to laugh in response. “It’s a rich Pureblood thing. They all grew up learning to play traditional music, and although they apparently hated it, they sound bloody incredible when they play.”

Looking back at them, her eyes automatically slid to where Draco was sitting at the piano, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his long fingers silently tracing the keys. The air gradually filled with soft musical notes, as each of them tuned and warmed up their instruments.

“The usual?” Pansy called out, looking at the others. When they all replied with nods, they began.

It was a somber piece that reminded Hermione of the Muggle classical music that her grandmother had listened to when she was younger. It moved from slower, more emotion-evoking themes to sections where the notes moved in a chaotic cacophony of noise. The instruments blended together beautifully in harmony, each one taking a turn with the melody before passing it along to the next.

At the piano, Draco’s hands danced, smoothly transitioning from one chord to the next. There was a focused expression on his face that Hermione had only glimpsed briefly on the rare occasion that she’d seen him reading. His brow was slightly furrowed, and she felt a distinct urge to smooth the worried line with her thumb.

The song ended in a dramatic chord progression that crescendoed to fill every corner of the parlour. After the notes faded to silence, Hermione, Neville, and Luna’s applause and cheers echoed as the Slytherins bowed.

Before anyone could move, Theo set the guitar carefully down beside his chair and darted into the middle of the room, holding up his hands for quiet.

“I…” he started, an uncharacteristic hesitancy evident in his voice. “I have something that I would like to say.” When the room was quiet, he continued. “I keep waiting for the perfect time to do this, but honestly I don’t think that any moment in this flawed world could possibly be perfect enough to live up to my ideal. I want it to be perfect because...you deserve everything, Neville, and I wake up every morning in awe of the fact that you continue to choose me. You are everything to me, and I think that I’m the luckiest bloke in the entire world. I know that I’m an idiot, but I love you and I’m smart enough to know happiness when it shows up in my life.” His voice cracked on the last words. There was a moment of quiet as he fumbled inside of his blazer before he pulled out a small wooden box. A few steps brought him directly in front of Neville, who sat on the loveseat with tears streaming down his cheeks and eyes for no one but the wizard standing before him. When Theo lowered to one knee on the carpet, one of Neville’s tattooed hands reached out to cradle Theo’s cheek.

“Fuck, Theo, I love you so much,” Neville choked out.

Theo choked out a sob. “Shut up and let me finish.”

Neville laughed and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, giving Theo a nod.

The kneeling wizard opened the box, revealing a simple wooden ring. “Neville Longbottom, I didn’t know that life could be this good before I met you. Will you do me the honor of being my husband?”

Neville nodded furiously, a beaming smile shining through the tears that still streaked down his face.

Theo fumbled as he slid the ring onto Neville’s left hand, but as soon as the ring was in place, Neville pulled his fiance onto his lap, cradling his face in his hands and peppering his face with kisses as their tears and whispers mingled.

Hermione wiped a tear from her cheek, the joy she felt for the two wizards overwhelming her. Glancing away from the couple to give them a moment of privacy, Hermione saw that the others were just as affected as she was. Pansy and Blaise both were crying openly, while a quick look at Draco showed that he was blinking furiously and trying to sniff inconspicuously.

“He said yes!” Theo’s tearful proclamation to the rest of the room cued a series of cheers, congratulations and embraces. At Blaise’s urging, he, Theo, and Draco went on a mission to find more champagne to accompany their celebration.

When Neville got up and approached Hermione, she rushed to meet him in an embrace. His body shook with sobs as she gave him gentle pats on the back and led them over to the loveseat. Gently, she urged him to sit down, perching on the cushion next to him.

“Hermione, I just… How can I feel this much love for one person? How is it possible?” The words came out between sobs, and Hermione couldn’t help but smile at one of her oldest friends. “Theo’s so bloody fit,” Neville continued. “What do you think he sees in a bloke like me?”

“Neville Longbottom, you are a very handsome wizard,” Hermione scolded. She softened, reaching out to grasp one of Neville’s hands. “You deserve all of the happiness in the world. This is what we fought for; the right to be happy and fall in love and live our lives as we see fit.”

Her friend's only response was to pull her into another hug. Vaguely, Hermione wondered if it was the champagne that was increasing her tolerance for physical affection, but she directed her attention to returning the embrace.

________________________________

 

When the wizards returned with more champagne, Pansy found a small wireless that she tuned to a channel that played popular wizarding music. Soon, they were all dancing and passing the bottles among themselves, not bothering with glasses.

Blaise had disappeared, claiming to have “business to attend to.” Theo and Neville couldn't keep their hands to themselves, and their dancing was rapidly becoming more and more indecent. Of course, Hermione couldn’t exactly claim innocence, as her dancing with Draco was becoming increasingly familiar as they had more to drink. Although they had started dancing in a position reminiscent of their dance earlier in the evening, at some point Draco had turned her around, pressing himself against her back as he held her tightly against him with a hand on her hip. Vaguely, she noticed some of the tight control she’d come to associate with the blonde wizard fading as the night continued. His cheeks were flushed, his hands more commanding in their touches, and any time she met his eyes the carefully constructed walls that typically shielded his thoughts from the world fell incrementally.

From this new position, Hermione could survey the room again, although she had to blink a few times in order to correct the way the room tilted in her vision. She felt her body heat at the sight of Neville, who had backed Theo up against a wall in one corner, paying very close attention to the wizard’s long neck as his hips not at all subtly canted forward repeatedly. Moving on, Hermione noticed Luna and Pansy dancing, noting that their position was very, very similar to how she and Draco were currently dancing. Both witches were tall, but Luna was taller, and Hermione cocked her head to the side as she noticed the way Luna’s head rested on Pansy’s shoulder as her long, pale fingers drew small circles on the dark-haired witch’s stomach.

Hermione let out a small gasp as she turned in Draco’s arms, bringing both hands up to pull his face down to eye level.

“Can you keep a secret?” Her whisper maybe wasn’t as quiet as she intended, but to his credit, the wizard whose face she held blinked a few times before nodding his head vigorously.

She giggled. Somewhere, beyond the haze that currently filled her brain, her mind reminded her that Hermione Granger was an intelligent witch who did not behave in such foolish ways. However, she didn’t hesitate to pull Draco’s face even closer before putting her mouth right next to his ear. “Luna is a witch,” she whispered. Pulling back to gauge his reaction, she was disappointed to see a puzzled look on his face.

His breath warmed her lips when he whispered back, “Yes, Granger, I know that Luna is a witch.”

Her eyes widened. “Yes, but did you know that Pansy is interested in witches, and Luna is a witch!” She tried to keep her voice as quiet as possible.

Now Draco’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You, Miss Granger, are a clever witch,” he said with a grin, the silver in his eyes bright and swirling.

It was a combination of his words, the memory of his touches throughout the evening, the openness in his face, and the way her body ached for him that prompted her next words. Still holding his face between her smaller hands, she moved close to him, close enough that their foreheads touched and their soft breaths mingled.

“Let’s get out of here,” she whispered into the sliver of space between them.

Rather than wait for his reply, she turned away from him and walked towards the door. When it shut behind her, she turned to walk down the hallway, distantly aware that the ceramic sconces that had previously filled the space with light were dimmed, leaving the hall bathed in shadow.

He will come, she told herself.

A hand at her wrist stopped her, and she turned back just in time to meet a hard chest as it pushed her against one of the walls. She gasped as larged hands came up to hold her hips still as a blonde head dipped to rest against her forehead. Her heart pounded in her chest, waiting for the dam to burst as her eyes drank in his parted lips and the pulsing muscle in his neck. Slowly, almost hesitantly, Hermione reached a hand up to touch Draco’s face. When their skin met, he let out a shaky groan, and tilted his head to lean into her palm. She let her thumb slide over the smooth skin of his cheek as her hand slid back and into his hair.

When she applied gentle pressure to the back of his head, the constraint that had held him in place broke. He captured her mouth in a kiss, immediately nipping at her lower lip with his teeth and demanding entry with his tongue. His body mirrored the intensity of his mouth, as his hips surged forward, immediately giving away the hardened length of his cock that pushed unmistakably into her thigh.

The arousal that had smoldered in Hermione all evening returned with relentless force as she surrendered completely to Draco’s mouth, responding to each and every movement with her lips, teeth, and tongue. Her keening moan at the feeling of his considerable length against her body was eagerly swallowed, as her own hips sought relief for the aching between her legs. When, for the second time that night, she felt the now recognizable trouser-covered thigh slip between her legs, she unabashedly shifted so that she could roll her hips against the solid muscle. Each time his leg met the apex of her thighs, a shuddering cry escaped her, only to be immediately drowned out by the continued attention from Draco’s mouth.

The fire between them was building. She had pulled his hair loose, and her fingers now tangled in the soft blonde locks. His mouth had left hers to trace kisses and bits down the column of her neck, all while his hips continued to seek friction against her thigh.

Hermione was overwhelmed with sensation, certain that the evidence of her arousal was close to soaking through the thick velvet of her gown. Her skin ached to be touched everywhere, ached to feel his skin against hers, beyond the slight relief his hands and mouth were providing. Now that his mouth was occupied elsewhere, her head fell back against the wall. The cries that had previously been muffled by Draco’s kisses now echoed in the empty hallway, ringing out as her shameless rutting against his leg brought her closer to relief.

“Fuck,” Draco’s voice ground out between his teeth as his lips stilled against his neck. His hips slowed, and his body shifted until his hardened cock slipped into the space his thigh had just vacated. With a thrust, his cloth covered erection slid against the velvet that covered her cunt, perfectly aligned with her aching clit.

Hermione’s eyes fluttered closed at the throbbing pleasure his movement brought, and the hiss that escaped her lips combined with his feral moan. She waited, poised, for him to move again, but his body remained still.

Her eyes opened, finding Draco’s head bowed, the tension in his body evident in the straining of the tendons in his neck. His eyes rose to meet hers, and she wasn’t surprised to find them darkened with want.

She struggled to take a deep breath, struggled to keep her hips from seeking contact again. “Please, Malfoy…” she whispered.

A pained groan escaped his chest. “Granger, I have worked for every second of every day for the past three years to become a better man, but right now I want nothing more than to fuck you until you don’t remember your own name.” He paused, his chest heaving with the effort to retain control. “But not tonight. When I do fuck you, it will be in a proper bed. We will both be sober and wanting, and I will do everything within my body’s power to make sure that it is the best you’ve ever had.”

Draco pushed off the wall, putting space between the two of them. Her body immediately felt the absence of his weight, but she barely noticed as his words sunk in, her mouth hanging open as she watched him, sure that the lust his words fueled in her body was clearly written across her face.

A hand extended toward her, a hand that she now knew so well, knew with her eyes closed. She looked up at him, but his face was cast in shadow, making his expression unreadable. Reaching out, she thread her fingers through his, letting him pull her up from where she leaned against the wall.

Silently, he led her back down the hall toward the staircase. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they passed through the foyer, where they walked hand in hand through the few lingering guests who were still dancing or had fallen asleep on a chair. One wizard seemed to be chasing something invisible along the floor, if his sporadic crawling was any indication.

When they got outside, the night was quiet. It was obviously well past midnight based on the position of the waning moon, and the warmth of evening was slowly being replaced by the crisp cool of the early morning. Unconscious of her movement, Hermione walked closer to Draco, seeking warmth from his body. In response, he let go of his hand, instead reaching his arm up to wrap around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him as they walked together.

She couldn’t help but smile as she imagined the image they must make; a tall, handsome wizard with mussed blonde hair holding the tiny, gown-clad witch close to his side. Again, Hermione found herself wondering why it was so different with him; why his touch didn’t summon fear or claustrophobia, instead instilling a feeling of safety and warmth.

Draco’s footsteps faltered and he brought them to a stop, putting a finger over his lips to gesture for silence. As soon as they stopped, Hermione could hear it; the unmistakable sounds of an enthusiastic coupling filled the air around them. Looking up at Draco, she saw him gesture off to their right. Hermione immediately recognized the grassy meadow where she’d watched Draco and Teddy playing together, but, under the light of the moon, the activities currently taking place were clearly illuminated.

The mahogany-skinned body of a naked Blaise Zabini currently thrust down into what appeared to be a woman, based upon the long, dark hair that was barely visible from where they stood. Upon closer look, the woman’s glittering purple gown was spread underneath the two naked bodies. Impassioned cries from both of them rang out into the night.

Hermione turned to Draco, a shocked smile on her face. “Is that…”

“Please don’t finish that sentence, Granger.” Draco looked queasy as he led them away, leaving the couple to their uninterrupted fun.

Covering her mouth with one hand, she tried to stifle her laughter, which only earned her another mortified look from Draco. “Oh come on, Malfoy, you might finally have a new uncle,” she teased.

“Shut it, witch,” he retorted, pulling her closer to his body. She turned her face into his shirt, taking a deep inhale of his cedar scent, a small smile playing on her lips when she felt him brush the crown of her head in a soft kiss.

Notes:

Whew this chapter was a marathon, but also so much fun to write. This chapter has been in my head since I first began writing, and it is incredible that it is now immortalized in writing.
Thank you all for the continued comments and support. You fill my heart with SO MUCH joy :)

Thank you betas: lauraloveschristmas, bookishteddy, and miiisterbear. Your attention to detail and nuance give this story so so much. It wouldn't be possible without you.

Chapter 19: Chapter 19

Notes:

**Mild NSFW content ahead**

When her wand began to vibrate from where she’d stashed it under her pillow, Hermione cursed the foresight of her drunken self. Of course, after a night like the previous one, it would have been a miracle if she’d woken naturally before dawn, and she could vaguely remember setting the wand alarm charm in her final hazy moments before collapsing into bed.

Her body protested loudly when she tried to move. Rather than the consistent muscle soreness that she’d grown accustomed to since beginning to run again, this was the pain that came in the wake of excessive drinking, especially drinking copious amounts of champagne. The throbbing of her head and the churning in her stomach were paired with a deep body ache.

With an audible groan, Hermione dragged herself to her feet, not bothering to change out of her sleep shorts and t-shirt before lowering herself down the ladder. Her head was spinning as she walked down the hallway and then sped up, trying to close the distance between herself and relief.

Unsurprisingly, the bathroom was empty, and she was able to uncork and down the entirety of a bottle of hangover potion, successfully quelling the need to vomit. As she felt the potion’s effects course through her body, she turned to the mirror. Now that her head wasn’t in danger of exploding, she could begin to piece together the events of the last twenty four hours.

There had been lots of champagne. That she remembered clearly. There was the black gown that glittered gold in the light, which now was draped over the small desk chair back in her room. Even when intoxicated, Hermione knew to treat the garment with the care and respect it deserved. Her hair was still braided in a crown, but now the escaped curls made a frizzy halo that surrounded her head. Most of the makeup seemed to have rubbed off in her sleep, and any remnant of the color on her lips was long snogged off.

Snogging. There had been snogging. Lots of snogging and dancing and touching and...Hermione’s face flushed as the memories from the hallway flooded her, as the pieces of the night all fell into place and created a picture that she couldn’t begin to explain.

After her conversation with Draco, the conversation when she’d told him that she wanted to explore the possibility of something with him, there had been a feeling of anticipation between them; to Hermione it seemed like they were both waiting and watching, unsure of who was supposed to take the first step.

But last night, likely with the aid of the champagne, they’d gravitated toward each other, beginning with small touches and ending with Draco’s lips brushing her cheek before leaving her at the base of her ladder. It had been easy to be with him, almost too easy to enjoy the feeling of his hand on her back and the way his laughter threatened to melt her bones. Rather than avoiding his touch, Hermione had leaned into it, sought it out even, something she couldn’t recollect doing with anyone in the wake of the war.

Of course there was dancing, more touching, and while mostly innocent, it had all built to Hermione’s whispered request to leave, alone, with the blonde wizard. And once alone…

Merlin. Hermione bit her lip as she remembered the escalation of their attraction, what their bodies had clearly communicated, leaving nothing but fabric and the truth between them.

And then there were the words that Draco had whispered against her lips as his hips held her in place against the wall. No, in spite of the haze of the alcohol, there was no doubt in Hermione’s mind that the wizard hadn’t questioned if they would reach the point of having sex in the future, but saw that moment as an inevitable when.

Had he meant it? Could Draco Malfoy have actually -

“Granger.”

Hermione jumped, looking back over her shoulder to find Draco leaning heavily against the doorway. He looked more disheveled than Hermione had ever seen him, his hair sticking out from his head at odd angles, and dark bags shadowing his barely-open eyes.

Before he could open his mouth, Hermione anticipated his request, turning to retrieve another hangover potion from the cabinet. Wordlessly she handed it to him, offering a small smile as she watched him pull the cork out with his teeth and drain the contents of the vial.

With a shudder, he set the empty vial down on the counter, moving back to lean against the doorframe and letting his eyes close. Hermione, unsure of what to say, watched him.

After a few seconds, a low groan rumbled from his chest. Cracking one eye open, Draco squinted at Hermione. “Thanks.”

She nodded.

“Are you going to do the running thing this morning?”

Hermione blinked at him. “Pardon?”

She saw the skin of his neck flush, and one hand came up to run through his hair. “I was wondering if you were planning on running today.” He kept his gaze averted from her.

“Yes?” Her reply ended up sounding like a question. She couldn't understand his sudden interest in her exercise routine. Hermione, for a brief moment, considered the fact that they were currently having a conversation in the bathroom.

His slow inhale was barely audible across the small distance between them. “I was wondering, and you can absolutely say no, if I could perhaps join you. For the running.”

When he finally met her eyes, the look on his face clearly communicated that he expected her to decline his request. She gave herself a second to look at him with curiosity, trying to peel back the layers of armour he’d built up around himself. As he moved to turn away from her, she realized how her silence must have been interpreted. Hermione rushed forward, grabbing a hold of his arm before he could leave. “It’d be nice to have the company, Malfoy. Can you be ready downstairs in five minutes?”

“Of course,” he replied with a hesitant smile. A stilted silence fell over them, and Hermione looked down to where she still held his arm. She released him, moving back to place some distance between them. Glancing back up at the wizard who still stood there, he seemed to realize that it was him holding up their progress and he jumped with a small start. “Right. Five minutes.” He turned, and Hermione listened to his muffled footsteps as he retreated to the spiral stair that led to his room.

Five minutes later, Hermione and Draco stood in front of the cottage, the dawn light just beginning to stretch through the overstory. Hermione stared unabashedly at the wizard who had just joined her. Draco was wearing grey Muggle sweats low on his hips, along with a white t-shirt. His hair was pulled back from his face in the usual bun, but what Hermione couldn’t grasp were the Muggle Chuck Taylor high-tops that looked like they were a barely surviving relic from the 1970s. If it weren’t for the obvious line of his wand where it was stashed in his waistband of his sweats, Draco would have been the perfect image of a Muggle.

The wizard in question cleared his throat, making Hermione painfully aware that her staring had been anything but subtle. “So, what do we do now?” His voice had woken up slightly, although it still carried the gravel of early morning.

Hermione laughed, a quiet laugh that she didn’t second guess when it bubbled from her chest. “Now, Malfoy, we run.”

With that, she turned, and her body took over the familiar movements. Her strides lengthened and she moved from a walk to a jog. Her eyes darted to the side, where Draco was mirroring her movements. She sped up until she found the pace that she would be able to sustain for most of the run.

For a minute, Hermione just focused on the sound of their footsteps against the gravel of the path. Draco’s stride was significantly longer than hers, which meant that their feet hit the ground in a syncopated pitter-patter. Somehow, he managed to match her pace, staying directly abreast from her as they ran.

She gave him another quick look, noticing the irregular movement of his broad chest.

“Try to find a breathing rhythm,” she said between breaths. “I inhale and exhale every two steps. It helps prevent cramping and helps with stamina.”

A snorting laugh came from Draco. “I don’t...need help...with stamina…” he gasped out between shallow breaths.

Hermione rolled her eyes, laughing. “Why are all wizards the same?” She didn’t make any effort to quiet her comment.

Another laugh told her that he’d heard. But, in the silence that followed, she watched him change his breathing. Within a minute, she could see that he’d found a rhythm, and his chest now rose and fell with deep breaths every two strides.

“Do all Muggles do this?” His question broke the silence between them.

“No,” Hermione replied. They turned to follow the path that led around the side of the main estate. “Many Muggles like to exercise in an effort to look a certain way or maintain their health, but I have always run in relation to sport.” She glanced up at him before quickly looking back to the path before them. “Running has always felt good. It helps me feel more...grounded. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

“Absolutely.” He took a few breaths. “It makes more sense than you know.”

_________________________________

Half an hour later, they stumbled back into the cottage. Draco was bemoaning the horrors of Muggle design after the run in the Chucks left his feet covered in blisters. Hermione tried to keep the smile from her face as she watched the usually elegant wizard struggle up the stairs as he muttered about “bloody witches” and “if Lucius could see me now.”

Hermione waited until the wizard had showered and vacated the bathroom before taking a luxuriously long and hot shower. Once the last of the glitter had swirled down the drain, she dressed in her most comfortable knit jumper and pulled on soft athletic shorts.

When she came downstairs, a wet-haired Draco was already in the kitchen. He wore almost the exact same attire that he’d worn on their run, although it was obvious that he’d bathed and put on clean clothes. His hair was loose, a look that was rapidly becoming Hermione’s favorite.

He must have heard her approach, because he met her in the middle of the kitchen with her full cup of coffee. Their fingers met as she reached out to take the mug from him. When she started to take her coffee, he tightened his hands on the mug, keeping her in place. She looked up at him in time to see his mouth dipping down toward her. He gently nudged her head to the side with the bridge of his nose, bettering the angle for him to lay a slow kiss to the skin directly below her ear.

A shaky sigh fell from her at the feeling of his soft lips pillowed against her neck. When they retreated, she tried to move toward him. But, at the whisper of breath against the shell of her ear, Hermione stilled.

“We need to decide on some rules, Granger.” His whisper was rough, and the brushes of his lips against her skin sent chills down her spine. “I need to know how you feel about me touching and kissing you, because I would never want to do something to you that you don’t want, but dammit, after last night…” Teeth closed against her earlobe, biting gently. “Please. Just tell me how you want this to go.”

Hermione couldn’t speak in the wake of those words. She couldn’t understand how he could seamlessly move from chivalry to words that elicited the throbbing desire that was increasing in intensity between her thighs. But in the light of day, in the communal living space that they shared with four others, Hermione couldn’t simply surrender to the whims of her body.

How did she want this to go? She had accepted and even embraced the fact that she and Malfoy were set on a crash course toward each other, but as they approached their inevitable collision, she once again had to consider the implications of that outcome.

But, in this moment, what he was asking of her as his sinful mouth traced kisses up and down the column of her neck, was how she felt about him touching and kissing her. It was a smaller question that was a part of a larger puzzle, but it was a piece that she could answer with confidence.

Rather than answering with words, Hermione ducked her head down, capturing his lips with hers and pouring all of her into their kiss. Her eyes closed, and she devoted all of her attention to the give and take of their lips as their exploration of each other grew more heated. She felt the mug tugged out of her grasp, vacating the space it had occupied between their bodies.

There was something so different about kissing Draco Malfoy in the still-hesitant light of the early morning. It felt raw and naked, open and bare without the natural magic that the moonlight provided. There was nothing to hide behind now; no full moon or champagne to blame for the moment when she brought her freed hands up to tangle in his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss. When his tongue dipped between her lips and she opened herself to him without a moment’s hesitation, there was nothing to blame but their honest desire for each other.

_______________________________

 

The day passed as most lazy Sundays in the wake of a party tend to; a late brunch of full English breakfasts all around, naps scattered about through the afternoon, and an early night for most of them.

The brunch was full of rehashing the events of last night, with most of the energy and attention on Neville and Theo, who had been the last out of bed, looking thoroughly shagged and in love. They had been completely incapable of taking their hands off of each other for more than a moment. Hermione had never seen her friend like this: Neville, while full of joy and life, had always had a quietness about him that made him slightly more subdued. But the man that Hermione saw stealing a banger from his fiance’s plate was a giggling and blushing wizard who couldn’t contain his happiness.

He deserves this, she thought. After everything that he has endured and survived, this man deserves to be happy.

When Blaise joined them for brunch, Draco held back for about five minutes before launching into an interrogation of how the dark-haired wizard had finished his evening. When Blaise attempted to feign ignorance, Draco’s casual comment about a “dark arse thrusting into some witch with a purple gown” sent the entire table into hysterics. After years of the wizard's casual advances toward the older witch, the fact that she had accepted those advances was monumental news. Blaise, ever the gentleman, refused to divulge the intimate details of their “liaison,” as he so elegantly put it.

If anyone noticed a shift in the air between Hermione and Draco, no one commented on it. In the presence of their housemates, neither of them had been physically affectionate, seeming to decide without needing to speak about it that they would keep their burgeoning relationship between the two of them for the moment. Regardless of whether or not their peers noticed the change, to Hermione it was obvious. Their eyes frequently met across the table, and innocent touches as they passed each other in the kitchen carried a promise of more.

When Hermione took a blanket and book down to the meadow by the creek, she was unsurprised when the tall wizard joined her. He sprawled on his side, leaning his head on his hand while holding his novel open with the other, long legs stretched into the grass. On the other side of the blanket, Hermione lay on her stomach with her chin propped on her hands as she lost herself in a Muggle novel that she’d been saving for some time now. Neither of them interrupted the quiet.

There was a moment when her mind wandered. It was odd to be in the company of someone who did not demand her attention. Draco seemed completely content to read in her company without needing anything else from her. It was a simple thing that shouldn’t have felt so monumental, but Hermione couldn’t deny the gravity that she felt having her attention respected for the first time in her life.

Later, over a simple dinner of spaghetti bolognese and salad, Hermione was laughing at something Pansy had said, when she felt a small pang in her chest. She missed her friends. Sure, she was making lasting and meaningful friendships here, but she missed Harry and Ginny, and even missed the Ron Weasley who had been her best friend for most of her life. She would send them all letters in the upcoming week, just to check in.

When dinner finished, Hermione offered to do the dishes, and Draco was quick to volunteer to assist her. The others disappeared upstairs, and Hermione didn’t miss the wink that Luna sent to Pansy as they left the kitchen.

Left alone, they finished cleaning the kitchen in a companionable quiet. They moved easily around each other, and Hermione was reminded that Draco had been a formidable academic opponent as she watched him cast quick cleansing charms over the counters and table.

When the cleaning was complete, Draco led the way out of the back door and down to the willow. They both settled on the tabletop, their thighs brushing as their feet rested on the bench seat in front of them.

Draco moved to remove the pouches from his pocket. He looked up at her, raising an eyebrow in question.

Hermione shook her head with an apologetic smile. “As much fun as it was to try with you, I’m not sure that smoking pot is for me.”

With a low chuckle, Draco gave her a gentle nudge with his shoulder. “Fine by me, Granger. Do you mind if I…?” He held up the bags again.

“Not at all.” Hermione glanced down at where his hands had already begun the process of rolling his spliff. She noticed that it seemed to be a mindless task, that his fingers easily crumbled and twirled, and when he brought the tip of his tongue out to wet the edge of the paper, Hermione bit down on the corner of her lower lip and turned to look out into the darkness.

When the body beside her moved away, she looked over at him. Draco stood and took a few steps away before lifting his wand to light the spliff that hung between his lips. After he took a deep inhale, he exhaled, careful to blow the smoke away from her.

“I really don’t mind the smoke,” Hermione stated.

“It’s the polite thing to do,” the wizard replied. “The tobacco smoke is really quite vile.”

Shrugging, Hermione let the comment go unanswered. “Can I ask you something?”

Draco looked over at her. “Sure.”

“How do you know,” she started. “With my attacks. How do you know how to help me? No one has ever been able to do anything, but you always know exactly what to say.”

For a moment, Draco paced a straight line in front of the table, his head bent down as his bare feet brushed through the long grass. He took long drags from his spliff. When he turned to face her, his brows were furrowed and his eyes held a haunted look.

“I began suffering from anxiety attacks after I was marked. Sitting at Hogwarts, trying to complete that stupid fucking task while the lives of my family hinged on my success. I was a complete mess. Theo and Pansy were the ones who held me together. They made sure I ate, and tried to get me to sleep. That’s why I started smoking pot. But even with all of their support, neither of them could figure out what to do when I had a panic attack.” He paused to take a slow drag. “So, I started doing research. I had one of the Malfoy house elves send me any articles, magical or Muggle, that referenced anxiety or panic attacks.

“Of course it was a Muggle article that gave a comprehensive explanation of anxiety attacks and ways to prevent or interrupt them. So, I adapted the things that I could within the confines of the Slytherin dormitory. I began exercising once a day: silly things like squatting and jumping and push downs or whatever they are called. It helped clear my head. You said it well; it was grounding. I also started meditating, which isn’t unheard of among magical folks trying to expand or deepen their magical ability. Between those two things, most of my anxiety attacks stopped. I had to figure out how to help myself, and so I did.

“Now, as for knowing how to help someone else with an anxiety attack, that didn’t come until the next year. I know Neville has said a little bit about what actually happened at Hogwarts when you were gone, but, Granger...it was absolute hell. Neville, Ginny and Luna did everything that they could to protect the younger students, but their reach didn’t make it to the dungeons. Slytherin house was divided between those who supported the Carrows and willingly participated in their reign of terror, and those who didn’t. Most of the children of Death Eaters fell right in line, and there was never any doubt as to where my loyalties lay.

“You know that Theo turned and was helping Neville however he could, mostly by sharing patrol schedules and running interference on ‘discipline sessions’ that always got out of hand. Blaise joined him, and the two of them did incredible things to save kids from the horrible shit that was happening. I wanted to help...but I was Draco Malfoy. I was the fucking mascot for the next generation of blood supremacists, and there was no way that anyone would have believed me if I’d tried to turn.

“So I stayed in the dungeons with the younger ones. Most of them had nightmares and anxiety attacks, and I tried to help them. Due to their house affiliation, most of them weren’t afforded the same protection, and so I became their protector. It was easy to sell it to the others as me taking an interest in preparing the next generation of Death Eaters. They left me alone, and so I learned how to guide someone out of the depths of a nightmare and I learned that slow, guided breathing and steady physical pressure are the most effective ways to help someone trapped inside of their own body.”

The spliff was long finished, the roach put out and pocketed when he stopped talking. His hands were plunged into his pockets, and his body held the unmistakable signs of tension.

Hermione felt her eyes prick with unshed tears in the wake of Draco’s revelation. Without thinking, she rose to her feet and closed the distance between them. Her arms wrapped around his waist, pulling his body flush against hers as she burrowed her head into his chest. She squeezed him close as her hands began to rub slow circles on his back.

His body relaxed into hers. His arms encircled her, and she felt his chin come to rest on top of her head.

“You are a good man, Malfoy. I will never again stand by and listen to anyone speak of you with anything but respect and gratitude.” Her voice was slightly muffled against his chest, but his arms tightened around her. “The world is a better place because you are in it,” she whispered.

She felt his response in the kiss that he placed against her curls. With one last squeeze, he stepped away, reaching to tangle their fingers together as he started to walk back toward the cottage. She let him lead her, noticing how holding his hand already felt natural.

When they reached the base of her ladder, he kissed her without hesitation. Her body melted into his, her hands pulling on the fabric of his shirt as their tongues dueled for dominance, each of them eager to prove their desire. Hermione whimpered into his mouth as his teeth nipped at her lower lip. She responded by dipping her hands underneath the hem of his t-shirt and trailing her nails along the slopes and valleys of his hard stomach.

With a hiss between his teeth, his hips thrust into her, and Hermione once again felt his growing erection connect with the softer flesh of her belly. She kanted into him, winding her hands around his neck in an effort to connect their bodies in the exact place where she craved his touch.

But he stopped, unraveling her hands from him and pulling away until he leaned against the opposite wall of the hallway. His darkened eyes were locked on hers, while she let her gaze trail down his heaving chest to the obvious tenting of his grey sweatpants. She had felt him against her, so she had some sense of his size, but to see him like this, the grey cotton perfectly outlining him, was something she was unprepared for.

While the length of him was noteworthy, it was the girth of him that left her mouth dry and her skin hot. If she had to hazard a guess, she would think that the width of him was comparable to her wrist. She tore her eyes from his cock and looked back up to see him still staring at her.

It took her two steps to close the distance between them. His eyes widened as she curled a hand around his cock.

“Fuck,” he groaned as his head fell back against the wall.

Hermione looked down, awe overruling logic as she tightened her hold; her fingers couldn’t touch. As a whimper escaped her lips, she looked back up at him. When she saw that his eyes were closed, she tugged on the fabric-covered erection, eliciting another groan as his hips thrust into her hand.

Suddenly releasing her hold on him, she turned and walked back to the ladder. Without looking back, Hermione climbed up into her small room. As soon as she was alone, she tore at her clothing until she was nude. Collapsing on the bed, she rolled onto her back and immediately lowered a hand between her legs.

She was unsurprised to find the soft curls wet with her arousal, and she barely dipped the tips of her fingers into her wet cunt before trailing the moisture up to circle her clit. She shuddered at the touch, already painfully aroused from their interaction in the hall.

Her mind didn’t need to conjure anything beyond the memory of riding Draco’s thigh to bring her hurtling toward release. She writhed underneath her fingers, which bracketed her throbbing clit and swirled in urgent circles. Her other hand pinched at her already stiffened nipples.

She was close. Merlin, how was she already so close? She felt the heat of her skin and the tingling that began in her toes and moved up her legs until she teetered on the edge of her orgasm.

The image of a thick cock stretching to escape from grey fabric filled her head, and she came with a cry. She rode the waves as her fingers continued to work against her, incoherent mumblings falling from her lips.

As the tremors quieted, her mind became aware of the whispered word, the forbidden word, that repeated like a mantra, barely audible as it slipped between her lips.

Draco. Draco. Draco. Draco.

Notes:

Did I write this chapter in a day? Yes. Yes I did. This story is so inspiring and I feel like I know and love the characters deeply, but sometimes it takes a monumental effort of will to get the story down on paper. Many thanks to the BravelyBookish discord group for cheering me on as I wrote today, and thank you to those of you who have been consistently reading and commenting on this story. You keep me going!

As always, we wouldn't be here without my amazing friends and betas: lauraloveschristmas, bookishteddy, and miiisterbear. Thank you all for your friendship, love, and for always encouraging penis conversations. So much love for you all.

Chapter 20: Chapter 20

The water from the shower was hot enough to be just on the edge of discomfort, and Hermione sighed as she washed away the sweat from her morning run. While it had been her longest run yet, she still felt a sense of dissatisfaction that most likely stemmed from the fact that she had run alone.

It wasn’t that she minded running alone; she actually rather liked the quiet and solitude her early mornings provided. No, it was more the principle that Draco had joined her one day, only to then leave her alone and waiting the next.

Back in her room, Hermione braided her damp hair back into a single French braid before pulling on her work clothes. For a second she regarded herself in the mirror, wondering if it was something about her that had motivated the wizard’s retreat. No, even at the worst of her tendency to overanalyze and self-deprecate, she wasn’t foolish enough to interpret his actions towards her as anything less than attraction. Or had her boldness the previous night been too much…?

She shook her head as she felt the flush spread across her cheeks. Grabbing her wand from where she’d tossed it onto her carefully made bed, she made her way downstairs.

The cup of coffee sat waiting for her in the empty kitchen, only this time it wasn’t alone on the granite counter. For a moment, Hermione was brought back to a routine that had become so familiar in the past month, a routine of silent communication that had only recently been interrupted by actual conversation. But there, placed almost artistically to the side of her mug, was a flower. It was an unfamiliar flower, with a thin, green stem and unassuming leaves, and the blossom was a pale pink with dark red stripes along the variegated petals.

Leaving the coffee behind, Hermione ran back up the stairs, gripping the flower in hand. She climbed the ladder as quickly as she could while maintaining her grip on the bloom, and once she was in her room she immediately went to the lone book that sat on her small writing desk.

Leafing through the pages, she finally found what she was looking for.

Flower: Striped carnation
Meaning: I wish that I could be with you

Hermione exhaled loudly through her nose. Beyond the current questions that played in her head regarding the evolving nature of her interactions with Draco, this now added a whole new layer of confusion for her to sift through. First, she thought that they had arrived at the phase in their interactions where they spoke directly to each other. Hadn’t Pansy said that Draco valued honesty over anything else? Reverting to indirect communication seemed to contradict that. Second, Hermione couldn’t make sense of the meaning. How could he wish for something that she had already clearly stated that she was willing to give? The meaning of the flower implied that they couldn’t be together, which, in light of their increasingly familiar and intimate interactions over the past two days, made no sense whatsoever.

Resigned to the fact that she would have to wait to confront the wizard about his cryptic communications later, Hermione left the flower upstairs and returned to her perfectly prepared coffee.

An hour later, Hermione slipped into her boots on the front porch as she prepared to join Pansy in the garden. She’d banished the flower to the far corner of her mind where the problems that could not be solved immediately resided.

“Hermione! So glad I found you,” an ethereal voice called out.

Looking up, Hermione saw Luna walking down the front path towards her, dressed for the workday in a very similar fashion as Hermione was: yellow denim was paired with a blue and orange embroidered blouse and sensible leather work boots.

Hermione offered the witch a wave and a smile. “Morning, Luna.”

Luna tossed one of her two long braids back over one shoulder as she came to stand next to Hermione. “I would be delighted to have you join me this morning. I have a problem in my realm of work here that perhaps you could assist with.” She sounded almost serious. “I have already cleared it with Neville.”

“Sure. Of course,” Hermione replied. She’d honestly harbored curiosity about what exactly Luna’s job was at the estate; all she knew was that she worked directly with the magical creatures that lived on the property, namely the garden gnomes and a colony of bowtruckles.

Casting her a wide smile, Luna beckoned for Hermione to follow her as she took off down a path that led away from the gardens. Hermione had to take two steps for every one of Luna’s long strides, and she was grateful to her recent running habit for the assistance with the extra endurace.

They walked in silence for a minute before Hermione interrupted, unable to resist inquiring. “So, what exactly is the problem you are working on?”

“As may have noticed, there is a rather prominent community of garden gnomes here on the property. At this point, the total population of the community is at 57, which given the acreage and quality of the plant life here is rather small.”

Hermione nodded along; her work with the Ministry had led her to extensive research on garden gnomes, and she knew that a property of this size would typically be home to a population numbering in the hundreds.

“So, what we are presented with is a population challenge. For some reason, the garden gnomes have not been reproducing at a consistent rate in the past fifty years. Based on my conversations with the community elders, it is not a result of lack of intercourse. Somehow, the fertility of the gnomes has been impacted by an unknown factor, and the population is reaching a critical low point. If nothing is done, it could lead to their complete demise.”

Glancing over at Luna, she considered the witch, who now had a small frown on her face. Hermione had heard that Luna was intelligent, but had never shared an academic setting with her friend beyond their time in the Room of Requirement with Dumbledore’s Army. But to hear Luna speak with authority about her area of expertise with such ease and confidence was honestly surprising to her. She felt a twinge of shame at that thought; she had fallen for the same stereotypes that had plagued Luna in school - that she was an airy witch with an overly active imagination.

“My current hypothesis is that whatever is impacting the gnomes’ fertility is somehow connected to whatever makes the land sensitive to magic,” Luna continued. “I spoke with Andromeda, and she informed me that she was able to use magic without consequence inside the estate building, but that right from the beginning, any effort to use magic on the landscape had almost immediate consequences.”

“What kinds of consequences?” Hermione asked. She was now fully invested in the academic nature of the problem. “I know that Pansy mentioned unnatural weather events?”

Nodding, Luna turned to look at her. “So far, all of the responses have been weather related, most commonly torrential thunderstorms, and occasionally flood events.”

“And what kind of information do we have about the history of the estate? Are there archives or logs that could be useful?” Hermione was already imagining the possibilities for research that this problem presented.

Again, Luna nodded. “There are extensive logs from estate groundskeepers going back two hundred years, and then the gnomes have kept an oral history of the land that dates back beyond the written record that the Zabini family kept.”

Hermione considered all of the information that Luna had presented. “What have you tried so far?”

Luna laughed, a sound so like herself that Hermione had to take a moment to reconcile that the same Luna who saw invisible creatures was who she was currently in discussion with. “Honestly, most of my time so far has been spent establishing trust with the gnomes and researching potential topical remedies for infertility. The most promising solution that I’ve come up with is a potion, but I am still waiting to see if Draco can successfully crossbreed two plants with a combination of medicinal and magical properties that could possibly work.”

“How can I help?” Hermione didn’t need to think before offering to become more involved. It was a problem that had the potential to call upon the information that she’d been accumulating and researching since beginning her work with the Ministry. The off-chance of having the opportunity to conduct field research excited her more than she could express.

Luna responded by reaching a hand out to give Hermione’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I knew there was a reason that I dreamed about you last night,” she began. “Based upon your skillset, I would appreciate your help in going through the Zabini library archives, and then if you can help Draco and myself with the components of the potion, that would also be wonderful.”

Hermione laughed. “Luna, you have just described my dream job; I would absolutely love to help.”

The witch clapped her hands. “Delightful! Would you like to see the animals while you’re here?”

Her words caught Hermione off guard, and she realized that she had been so absorbed in listening to Luna talk that she’d completely ignored their surroundings. They were on a part of the grounds that Hermione had never been to.

They were still surrounded by trees, but the landscape was not at all tended or manicured. Instead, wooden paddocks and small structures spread throughout the area, and Hermione saw that they were on a path that bordered a series of fenced enclosures.

“This is where Theo spends his days,” Luna said fondly. “That man has a way with animals, you know. Really quite remarkable.” Hermione followed as she approached the fence. “The estate has cows, goats, sheep, chickens, ducks, pigs, and three very handsome dogs who protect them from the occasional predator.”

Looking around, Hermione could see glimpses of all of the animals that Luna described. Most of them mingled in a wildflower-covered meadow. Hermione giggled when she noticed that a cow stood chewing grass while six chickens perched along its back.

“And they all live together?” she asked.

“That would be Theo,” Luna replied. “He has done a lot of research about the benefits of having animals live together among species. So far, it seems to be working well.”

“They’re far away from the rest of the grounds,” Hermione noted as she saw the roof of the main estate building barely peeking above the treeline.

“The animals show a similar sensitivity to magic as the landscape. Given the amount of magic that is used at the estate, we decided to give them some distance. Also, the gnomes have been incredibly helpful in caring for the animals, as their magic allows for them to understand the needs and ailments of the animals in a profound way.”

“Amazing.” Hermione was digesting the onslaught of new information that Luna was providing her. “And these are the animals that we, well, you know…”

“That we eat?” When Hermione nodded her reply, Luna looked back out over the field. “Yes, they are. And their feces fertilize the gardens that grow the food that we eat.” She paused, seeming to consider her words before continuing. “The way that I see it, these animals live a beautiful and happy life here, and they are a part of the cycle that we are all participating in. When we die, our bodies will return to the earth and nurture the plants that those same animals eat. It is all a circle, Hermione.”

While Hermione had never thought about it like that, Luna’s words made sense. The looming possibility of death had become such a part of Hermione’s life during her years at Hogwarts that she’d been forced to confront her own mortality frequently. While her conclusion had been less eloquent than Luna’s, Hermione had come to accept the fragility of her own existence and her role as one small piece that was a part of a greater story. What Hermione had never been able to accept was the death of someone who she considered her responsibility.

Luna’s voice brought her back from her thoughts. “So,” she was saying. “I spoke with Neville, and he said that it would be alright if you spent two afternoons per week on this project.”

“That sounds wonderful, Luna.” Hermione was still reeling from the fact that she would be embarking on a project that would allow her to return to the beautiful estate library. Or, she at least assumed that the estate archives would most likely be housed there.

“Well then, I’ll let you get back to the garden. I’ve a council meeting to attend, and I promised I’d bring the dandelion greens.” Luna smiled brightly at Hermione before turning and running rather gracefully off into the trees.

Shaking her head, Hermione turned back to the path that they’d followed to get from the cottage to her current location.

___________________________________

 

Hermione had made it back to the garden in time to help Pansy with the last of the harvesting before they trekked to the kitchens. She’d been unable to stop talking about her morning with Luna, much to Pansy’s annoyance.

“I never thought I’d prefer the quiet and sulky Granger,” Pansy had moaned as Hermione launched into the million possible things that could be causing infertility among the garden gnomes.

At lunch, Hermione was confronted with the enigma that was Draco Malfoy. He didn’t look at her as they loaded up plates of leftover pasta from dinner the night before. Beyond not looking at her, she’d felt his body stiffen when she accidently brushed up against him. Rather than subjecting herself to the discomfort that his presence was causing at that moment, Hermione chose to take her meal up to her room, under the guise of penning letters to her friends.

She did actually want to write letters to her friends. Since Ron’s unexpected visit and subsequent departure, Hermione had honestly not given much thought to her life back in England, which included her three flatmates. Forcing herself to ignore the looming problem of the blonde wizard downstairs, Hermione fished through her bag for parchment and a Muggle pen, and then settled in at her desk to write as she absently ate forkfuls of cold pasta.

Harry and Ginny,

I hope that you both are well. I want to apologize for not writing sooner; I have been busy working and acclimating to life here in Italy. It is beautiful here, and you would be impressed with all of the different food that I’ve been eating. I’ve also started running again. It feels good.
I’m sure Ron told you what happened. It was the right thing for both of us. I hope that you understand. Please make sure that he’s taking care of himself; I worry about him.
Also, the Slytherins really aren’t so bad. Pansy might even be my friend. I still don’t think that Theo is very fond of me, but he makes Neville happy, so that’s good. Oh! He proposed to Neville the other night. It was beautiful and very sweet. Was I the only one who didn’t know that Neville was into blokes?

I love you both and miss you. Tell me everything that’s going on back home!

Hermione

 

Dear Ron,

Hello. I just wanted to write to say that I hope that things are going well for you at home. Things here are beautiful and good. I think that I am happy here, and I hope that you are finding some happiness.
I still don’t know what I want out of my life, but I think that I am moving in the right direction. I just found out about an opportunity to do some research here that I am excited about. It feels good to be excited.

Wishing you the best in all that you do,

Hermione

____________________________________

 

By the time the day faded into the hazy blue of evening Hermione was already pacing in front of the willow tree. Whatever avoidance Draco had established between them earlier in the day carried on into the evening, where even during dinner with the rest of the group the wizard was careful to avoid conversation and eye contact with her.

Well beyond confusion, Hermione had moved well into the realm of annoyance, and was rapidly approaching anger. Hadn’t they already spent weeks living in a haze of unspoken feelings and confusion? Hadn’t she been the one to tell him that yes, she was interested in him? Hadn’t they now kissed multiple times, initiated by both of them, in a manner that, in her mind, left no possibility of doubt as to her attraction to him?

I wish that I could be with you. That is what he’d said with the striped carnation left with her coffee that morning. It implied that he wanted to be with her, but that there was something stopping him. Wasn’t he the one who insisted that she be certain about her genuine interest in him before they moved forward?

The second she heard his muffled footsteps on the grass she moved to sit down on the bench. She looked down at her hands where they rested in her lap, listening to him move to sit next to her. Using her peripheral vision, she noticed that he sat farther away than he had been sitting recently. She tried to slow her pounding heartbeat as she heard the now familiar rustling of the small bags and rolling papers drawn out of his pocket.

For a moment, the silence between them was only interrupted by the sounds of him rolling his spliff. When the sweet smell of smoke crossed her nose, Hermione took a deep breath. While at first the smell had been abrasive, it now held a place in her life, so interconnected with its source that it was impossible to differentiate the two.

Finally, Hermione’s voice broke through the quiet. “I thought that we were done with the flowers.” She still kept her gaze downward, not yet ready to look up into the silver eyes that she knew were there and waiting.

“Most witches like flowers,” he replied, his voice low and resonant in his chest.

“Most wizards don’t use flowers as a replacement for conversation, Malfoy.” It was a harsher reply than she’d intended, but it was effective at getting her point across.

A slow exhale sounded next to her. “I don’t know…” he started, before trailing off into silence.

Hermione jumped in. “Do you really not think that you can be with me?”

“I wish that I could…” Once again he faltered on his words.

Finally, Hermione turned to face him. She had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes, and she was unprepared for the look that she saw there. It was pain, anguish, and an underlying sadness that she hadn’t seen from him before. He was raw and unshielded, and Hermione had to resist the urge to reach for him, to solve whatever it was that was undoing him.

“I was telling you the truth when I told you that I am interested in you.” She closed her eyes for a moment, composing herself before finding the words that she needed to say, needed to communicate to him. “Unless I am horribly misguided, I think that there is something happening between us. I don’t know what to call it, but we are drawn to each other. What I don’t understand, what I need to understand, is why you have suddenly decided that you no longer want to be a part of whatever this is.”

“I want it. More than you can possibly know.” His words were a whisper, barely audible even though she sat next to him.

“Then what is the problem?” Hermione cried out, unable to contain her confusion and frustration at the fact that he seemed to be speaking in riddles, referencing things that she didn’t understand. “What am I missing?”

“I’m...you know who I am, Granger.”

“No.” Hermione stood up from the table, turning to face him. “I call bullshit. You don’t get to do that, after all of the talk of us writing our own stories and being more than our names. You asked me if I truly believed that people can change, and the fact that I am standing here with you proves that yes, I do believe that people are capable of change. You, Draco Malfoy, are a changed man. I am not interested in being with my childhood bully. When I told you that I was interested, I was speaking directly about who you are now. This you, the you that is in front of me.” She took a step towards him, noting the furrow of his brow and the frown etched upon his lips. Leaning slightly forward, her stomach came to rest against his bent knees. “I want you,” she whispered into the space between them.

Draco lifted a hand to cup her cheek. She felt the roughness of his calluses catch against skin, the sensation sending a chill down her spine. “I want to believe you, Granger. So badly. More than you can know.” He held her gaze, the look in his eyes earnest and sincere. “But I know you too. Sure, I am getting to know you now in a different way, but I know enough about who you are to know that right now you are in the middle of a change, maybe even a transformation; you’re figuring out how to put yourself back together after years of being broken. I can see that because I’ve been on the same journey. And through that transformation I found this place, this beautiful and peaceful place where I can finally look at myself in the mirror and have a modicum of compassion for the man that I have become.” Draco shook his head, a piece of blonde hair falling from where it had been tucked behind his ear. He sought her gaze once again. “How can I trust that I am not just some experiment along the way? That I am not the person who was conveniently here when you realized that you wanted to be somebody new?”

“Malfoy, I -”

“Granger, there is nothing wrong with being exactly who you are at this moment.” Hermione was surprised to feel the telltale burn of her eyes watering, and blinked furiously, trying to stay grounded while still holding his grey gaze. “And gods, I wish more than anything that I could surrender to whatever this is between us without hesitation, but I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t terrified to give you the power to break me.”

Hermione felt the first tear slide down her face. “I would never -”

“I know. But right now I can barely be around you without succumbing to an overwhelming desire to touch you,” a low groan rumbled from his chest as he swept his hand through his hair. “Bloody hell, witch, I am stretching the limits of my self control to not take you on this table. But I am not going to, because in all honesty, if your attraction to me is purely physical, I don’t think that I can be that person for you. And if that is the case, it wouldn’t be fair to either of us to pursue this.”

His hand withdrew from her face, and he stood up from the table, momentarily crowding his body into hers as he passed by her. She watched him walk away, unable to put words to the cacophony of noise that filled her head.

_____________________________________

 

Hermione climbed up the porch, nudging off her trainers and wiping the sweat from her brow as she pushed open the cottage door. Quietly, she climbed the stairs, careful to not wake up the rest of her housemates. She passed the ladder that led to her room, stopping instead at the base of the narrow spiral staircase toward the end of the hall.

Carefully, she laid the valerian flower down on the bottom step before turning back to her ladder. As she climbed, she remembered the first time Draco had given her that flower. But the word that played on a loop in her head, as she gathered her things so that she could shower and prepare for her day, was his response when she’d asked him the plant’s meaning.

Readiness.

Notes:

Apologies for the late update on this one; I went back to work this week and things are getting busier!
I'm sorry about the added angst, but after a long conversation with the betas it seemed like the most true to these characters.
Also, for this chapter, I need to give a special thanks to Lauraloveschristmas and Bookishteddy. Both of them gave me wording suggestions and insights into Draco that ended up in the final draft, and it is important to me that they get the acknowledgement for their contributions. Thank you both. This story wouldn't be the same without you.

And thanks to my other beta, miiisterbear, for the attention to grammar and spelling details.

Chapter 21: Chapter 21

Hermione slept fitfully on Tuesday night; not poorly, necessarily, but she lacked the typical feeling of restedness that she’d come to associate with her life in Italy. She struggled to summon the usual energy and enthusiasm as she quickly dressed for her run and pulled her hair back into a ponytail, fully resigned to the fact that wearing her curls loose would result in an impossible knot later. 

 

She was still blinking the sleep out of her eyes as she climbed down the ladder and moved toward the shared bathroom. She only let herself cast a quick glance over at the bottom step of the spiral stair; it was empty. Her front teeth sunk into her lower lip, biting back a smile as she slipped into the bathroom, easing the door quietly shut behind her. 

 

It only took her a few minutes to relieve herself, wash her face, and brush her teeth. It was an efficient routine that reminded her of the words she’d heard echoed throughout her childhood: Every woman needs to have a face washing routine, Hermione, even if it’s simple. Many days you will find that it is the only sacred moment when you get to do something for yourself. Her mumhad been like that. Never overly feminine or concerned with appearance, but very intentional about taking care of herself. 

 

Rubbing the last of the sunscreen onto her freckled nose, Hermione nudged the bathroom door open with her shoulder and stopped abruptly. 

 

Draco stood there, pacing back and forth as much as he could with his long legs in the narrow hallway. He was dressed in exercise clothes. When he looked up at her, Hermione noticed dark shadows under his eyes that she hadn’t seen since reacquainting with the wizard in Italy.

 

He stopped his pacing, clearing his throat. “Hi.” 

 

“Hi,” she replied. 

 

There was a tightness to his shoulders that she knew was a signal of discomfort. Rather than pry, she chose to wait. After last night, she was committed to waiting. 

 

“I think I owe you an apology,” he started, seeking eye contact with her. When she held his gaze, Hermione watched a quick flash of relief cross his face. “I’m not used to feeling this out of control, and I just needed to get a grasp on the situation before it went too far.”

 

“So, just to reiterate what I am hearing you say,” Hermione slowly stated, trying to keep her tone even. “Is that whatever is happening between us is a situation that feels out of control to you?” 

 

He groaned, bringing both hands up to scrub against his face. “Fuck, Granger, I’m rubbish at this.” Pausing, he resumed his pacing. A few times he turned to her as if he were going to speak, but then would shake his head and resume his pacing. Finally, he came to a stop against one wall, leaning heavily on a shoulder as he faced her. “I don’t want to push you away, but I also meant what I said about being bloody terrified to trust anyone in the way that I want to trust you.”

 

“Okay.” It was a simple reply, but it was honest. While Hermione didn’t understand the root of Draco’s fear, she understood clinging to control in the face of uncertainty. “I’ve never experienced anything like this,” she gestured between them, “before, and I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t also scared.” Taking a slow breath, she looked down at where her sock-covered foot slid in absent-minded patterns on the wood floor. “What do you want to do now?” 

 

He replied without any hesitation. “May I run with you today?” 

 

She looked up at him, seeing the tiny glimmer of insecurity in his grey eyes. Offering him a small smile, she nodded. 

 

He followed her downstairs, out the front door, and onto the front stoop, where they both knelt down to put on their trainers. She noticed that he still had Chucks, remembering him complaining about his feet hurting after their last run. When she walked down the steps and began to jog, he was right beside her. 

 

Draco matched her pace, and Hermione heard his breathing settle into a consistent pattern that very closely mirrored her own. This was one of those moments where she had to step outside of herself, marveling at the fact that she, Hermione Granger, was running in Muggle exercise clothes with Draco Malfoy, now a man who seemed so distant from the boy that she’d known. Sometimes it was hard to remember that they were one and the same, that without the biography of the pale, blonde boy from Hogwarts, without the bullying, the family, the Pureblood ideals, without all of that he couldn’t have become the man who now ran alongside her. 

 

“Remind me again why you do this?” His voice interrupted her silent reverie. 

 

Hermione glanced over at him, noting the flush of exertion beginning to spread across his sharp cheekbones. “Running?” she asked. 

 

His chin ducked in a nod. 

 

“I played football in the summers when I was younger, so running was a huge part of my life back then. Now, it helps clear my head.” 

 

“Football is the Muggle sport, right?” There was genuine curiosity in his voice. 

 

“Yep.” Hermione tried to hide her delight at the opportunity to speak about a topic that had bored her other wizarding friends half to death in the past. “And unlike many other Muggle sports, football is played all over the world. It truly is a global game, and because it requires minimal equipment, it is played in wealthy and impoverished communities alike.” 

 

“What do you mean by minimal equipment?” 

 

“Football only requires one ball, a field, and one large, netted goal on either end.” 

 

When she glanced up at Draco to gauge his response, he was staring at her, an incredulous look on his face. “One ball? Granger, I’m trying to be nice here, but how can a sport with only one ball possibly be interesting to play or watch?” 

 

Hermione rolled her eyes at his reaction. “You know, Malfoy, you have a football here at the estate.”

 

“What?”

 

She laughed. “I saw you out in the gardens playing with Teddy one day. That ball that you were trying to throw? It’s a football. Although, it’s intended to be kicked, so perhaps that explains the amount the two of you were struggling...” She smirked up at him as she trailed off. 

 

“Bloody hell, witch,” he grumbled back. “So how does one play football?”

 

The conversation flowed from there, although it was filled with snarky comments and arguments. Hermione struggled to explain the rules and strategy behind a sport that she’d spent countless hours devoted to. Draco seemed baffled by the fact that Muggles could consider something as mundane as kicking a ball on the ground to be quality entertainment. 

 

Their pacing only slowed slightly as they ran out to the end of the long, tree-bordered road that entered the estate. When they reached the end, marking Hermione’s longest run yet, she simply looped to return back the way they came, pleasantly surprised that Draco continued to follow her without protest. 

 

By the time they stumbled to a stop in front of the cottage, both of them were completely drenched with sweat and breathing heavily. Hermione leaned against the wall as she nudged off her trainers. 

 

“Thank you.” 

 

She looked back over her shoulder at the tall wizard who still stood on the stone path. “For what?”

 

“For this. For understanding.” When he looked up at her from under his pale furrowed brows, she could clearly see the hesitation in his eyes, the carefully constructed walls hovering in the wings, waiting to come crashing back if they were needed. 

 

Hermione wanted to go to him, wanted to fall back into the gravitational pull that had been driving her closer to him for weeks now. However, she resisted, clutching at the stone with her fingertips and carefully breathing in through her nose. “Of course.”

 

_____________________________________

“You know, Granger, I think I liked you more when you were quiet and broody,” Pansy drawled from where she knelt under a squash plant. 

 

Hermione blushed. She had been talking almost non-stop throughout the morning about her research with Luna. She’d had her first day of research in the estate library yesterday, and already her mind was spinning with ideas and topics that she would need to research in order to be successful. 

 

“I can’t help the fact that I am excited,” she protested, leaning over to place the small, round, yellow and green squash into a basket. “This is the kind of work that I have wanted to do since I began my career. This is what I thought I would be doing when I took my job with the Ministry, but in reality most of what I do is paperwork and occasional legal work. It feels good to be doing something real.” 

 

Pansy groaned. “See, you had to go and say something beautiful and now I’m a terrible person for complaining about your rambling.” 

 

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. “Sorry, sorry. In that case, what topic of conversation would better suit you?” 

 

Pansy picked up a zucchini from the basket that rested next to her, making a very lewd gesture with it while smiling wickedly at the other witch. “I would be delighted to get an update on your ongoing torrid affair with one Draco Malfoy.”

 

After sticking her tongue out at the cackling witch, Hermione launched into a description of everything that had transpired between her and Draco since the gala. Pansy listened closely, cringing, cat-calling, and laughing at all of the appropriate times. 

 

When Hermione finished, Pansy nodded thoughtfully, sitting back on her heels and looking over at her without speaking. 

 

Hermione swallowed before quietly speaking. “Didn’t you and Malfoy… you know… date back in the day?” 

 

For a moment, Hermione couldn’t read the look on Pansy’s face. After a few seconds in silent limbo, Pansy began to laugh, shaking her head as she stared over at Hermione. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

 

Mouth opening and closing, Hermione had no idea how to respond. Had she done something wrong? Said the wrong thing? 

 

“You don’t ask that.” Pansy’s voice had leveled and her laughter had faded. “I mean, I know that you said that you’ve never really had close girlfriends, but I don’t think I realized just how much you missed.” She wiped her arm across her forehead, scooting her bangs off to one side. “Yes, I did in the past date Draco. But that’s irrelevant now. Would you want Draco to go to Ron for advice on how to best be in a relationship with you?” 

 

Dread filled Hermione’s stomach just at the thought. “No, I...I’m sorry, Pansy, that was thoughtless of -”

 

Pansy waved off her apology. “It’s fine. But in all seriousness, when I speak to you about Draco, I speak to you as one of his oldest and closest friends. Sure, there was an attempted romance at some point, but that is nothing compared to the years of friendship we’ve had since then.”

 

Hermione nodded; it made sense. “Do you, as Malfoy’s friend, have any advice for me?” 

 

Sighing, Pansy crawled over to the next squash plant, reaching under the wide leaves. “I think that it’s hard for someone who didn’t grow up like us to understand, but what he’s saying makes sense. In Pureblood culture, having a child and heir is a transaction that is expected, as the primary goal of any family is to have a male heir that can carry on the family legacy. In the case of Draco, his existence came about with a very specific purpose in mind. It isn’t that he wasn’t wanted, but he wasn’t wanted for any of the reasons a child should be wanted.”

 

Considering Pansy’s words, Hermione itched at the cuff of her shirt. “But wasn’t Draco spoiled? Didn’t he want for nothing during his childhood? I could be wrong, but I remember countless mornings in the Great Hall watching him receive massive care packages from home. Aren’t those the signs of a wanted and loved child?” 

 

“Again, Draco was wanted. But, what the Malfoys wanted, and what many of the traditional wizarding families want, is a male heir. They didn’t want Draco . That is the difference. Draco, the individual child with all of the little things that made him himself , was irrelevant. And I understand that from the outside, seeing another kid getting showered with gifts seems like a good thing. But those gifts? They were purely transactional. They bought loyalty and compliance.” 

 

Hermione’s mind instantly filled with images of her childhood, of her mother’s eyes that never looked at her with anything other than love and the warmth of her father’s embrace. There was never any doubt that Hermione was wanted and loved. Beyond that, she had spent her early life feeling cherished. Her mind then shifted to Draco: his carefully walled off eyes, the fear in his eyes as he told her that he needed time to trust her before giving any more of himself. She thought of Pansy, Theo, and Blaise, who had all been brought up in this same world that still seemed so foreign to her. 

 

Looking back to Pansy, Hermione noticed the slight frown on the witch’s face. “Pansy?”

 

“Hm?”

 

Hermione’s careful swallow sounded too loud in her head. “What was it like for you? Growing up?” 

 

“Fucking brutal,” Pansy murmered. “Well, not entirely. I never wanted for anything material. I was well fed, clothed, and slept in an outrageously soft bed. My mother doted upon me like I was a porcelain doll. Constantly dressing me up and parading me about, carefully preparing me to be a perfect pureblood wife. I honestly pity her; her whole life revolved around trying to mould me into something perfect in an effort to make up for the fact that she hadn’t given my father a son.

 

“My father, on the other hand, never left any doubt as to his opinion of me. I wasn’t a son, wasn’t what he needed in order to complete his duty to carry on the Parkinson name. And, as such, I was a waste of time and space.” Her eyes were cold as she smoothed the fabric of her trousers with dirt-covered hands. “It was the naivete of youth that gave me hope that someday, somehow, he would look at me with something other than complete indifference. Everything that I did -- pursuing Draco in an effort to secure an acceptable husband, perpetuating the same ideology that I heard at home, even bullying the Muggle-borns -- all of it was for him.”

 

At that moment a cloud moved to cover the sun, changing the tone of the light that filtered through the tall trees that surrounded the gardens. 

 

“And did he ever…?” Hermione questioned, the hope obvious in her voice, but already anticipating the witch’s response. 

 

“What do you think?” Even from where she sat a few meters away, Hermione could see the glistening of moisture gathering in Pansy’s eyes. “That whole year when you were gone, the year when all of my friends did the right thing and turned against their parents, I was still stuck in the fucked up mindset of blood purity. I clung to the belief that if I stood by the Carrows and participated in their madness, maybe that would finally be the thing that redeemed my existence in the eyes of my father. But even after all of that, even when I, against every instinct, tried to offer Potter up in those final moments, when I met his eyes across the courtyard there was nothing there. No light of recognition, no fatherly pride, not even contempt. Nothing. And that was when I finally got it. I’d wasted my entire life trying to gain the love of a man who viewed me as interchangeable, and I’d followed him down a path of unforgivable behavior -- not because he had asked me to do so, but because I was chasing a spectre of something that was never there.” 

 

Silence followed her words. Both witches sat, kneeling in the soft Italian soil, a fine dusting of dirt covering their hands. Hermione vaguely noticed how different their current circumstances were from the cold stone passageways and carefully curated environment that had served as the backdrop of their shared past. 

 

A question that had echoed since her arrival in Italy drifted to the forefront of her mind: How did we get here? How had these children who had fought on the opposite sides of a war come to find friendship and understanding in a place that was too beautiful to taint with such a tortured history? 

 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione whispered. It wasn’t enough, but it was something. 

 

Pansy shrugged. “It is what it is.” She glanced over at Hermione, a sad smile on her lips. “I got lucky that even after all of that, these idiots were willing to see beyond it all and forgive me. Merlin knows I gave them no reason to. But Draco, Blaise, and Theo...and even Neville and Luna opened their arms to me and were willing to give me a chance to become something new, something I’d never been before. I was finally free to decide who I wanted to be beyond the Parkinson name, and they were willing to stand beside me as I figured it all out.” 

 

“I wish I’d known.” 

 

“Known what?” Pansy replied, looking curiously at her companion. 

 

Hermione hadn’t entirely realized that she’d voiced her thoughts out loud. Where had that come from? “I… I wish I’d known that there was a group of people doing that. Bridging the divide and making space for each other to figure out what comes next. After the war, I think I hungered for that: for the chance to become someone out of my own freedom, without any external obligation driving my every move. Instead, I remained immersed in a group that was riding the high of winning a war without pausing to consider what it all meant. The months after it all ended were a blur of celebration parties that inevitably ended in drunken tears and misguided relationships.” She flushed, thinking of how easy it had been to fall into Ron’s arms, to seek comfort in someone who knew her inside and out. 

 

“There was no way to prepare for the fallout,” Pansy interrupted her downward spiral into memory. “We were all just trying to get by and figure out what it meant that we’d survived. I was just lucky enough to land in a circumstance that forced me to start confronting my demons.” 

 

Hermione nodded in understanding. Sure, they had all survived, but the cost of survival was having to decide what to do with that life, to find something worthy of all who had been lost. She’d been chasing that for years, assuming that the answer lay within an external achievement or title. And yet, she’d progressed only to find the same emptiness waiting on the other side of each promotion. Only when faced with a title she had no interest in gaining could Hermione see that rather than confronting her demons, she’d been running away from the open wounds of war that had festered over time. 

 

“It took me a while,” Hermione began. “But I think I’m confronting mine too.” 

 

______________________________________

Dark clouds rolled in throughout the afternoon, and by the time the light began to fade faint thunder rumbled in the distance. Dinner that night was quiet. Theo and Neville were still wrapped up in their own bliss and oblivious to the more subdued mood of the group. Pansy seemed to be lost in her thoughts, while Draco and Luna carried on a rather stilted conversation about Draco’s progress with their research. Occasionally one of them directed a question to Hermione, but she was content to simply eat, observing the group that had come to be her community. 

 

It wasn’t the community she expected. But there was something there, something about the fact that it was choice that brought them together and not some inevitable force like the one that had guided her childhood, that made what the group had created here different. 

 

When Draco excused himself from the table, he gave Hermione a quick questioning look, tilting his head in the direction of the back door. She tried to ignore the relief that flooded her as she nodded. 

 

She felt the eyes of their housemates on them as she and Draco silently washed their dishes in the kitchen, him casting the spell to wash the plates and silverware while she dried them and returned them to their proper place. When they finished, Hermione was shocked to feel Draco’s fingers intertwining with hers, tugging her out of the kitchen. 

 

Hermione wasn’t sure how Draco ignored the amused looks their housemates were throwing their way as they walked, hand in hand, towards the back door. Casting a glance over her shoulder, Hermione met Pansy’s delighted eyes. 

 

Get some, the dark haired witch mouthed silently, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Hermione felt the telltale heat of a blush staining her cheeks and moved closer to Draco as he led them out the door. 

 

Even after she heard the door shut behind them he held her hand, completely enveloping hers with the rough skin of his palm. She glanced up at him, but his face betrayed nothing but calm as they waded through the now knee-high grasses that filled the meadow behind the cottage. 

 

When they reached the table, he pulled her to sit next to him before releasing her hand. She mourned the loss of his touch, and contemplated reaching out for him again. But then, as was his pattern, he reached into his pocket and began the process of rolling his spliff. 

 

It was too easy to fall into instinct with Draco, to override logic and simply listen to the voice inside of her when it called for touch, affection, unfiltered honesty. But since he’d asked for time and space, Hermione was unsure of where her boundaries lay. 

 

She had honestly been surprised that he’d been so open in his affection toward her in front of the others. Sure, holding hands was rather innocent, but it was a statement that they had never made with an audience -- beyond their drunken and rather indecent dancing, which she was certain fell into a different category than sober hand-holding. And it had been Draco who made that statement. 

 

“Granger.” His spliff was already lit, and he exhaled smoke out of the corner of his mouth. 

 

“Hmm?” 

 

He chuckled, brushing loose hair back from his face. “I can hear you thinking from here.” 

 

Sighing, Hermione gave into whatever urge kept driving her to him and brought a hand over to rest on his knee. She looked up at his face, carefully gauging his reaction, but when his eyes softened and he nodded, she let her fingers begin to trace spiraling patterns against the denim. 

 

“Why’d you do that?” she asked. “Back there, with the hand holding.” She winced, knowing her words were clumsy. 

 

Draco stiffened slightly, the words rushing from his mouth. “Granger, I’m so sorry, I assumed...but I should have -” 

 

Hermione brought her hand up to rest against his cheek, cutting off his words and applying steady pressure as his breathing slowed. “Malfoy, it’s okay. I’m not sorry that you held my hand. It...it’s what I want. Just like I told you. But why tonight? Why in front of them?”  

 

Her breath caught in her throat when the wizard leaned into her hand, his eyes briefly fluttering shut. When they opened, he held her gaze. “It just felt right,” Draco started, not looking away from her. “I know that I’ve asked for time with the more...physical things, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to translate my feelings into actions of affection that you deserve.” Pausing, he took a slow, deep breath. “And leaving the flower...it meant a lot.” His cheeks flushed as he finished. 

 

Not knowing how to respond Hermione simply smiled. She let her thumb swipe at the edge of one of the dark circles that still rested under his eyes. “Did you get any sleep last night?” Her voice was a whisper that barely disturbed the night around them. 

 

His eyes were sad as he shook his head. “Bloody nightmares,” he muttered. 

 

“Can I help?” 

 

 “I honestly don’t know.” He seemed to really consider her words before he continued. “But I will think about it.”

 

“If you change your mind, I’m here.” The skin of her thumb tingled where it repeatedly brushed against the skin of his cheek.

 

Draco reached up, removing her hand from his face. But, rather than letting it go, he curled his fingers between hers again, letting their clasped hands come to rest on the table between where they sat. Now, it was his thumb that rubbed absently back and forth against her skin.

 

“What sort of incredible dreams and goals for the future does Hermione Granger have?” There was a teasing lilt in his voice as he gave her hand a squeeze. 

 

Hermione snorted. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

 

“It means what it means,” he retorted. “What do you want your future to look like?” 

 

Chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip, she considered it laughable that the wizard had managed to find the one question that she didn’t have an answer to. “I...I don’t know.” It was the easy answer, but not dishonest. In truth, she didn’t know . She hoped, dreamed, imagined, but definitely didn’t know. 

 

“I don’t believe you.” 

 

When she looked up at him, a pale brow was arched up in an obvious challenge. Rolling her eyes, she relented. “I was being truthful, in a way. I don’t have a concrete idea of what path I want to take. But…” She couldn’t help the smile that spread over her face as she searched for the words to describe something that was only beginning to take a concrete form in her mind. “I think that I want to live somewhere like this, where there is a loving community and I can follow the rhythm of the sun and the seasons. And I want to keep running, and I would love to play football again. Gods, I miss it. I hope to someday be deserving of a loving partner and children, but I don’t feel rushed to find that.” She intentionally didn’t look at the wizard beside her as she finished. 

 

“And work?” His voice was quiet. 

 

Hermione felt her smile fade. She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “I...when I return to the Ministry, I want to talk to Kingsley about finding a way to expand my position to include field-based research.” The gentle movement of his thumb against her hand stilled. She rushed to continue. “I know that I’ve only just started here, but already I’m reminded of how much I love field work. I hope to find a way to continue to do this, or something like it.” 

 

“That makes sense,” his low voice murmured. “Sounds like a bright future, Granger.” 

 

She couldn’t shake the feeling of quiet dread that had settled in her gut. “And you, Malfoy? Any plans for the future?” 

 

He sighed. “It’s hard to imagine leaving Italy, but I would like to travel some. I love working with plants, and would maybe someday like to have my own land and home. I’ve always wanted a dog, so I could see myself in a cottage in the country with a dog that spends the day with me while I work in the garden.” 

 

“That sounds lovely,” Hermione whispered. “And would you live alone?”

 

“I hope not,” he said, amusement evident in his voice. “I hope that there is someone who sees me as worthy of time and love who would be willing to live with me and a dog.” 

 

“And children?” 

 

When she stole a glance at his face, he wore a wistful smile that she’d never seen before. “I think it would be nice,” he started, “to get the chance to do it right.” 

 

It seemed that neither of them felt compelled to speak for a minute after that, and they both settled into the silent comfort of simply sharing a space. It was slightly cooler than had become the norm for the early summer nights, and Hermione was grateful for the close proximity of the large body that sat next to her. 

 

“We should eat dinner.” Draco suddenly interrupted the silence.

 

“But we just ate -”

 

“No, not now. Friday. We should eat dinner on Friday.” 

 

Hermione was confused. “We eat dinner every night, Malfoy.”

 

Groaning, the wizard tore his hand from hers so that he could bring both palms up to scrub against his face. “Fuck, Granger, I’m trying to ask you to eat dinner with me!” 

 

“But we eat dinner together every -” 

 

“A date, witch! I’m trying to ask you on a bloody date. You and me. Eating dinner. Somewhere...not here.” Draco’s cheekbones were flushed and his chest rose and fell as he took slow breaths. 

 

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. Once she started, she struggled to stop. She grasped her sides as she tried to take in gulping breaths of air between fits of laughter. Finally, at the sight of Draco’s glare and the way that the red flush had spread to the rest of his face, she collected herself. “Of course I’ll go to dinner with you, Malfoy.” Another giggle escaped her. “I’m sorry, I just never anticipated that you, of all people, would struggle with the simple act of asking a witch to dinner.” 

 

Draco’s blush deepened. “You’re doing wonders for my ego, Granger,” he muttered. 

 

“There’s something rather endearing about seeing Draco Malfoy flustered,” she teased, nudging him with her shoulder. 

 

He groaned, pushing himself up from the table. Pausing, he extended a hand to her. “Let’s go to bed, witch.” 

 

Taking his hand, they traced the familiar path back to the cottage. They were careful to be quiet as they climbed the stairs. When they reached the ladder, they organically came to a stop. 

 

Draco shifted so that they stood facing each other, their shirts barely brushing. 

 

“I’m not going to kiss you tonight,” Draco began in a low whisper. “But you need to know that I want to.” 

 

Hermione swallowed. “Okay,” she whispered back. 

 

“I haven’t done this in...well...it’s been a while since anything related to my bodily desires was paired with feeling, Granger, and I’m scared to fuck it up.”  

 

“Okay.” 

 

“Okay,” he echoed back. “Can I run with you again?”

 

“Of course.” She smiled up at him, searching out the silver of his eyes in the shadowed hallway. 

 

“Goodnight, Granger.”

 

“Goodnight, Malfoy”

Notes:

Thank you all for your patience during the (brief) break! As these characters grow and change, I realized that the plot no longer aligned with who the characters were becoming. So, I went back to the drawing board and re-plotted the end of the fic, and I am so so excited about what is coming.
So many thanks to my betas: miiisterbear, Lauraloveschristmas, and bookishteddy (who has an amazing new WIP that is a Theo x Hermione pairing) for pouring so much time and attention into this story. We wouldn’t have made it this far without you.

Chapter 22: Chapter 22

Summary:

This is going to be a two part chapter; part two will be coming next week!

The week passed quickly, each day fueled by Hermione’s enthusiasm for her work and research. She found that she appreciated the balance between the heady, intellectual research and the more intuitive, physical gardening. It was growing warmer each day, making her commitment to working in long-sleeved blouses increasingly uncomfortable. At least her two afternoons in the cool, estate library provided some respite from the June sun. Her body now bore the evidence of prolonged sun exposure in a way that it hadn’t since she was a little girl; her brown hair was streaked with blonde and freckled, tan skin covered the areas of her that saw the light of day. Muscles that had long lay dormant were growing stronger, between the daily runs and the physical labor required to work in the gardens, Hermione barely recognized herself when she looked in the mirror. It was odd, she thought, that she hadn’t realized how little her London lifestyle utilized any part of her body beyond her mind. 

 

Her episodes had faded to memory in recent weeks. Perhaps it was the running, as Draco had suggested, or maybe it was the sun, or the work, or the overall lack of stress in her life. She even recalled Professor Sprout mentioning years ago that the soil itself held healing properties. Some combination of all of those things had finally begun to clear the cloud of anxiety that had accompanied her since the dark days of war, and what was left in its wake was space. She felt like the capacity of her mind for thinking and feeling had suddenly increased, at times overwhelming her and leaving her reeling with the clarity and speed at which she was processing life.

 

Now, Hermione stood alone in her small room, surveying her appearance in the mirror that she’d enlarged to meet her current needs. It was Friday after work, and she was due to depart on her date with Draco within the next quarter hour. 

 

She realized that she hadn’t been on a date, in, well, an almost painfully long time. Somehow, throughout the course of her and Ron’s relationship, they had never been on an actual date. They’d gone to dinner with Harry and Ginny, and of course spent time alone at Grimmauld Place, but they’d never dressed up and left the house as a couple with the sole intention of going on a date. She wasn’t quite sure how adults were supposed to behave themselves on dates, as her last experience of an actual had been that of a 15 year old Hogwarts student. Of course, she had some context from the romantic comedies she’d grown up watching with her mum, but there was something slightly terrifying about going on a date with a wizard who, in spite of his current lifestyle, had grown up surrounded by wizarding customs and traditions. 

 

Were there things she should know before? What would be expected of her?

 

Noting the constricting of her chest, Hermione forced herself to take a slow, deep breath, focusing her attention back to her reflection in the mirror. She’d chosen a short, linen dress that had capped sleeves and left most of her legs exposed. Paired with a knit cardigan and simple leather sandals, it felt casual enough for the rural Italian setting while still having required some effort to assemble. She’d almost opted for something different than the olive green dress because of the color, but figured it was a far enough cry from the hue associated with Slytherin house that no one could argue an association.  

 

At the last minute, she found a pair of small, gold hoop earrings that she’d almost forgotten she owned, slipping them through her ears as she grabbed her bag and moved toward the ladder. She’d given up on taming her hair an hour ago, resigning herself to wearing it in a low braid that she now brushed out of her way. 

 

The sound of conversation downstairs meant that any hope of them slipping out of the cottage unnoticed by their housemates was completely lost. Moving quickly down the stairs, Hermione stopped abruptly when faced by every single one of their housemates, all staring at her with ranging levels of amusement on their faces. She immediately sought out Draco, who was perched stiffly on the Muggle barber’s chair on the fringe of the small crowd, and appreciated his apologetic wince as they made eye contact. He had obviously not planned this. 

 

“Ah, Malfoy, so this is the mysterious woman who has so completely enchanted you in recent days.” 

 

Theo strolled from the kitchen, a partially eaten plum in one hand and a very full glass of wine in the other as he made his way to the couch where Neville and Pansy were already sitting. The wizard completely ignored Draco’s eye roll as he sat next to his fiance, instead grinning across the room at Hermione, who was sure that she was already blushing quite furiously. 

 

“Granger, I think you look lovely,” Pansy chimed in. “The green dress is a very nice touch.”

 

Hermione felt her flush deepen. “It’s olive,” she muttered, intending for the remark to go unnoticed. 

 

Based upon the laughter that immediately filled the room, Hermione’s comment had been louder than intended. She glanced over at Draco, who tried to smother a smirk with a hand. When he met her glare, he at least had the decency to look somewhat bashful. 

 

“So what are you kids getting up to this evening?” Blaise asked. “Sure you don’t need me to tag along as a chaperone?”

 

“Why is he here?” Hermione asked the rest of the room, only partially joking. Who knew that getting out of the cottage would be so bloody difficult, she thought. 

 

Blaise gave her a wide grin that showed off all his straight, white teeth. “I heard that there was going to be a spectacle this evening.” 

 

“I hate all of you,” she grumbled, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. 

 

Luna chose that moment to chime in. “But Hermione, you don’t actually mean that. You are simply embarrassed that something important that means so much to you is being witnessed by an audience, while Draco just wants the evening to be perfect.”

 

At that moment, Hermione wished more than anything that she could transport herself anywhere else in the universe. The fact that she was a witch and more than capable of removing herself with any number of spells completely escaped her mind as she felt a wave of panic wash over her. 

 

“Lovegood,” she heard Draco mutter as another wave of laughter swept the room. “You have many redeeming qualities, but your complete lack of tact can be a fucking nightmare.” 

 

Luna simply smiled. “I hear your concern, Draco, but in this particular instance I am not at all sorry.” 

 

Closing her eyes, Hermione took a slow inhale through her nose. When she let her eyes open, she saw Neville looking at her, the expression on his face the perfect mixture of concern and vague amusement. 

 

Help us , Hermione mouthed across the room. 

 

She saw his chuckle in the shake of his shoulders. He gave her a small nod as he rose to his feet, clearing his throat loudly over the noise of the room. 

 

“Okay, okay. Let the kids go have their fun.”

 

“Why are we children?” Hermione protested, giving Neville a look of incredulity. “I am still older than you.” 

 

Neville simply laughed in response, dragging along Theo who was complaining that “he hadn’t gotten to give them the talk yet” while simultaneously shoo-ing the others out the back door. 

 

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Hermione and Draco alone. They both seemed momentarily frozen in place, simply staring at each other across the room. Finally, after a painfully silent minute, Draco pushed himself to his feet, slowly closing the distance between them until he stood less than an arm’s length away from her. 

 

“Well, that was…” he began, an apologetic grimace on his face. 

 

“Painful, but not surprising,” Hermione finished. 

 

They shared a quiet laugh, which faded as their eyes met again. 

 

“You’re wearing green.” Draco tried to bite back his smirk as his gaze swept up and down her figure. 

 

Hermione flushed. “Olive, Malfoy. It’s definitely olive.” 

 

“But wouldn’t olive fall under the greater category of green? Olive itself being considered a shade of green?” Draco pried, not even attempting to hide the amusement on his face. 

 

“I would argue that, since the greater implication here is that the color green is associated with you on a personal level, and that association is based upon your affiliation with Slytherin house, then, the shade of green that is relevant is emerald.” 

 

At some point their bodies had drifted closer together. Hermione’s eyes snapped up to meet his as she felt the brush of his fingers against her temple, tucking an errant curl behind her ear. 

 

“I wouldn’t mind seeing you in emerald, Granger.” Draco was close enough that she barely felt the whisper of his breath on her lips. 

 

She felt herself smile. “In your dreams, Malfoy.”

 

Chuckling, Draco took a step back. Hermione took a moment to appreciate his appearance, chastising herself for missing it earlier. Dark denims clung to his long legs, and the flowing, short-sleeved, button up shirt with wide, grey vertical stripes was barely tucked into the front of his trousers. His hair, still slightly damp from an earlier shower, hung loose around his shoulders. Hermione let her eyes drift lazily down the column of his neck to where the two open buttons exposed the top of his chest. 

 

“Shall we?” He wore a slightly shy grin that she’d only seen a few times, but found that she was growing increasingly fond of. 

 

Nodding, Hermione started to move toward the front door but was stopped by Draco darting in front of her so that he could open the door for her. Noting the serious expression on his face, Hermione carefully hid her amusement, fondly remembering arguments between her mum and dad about whether or not such customs were sexist and outdated. 

 

Once they were outside, Draco turned to face her before clearing his throat. “If it’s alright with you, Granger, I’d like to Apparate us to the location of our dinner.”

 

She took a step closer to him. “Fine by me, Malfoy.”

 

When Draco closed an arm around her shoulders, Hermione took a deep inhale, the cedar scent that was so specific to him stronger than she was used to. When he tugged her body flush against his, she surrendered to the spinning jerk of Apparition pulling them away. 

 

They arrived in an abandoned alley that, given the cobbled stone and plastered walls, was still in Italy. Draco held her by the shoulders as she steadied herself, grateful that she had never been drawn to high heeled shoes. When she stepped back with an appreciative smile, she noticed that his hands lingered against her, almost as though he were reluctant to let her go. 

 

“Welcome back to Crema, Granger.”

 

Looking out from the alley, she recognized the architecture from their last trip to the city. When Draco offered her his hand, she didn’t hesitate to take it, willing to let him lead her out onto the street. They walked in companionable silence, connected by loosely clasped hands as they took in their surroundings. Based upon the pots of flowers and herbs adorning the stoops and the many lines of laundry hanging from the upper windows, Hermione guessed that they were in a residential neighborhood. The sounds filtering from the open doors reminded Hermione of the Burrow: laughter, conversation, and occasional screaming all layered together to form a tapestry of human life. 

 

“Have you spent much time here?” she asked, noting the confidence with which he led them down one winding street and up the next. 

 

Draco nodded. “When we first moved here, we came all the time. This was where most of us learned about the Muggle world. The novelty faded eventually, but I still liked to come and explore.” She watched as his head tilted up toward where the tiled roofs met the sky, a comfortable smile on his face. “It’s easy to forget about the rest of the world when we live like we do. I like to remember, every once and a while.”

 

She let the sound of their footsteps fill the air between them. Suddenly, Draco pulled them to a stop in front of an unassuming stucco building. The only indication that it was anything noteworthy was the hand-painted sign propped against the outside wall that read: CAFE. 

 

Again, when Hermione tried to step toward the establishment, she was stopped by Draco who insisted on opening the door for her. Were his antiquated manners a result of Pureblood training or a more general side-effect of old money?  

 

But all thoughts were dashed as she took in the room in front of her. Dimly lit by candlelight, the room was filled with scattered small tables covered with red and white checkered tablecloths, each with two chairs. The ceiling was tall with dark, exposed beams. The plastered walls were crowded with old Muggle photographs depicting black and white portraits. An overwhelming smell of basil and freshly baked bread filled the building, while the buzz of many conversations filled the room. Hermione noticed with some trepidation that most of the tables were already occupied. 

 

“Prenotazione per Malfoy, per favore.” 

 

If it wasn’t for the fact that he was standing right next to her, the firm pressure of his palm anchored against her lower back, Hermione would have sworn that she was dreaming. It was simply unfair for someone as physically appealing as Draco Malfoy to sound so good speaking Italian.

 

A stern, broad woman who stood in a starched white apron at the front of the restaurant gave him a small nod, gesturing for them to follow her. The gentle push of pressure from Draco’s palm guided her forward, and as Hermione followed the woman who wound deftly through the crowded room, she was always aware of his large, warm, presence following closely behind her. 

 

When they reached one of the few empty tables, the woman left them with little to no fanfare. Draco immediately scooted from behind Hermione to pull out the chair that faced towards the back wall of the restaurant, looking expectantly at her when she hesitated to sit. Rolling her eyes, she did, almost toppling out of the chair in surprise when he proceeded to then scoot the chair closer to the table. She looked up at him, incredulous, but Draco simply circled to the other side of the table to take his own seat. When he had settled, he looked at her with a small smile that barely hid the hopeful questioning on his face. 

 

“The food here is incredible.” He cleared his throat quietly, something Hermione had noticed he did when nervous. “Pansy found it years ago, and I come back occasionally when I have the time.” 

 

Hermione looked down at the table between them, noticing it was empty aside from a small tea candle contained in a crystal jar and two neatly rolled cloth napkins. “Is there not a menu?”

 

“No. Each evening the chef prepares two pasta dishes and a salad, and that, along with fresh bread and olives, is what is served.” He must have noticed the worried look on her face, because he rushed to add, “I phoned ahead, and I think, from what I’ve seen you eat, that you’ll like the dishes that are being served tonight.” 

 

Blinking, she opened and closed her mouth a few times before finding her words. “I cannot decide if I am more surprised that you successfully operated a phone or that you noticed how I eat,” she murmured. 

 

Because he wasn’t so new now, or perhaps she was coming to know him, Hermione was no longer surprised when she saw Draco laugh. However, she was certain that no matter how familiar he became, her body’s reaction to his laugh, the chest-constricting warmth that filled her as her throat tightened, couldn’t possibly change. 

 

When he’d caught his breath, Draco reached a hand up to push his hair back. “Firstly, I had to learn how to use a phone a few years ago when Neville and I started getting our tattoos here in town. The local shop is Muggle, so we had to learn how to use it.” He smiled fondly. “A bloody disaster it was, at the beginning. But we learned eventually. And I would have had to be blind or oblivious not to notice your pickiness around food, since I’ve been sharing most of my meals with you. What kind of date would I be if I didn’t ensure that you would be willing and able to eat what I planned to feed you?” One of his arched brows was raised in question. 

 

Before Hermione could answer, a younger woman approached the table. Without speaking, she set two tall bottles on the table: one, made of clear glass, obviously contained water, while the other was a sealed bottle of what looked like a red wine. She then set four glasses upon the table, two small jars for water and two tall-stemmed wine glasses. With practiced efficiency, she uncorked the wine, setting it down between them. Turning on her heel, Hermione watched her weave through the tables and disappear through double doors along the rear wall. 

 

“Is there any particular reason that the staff here doesn’t speak?” She couldn’t help her curiosity at what seemed like odd behavior from the two women they’d been assisted by so far. Not odd, necessarily, but it seemed so contrary to Hermione’s limited experience with the few loud and exuberant local Italians she’d met so far. 

 

“Not specifically. My guess would be that this restaurant is known for housing intimate conversations and confessions, and the owners have made an intentional choice to give the guests their space in order to comfortably converse.” Draco reached for the wine bottle, pouring them both two finger’s worth, before moving to carefully fill their water glasses.

 

Her focus expanded to take in the rest of the room. As she’d previously noted, there were only tables for two in the establishment, meaning that it was mostly occupied by couples of different ages, almost all of whom were speaking in Italian. Although the tables were quite close together, Hermione noticed that no one seemed to be taking particular care to ensure that their conversations were kept private, meaning that the tall-ceilinged space was filled with noise. It was just on the cusp of being too loud to be considered romantic, but something about the direct contradiction between the intimacy of the small tables and the volume of overlapping conversations inexplicably put her at ease. 

 

Looking back at the wizard across from her, she couldn’t help but stare at him. 

 

She was on a date. In Italy. With a painfully handsome wizard. Who happened to be named Draco Malfoy. 

 

“When were you planning on sharing the small fact that you speak Italian?” Hermione asked, fully aware that she was employing the tone that she typically only had to use when Harry or Ron had forgotten something obvious. 

 

Draco smirked, his grey eyes twinkling in the shifting light. “Pardon me for saving it until a time when I thought it could be potentially impressive to a certain witch who I happen to be wooing.” 

 

“Wooing?” Hermione flushed. It felt like a very specific word, a word that likely had a particular meaning that she was not aware of, perhaps some sort of Pureblood custom…

 

“Is that a problem?” The teasing edge to his voice was gone, replaced by uncertainty. “I’m sorry if I presumed -”

 

“No, I mean yes, I just,” Hermione stumbled through her words. “I’m afraid I just don’t know what you mean by ‘wooing,’ specifically.” 

 

Confusion replaced the uncertainty. “Wooing is simply wooing, Granger. I am romantically interested in you, and from our previous conversations, it has become clear that you return that interest. As the wooer, I am attempting to prove to you that I am worthy of your interest, and as the one being wooed, you just get to sit back and enjoy being the center of attention.” 

 

Rather than dive into an analysis of his admission, Hermione chose to retort, “And what if I am also interested in wooing? Should I get the door for you and pull out your chair, or are there other customs more suitable for a witch attempting to ensnare a wizard?” 

 

His cheekbones flushed. “Those actions are simply the expected behavior of a gentleman, and have nothing to do with the wooing.” He paused, taking a slow sip of wine, his eyes never leaving hers. “I would have done those things for you if you were any woman off the street.” 

 

“So then, Malfoy, you will have to tell me more about this wooing that you have planned for the evening.” She tried to bite back her smile. 

 

Rolling his eyes, the wizard relaxed back in his chair, crossing his forearms. Hermione didn’t resist the urge to let her eyes appreciate the firm muscles that were wrapped in tattoos. “As much as I would love to tell you that I have an elaborate plan including thestral-drawn carriages, international Portkeys, and private concerts, I would hope that you’d give me more credit than that.” His eyes grew more serious. “This evening is about spending time with you, without any agenda beyond making sure that you are fed and leaving the experience with both of us knowing each other a bit better. So, apologies if that is a disappointment.” 

 

Chills crawled down her arms, warring with the sensation of warmth spreading from her chest. “That sounds perfect, actually.” 

 

The smile that he gave her sent the warmth that had been slowly oozing from her chest coursing through her body. Her skin itched for him: for touch, for closeness, and she closed her eyes against the wave of longing drawing her towards him. 

 

“Are you alright?” 

 

Her eyes flew open, meeting his concerned gaze. He leaned forward on his elbows as if trying to close the distance between them. “Fine,” she lied, unable to put into words just how much she hungered for him. 

 

The younger woman from before returned with a tray lifted above one shoulder. Draco, on instinct, leaned back in his chair right as she set an empty white plate in front of him. After placing a plate in front of Hermione, she set down a basket of sliced bread and a small bowl of assorted olives. As before, she turned and left them without a word. 

 

In the moment of silence, Hermione was once again aware of the conversations carrying on around them. There was something musical about listening to a language one didn’t understand, and she simply let herself enjoy the musicality of the words that filled the air. 

An idea struck her. “Can you understand them?” she asked, gesturing with her head to the greater room around them. 

 

“My Italian is rather rudimentary,” Draco began, but she saw the tilt of his head as he craned toward an elderly couple who sat to one side of them. 

 

He smiled. “They are discussing what present they should purchase for their grandchild’s birthday. He thinks that he would like a...truck of fire?” He gave Hermione a look of confused horror. “Is that a Muggle thing? A truck of fire for children? Sounds bloody dangerous.” 

 

Hermione laughed loudly, forgetting at times the seemingly mundane pieces of the Muggle world that were completely foreign to her magical friends. “It’s a fire truck, Malfoy. When a house or building catches fire, a large vehicle comes that has special ladders and tanks of water attached to it so that they can help people escape from the upper storeys and use the water to put out the fire. It’s very common for Muggle children to have toy versions of these trucks, as firefighters, those who drive the trucks and put out the fires, are considered heroes.” 

 

Draco shook his head as she finished her explanation. “Fucking wild,” he murmered as he grabbed a piece of bread, carefully tearing a smaller chunk off before placing it in his mouth.

 

“What about them?” Hermione jerked her head toward a younger couple who sat on the other side of them. Based on their expressions and slightly raised voices, they were engrossed in a passionate argument of some sort. 

 

Once again, Draco tilted his head toward the couple, his brow furrowing in focus. “She doesn’t want him to work with...Mari anymore...because she thinks Mari wants to...bloody hell that was crude...wants to ‘suck his sausage’...her wording Granger, not mine -” 

 

The arrival of the young woman with three, white-clad men behind her abruptly stopped Draco’s translating. Hermione almost choked on the piece of bread she was eating as she watched Draco’s face flush, obviously wondering whether or not they’d been overheard. 

 

The three men stepped forward, each one holding a large bowl in front of them. Without asking, they each took turns piling large servings of food on each of their plates. First, there was a bright salad with mixed greens and an assortment of roasted vegetables. Next, what looked like a standard spaghetti with meat sauce, and lastly, smaller, round pasta noodles tossed in a green pesto with other minced vegetables. A deep inhale confirmed her suspicions; it smelled incredible. 

 

Once they were left alone, both of them unwound their napkins before placing them on their laps. Hermione may have escaped the rigid customs that defined Draco’s upbringing, but she still had manners. Draco took a moment to refill both of their now-empty wine glasses before raising his towards her.

 

“Buon appetito,” he murmured, as though he wanted those words to be just for the two of them. 

 

“Thank you for this,” she replied, matching his volume. 

 

The table fell quiet as they both began to eat. Hermione was pleasantly surprised when she loved all three dishes, taking a moment to appreciate the fact that Draco had confirmed that what was being served was something she’d enjoy. 

 

“So,” Draco began, bringing his napkin up to neatly wipe the corners of his lips. “What do you think she’s going to do about the Mari situation?” 

 

Another fit of giggling overcame her, and she struggled to swallow, chasing her bite with a long drink of water. Somewhat recovered, she smiled at him across the table. 

 

“I hope that they aren’t on a first date,” Hermione remarked, moving to take a sip of wine. 

 

“And what are people supposed to talk about on first dates?” Draco reached out, picking up an olive between two long fingers. She watched, captivated, as he slipped it between his lips. 

 

Swallowing, she focused back on their conversation. “Normally, I think people learn about each other through asking questions. Where they are from, what their childhood was like, where they went to school, what they do for work… those sorts of questions.” 

 

Draco chuckled. “And how about those who are from the same place, shared a childhood, went to school together, and now work together? What are they supposed to discuss on a first date?”

 

“Anything really,” she replied, mirroring his smile. “But I would actually be curious to know...what were those early years at Hogwarts like for you? How did it feel to be the prince of the dungeons, holding court over your den of snakes?”

 

“A bloody dream for a spoiled child who had been groomed to assume his role for the entirety of his life.” He chuckled. “Really though, those years were incredible. Hogwarts was an escape from the strict and rigid structure of home, and I got to spend every waking minute surrounded by my friends.”

 

“Crabbe and Goyle, right?”

 

Draco shrugged. “Sure, Crabbe and Goyle, on their fathers’ orders, accompanied me most of the time when I was out around the castle, but back in the dungeons… Blaise, Theo, and I used to stay up all night exchanging sweets and stories, and coming up with ways to torment Pansy. We laughed a lot back then.” 

 

Hermione smiled at the nostalgic look on his face. “Sounds wonderful.” 

 

“And you?” He asked. “Although...I guess you barely had a normal year before Quirrell proved to be housing the Dark -- Voldemort on his head.” He grimaced, obviously self conscious of his accidental slip. 

 

Hermione ignored it. “I think the most surprising thing is that Harry and Ron were quite foul toward me at first.” 

 

“No.” Draco’s mouth opened, his look incredulous. “I don’t believe you.”

 

“Truly. Neville was my friend at Hogwarts, and sometimes…” She trailed off, hesitating before putting words to the thoughts that haunted her when she couldn’t sleep in the middle of the night. “Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if things had stayed that way, if I’d never gotten wrapped up with Harry and Ron.” 

 

“There are too many ‘what ifs’ in our lives, Granger.” He smiled sadly at her. “All we can do is come to terms with what was and damn sure we live for ourselves now.”

Notes:

So much has been building toward their date, and it has been simultaneously wonderful and terrifying to imagine what it would be like as they finally start taking deliberate steps toward each other. I feel such care for these characters, and want to make sure that I am doing them justice!
Thank you, those who have been reading, for your comments! School has started again, and as a teacher, my life has gotten wildly busy again. However, I hope to have some time to respond soon.

Thank you to the betas: Lauraloveschristmas and bookishteddy (and miiisterbear sending love from afar).

Chapter 23: Chapter 23

Summary:

**NSFW content ahead***

“Where to now, Malfoy?” 

 

Draco and Hermione strolled hand in hand through the streets of Crema, delightfully full of wine and an incredible meal which Draco, much to Hermione’s surprise, had paid for with Muggle money. It felt natural to hold his hand now; the build up of little touches and increasing ease with each other made being in close proximity to him a comfort. The night was warm, and Hermione felt beads of sweat forming under the thick wool of her cardigan. She lifted her free hand to fan at her face. 

 

“Just take it off, Granger.” 

 

It was a casual statement. Just take it off . Hermione froze, succumbing to the overwhelming urge to tap her fingers against the scarred letters that were hidden by the thick fabric. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, ei -

 

“Shit. Granger, look at me.” 

 

She felt two large hands grasping her face, and as her blurred eyes began to focus, she saw twin silver moons punctuated by dark pupils staring into her, holding her steady. She inhaled shakily before letting the breath go. 

 

“I’m so sorry,” Draco whispered, maintaining the close proximity of their faces and peering intently into her eyes. “I don’t know what I was thinking; you know that you don’t have to do anything that you aren’t comfortable with.” 

 

Nodding numbly, she took a step back. Could it really be that easy, her mind whispered. Just take it off? Without giving it any further thought, she removed her purse from her shoulder, extending it to the man who stood frozen before her. 

 

“Hold this, please.” Her voice was tight, clipped.

 

His hand reached out to take it from her, their fingers brushing accidentally, sending a spark through her limbs. 

 

Closing her eyes, Hermione shrugged her shoulders, feeling the drag of the knit material sliding down her arms. She let the garment fall, identifying the exact moment when air touched the scar she kept so carefully hidden. Keeping her eyes closed she tugged the cardigan from her wrists, holding it in one hand as she stood, not entirely sure what to do next. 

 

“How do you feel?” Even though his voice was soft, it carried across the space between them. 

 

She swallowed slowly. “I don’t know...okay, I think?” Scanning herself, she tried to put words to the feelings that were overwhelming her body. “I feel both free and terrified.”

 

Draco stepped closer to her, his wide chest filling her vision. Looking up, she met his penetrating silver gaze. “I feel like now is an appropriate time to tell you that I find you quite beautiful.” 

 

Unable to summon a response, Hermione reached for her bag. When it was back in her hands, she stuffed her cardigan into the small purse, noticing Draco’s changed expression as he saw her whole arm disappear into the bag.

 

“And brilliant,” he added, an impressed smile on his face. “Absolutely fucking brilliant.” 

 

Hermione flushed, ducking her head as she slung her bag back over one shoulder. Draco’s extended hand entered her peripheral vision, and she didn’t hesitate before reaching out and intertwining their fingers. With a gentle tug, they resumed walking. 

 

For the first couple of steps, Hermione kept her eyes trained on the stones in front of her, delaying the inevitable fallout of exposing her scar to the world. It took a moment for Hermione to realize that no one was looking at her; in fact, the majority of the eyes that lingered on them as they strolled were women of various ages gazing appreciatively at Draco. No eyes lingered on her exposed forearm. No one looked upon her exposed flesh with disgust. 

 

“Have you done this before?” Hermione blurted out into the quiet. 

 

“Hm?”

 

She chewed on her lower lip. “Dating. Going on dates. Like this.” 

 

“Yes.” Any emotion behind his answer was carefully concealed. “And you?”

 

“Well, you obviously know about myself and Ron…” 

 

“Do I, actually?” He nudged his shoulder into hers, his voice playfully teasing. “I know that at some point you were close enough that he came here to see you. Something happened, he left, and you were then unattached. That, to me, is knowing very little.” 

 

Hermione let herself think for a few steps. “What would you like to know?” 

 

“Honestly? As much as you are willing to share.” 

 

“Well, before Ron there was Viktor Krum, who I dated — well, dating may be a strong word for what we did — for the year of the Triwizard Tournament. It was young and sweet and ended amicably when he returned to Bulgaria. And then Ron and I had been circling around each other for years when we finally decided to date in the wake of the war. It was easy. There was an inevitability to us, that we would get together at some point, like we were characters in a story that we didn’t know that we were a part of.” It felt surreal that she could so easily talk about her and Ron as something that was, something of the past that was no longer true. She glanced up at Draco. “And you?”

 

“Much simpler than that.” An almost sad smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Pansy was years ago, and there was a brief relationship with Astoria Greengrass, based purely on expectations. By the time we reached our fifth year there was a marriage contract between our families, and I actually was quite fond of her. Astoria was beautiful: the perfect picture of a Pureblood woman that I’d been preparing my whole life to marry. She didn’t return my affections, but there was some sort of something between us for a while: myself chasing something real, and her simply there at the whim of her family.” He paused, and Hermione felt his posture stiffen slightly from her position next to him. “Since then, since the war, I’ve had...I don’t know, dalliances, with others. Never more than once, all purely physical, and all Muggles.” 

 

She glanced up at him, seeing the blush across his cheekbones. “What was that like?” Her face flushed to match his. “I’ve never had...that experience.”

 

“Bloody hell, I didn’t plan on spending this time with you talking about other women…” he muttered. 

 

Hermione laughed. “No! I don’t see it that way. I just...I feel sometimes like I know a whole story about who you are without actually knowing you. I am feeling a pull toward you, a draw toward you, and I don’t exactly know what I am being drawn or pulled towards. I’m not sure if that makes sense... But I find myself wanting to know it all.” 

 

Draco looked at her with unmistakable attraction clearly written on his face. “Alright, then. All of the women I found while drinking, which is less than ideal, I realize. The first one approached me, and I almost laughed in her face when she suggested that I take her home. Didn’t she know who I was?” he laughed. “But she had no idea. To her, I was just a man, who for some reason she found physically attractive. And that moment...it honestly was the greatest feeling. I’d never had someone want something from me that didn’t hinge on their full knowledge and awareness of me being Draco Malfoy.” 

 

“And you took her home?”

 

He nodded. “Yes. I did. And it was...something. I won’t lie and say that I didn’t enjoy myself. It felt a bit like scratching an itch, but I found myself feeling rather...empty in the aftermath. Not that I was immediately head over heels in love with that particular woman, but more like I craved something more.” 

 

“I think I know what that feels like,” Hermione whispered. 

 

“With Ron?” 

 

“Yes and no,” she started. “With Ron...we had a foundation of friendship, and beyond any attraction there was a deep dependency on each other. I didn’t have to explain anything to him. There was no process of getting to know him or learning about each other. It was all there already. So in many ways it was easy to let it evolve into something else. But, because it was so easy, the physical side of our relationship was…” she trailed off, flushing, unsure if she should continue. 

 

“You don’t have to tell me.” 

 

“No, I want to. There was a need there, but never any sort of hunger for each other. It was more nurturing than passionate. And Ron still saw me as the girl who had saved him and Harry for all of those years, when who I was after the war was something else. I was changing, and it was almost like he chose not to see it. I know that it’s completely unfair to hold that against him when even now I have no idea who I am, but I could no longer sit back and accept being with someone whose idea of me was stuck in the past.” 

 

Draco’s response to her words was to tug her closer to his body, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pressing their sides together as they entered an open plaza. Hermione leaned into his warmth, bringing her hand up behind him and looping her thumb through one of his belt loops. 

 

The plaza was mostly empty, with the uneven stone street circling a large, Renaissance-era fountain. The three stone horses that topped the fountain had streams of water pouring from their open mouths, splashing loudly down into the shallow pool below. The few other pedestrians who filled the space seemed occupied with their own lives; they were simply passing through the space on their way to another destination. 

 

Hermione steered them toward the fountain. When she saw the telltale glimmer of coins littering the bottom of the pool, she felt her face split into a wide grin. 

 

“Would you care to share what you find so entertaining about this fountain, Granger?” Draco asked, his lips brushing against the crown of her head as he spoke. 

 

“Wishes.” She gestured to the sunken coins. 

 

“Wishes?” 

 

She looked up at him, aghast. “Please tell me that the tradition of making wishes in fountains is present in wizarding culture.” 

 

Draco frowned. “Never heard of it.” 

 

Shaking her head, Hermione reached a hand deep into her bag, wincing as a muffled crash from inside signaled that one of her precariously placed stacks of books was no longer standing. Finally she emerged with a small sack, drawing it open and pulling out two tarnished Muggle pennies. She placed one in Draco’s hand. 

 

“There is a tradition of making a wish while tossing a coin into a fountain. I’m unsure of its origin, but the idea is that you decide on a wish, throw the coin into the water while thinking of your wish, and then it will come true.” A quiet laugh fell from her lips. “It’s a silly tradition, but something about it has always captivated me. It was one of my favorite things to do as a child…” She trailed off, ducking her head to hide the blush that she felt spreading across her face. 

 

The hand that wrapped around her shoulder squeezed. “So then...shall we wish?” 

 

She let out another laugh. “Yes we shall. But! You can’t tell me what your wish is.” 

 

“And why the hell not?” The hint of amusement was clear in his voice. 

 

“Because then it won’t come true. Everyone knows that.” She tried to do her best impersonation of her younger self, but was unable to help the smile that kept threatening to break through. 

 

“Ahhh, but of course,” Draco drawled. “ Everyone knows that.” 

 

Their eyes met as smiles spread over both of their faces. It was both terrifying and exhilarating to be the recipient of a smile like that. Hermione couldn’t help but scan her past, trying to remember another moment when she’d been the subject of such honest joy. She wondered what meaning he saw in her smile, if he could feel the overwhelming sense of rightness that she felt around him, the thrill of facing an unknown future while wanting with every bone in her body to throw herself towards it, regardless of potential consequences. 

 

Hermione turned back to the fountain, taking a moment to consider her wish. 

 

I wish…

 

It came to her so clearly, so easily, that it felt almost effortless. She brought it to the forefront of her mind, giving the thought all of her focus and attention as she tossed her penny into the water, watching as it slowly fell to the bottom. A second penny plunked beside hers. Looking up, she caught a wistful smile on Draco’s lips as his grey eyes glowed silver, reflecting the rippling water below. 

 

“Can I take you somewhere?” he asked. 

 

Hermione nodded. When his hand grabbed hers, she felt a heightened awareness of the brush of his skin, his callouses catching the soft skin between her fingers, sending a shiver of anticipation down her spine. He led them into an alley, not hesitating before pulling her body to his and Apparating them away. 

 

_________________________________________

The day was suspended between light and dark; an almost lavender band of sky silhouetting the tops of the trees that surrounded the meadow where they landed. Hermione looked around from where she stood pressed against Draco’s side, giving her legs a moment to adjust after Apparating. The grass was tall enough to brush the tips of her fingers, the fluffy seed pods that topped each blade tickling the skin on the backs of her knees. She could see the shadows of wildflowers interspersed between the grasses, but their colors were lost in the dusk. The song of cicadas was just beginning, filling the air with an ambient symphony. 

 

Hermione looked up at the man whose long arm still held her steady. Because of his height, she fit perfectly tucked against his side. His skin was no longer the palid, translucent color it had been during their childhood, but it still held an almost glowing quality where the fading light met his sharp cheekbones, regal nose, and smooth forehead. His pale hair, eyebrows, and lashes almost matched the swirling silver of his irises. A peaceful smile graced his face, creasing the corners of his eyes. 

 

“This is beautiful,” she said, her eyes lingering on his pronounced Cupid’s Bow. 

 

Draco stepped away from her. Reaching in his pockets, he withdrew his wand in one hand and a neatly pressed handkerchief from the other. With a flick of his wrist, the handkerchief transformed into a thick quilt, which he then levitated to rest on the ground, the weight of the fabric flattening the thick grass underneath. 

 

Looking back over his shoulder, he raised his eyebrows: a silent invitation to join him. Hermione walked toward him, watching as he nudged off his shoes and peeled off his plain, white socks. Lowering himself to the blanket, he leaned back on his hands, turning to stare at Hermione as she removed her sandals and moved to sit beside him. The ground was just soft enough to be comfortable as she settled herself with her legs crossed. 

 

The glance to her forearm was unavoidable; even in the dim light her scars shone, the raised white skin a glaring reminder of the night that still haunted her sleep. The healers had told her that the almost constant itchy burning was a side effect of the cursed blade Bellatrix had used to carve the word into her skin. 

 

Pushing the memories aside, Hermione took a slow, deep breath, refocusing on the slight breeze and the thick quilt beneath her. “So what now, Malfoy?” 

 

He chuckled, the sound vibrating low in his chest. “Whatever we want.” His eyes drifted over to survey her face. She felt the physical weight of his gaze, watching as his attention lingered on her mouth. 

 

A heat that only he could summon began to burn in her veins. The memory of his long body pressing her against a wall in a dark hallway, of lips devouring each other, of the hard evidence of his arousal straining against grey sweatpants… 

 

A shuddering breath departed her lips, her tongue darting out to wet them. Silver eyes traced the movement, the quick rise and fall of his chest giving away the lie the indifferent expression on his face was telling. 

 

Fuck this . 

 

“I’d like to kiss you, Malfoy, but if you don’t want -”

 

“No,” he interrupted, his voice choking with the strain of control. “I mean yes… Gods yes, Granger.” 

 

Finally. 

 

They’d been here before: fallen into each other under the safety of darkness. But there was no time for hesitation, no time to wonder if he was sure this time or if he was ready. Hermione closed the distance between them, fingers tangling in his loose hair as she dragged his lips to hers. 

 

Although it had only happened a few times, it was amazing how familiar the kiss felt, how natural it was to be consumed in him, to feel the burn of his cedar scent in her nose when their mouths met. How soft his lips were, how the barely-there stubble on his upper lip chafed against her skin. How his calloused hands managed to convey care when they gently grasped her jaw, while his tongue demanded entry between her lips. 

 

Their kiss deepened. There was no doubting the chemistry between them; each touch was electric. The heat that had started as a simmer lurking under the surface now was a raging inferno that overtook Hermione’s rational mind. Her nails scraped against his scalp as she tried to pull him closer.

 

There were words that needed to be said. 

 

The thought was a faint echo in the back of her head. She tried to shove it aside, focusing instead on the low moan that reverberated from his chest as she nipped at his bottom lip, but the thought remained, whining at the edge of her awareness. 

 

She shoved her palms against his chest, breaking their locked lips. Startled, Draco’s eyes found hers. She almost whimpered at the sight of his disheveled appearance: lips swollen, cheeks flushed, and the small ring of silver around blown pupils bright in the waning light. Unconsciously, she leaned back toward him before catching herself. Words need to be said. 

 

“We need to talk about this,” she gasped out, her lungs still struggling to catch up after the snogging. When Draco’s expression remained glazed, she tried again. “Last time we were...doing this, you said that you needed time,” she paused to take a shuddering breath. “And I don’t want to do this if you’re not ready.” 

 

Blinking, Draco seemed to emerge from his stupor, clearing his throat and shifting his position. His eyes lingered on his clasped hands that rested in his lap as he spoke. “I’m still afraid,” he started, his voice hesitant, “that if I surrender to this, I’ll get hurt.” Silver eyes lifted to meet hers. “But I also can’t imagine waiting any longer when I can’t even voice what it is I’m waiting for. You have been nothing but patient so far, and if what you are feeling is anything remotely close to what I am,” his gaze darkened, drifting once more to linger on her lips. “Then I know that you’re holding back for me, based upon my request.” 

 

Her heartbeat felt erratic, fluttering in her chest and sending a rush to her head. “And so?” The words were breathy, soft. 

 

“And so I am going to try to trust you.” There was absolute certainty in the statement. 

 

“Which means?” The beating of her heart reached a fever pitch, pounding in her ears. She was holding her breath. 

 

“Stop holding back.”

 

This time it was Draco who reached to her, a hand closing in the front of her dress as he tugged her to straddle his lap. Once her knees came to rest on either side of his denim-clad thighs, his hands lowered to grip her hips, holding her still as she hovered above him. His eyes held hers, their shaking breaths mingling in the air between them as they simply beheld each other. 

 

The moment stretched on. Hermione couldn’t tear her eyes away from him, didn’t want to look away from the combined reverence and desire that were so clearly written in silver. She wanted him, wanted this in a way that she had never let herself want before. Her body hummed, ready and waiting, wanting whatever would come next. 

 

Finally, Draco leaned forward, lips parting as he continued to look into her eyes. She moved to meet him, matching his slow pace, until their lips joined once again.

 

Stop holding back. 

 

Hermione poured everything into him: the desire for his touch, the longing for whatever this was that was happening between them, the relief of finally surrendering. This time it was her tongue that dipped between Draco’s parted lips, initiating the heated dance that commenced between their mouths. Once again, Hermione’s hands traced the graceful line of his neck before tangling in his hair. 

 

The burning of arousal pulsed between her thighs, and she strained against Draco’s hands that still held her hips firmly in place. A whine escaped her throat as she fought his hold, desperate to seek friction against him. 

 

Draco’s mouth moved to kiss along her jaw before dropping to line her neck with wet kisses. “Eager witch,” he murmured against her, biting the skin above her pulse point. 

 

“Please,” she begged, uncaring that her hips were bucking against the air. 

 

Claiming her mouth again, Draco dragged her hips down to meet his. Her groan was swallowed by his mouth and tongue as she basked in the relief of touch. Rolling her hips forward, Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as she met the bulge of his restrained cock, the denim fabric rubbing against her lace knickers only further heightening her body’s response. 

 

A brushing touch against her breast had Hermione leaning toward him, silently begging for more. His rough hands traced circles around the peak, revealing her hardening nipples that strained through the layers of thin fabric that hid them from sight. A low growl reverberated from his chest as his fingers came to pinch the twin buds that stood out prominently on her chest. 

 

Hermione couldn’t wait any longer. “Touch me, Malfoy,” she demanded against his lips. When his hands kept up their gentle fondling, she broke their kiss, reaching down to tug her dress up and over her head before tossing the garment away. 

 

Bare except for a purple lace bralette and black lace knickers, she settled back onto his lap. The way that Draco was looking at her made her skin heat even beyond the arousal that already coursed through her body. She watched as his tongue traced his lips, eyes fixated on her body. 

 

“Fuck, Granger,” he muttered as his fingers traced up and down her back. 

 

When her hands rose to fumble with the buttons of his shirt, he didn’t stop her, instead claiming her mouth in another kiss. Once the buttons were free, she tugged the shirt off of his shoulders. She whimpered as their bare bodies met, relishing the soft warmth of his skin against hers, vaguely registering the raised flesh of their scars finding each other in the growing darkness. 

 

Now Hermione let her mouth wander, kissing the sharp line of his jaw and finding the places on his neck that caused his hips to kant into hers. His panting breaths were loud in her ear as she traced down, kissing along his collarbones. 

 

His hands drifted up her back, coming to rest on the clasp that held her bra in place. 

 

Please . 

 

She didn’t have to ask; his fingers unfastened the clasp, sliding up and under the straps to pull the fabric away from her body. She hissed against the skin of his chest as her already pebbled nipples met the night air, tightening further and sending a sharp wave of need through her body. 

 

Pulling his mouth away from her, Draco ducked his head down to her now-exposed breasts. She felt the throbbing of her clit in anticipation as his exhale met the taught flesh of her right breast, and couldn’t hold back the desperate whine that rang out in the night. When his tongue darted out to tease the pebbled nub, her whole body shuddered in response. From there his movements grew more confident, alternating licking swipes of his tongue with cool breath, moving from breast to breast and leaving a trail of biting kisses between each peak. 

 

Hermione’s head was growing fuzzy with the burning need that filled her veins, her hips continuing to buck forward, rubbing her clit against the raised seam on the front of his denims that his erection deliciously pushed up into her. Draco’s body seemed increasingly aware of their building heat as his hands came down to grasp her hips, aiding the grinding motion of their bodies. 

 

“Malfoy,” she gasped as his cock tensed between them, perfectly bumping against her already sensitive clit. “I need to touch you.”

 

He hummed against one of her wet and swollen nipples, sending another shiver of pleasure through her. Between kisses, he muttered, “You already are touching me, Granger.” 

 

Releasing a groan of frustration, she reached a hand down between them, fingers struggling to encircle his hard cock through the thick, denim fabric. Draco muttered a curse as his hips bucked upward into her touch. 

 

“Your cock, Malfoy. I need to touch your cock.” Her words were desperate as she bit down into the exposed skin where his neck met his shoulder, eliciting another muttered curse from the wizard underneath her. 

 

When Draco fell back onto the blanket, Hermione was right there with him, now straddling his reclined form as she kissed him. Draco rolled them over so that they lay stretched out side by side, bare chests pressed against one another as their hips continued to seek friction. 

 

Now that they were laying down, Hermione’s hands went straight to his trousers, fumbling with the button and zipper before meeting resistance as she struggled to pull them off of his hips. Draco broke the kiss, rolling to his back and lifting his hips to peel off the denims, leaving him only in simple black boxers that strained under the pressure from his thick erection. Hermione’s mouth watered as she stared at the shadow of him, barely visible in the moonlight that was now peeking out above the wall of trees that surrounded them. 

 

Hermione tugged his mouth back to hers, resuming their kiss as she let a hand move down his bare torso. His skin pebbled in the wake of her touch, shivering as she passed his belly button and traced the trail of soft hair that disappeared below his boxers. When she reached the tight elastic, she let a finger slip underneath before pausing her movement. 

 

“May I?” she whispered against his lips. 

 

“Please…” His response was choked as he drew her lower lip between his teeth. 

 

The rest of her hand plunged into the boxers, immediately brushing against the thick flesh of his cock as it strained to escape the fabric that held it tight against his body. She’d touched it before, felt its girth through his grey sweatpants that night in the hallway. But now, feeling its weight and heat against her skin was more than she could have imagined. When her hand moved to encircle him, her fingertips could barely brush each other. She squeezed the pulsing flesh gently, grinning as Draco growled into her mouth in response. 

 

Slowly, patiently, she began to explore him. First, she moved up to the tip, smearing the bead of precum with her thumb before pulling back his foreskin to feel the hot skin of his head. She spent a moment there, relishing the desperation in Draco’s hands that trembled where he cradled her face. Moving downward, she traced the pulsing vein on the underside of his cock, letting her fingers drag through the downy curls that surrounded him. When she reached the base, her fingers dipped down to tease his heavy balls, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Draco, who jerked uncontrollably against her hand. 

 

Finally, Hermione reached her hand back up to grip his shaft, careful to peel back his foreskin before beginning to slowly pump her hand up and down. His hips thrust along with her movements, his breath growing increasingly ragged as he struggled to maintain their kiss. 

 

When his hand lowered to the waistline of her knickers, her body tensed; anticipation of what was to come stilling all of her with the exception of her hand that worked around his cock. Hermione tried to divide her attention between bringing him pleasure with her hand and his fingers that drifted closer to where she’d dreamed of him touching her. His hand moved below the lacy fabric, his fingers drifting through her curls as they traveled lower. 

 

They’d given up snogging at that point, their mouths hovering as they each struggled to control their breaths, eyes closed, their focus entirely on the various points where their flesh touched. Hermione tried to keep her hips still as his fingers brushed over her clit and dipped into her slit, revealing the unmistakable wetness that had already soaked her knickers through. 

 

“So wet,” he murmured as he pulled his fingers back up, parting her lips to trace circles around her clit. 

 

Hermione made no effort to stop the keening whine that escaped her as she let control go, pushing her hips into his touch. “You,” she whimpered, “so wet for you.” 

 

“Is this,” he panted out, maintaining the circling of his fingers while also thrusting into her hand. “Is this what you like? I know each woman -”

 

“Yesssss,” she moaned, observing on some subconscious level that the sensation of his fingers circling her clit was somehow better than her own, better than even her vibrating wand that had accompanied her in bed for all of those years. “Perfect, Malfoy. You’re perfect.” 

 

There was no more room for words as all of their attention was pulled to the building pleasure between them. Their breathing became more ragged, uncontrolled whines and groans adding to the sounds of their bodies that filled the meadow. Everything between them that had been building for weeks now was channeled into every touch, every tug between teeth and lips, as they each approached climax. Hermione was close; she could tell by the tightening of her arches and the tingling of her thighs. Draco had kept his touches firm and consistent without her having to ask, delivering her exactly what her body needed to reach completion. While she wasn’t utilizing legilimency and couldn’t be completely sure, Draco’s rapid breaths and the erratic rhythm of his hips thrusting against her hand seemed to indicate that he was approaching his climax as well. 

 

She’d planned to warn him when she reached the edge, but it came so suddenly that she could do nothing but shatter with a desperate wail, her body melting as the pulsing of her orgasm washed through her. Her thighs clamped shut as the aftershocks sent tremors through her limbs, leaving her mind blissfully buzzed and her senses raw. 

 

Somehow, she must have clung to his cock through her orgasm, because the sudden, strangled groan that accompanied the splash of his release against her hip signaled his climax, and she tried to focus through the post-orgasmic haze to gently slow her hand to ease out the rest of his release. His whole body, damp with sweat, trembled against hers, as his chest heaved with deep, shuddering breaths. 

 

The stickiness on her thigh disappeared after his quiet Scourgify , and Draco scooted his body closer to hers, sliding an arm under her head and intertwining their bare legs. Hermione wished for a moment that it was bright enough for her to see his face, to read his expression, but it was enough to be there with him, basking in the wake of their shared pleasure. 

 

After another muttered spell, his free hand tugged another quilt to cover them, likely transfigured from one of their discarded articles of clothing. A smile played on her lips; she’d always coveted the ability to perform wandless magic. 

 

She sought out his mouth in the darkness, pressing a lazy kiss to his lips. He responded, his lips moving against hers and bringing his hand up to tangle in her curls that were somehow still mostly contained in a braid. After a minute their mouths parted, and Draco curled his arms posessively around her, tugging her body close to his. Hermione responded by nuzzling her face into his smooth chest, content to be surrounded by him. 

 

Their breathing slowed, and the last thing Hermione remembered was the sensation of a kiss against the crown of her head as she surrendered to the night.

Notes:

I feel like you all need to know how naughty I felt finally writing some spice between these two after holding back for so long. Slow burn fics can be brutal like that! Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me for this long, and I really hope that this chapter delivered. Don't worry, much more to come :)

Since one of my amazing beta's just had a baby (eeeeeek) beta credit for this chapter goes to Lauraloveschristmas and Bookishteddy. Thank you thank you thank you thank you. Don't know what I'd do without you.

Chapter 24: Chapter 24

When Hermione began to wake, it was a slow oozing into awareness. She felt no need to rush, basking in the fuzzy state of partial wakefulness. Immediately she noticed that although her muscles felt somewhat stiff, she was comfortable and surrounded by warmth. Keeping her eyes closed, she assessed her current position; she definitely was not in her bed. Beyond that, she didn’t think that she was in a bed at all. Vaguely she registered that that in and of itself should be cause for alarm, but the feeling of peaceful contentment that filled her overruled the panic and she burrowed deeper into the warmth.

 

A warm breeze rustled the hairs on top of her head. The warmth that surrounded her constricted, hugging her close. Feeling a building pressure from her full bladder woke her up incrementally, and she wiggled her body in an effort to begin to piece together where she was. The warmth was a body. A large body with firm muscles that held her body pressed against them. While not in any way unpleasant, the sensation was unusual enough that it fully roused her from sleep. Her eyelids slowly opened, the vision initially blurred before focusing in on the long neck and sharp jaw that lay beside her. 

 

Her breath stuck in her throat, any lingering remnants of sleep dissipating as she realized that she was currently curled up with a still-sleeping Draco Malfoy. The dawn was just breaking, casting enough light to identify his unmistakable platinum hair. She lifted her head from where it rested comfortably on his chest, giving herself a moment to gaze uninterrupted upon his face. 

 

Draco looked younger, less burdened. Slow breaths escaped his barely-parted lips, and his hair fanned out messily around his head. In sleep, the blankets that had covered them had fallen down to their waists, exposing his scarred chest, defined muscles rising and falling with every breath. Objectively, he was an incredibly handsome man. Who has touched me , she thought. Who I have touched. 

 

“Hey.” His voice was gravely with sleep, pale lashes fluttering as he cracked one eye open, the silver blurred and bright as his pupils adjusted to the dim light. His mouth turned up in a slow grin. “How do I look?” 

 

It was so teasing, so casual, as though their bodies weren’t intertwined, their bare skin pressed together with only her knickers and his boxers separating them. A warm flush bloomed on her cheeks as she realized she’d been caught staring at him. 

 

“Perfectly adequate, Malfoy,” she murmured, reaching up to his face and smoothing his mussed eyebrow with the side of her thumb. “We slept in a meadow.” 

 

Craning his neck up, Draco swept his gaze over their surroundings before collapsing back onto the quilt. His arms tightened, pulling Hermione even closer to him, and she felt the warmth of his face burrowing into her hair. “I think I rather like sleeping in meadows,” he whispered against her scalp. 

 

Hermione was unable to resist the urge to kiss the skin of his chest where their bodies met. “I would have to agree.”

 

They lay there together, clinging to each other almost as if they were trying to preserve the moment before they had to leave the sanctuary they’d created in the small clearing. Hermione’s eyes drifted shut, and she focused in on the steady rise and fall of his chest, noticing that even in their relaxed state, his breaths were quicker than hers. 

 

“We should probably get up,” Draco mumbled, lifting one of his large hands to brush back the escaped curls from her face. 

 

Nodding, Hermione extracted herself, immediately mourning the loss of his body heat. As she pushed herself up to a seated position, the cool air met her bare chest and she was immediately aware of her state of undress, her hands flying up to cover her breasts. 

 

“I…” she started, body flushing with embarrassment. No one had ever seen her like this in the daylight: scars and body fully visible. She’d always been careful with Ron, was only ever naked with him under the cover of darkness, and had always, always , made sure to cover her body in the light of day. Even letting Draco see her in a bikini that night at the quarry had felt like a monumental step, and now she was completely exposed before him. 

 

When her eyes met Draco’s again he looked somewhat confused, maybe even concerned, but the look quickly faded as he stood up and turned away from her. If Hermione had been less preoccupied with her immediate need to cover herself, she would have let herself appreciate his long legs, muscled torso, and the pronounced “V” shape that descended below his waistband. When he picked up his discarded trousers and began pulling them on without comment, Hermione let go of the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Carefully keeping one eye on him, she began to track down her discarded clothing, thankful that she’d somehow tossed it in a different direction from where Draco was currently standing. Having put on her dress from the previous night, she retrieved her cardigan from her beaded bag, carefully pulling it over her bare arms. 

 

When they were both fully clothed, Hermione walked over to stand beside the wizard, unsure of what to do in the wake of the feeling of uncertainty that had settled between them as the meadow was hit by the first uninterrupted rays of morning sun. 

 

Draco cleared his throat. “I’d be happy to Apparate us back, or if you’d prefer to walk it’s about a quarter-hour to the cottage.” 

 

“Would you mind walking?” Hermione asked, shaking out her stiff legs. 

 

“Not at all,” Draco replied, gesturing toward a shadowed gap in the trees that surrounded the clearing where they’d slept. 

 

The experience of sharing her first waking moments with Draco was more familiar than she realized. Their daily routines had been slowly combining, to the point that now Hermione was accustomed to sharing the first and last moments of each day in the company of the wizard who walked silently alongside her. 

 

The wooded path was little more than a wildlife trail, a thin strip of bare soil coiling through the young trees that were thickly covered in bright, green leaves. The early morning light barely filtered through to illuminate the path, but Draco walked confidently, as though it was a familiar journey for him. 

 

“How did you sleep?” Hermione glanced up at him, smiling at the sleepy heaviness of his eyes and the piece of hair that was sticking out from the side of his head. 

 

Draco’s brows furrowed. “Surprisingly well.” His hand found hers swinging in the space between their walking bodies, interlacing their fingers. 

 

“Same here.” Hermione smiled.

 

A few moments passed where the only sound was the swish of Draco’s trousers as they walked. 

 

“How’s the research going?” 

 

Hermione grimaced. “Frustratingly slow. I thought that locating the Zabini land records would be helpful, but I’ve found it to mostly be a detailed account of home construction and social events. There is almost no mention of the garden gnomes.” She let out a wry laugh. “Their beliefs on the importance of magical creatures are clearly similar to those held in Wizarding Britain.” 

 

“And, in your opinion, what are those beliefs?” Hermione immediately noticed the careful wording of Draco’s question.

 

“That all beings that are not Pureblooded wizards are inferior, both in ability and worthiness.” There was no doubt in Hermione’s statement. Her years of work with the Ministry had reinforced that belief on an almost daily basis. 

 

Draco fell silent as they continued walking, the narrow wooded path opening up to a larger dirt road. Hermione decided not to interrupt the silence, wanting to give the wizard ample time to formulate a response. 

 

Eventually, he spoke. “While I can see how you would have come to that conclusion,” he started, “I think that you may be oversimplifying the question at hand. Pureblood families that reside on ancestral properties have always lived in close proximity to magical creatures. This is likely because magic naturally concentrates in places that have had prolonged exposure to magical peoples. For example, consider Hogwarts. Beyond the magical properties of the building itself, the surrounding land bears the distinct effects of magical exposure, a primary symptom of that being the presence of higher concentrations of magical creatures.” 

 

Hermione nodded, following his train of logic so far. Her many trips into the Forbidden Forest during her time at Hogwarts had clearly demonstrated the correlation between the magical school and the many magical creatures that were drawn to live in the areas surrounding it. 

 

“So, given that most magical properties experience an increase in the presence of magical creatures, it can be understood why there are so many magical creatures that have made their homes on the land surrounding old wizarding properties.” 

 

“But the question isn’t about the interrelationship between old magical families and magical creatures,” Hermione protested. “The issue has never been the proximity of the magical creatures to those particular properties, but the attitude that these old families have toward magical creatures that has enabled years of abuse and neglect across the wizarding world.” 

 

“I don’t entirely disagree with you,” Draco responded, “but what you are missing is the nature of that interrelationship. There is a symbiotic relationship between magical creatures and a magical family that resides on the land that they share. The strength and nature of the magical family directly impacts the well-being of the creatures that share their land. If the family’s magic is strong and healthy, the population of magical creatures will be strong and healthy. However, if the family is weakened either through the use of dark magic or through death or discord, the magical creatures will suffer.” Draco paused, giving time for his words to sink in. “Consider Wizarding Britain. The rise of Voldemort,” Hermione glanced up at his use of the name, watching the flash of discomfort that crossed his face, “ushered in an era that shifted the very nature of magic. The Pureblood families that sided with him began dabbling in darker and darker magic, which resulted in rifts and discord between families. This shifting landscape directly affected the magical creatures that lived on the properties of these families, my own included.” 

 

“How so?” This was all new information to her; she had never considered that there was an explanation beyond prejudice to the conditions of magical creatures within the wizarding world. 

 

“Well it’s quite straightforward, really.” Regret and shame were evident in the pained expression on his face. “My father was lured by Voldemort shortly before my birth. It was a challenge to conceive me, and he somehow concluded that my birth was a sign of the righteousness of the Death Eater cause.” He chuckled darkly. “My father was very drawn to Divination, and something in the tea leaves convinced him to abandon years of ancestral traditions in favor of following the ravings of a dark wizard. He was promised power, promised a place in a world that revered Pureblood wizards with the respect and deference that he felt they deserved. And so he dove into this new world of dark magic, bringing it into our home and letting it drive him. First we lost the unicorn herd that had lived on our land for hundreds of years. Shortly after, the merpeople who had lived in our ponds grew ill and died, poisoning our waters in their wake. And the house elves, who had lived and worked alongside our family in peace since the construction of the Manor, became disorganized and insubordinate.” 

 

The twin gargoyles that framed the estate gates came into view. “That was the world that our generation grew up in, Granger.” Draco looked over at her, his mouth curving downward in a frown. “The actions and choices of our parents directly impacted the creatures that we’d lived in harmony with for generations. Sure, it is highly likely that our parents, those who chose to follow Voldemort, did come to hold very real prejudices against magical creatures, but it was not those beliefs that led to the current way creatures are treated in wizarding society. It is a result of abandoning years of tradition and ancestral knowledge, and the solution most likely lies in healing, in imbuing these communities of magical creatures with the benefits of magic rather than further separating them from witches and wizards under the guise of protection. They are experiencing the symptoms of a disease of neglect, not one of injustice.” 

 

“I…” Hermione started, unsure of what to say. “Is this common knowledge within wizarding families?”

 

Draco shrugged as they passed through the protective wards that surrounded the estate. “Honestly, they should know it. Many of those in positions of power within the Ministry come from Pureblood families who resisted Voldemort, meaning that their families should still possess this same knowledge. But, in my opinion, the reason that this isn’t being talked about is because the solution isn’t political in nature. Right now, so much of the conversation is built on the foundation of Pureblood families who sided with Voldemort being inherently evil people who cultivated a legacy of prejudice. There is certainly truth to that. You,” his hand gave hers a gentle squeeze, “know that better than anyone. But to blame it on prejudice doesn’t tell the whole story, and it certainly doesn’t entertain the possibility that reuniting the children of Death Eaters with their ancestral homes could potentially provide the healing needed to actually aid magical creatures.” 

 

“If you had the opportunity to return to Malfoy Manor, would you?” She’d never considered the question before, having assumed that those homes held memories of horror for all who had ever lived there. 

 

Draco laughed, a bitter sound so different from the laugh that she’d come to find familiar. “I honestly don’t know, Granger. A large part of me wants to leave the Malfoy name and everything that it is associated with behind me. I’ve had a fresh start here, and I’m not sure if I could give that up.” He inhaled loudly through his nose. “But, there is incredible pride and history that comes with being a Malfoy, in spite of the stain upon our name at the hands of my father. If there was a real opportunity to return to the Manor and redefine the Malfoy legacy, I wouldn’t be able to turn it down.” 

 

She considered the man who walked beside her, adding every newly-revealed detail about him to the growing mosaic of information about who Draco Malfoy truly was. “Before everything went wrong,” she started, the words falling hesitantly from her mouth, “what did you want to do after Hogwarts?” 

 

A wistful smile immediately filled Draco’s face. “Rather unsurprisingly, I dreamed of becoming a Potions Master. The idea of spending my day hovering over a cauldron experimenting with new potions appealed to me.” 

 

“You’re right.” Hermione laughed. “Not surprising at all.” 

 

They had arrived back at the cottage. The sun was now low on the horizon, golden light chasing away the last remnants of darkness that lingered. Draco led the way up the front steps, pausing before opening the door. Hermione dropped his hand, kneeling down to unstrap her sandals. 

 

“I think I’m going to run,” Hermione said after noting the placement of the sun. “Would you like to join me?” 

 

“I’m actually going to pass.” One of his hands came up to push an escaped hair back from his face. 

 

Hermione surveyed him, suddenly plagued with doubt and searching his face for an answer. Was he tired of her? Did he not want to spend more time with her? Had she done something to scare him off? 

 

Communication, you idiot, she reminded herself. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she asked, “Is everything okay?” 

 

Rising back to his feet after removing his boots, Draco closed the distance between them, reaching up to cradle her face between his hands. His grey eyes found hers. “Everything is wonderful, Granger.” He leaned in, pressing a hard kiss to her lips. Hermione sighed into his mouth, immediately responding to him. When he pulled away, his pupils had expanded to almost overtake the grey. “Enjoy your run and I’ll see you afterwards with coffee. Deal?” 

 

Smiling up at the wizard, Hermione let herself feel the seed of hope that fluttered in her chest, the warmth that was settling into her bones that positively sang for him. The part of her that whispered: Yes. This is what it is supposed to feel like. 

 

“Deal,” she replied. 

 

____________________________

When she returned from her run, Hermione wasn’t surprised to find Draco reading at the kitchen counter. As she approached, she saw two steaming cups of coffee and a plate of leftover scones and sliced peaches set beside him. Her breaths were still heavy as she climbed up onto the stool next to him. 

 

Without looking up from his book, Draco grabbed his wand. Silently flicking the dark hawthorn wood, a large glass clinked from the cabinet before moving to hover under the sink. Once it was full of water, it smoothly crossed the kitchen in mid air and then came to rest on the counter in front of her. 

 

“Thanks,” she breathed before drinking the entire glass. She set it down before reaching out to grab a scone. Sinking her teeth into the light pastry, she slowly chewed, releasing a contented hum. Currants . Pansy had made them the day before, after they’d found a golden currant bush overgrown with ripe fruit. 

 

“Well look who it is.” 

 

Pansy waltzed into the kitchen, a delighted grin on her face as she tied the sash of her long, silk dressing gown into a bow. She looked between Draco and Hermione, eyebrows raised in a silent question. 

 

Draco took an unhurried drink of coffee before slowly setting the mug back on the counter. “Pansy...” There was a thinly veiled threat in the way that he said her name. 

 

“No!” The witch glared at him. “You don’t get to take this moment away from me! I’ve earned this joy and I plan to bask in the full glory of your collective discomfort as I bombard you with intrusive questions.”

 

Hermione glanced over at Draco as she lifted her coffee cup to hide the smile on her face. When his silver eyes met hers, she felt the muscles surrounding her heart constrict. His lips twitched up in a smile. 

 

Turning back to Pansy, he spoke. “Is there a particular reason why you are using such extensive vocabulary this morning?” 

 

Pansy stuck her tongue out at him. “It happens when I’m in a good mood. What can I say, the struggles of being both brilliant and beautiful.” Her eyes shifted to glare at Hermione. “So. Tell me everything.” 

 

Draco grabbed a scone from the plate, while Hermione busied herself taking a long drink of her coffee. 

 

An indignant huff escaped her lips, which almost sent Hermione spiralling into giggles. Pansy looked back at Draco. “Fine. Did you take her to Francisco’s?”

 

Draco rolled his eyes, but nodded.

 

Clapping her hands, Pansy beamed at both of them. “Excellent! See, this is why you should listen to me. And did she eat?” 

 

Hermione scoffed. “I’m right here! And yes, since you asked, the meal was lovely and I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

 

“I knew it.” The self-satisfied smirk on Pansy’s face reminded Hermione of the look Crookshanks would get anytime she gave him a bowl of clotted cream. “And then what?”

 

“We walked.” Hermione tore off a piece of scone. 

 

“Walked?” Pansy probed.

 

“Walked,” Draco echoed. 

 

Pansy frowned. “And then?” 

 

“More walking.” This time Hermione fully surrendered to the smirk that spread across her face as Draco snorted a laugh.

 

Pansy’s frown morphed into a scowl. “I hate you both.” 

 

“They’re hoommmeeee!” Theo’s voice boomed out as he and Neville, both still in t-shirts and pyjama bottoms, joined them in the kitchen. Neville gave Hermione a nudge as he came to stand on her other side, smiling down at her. Theo busied himself making them both tea. 

 

“They are absolutely no fun,” whined Pansy, jutting her lower lip out in a dramatic pout. “They won’t tell me anything.” 

 

Neville feigned shock. “No...how dare they?” 

 

The dark-haired witch reached across the counter to swat him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on Nev, I know you’re curious!” 

 

“Sure, but I know that if I wait patiently and politely Hermione will tell me everything later.” He winked at Hermione, who immediately jumped in to defend herself.

 

“Excuse me,” she cried out. “That is an outright lie --”

 

“Wait a minute,” Pansy interrupted, pointing a long finger at Hermione. “If Longbottom gets the play by play, then I should get it too! I’m your friend now, Granger. We’ve even had girl talk!” 

 

Hermione groaned, dropping her head to rest in her cupped hands. “No one is getting a play by play.” Her words were muffled. 

 

“Again, no fun at all,” Pansy’s voice retorted. “And what about you, Theo? Don’t you want the juicy details?” 

 

Theo walked over to Neville with two mugs of tea. Setting one down in front of his fiance, the wizard planted a quick kiss on Neville’s forehead before turning back to Pansy. “Nope.” He took a slow drink of tea. Smacking his lips, he grinned over at Draco. “Unfortunately, I will have to suffer through the details later when Draco inevitably tells me what happened.” 

 

Hermione looked up at Draco, eyebrows raised in a silent question. He shook his head, bridging the distance between them to plant a swift kiss to her temple. 

 

“Disgusting!” Theo’s voice rose over the din of Pansy’s tirade about being excluded from all of the important conversations. Ignoring his friend, Draco pulled back to look Hermione directly in the eye. Her breath caught in her throat as his face transformed into a smile. 

 

“Hey,” he whispered. “You okay?” 

 

Hermione bit back her grin. “Yes?” 

 

One of his pale eyebrows quirked. “You sure?”

 

Nodding, Hermione let herself lean into him, her forehead coming to rest against his broad shoulder. She paused there, content to let her eyes close as she felt his fingers trail along her back. For something so innocent the moment felt raw and intimate, as though for the first time, they simply behaved around the other as they craved to, without hesitation, doubts, or second guesses. They simply wanted, and they did. 

 

The demand for breakfast must have overwhelmed the voyeuristic curiosity that had been directed toward the couple, because when Hermione lifted her head from Draco’s shoulder, the kitchen was bustling with activity. Conversation reverted to the typical topics of work, whether or not Theo needed to consider cutting his hair in anticipation for his wedding, and the eternal question of: what should we do today?

 

Neville was dutifully overseeing the strips of bacon frying in the pan, Theo was buttering small pieces of toast, and Pansy was combining ingredients for a vegetable frittata when a forlorn squawk interrupted the conversation. 

 

Luna’s blonde head came through the back door, followed closely by two chickens. Hermione noted with some amusement that she immediately recognized the chickens as Myrtle, the hen who frequently was ridden by Sergio, and Lester, the frenetic-looking rooster who Theo had taken on as his charge. 

 

Shrugging off an oversized woven kimono and setting down a basket full of nectarines, Luna smiled warmly at the group. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought company.” It was phrased as a statement, rather than a question. 

 

“Lester!” Theo cried, dropping the toast on the counter and rushing over to the strutting bird whose bulging eyes darted around the room. As Theo lifted the creature into his arms, Lester let out a drawn out “ Bwaaaaak .” 

 

Myrtle, meanwhile, seemed content to waddle behind Luna as the witch entered the kitchen, plucking a piece of toast from the pile that Theo hadn’t yet finished buttering. Tearing off a small chunk, Luna dropped it down beside the hen. Myrtle wasted no time picking up the bread and gobbling it down, immediately starting a tirade of clucks that seemed to communicate that she wanted more. 

 

Extended negotiations were required before the group finally settled at the table ready to eat. Luna also insisted on making fresh nectarine juice, which worked out perfectly because by the time the extended process was completed, Pansy and Theo had finally decided that the chickens could remain in the cottage as long as their plate of kale stems and radish greens was placed on the floor of the kitchen and not at the table. While Hermione and Draco had munched on scones earlier, neither of them declined the offer for a more substantial meal. 

 

Most of them had finished their meals when Theo leaned back in his chair, stretching his gangly arms up over his head. “I want to do something fun today.”

 

“Isn’t every day with us fun?” Neville asked around a large bite of food. 

 

“Sure Nev.” Theo ran a hand through his messy, brown curls. “I wish there was a Quidditch pitch here.” 

 

Neville laughed. “There are plenty of places to play Quidditch here, love, you’re just a spoiled man who doesn’t have an imagination.” 

 

Theo scoffed. “I take great offense at that accusation. I just happen to have an appreciation for the finer things in life, including a preference for playing Quidditch on a proper-sized pitch.”

 

A sudden idea popped into Hermione’s head. “Wait, Malfoy, what happened to the ball you and Teddy were playing with?” 

 

“He keeps it with him in his room.” Draco rested his chin on his propped up hand as he surveyed Hermione with a calculating gaze. “For the record, Granger, I think that this is a terrible idea.” 

 

“What’s a terrible idea?” Pansy asked, eyes darting between the witch and wizard. 

 

Hermione jokingly glared at Draco, whose eyes danced playfully as he smirked at her. “I was going to offer to teach you all how to play football.” 

 

“Football?” Theo asked. 

 

“It’s a Muggle sport where you try to kick a ball through a net,” Hermione continued. 

 

“Only one ball? Sounds bloody boring,” Theo muttered under his breath. 

 

Hermione flushed. “I will have you know that it is one of the most popular Muggle sports and it is played around the world.” 

 

“Well Granger, as lovely as that sounds, I am going to have to excuse myself from this particular event.” Pansy crossed her legs and took a long drink of nectarine juice. 

 

“Pansy is actually a very accomplished athlete,” Draco drawled, ignoring Pansy’s glaring look. “She just finds the notion of organized games rather--”

 

“Sports, Draco,” Pansy interrupted, “not games. I just don’t fancy that particular species of competition. If I’m going to give into my baser instincts and fight with someone, I would prefer to do it with my wand or a sword.” 

 

“Sword?” Hermione was sure that she’d misheard the witch. 

 

Pansy shrugged. “Fencing was a pastime of my father’s. I learned and sometimes even enjoyed it.” 

 

Hermione shook her head in disbelief, trying to imagine a young Pansy dueling against a full-grown wizard. 

 

Draco’s voice interrupted her imagination. “Could you teach Teddy?” He looked directly at Hermione, eyebrows raised just enough to crease his forehead. 

 

Pansy scoffed. “Fencing? Certainly not. He’s much too sensitive.” 

 

Groaning, Draco reached a long arm across the table to flick the witch directly on the nose. Pansy reacted with a shriek, slapping Draco’s hand away. The wizard shook his head. “Football, Pansy. I was talking about football.” 

 

Hermione stifled a laugh as she watched the old friends bicker like siblings. “Of course Teddy can learn. I was younger than him when I first learned how to play.”

 

Draco looked at Hermione skeptically, but nodded. “Okay. If I can bring Teddy, then I’m there.” 

 

“I’m bloody clumsy but I’ll play,” Neville said, pushing his chair back from the table to stand up. 

 

Theo sighed. “Fine. I’m in.” 

 

“I would be delighted to learn a new game!” Luna chimed in, her face split with a wide smile. 

 

Hermione beamed at the group who were so willing to try something new, something Muggle, that she’d never had the opportunity to share with her wizarding peers before. “Okay. So we should meet out back in the meadow in a quarter hour?” 

 

The group responded with affirmative nods as they got up from the table. Draco stood up and came to stand behind Hermione’s chair, bending down to press a chaste kiss to her mouth. Her veins sang at the contact with him. 

 

“I’m going to go get Teddy,” he whispered against her skin. “Meet you in the meadow?”

 

Nodding, her teeth sank into her lower lip as she watched him walk away from the table, not feeling even the slightest hint of shame as she appreciated the curve of his arse.

Notes:

I hope you all enjoyed the early update!

Thank you all for your comments and responses after their date...FINALLY we got to see them be together without restraint. They aren't totally out of the woods as far as challenges go, but we definitely get to see them together (with plenty of spice) in the chapters to come.

Thank you to Lauraloveschristmas and Bookishteddy for beta-ing!

Chapter 25: Chapter 25

“So. Are there any questions about the rules?” 

 

Half an hour later, the group stood assembled in the bright sun. They had decided on the meadow behind the cottage for their pitch, as the grass had recently been mowed by one of the goats that’d escaped their enclosure. It certainly wasn’t an ideal football pitch, as the ground sloped gradually down to the creek, but it would do for their purposes. Hermione had to struggle to keep a straight face at the image they made. She’d instructed them to wear “athletic clothes,” which somehow they’d all interpreted differently.

 

Draco wore the same grey sweatpants that he wore for their morning runs with a white t-shirt. It was a bit of a uniform for him, much like the stark black suits that he’d worn paired with a black turtleneck every day for their later Hogwarts years. While the clothes he currently wore were completely unremarkable, the way that the fabric hugged the curves and dips of defined muscle made Hermione reconsider her previous fashion assessment of sweatpants and t-shirts. 

 

Neville’s cuffed denims and faded Weird Sisters t-shirt were only slightly more appropriate than Theo’s argyle pyjama pants and clashing Hawaiian shirt. Teddy was the picture of propriety in tweed shorts paired with a white, button-up shirt, complete with a matching bowtie. To top off the adorable picture, Andromeda had insisted on him wearing a straw sunhat to protect his pale, freckled skin. Rounding out the group was Luna, whose long skirt was gathered up into a knot and her halter top looked more like two doilies that had been haphazardly sewn together. 

 

“I still don’t see how these teams are fair, Granger.” Theo looked at his team: Draco, Neville, and himself, all of whom towered over the other team, which was made up of Hermione, Luna, and Teddy. 

 

Hermione let out a loud laugh. “I assure you, Theo, they will be fine.” She was used to having her athletic abilities questioned, and she could understand the doubt from those who’d only ever known her in the wizarding world. She was rather clumsy on a broom. 

 

“I have a feeling that I would be an excellent keeper!” Luna called back over her shoulder as she skipped over to one of the two small goals which now stood on either side of the field. The witch had only needed a brief description of the size and shape of a football net before successfully transfiguring them out of a piece of long grass. It was, Hermione had to admit, a very impressive demonstration of magic.

Hermione briefly questioned Luna’s self-selection of keeper, as the ability to focus for long periods of time was the quality most sought after in the position. However, she was in no position to argue, as their other option was Teddy, who was trying to mask his nervousness by wearing a determined scowl on his face. Sidling up to the young boy, Hermione nudged his shoulder with her hip. “What do you say, Teddy? Think we can take them?” 

 

The boy nodded sharply. “Absolutely, Miss Hermione,” he chirped. 

 

Hermione hid her grin behind her hand as she nudged the football with the side of her bare foot, relishing the familiarity behind the movement. She hadn’t played football in years, and she felt the combination of excitement and focus settle on her shoulders. Even after all this time, she hadn’t forgotten. As the ball rolled to a stop against Draco’s feet where he stood in front of her, she grinned up at him. “Shall we?” 

 

She didn’t let her mind linger on the searing look in his eyes as he watched her, instead focusing on the rather clumsy kick that the wizard gave the ball. Hermione darted forward, intercepting the kick and darting around him to dribble toward the opposite goal. She’d told Teddy where on the field to go before they began, and the boy dutifully ran to the spot she’d indicated. Theo ran toward her in an attempt to stall her progress, but she easily maneuvered around him, leaving only a bewildered Neville standing between her and Teddy and the goal. 

 

Dribbling closer to Neville, Hermione drew the wizard farther away from the goal and closer to her. Just as he was about to reach her, she sent a slow pass toward the turquoise-haired boy, who furrowed his brow in concentration as he stopped the ball against his shins. Turning toward the goal, he wound up, kicking the ball as hard as he could toward the goal. As if in slow motion, Neville stumbled over his feet as he tried to recover his position, but the ball rolled right past him and into the goal. 

 

Teddy raised his small fists in the air in silent triumph as Hermione ran to him with a cheer, the little boy’s smile revealing his tiny, white teeth. After explaining the mechanics of a high-five and receiving about twenty enthusiastic hand smacks, Hermione ran back to the other side of the field, slowing down as she approached Draco. 

 

The blonde wizard shook his head, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “Lucky shot, Granger. That was definitely luck.”

 

Hermione threw her head back as she laughed. “Oh you think so?” 

 

Rolling his eyes, Draco ran to join Theo, who was clumsily kicking up the field toward them. The two wizards bent their heads together as they whispered back and forth. Hermione noted with some amusement that both of them frequently looked over at her. 

 

“Any day now,” Hermione drawled, grinning with delight at the annoyed look that Theo threw at her. 

 

Finally, they turned, separating by a few meters as Draco experimentally pushed the ball from one foot to another. Hermione noticed the almost natural way the arches of his bare feet caught the ball. Of course he would be a bloody natural at this, she thought, only mildly annoyed by the revelation as she advanced towards him. 

 

Teddy had been given the mission of defending Theo, a command which he seemed to be taking quite seriously. Hermione snorted a laugh as she watched the young boy determinedly dogging the man’s every move. 

 

“You’ve created a monster,” Draco said with a chuckle. When she looked back at the man who now stood in front of her, she could see the fond amusement dancing in his eyes as he watched his nephew chasing around an increasingly frustrated Theo. 

 

Hermione shrugged, trying for a look of innocence as she blinked up at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Malfoy. I simply gave the boy a suggestion.” She closed the remaining distance between them, careful to keep her knees bent in case he rapidly changed directions. She brought a finger up to poke at his ribs. “Ready?”

 

Hissing, Draco grabbed her hand and pushed it away from his body. 

 

“Bloody bollocks,” Theo yelled. “Will you two stop whatever disgustingly adorable spat you’re having so we can play this blasted game?” 

 

“Language, Theo,” Draco called to his friend before he turned to glare at Hermione. She took a slow step away from him, raising her hands up in a show of innocence. Shaking his head, the wizard kicked the ball just barely ahead of himself, moving after it in a clumsy attempt at dribbling. 

 

She considered stealing it right away, but decided to at least let the wizard approach their goal before taking the ball back. When he gave the ball up to Theo, she was pleasantly surprised at his kick. It was perhaps comparable to an experienced 10-year old player, but, for someone who had never played the game before, was rather impressive. 

 

Theo, for his part, almost tripped over both the ball and Teddy, who was doing a terrific job of defending his mark. Theo struggled to control the ball under one foot as he tried to move past Teddy without pushing him over or stepping on him. 

 

Suddenly, Draco broke into a run toward his trapped friend. He was quick, but Hermione remained close behind him, grateful for the weeks of running that had readied her legs and lungs for this level of activity. When Theo pushed the ball behind him, Draco swept by, kicking the ball out in front of him and opening his stride as he ran to catch up to it. 

 

This was what Hermione had been waiting for. As Draco’s stride widened and he sped up to meet the ball, she leaned into her movements, pounding her shorter legs into the grass as she came up alongside him. It only took one gentle nudge with her shoulder to send him off course, and she easily gained control of the ball, turning in a wide arc to face the other goal. Holding her sprinting pace, she pushed the ball ahead of her as she charged up the field, the wind rushing past her ears and the grass soft against her feet. She cast a quick glance back over one shoulder, seeing both Draco and Theo running towards her. Draco was marginally faster than the other wizard, and he was rapidly closing in on her. She continued, careful to keep the ball close and under her control. When the flash of blonde hair appeared in her peripheral vision, Hermione angled her upper away from him, the adjustment slowing her down. 

 

When his body bumped into hers, she was prepared, and met the contact with her shoulder. Because of her positioning, Draco’s attempts to steal the ball from her were thwarted by her legs and hips blocking him. While he was much larger and heavier than her, Hermione managed to brace herself; their upper bodies were flush against each other, each scrambling for the upper hand. 

 

The goal was rapidly approaching, and this time Neville was staying closer to the net rather than coming to stop her. Her friends were learning , she thought, rapidly thinking through strategy as she assessed her current position on the field. Teddy was too far behind her to be an option, and some part of her that had lay dormant for many years wanted to score, wanted to show them what she was capable of. 

 

She took a hard step forward, stopping the ball under her other foot. As expected, Draco kept moving, and she kicked the ball behind her planted leg, effectively changing directions while Draco was still scrambling to catch up. She took one slow dribble, luring him back to her, and just as he took a long step to close the distance between them she struck. Her kick sent the ball perfectly between his legs, and she used his forward momentum to dart around him, quickly catching up with the ball. She heard his curses behind her as she advanced on Neville.

 

Once again, she waited until he took a step towards her before sending the ball between his legs and into the goal. The feeling of accomplishment that filled her chest was so warm and familiar that she couldn’t help but celebrate her goal in the same way she’d celebrated every goal she’d ever scored in her life. 

 

Shielding her eyes with one hand, she moonwalked backwards for four long strides before spinning on the ball of her foot and howling up at the sky. Sure, the celebration dance had come from the mind of a five year old, but it had stuck throughout the years. 

 

“I am going to need a pensieve to relive whatever that just was,” Draco announced as he approached her, a shit-eating grin plastered to his face. She should have been embarrassed, but found that she couldn’t find it within herself to care. 

 

She was having fun, damnit.

 

“Why didn’t you tell us you were a bloody professional, Granger?” Theo panted out as he ran over to join them. He was followed immediately by Teddy, who ran right up to Hermione with an outstretched palm, practically demanding a high five. 

 

Slapping the boy’s hand, Hermione looked up at Theo with a wry smile. “I’m actually quite out of practice,” she started, pushing stray curls back out of her face. 

 

Beside her, Draco groaned. “Not helping,” he muttered, but when she looked at him she felt her skin warm at the expression in his bright eyes. 

 

Hermione let her eyes heat momentarily in response to him before pulling away from the group. “Well then, shall we give you another chance?” She kept her tone teasing, eyes holding Draco’s as Teddy ran back to join her. 

 

The game continued onward in a similar fashion, with Hermione running circles around Draco and Theo as she gave Teddy the ball as much as possible, celebrating every time he successfully scored or passed the ball back to her. As Theo grew increasingly frustrated with his lack of ability to control the ball, Hermione gave Teddy whispered instructions to take it easy on the wizard. Theo seemed to have more fun once he was no longer being thwarted by the determined boy, and he and Draco managed to score a few goals on Luna who seemed to enjoy everything about her position save the actual keeping. 

 

Hermione was a bit surprised that she was enjoying herself so much. Typically, the disorganization of her teammates would have frustrated her, but she found herself crying tears of laughter every few minutes between the antics of the clumsy wizards or the unforgettable image of Teddy attempting to slide tackle Theo. The entire thing was a lesson in entropy, which Hermione would normally avoid at all costs. Perhaps it was the hot Italian sun, or the fact that she had spent the previous night sleeping in the arms of a wizard who she’d never dreamed of knowing in the way she was coming to. Or, maybe it had something to do with the fact that she felt alive and free, somehow finding peace in living on the precipice of an unknown future for the first time in her life. 

 

___________________________________

When Pansy came outside with a pitcher of cold lemonade and a clinking train of glasses trailing behind her, the group was on the verge of collapsing with fatigue. All of them were exhausted and sweaty, Hermione especially, and no one protested the game coming to an end in favor of gulping down glasses of lemonade. 

 

Hermione ignored Pansy’s comments about their disheveled appearances, and tried to conceal her grin when Pansy discovered that Luna had skinned her knee in an attempt to block one of the goals. Tittering about “uncivilized Muggle sports,” the witch devoted all of her attention to cleaning and healing the blonde. 

 

“I’m really quite alright,” Luna tried to reassure her, but Pansy shushed her as she cleansed the shallow wound for possibly the twentieth time. Once she was confident that she’d adequately healed her, Pansy carefully lifted Luna to her feet and helped her back to the cottage. Neville followed them, complaining of “grass in places that should never see the light of day.” 

 

Soon, Draco left to take Teddy back up to the estate for lunch. The boy was insistent on giving Hermione at least ten high-fives before leaving, and was only willing to do so after she promised that they would play another game of football the following week. 

 

Leaning heavily on her hands, Hermione tilted her head back, feeling the building heat of the sun on her face. She could only imagine how many new freckles she’d have after spending the whole morning in the sun. 

 

She glanced over at Theo who sat a short distance away from her. His hands absently combed through the short grass and he wore a distant frown of concentration on his face. As though he felt her eyes on him, the wizard looked up at her. 

 

“Apparently we are supposed to become friends.” 

 

His sudden proclamation startled her. “Oh?” she asked, unsure of how to respond. 

 

“Yes. Apparently we are not close enough in the eyes of both my fiance and best friend, and since you seem to have the social tact of a manticore, I figured that it’s on me to rectify that.” Theo’s tone was aloof and indifferent, but Hermione couldn’t help but watch the fidgeting of his hands. 

 

“Okay,” Hermione replied cautiously. “And what do you propose that we do to remedy this?” 

 

Now that Hermione thought about it, Theo had been rather cold towards her since her arrival in Italy. He never quite stooped to the point of direct rudeness, but it was always clear that he wasn’t overly fond of her. To be fair, she felt similarly towards him. He’d never made the same kind of effort that Draco and Pansy had made to get to know her, and out of all of them he seemed to hold the most resentment towards her. For what, exactly, she didn’t know. 

 

“Well, seeing that you’re one of my fiance’s closest friends, and my best friend is now going on overnight dates with you,” Hermione blushed at the comment, “it seems like you will probably be around for a while.” He looked her directly in the eye, giving Hermione an unfiltered look at the clear green of irises that beautifully contrasted his tanned skin. “If you’re this important to the two people I care about most in this world, then I figured that there must be something about you worth knowing.” 

 

“Thank you?” It was a question, as Theo had proven to be very adept at blurring the line between compliment and insult, and Hermione wasn’t entirely sure which she had just received. She shifted in the grass so that she was sitting upright, enabling her to look more directly at her current companion. “It seems like you have, or perhaps had, a problem with me,” she stated, staring directly at him. “Perhaps we could start there?” 

 

If Theo was fazed by her words he certainly didn’t show it, his face remaining impassive and smooth. He shrugged before responding, “You’re right. I’ve never been particularly fond of you.” He said it matter-of-factly. “For most of our childhood that dislike stemmed directly from the dogma of my parents, who reminded me at every turn that Muggleborns were the reason why the world wasn’t handed to me on a silver platter. I’m not entirely sure how their logic worked, but somehow it was your kind’s fault when my steak was overdone, or when my father drank too much and took it out on me, or later when I didn’t place first in our year. That was the ignorance of childhood.” The grimace on his face faded. “But, even after I met Neville and my world view slowly began to change, there was something about the self-righteousness of you, Potter, and Weasley that drove me mad. You all thought that it was so easy, that the world was simple enough to be divided cleanly into good or evil. And you all were constantly celebrated for it!” Theo took a slow breath, running a hand through his brown curls as he looked down at the ground between them. “I know you’ve already heard me say it, but what happened when you all left that year...it didn’t seem fair for you to miss that. I know now that what you all faced when you were out there was equally terrible, but a part of me wishes that you had faced what we did at Hogwarts, that you could truly understand what your friends fought for in your absence.” 

 

Swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat as she’d listened to Theo talk, Hermione toyed with the hem of her shirt sleeve. There was a deep truth to what Theo said, a truth that had been at the root of the lingering discomfort that she’d lived with since arriving in Italy. After the war, it had been so easy to look back and celebrate the clear victory of the good. But, if Hermione was honest with herself, there were moments among the celebrations when a look of discomfort ghosted across the faces of Ginny, Seamus, and those who’d spent that year under the thumbs of the Carrow twins at Hogwarts. How much about that year had Ginny not told them? Hermione wondered. 

 

Finally, she responded. “You aren’t wrong,” she began. “I certainly thought the whole thing was much simpler than it actually is. But,” she took a shaky breath, “you will also never understand what it was like to suddenly come into a world where people, no, children , called me slurs on a daily basis while their adult parents threatened my life. What I experienced in those first few years left me with absolutely no reason to feel sympathy for those who held those beliefs. Now, I can look back with the benefit of time and distance and see that you were just as much a victim as I was, but during that time I didn’t have the capacity to do so.” 

 

Theo was looking directly at her, eyes clear and focused. Holding his eye contact, Hermione kept going. “So, I guess what matters is what we do now. It is obvious to me that you have changed, just as I hope that you can see that I have changed. I don’t know how we ended up here: you are engaged to one of my best friends and I, well, I seem to be growing increasingly fond of your best friend.” 

 

“Draco deserves the whole fucking world.” The smile Theo gave her was slightly sad, devoid of any sarcasm or mocking undertone. “He’s the best man I’ve ever known, and for him to be who he is after all of the bullshit he’s been through is a miracle.” His eyes bore into her, searching for something. “It’s time for him to be happy, Granger. I’m not sure what it is that he sees in you, but for some twisted reason he has decided that you are a source of happiness in his life.” 

 

Hermione flushed at the words. “It is reciprocated,” she murmured. 

 

“As it bloody-well should be,” Theo replied, but now there was a grin on his face that revealed the dimples in his cheeks. 

 

“I’ve never seen Neville this, well, I guess I would characterize it as a combination of confidence and contentment,” Hermione mused, feeling a weight gradually lift from her shoulders. “It looks good on him.”

 

“You’ve been a rather shite friend to him, you know,” Theo said, eyes narrowing into a glare. “Where have you been for all of these years?” 

 

A small kernel of shame flared in her chest. “I know. I know I haven’t been there for him, and I should have visited sooner, but I haven’t been there for anyone else either. I’ve barely been there for myself. I guess that I have been... unwell .” 

 

Theo’s expression morphed into one of sympathy. “Well, no offense, Granger, but that’s been pretty obvious since you got here.” His head tilted to one side, sending the mop of longer curls on the top of his head flopping over. “But it’s been getting better, hasn’t it?” 

 

“How would you -”

 

“Draco,” Theo interrupted, shrugging in response to Hermione’s look of confusion. “He talks about you. Rather too much for my taste, but hey, he’s listened to me discuss Neville’s-”

 

“Nope, nope, nope,” Hermione shouted over what suspiciously sounded like a detailed description of Neville’s male anatomy, which she had no interest in hearing about. They both devolved into laughter, a tangible relief filling the air between them. 

 

As their laughter abated, Hermione felt her previous assessment of the wizard shifting, morphing, much as she had felt her previous assumptions about Pansy and Draco slowly change since she’d arrived in Italy. What she’d initially concluded was disdain from Theo was actually a deeply protective feeling and loyalty toward those he loved. 

 

“This is all Neville’s fault, isn’t it?” Hermione mused, a fond grin on her face. “He was the only one who had the decency to see past the divisions between us.”

 

“Ahhh,” Theo nodded. “Meaning that he is entirely to blame for our current band of Italian exiles.” 

 

Hermione laughed. “Precisely.”

 

____________________________________

 

“Come on. We should go to bed.” 

 

Malfoy had just attempted to stifle his fifth yawn in the last five minutes. Hermione stood up from where they’d sat together on the picnic table. Draco had finished his spliff a while ago; any lingering aroma of the sweet smoke clung to the fabric of his shirt. Tugging on the wizard’s hand, she pulled him up to a standing position. 

 

Grumbling, Draco leaned down to capture her lips in a swift, searing kiss before turning toward the cottage. His hand found hers, and it was completely natural for their fingers to weave together as they walked back in the darkness. 

 

As was typical of most nights, the others had already retired to their rooms, leaving the downstairs empty save for the muffled echoes of bare feet on the floor. Tip-toeing up the stairs, they were careful to keep their steps quiet as they traveled down the long hallway. Reaching the base of the ladder to Hermione’s loft, they came to a stop. 

 

It was too dark for Hermione to see his face, but next thing she knew she was pressed back against the wall, his body caging her in. He left no space between them, pressing into her just firmly enough that a searing heat began to build under her skin. She felt the whisper of his breath on her face just before his mouth touched hers. 

 

She felt the kiss throughout her entire body, electricity racing along the surface of her skin. It was urgent, hungry, his tongue sweeping across the seam of her lips. Sinking into him, Hermione brought her hands up to curl around his neck and pulled him closer. She lost all sense of time in the give and take of their kiss; her focus torn between every single place where their bodies touched, a part of her wishing that she could document each sensation and tantalizing brush of skin. 

 

This was what want felt like. 

 

Just when it seemed like the dance between them was about to turn toward what would happen next , Draco broke their kiss, his shallow breaths filling the air between them. Their foreheads remained connected as their heartbeats pounded as though struggling to regain control over their desire. 

 

One last chaste kiss pressed to the corner of her mouth. “See you in the morning, Granger,” he whispered. 

 

“Goodnight, Malfoy,” she replied, letting her fingernails scrape gently against his skin as she unwound her hands from around his neck. 

 

Turning away from him, she climbed up the ladder to her room, willing her breathing to slow back to a normal pace. Clamoring to a standing position, she took a deep breath. 

 

Hermione wasn’t tired, and she took a moment to study her loft space as she considered what to do with this unanticipated time. 

 

The room was almost as bare as it’d been the day she arrived. Other than the sheets on the bed and the record player that sat on the floor, there was no evidence that anyone was actually living there. 

 

For a painful second, Hermione remembered the last room where she’d lived, a room that she’d shared with the man she’d imagined spending the rest of her life with. It was their room, filled with a combination of their things that were so interspersed that an observer would’ve had a challenging time separating them. But now Ron was there, likely still living in that same room, while every physical thing that Hermione had ever owned currently sat in the unremarkable handbag that hung on one of the wooden pegs along the wall. 

 

Sighing, Hermione crossed the room, grabbed her bag, and tossed it onto her neatly made bed. Tugging the draw-strings open, she reached an arm into the magically expanded accessory. 

 

Clothes. She would start with clothes. In all honesty, it had grown tedious for Hermione to fish her clothing out of the bag each day, so finding a more convenient place to store her small wardrobe would contribute to her overall efficiency. 

 

All in all, she pulled three armloads of clothing out of the bag, piling them all unceremoniously onto her bed. After a moment’s consideration, Hermione transfigured a splinter that she peeled off of the small, wooden, desk chair into an oiled tree branch that she fixed with metal brackets to a section of blank wall. Given the flexibility of magic, she was able to perfectly curve the branch to match the curve of the wall, effectively creating an eye-height clothing rack. 

 

Once that was complete, she dug through her purse until she pulled out a mis-matched collection of clothes hangers, which she sent to hang on her new, wooden rack with a wave of her wand. Turning to the clothing, she began to sort through it, sending any clothing that was appropriate or fitting to life in Italy to hang on the rack, while the rest were piled on the floor beside the bed. 

 

Once all of the clothing was sorted, Hermione pointed her wand at her bag with a muttered Accio shoes , and after a series of muffled bangs, a few pairs of shoes practically jumped out of the bag before falling onto the bed. These were sorted as well, with only three pairs lining the floor underneath the clothing rack, while the rest were returned to the bag along with the rest of the discarded clothing. 

 

Surveying the room, she nodded in silent approval. The simple addition of her clothing and footwear certainly helped give the space the feeling that someone was currently living in it. 

 

She returned to the bag, once again plummeting her entire arm into the opening as she searched the cavernous space. This time, she pulled out a large, knit quilt composed of red and yellow squares. It had been a holiday gift from Molly Weasley some years before. As Hermione spread the blanket over her bed, she smiled at the fond memories that accompanied it: winter evenings curled up by the fire reading a book while she sipped hot cider. While the Gryffindor colors were rather garish in the otherwise neutrally colored space, she found that she didn’t mind. 

 

Lastly, Hermione summoned a single picture from her bag. When the metal frame met the skin of her hands, she took a moment before looking down at the photograph that looked up at her. A man and a woman, likely in their mid-thirties, stood in front of a modest brick home, smiling widely at the camera. It was a Muggle photograph, but the absolute joy on their faces was unmistakable. The man already had a receding hairline, but there was a youthfulness to his face that made him seem full of life and vitality. The woman tucked under his arm had explosively curly hair, and her freckled face beamed at whoever was taking the photo. 

 

She felt a burning at the corners of her eyes as she looked down at the photograph of her mum and dad that’d been taken the day they bought their first home. The moment was frozen in time, but Hermione could still see so much of the people who’d raised her in every detail of their faces. Walking over to the small reading desk, she placed the framed photograph on one corner, perfectly positioning it so it was visible from the rest of the room. 

 

Grabbing the book on merpeople that she was still diligently reading and tossing it onto her bed, Hermione stripped off her clothing, grateful that she’d showered earlier so that she didn’t have to now. She tugged a large, Gryffindor Quidditch t-shirt that she’d stolen from one of the older Weasley brothers over her head and pulled on a pair of cotton underwear. Climbing into bed, she smiled as the knit quilt tickled at her skin as she settled in to read. 

 

It wasn’t long before her eyes began to droop, and she barely remembered to place her bookmark before tossing the book to the side and waving her room into darkness with her wand. Curling up on her side, sleep pulled at her consciousness and she began to drift away. 

 

Granger.

 

She barely registered when she heard her name. It must have been a dream. She snuggled deeper into her blankets

 

“Granger.” 

 

She wasn’t dreaming. 

 

Hermione sat up, wand gripped tightly in her fist, furiously blinking her eyes against the light cast by the Lumos she must have cast without realizing it. 

 

A large hand rose to shield the intruder’s face, but the loose, blonde hair was unmistakable. 

 

“Malfoy?” Her voice was already raspy with sleep. 

 

Lowering his hand, Draco winced at her. He stood rather awkwardly next to the trap door that led to the ladder, shifting his weight back and forth on his bare feet. Wearing only a t-shirt and very snug boxers, there was very little left to the imagination. The harsh light that shone from the tip of her wand contrasted with the dark shadows that filled her room, sharpening the lean lines of his body and face. 

 

“I…” Draco started. He exhaled slowly out of his nose, not looking directly at her. “I was wondering if you would mind if I, um, if I slept here. In, well, in your bed.” 

 

Hermione blinked, her sluggish mind still caught in sleep. “Uhhh…” 

 

“Just sleeping, of course,” the words rushed out. He frowned, still diligently avoiding making eye contact with her. “It’s just that...last night. With you. I finally slept; I’ve got no bloody idea why, but I would very much like to sleep again, if it’s alright with you.” 

 

Finally, her mind absorbed the meaning of his words and Hermione lowered her wand, dimming the light so that it wasn't shining directly in his face. There was a hopeful question in his eyes that melted something inside of her chest. “Of course, Malfoy,” she kept her voice quiet and soft, for some reason not wanting to disturb the moment beyond what was necessary. 

 

With a sharp nod, Draco approached her mattress as Hermione scooted over to one side of the bed to make room for the larger man. She conjured an additional pillow and turned down the blankets as he lowered himself to the bed. He cautiously slipped under the covers, staying precariously close to the edge of the mattress. 

 

Hermione snuggled back into the blankets, once again overtaken by drowsiness. However, the awareness that Draco was in her bed was just enough of a distraction to keep her from fully surrendering to sleep again. 

 

“Malfoy,” she whispered. 

 

“Hm?” His response was muffled. 

 

“C’mere,” she murmured. 

 

She felt the mattress shift behind her, as the firmness of his body pressed against her back, the warmth of his bare legs tangling with hers eliciting a soft hum of contentment from her chest. Wiggling back, she met the hard curve of his torso as one of his arms curled around her front, holding her firmly in place against him. 

 

Soft lips planted three kisses up the side of her neck. “Thank you,” his low voice whispered in her ear. Chills slid down her spine. 

 

Hermione reached down to interlace her fingers with the hand that rested against her stomach, bringing the hand up and pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of his wrist. His fingers tightened around hers in response, and, maintaining her hold on him, she returned his hand to its previous position. 

 

The steady rise and fall of his chest against her back lured her closer to sleep. Her eyes fluttered shut and she drifted off; her last conscious thought was just how right it felt to be surrounded by the smell of cedar in her bed.

Notes:

Sometimes I write things that I truly love, and this was one of those things. I absolutely loved writing this chapter.
A huge thank you, a virtual hug, even, to all of you who continue to follow this WIP. I hope it is bringing you even a fraction of the joy it is bringing me.

Thank you to @lauraloveschristmas and @bookishteddy for the editing and encouragement! Working with you both and the community we have created is a light in my life.

Chapter 26: Chapter 26

Summary:

**Lots of lemons ahead. Juicy lemons**

Hermione’s life at the Casa fell into a predictable routine over the following few days. After running with Draco, Hermione went to work, finding that the balance between the more academic research and the harvesting and tending of the gardens suited her. She felt more in equilibrium than she had in years. 

 

The evenings were still filled with cooking with Pansy and socializing with the others who lived in the cottage. She and Theo seemed to have reached some sort of truce, and Hermione was delighted to find that he was an intelligent conversationalist as they began to spend more time together. Neville seemed to be blissfully happy as he basked in the joy of his recent engagement and, if Hermione hadn’t simultaneously been enjoying the giddy happiness of new romance herself, she would have found the two wizards utterly intolerable. 

 

But, she and Draco had taken a step that had definitively changed the something that existed between them. Since their date, their days were now filled with little touches, more frequent conversation, and more proximity to each other. Although it was unspoken, they saved the majority of their honest attraction and conversation for the moments when it was just the two of them. 

 

They still met every night at the willow tree, where Draco would roll and smoke his spliff while Hermione sat beside him. As their conversation deepened, it wasn’t uncommon for their lips to find each other as they gave in to the simmering passion that lived between them. They never progressed past where they’d gone on their date. Hermione wasn’t exactly sure why; maybe there was a freedom that they’d found in that meadow that they couldn’t access while surrounded by the familiarity of the estate. Either way, even when their kisses deepened and their hands began to rove, they never slipped below the clothing that separated them. 

 

Every night Draco would walk her to the base of her ladder, kiss her goodnight, and then leave her to prepare for bed. And then every night, without fail, Draco would come to her room just as she was falling asleep. 

 

Every night he asked if he could stay. 

 

Every night Hermione said that he could, pulling the covers down to welcome him to her bed. 

 

It was a tentative routine between them, and only under the cloak of darkness, right on the cusp of sleep, did their bodies find each other

 

And every morning, just as Hermione was beginning to wake, she felt the mattress shift as Draco snuck out of bed, leaving to return to his room only to then join her, minutes later, for their run. 

 

____________________________________

Hermione had to re-read the passage at least three times before she was confident that she’d properly understood the information she’d stumbled across in the Zabini estate records. Large tome in hand, she paced back and forth in front of a tall window in the estate library, a beam of afternoon sun illuminating the page in front of her.

 

A rush filled her head; she had found something, something potentially useful. She just needed to check...but where would she…

 

Malfoy. 

 

She shut the book as quickly as she could without risking tearing or bending the pages. Setting it down on a nearby table, she moved to the door, speeding up to a jog once she reached the long hallway. 

 

Passing through the estate foyer, she maintained her speed as she waved at Blaise who was holding court with an elderly couple at the front desk. She darted out the open back doors, pausing briefly to slip on her boots before running out into the gardens. 

 

Her shirtsleeves flapped in the wind as she ran down the garden paths, her body knowing when and where to turn without requiring further attention. At some point this place had shifted into something known and familiar. 

 

When Hermione arrived at the greenhouses, she went directly to Greenhouse D, flinging the door open. Inhaling the humid, hot air within, she pushed carefully through the thick foliage until she found him. 

 

Draco looked up at her from where he was bent over a small work table, focused on a tray of seeds in front of him. He quirked an eyebrow at her in greeting, a warm smile spreading on his face. 

 

“Has Blaise ever worked in the gardens?” Hermione was breathing heavily from her run, acutely aware of the sweat gathering between her skin and clothing. 

 

If Draco was caught off guard by the unexpected question, he didn’t show it, simply shaking his head in response.

 

“On the grounds?” she continued.

 

Again, Draco shook his head.

 

“With the animals or magical creatures?” 

 

Draco looked at her curiously. “No, all of his work has been concentrated in the main estate building.” 

 

Hermione’s smile was wide and uninhibited. She bounced on her toes, unable to contain her excitement. “I think that I have an idea, but I need to double check… What was the name of that book with the deeply offensive title that you told me about?” 

 

“ Families Moste Olde and the Creatures that Depend Upon Them ?” Draco supplied with the vaguest hint of a smirk. 

 

“Yes, that one,” her face scrunched in disgust. “Do you know where it is?”

 

Draco nodded as pushed the hairs that’d escaped from his low bun back from his sweaty forehead. It was getting brutally warm in the greenhouse as the days grew longer. “It’s in my room, I can go get it if you’d -”

 

“No,” Hermione interrupted. “Let’s both go.” She felt her magic hum along her skin; she was unable to stand still. “If I’m right, this could be -”

 

“Okay, okay,” Draco laughed, casting a quick charm over the tray he’d been attending to before stashing his wand in his back pocket. Turning to Hermione, he inclined his head in the direction of the door. “Let’s go.”

 

Back at the cottage, they both fumbled to get out of their work boots and rushed through the front door; some invisible force and need fueling their movements. Running up the stairs, Draco’s heavy footsteps behind her, Hermione reached up to wipe a drop of sweat out of her eyes. Why did it have to be so bloody hot? It was a small consolation that the wizard behind her seemed equally affected by the heat; the fabric of his white t-shirt stuck to his chest, a hint of skin barely shining through, and there was evidence of a gleam of moisture gathering on his temples and upper lip. 

 

She stuttered to a halt at the end of the hallway when she reached the base of the spiral staircase, stepping to one side so that Draco could go ahead of her. He gave her a tight smile as he passed, and Hermione fell into step behind him. 

 

They reached the top of the narrow stair, meeting a solid, wooden door. Draco turned the knob and nudged it open with one of his wide shoulders. He moved quickly across the room, and Hermione didn’t pull her focus from him, on completing the task at hand, completely ignoring the new space that surrounded her. 

 

When he placed the small, leather-bound book in her hands, she dove into the pages, fingers moving at lightning speed as she scanned the table of contents. She barely recognized that her feet began to pace back and forth, her damp socks catching every few steps on the wooden floorboards. She had often paced her Ministry office while pouring through the seemingly endless memos that came across her desk, finding that the repetitive movement enabled her prolonged focus; she credited much of her professional success to her almost rabid attention to detail. 

 

Finding the passage she was looking for, she skimmed through the words. She froze in place, finger hovering over the page, before she took in an almost painfully deep breath. 

 

“Gods, I… I think I figured it out.” Hermione’s hazel eyes jumped up to meet the grey eyes that had never left her face. 

 

His eye roll directly contradicted the unrestrained smile that spread over his face. “Of course you did,” he teased. 

 

A laugh fell from her lips, and she moved toward the wizard who looked fondly down at her. She threw her arms around him, giving in to the overwhelming urge to embrace this man, her...something she couldn’t entirely define in words. All that she knew was that in that moment of triumph, all she wanted was to share it with him . 

 

His arms tightened around her and she buried her face into his chest, completely unbothered by the scent of sweat that mingled with the ever-present cedar. Her fingers traced up his arms, over the noticeable bulging of his biceps and the broad expanse of his shoulders. Neither of them pulled away. As the seconds stretched on, something in the air shifted.

 

The hands that encircled her began to trace nonsensical patterns on her skin, fingers catching against the fabric that separated them. Hermione felt her breaths grow shallow as the touches trailed down her spine. In a move of unspoken synchronicity, they drew slightly away from each other, creating just enough space to allow for their eyes to meet. Draco’s wide pupils were surrounded by a swirling ring of silver as he looked down at her, his lips wet and barely parted. Hermione stared back up at him, unable to fathom looking away.

 

Seconds later their mouths met: the kiss was urgent, deepening quickly as they lost themselves in each other. Hermione hummed as she tasted him, a taste that she could not define but still immediately recognized as his. When her eyes fluttered shut, she could still see the bright light of afternoon through her lids, so different from the cloak of night that usually surrounded them. 

 

When she reached for the hem of his t-shirt, Draco didn’t stop her, bending down to help her tug the shirt over his head. Dropping it to the floor, Hermione couldn’t take her eyes off of his bare torso in the light of day, appreciating every scar, muscle, and tattoo that graced his skin. Her eyes found his as her hands moved to the buttons of her blouse. 

 

“No.” The word was whispered as his hand grabbed hers, stilling her efforts. “Let me.” 

 

Her hands dropped to her sides as his fingers slowly moved down from button to button, each one revealing more of her bare skin. She refused to look down when she felt him brush the purpled flesh of her scar: refused to let it distract her from this . When the last button came undone, his palms traced up her sides before sliding the shirt off of her shoulders, exposing her to the room. She barely had time to adjust to the warm air on her skin before her cotton bra, a purely practical piece of clothing, was removed as well. 

 

Hermione felt the absence of him as he stepped away from her, feeling the path of his eyes as they raked up and down her bare flesh. Draco held the distance between them; Hermione watched his chest rise and fall for two slow, painful breaths, his eyes aflame. When his gaze rose to her face again, she felt the almost physical force of the honest desire that was held in the swirling silver. 

 

A gasped inhale slipped from her lips when she felt his fingers at the button of her denims, her entire body awakening with anticipation. His eyes searched hers, an unspoken request for permission to continue, and at her frantic nod he kissed her. As they resumed kissing, Draco walked her backwards, carefully guiding her movements with the hands that were simultaneously steering her and dipping below the waist of her denims. 

 

When the backs of her knees hit what she guessed to be the edge of his bed, Draco broke their kiss and pushed her back, an almost primal expression on his face as he watched her fall back onto the firm mattress. His hands -- hands that she was sure would haunt her dreams for the rest of her earthly life -- dropped back to her denims, sliding down the zip, pulling them off her hips and tugging them down her legs. 

 

She felt the resistance of her socks sticking to her skin as he removed them, and she felt a wave of embarrassment: she had spent the morning working in the garden and was certain that they smelled of sweat. But Draco gave her no time to let self-consciousness overrule, as he raked the backs of his fingers from her ankles... to her calves... to her knees... to her thighs...to her…

 

Oh.  

 

The pads of his thumbs caught on her soft skin as they hooked into the band of her knickers. Hermione struggled to breathe as she looked down at him, watching the full intensity of his attention directed at her body, at removing the last article of clothing that hid her from him. When he tugged them down over her hips, she arched her arse off of the bed to assist his efforts. 

 

His gaze never left her now exposed quim as he tossed her knickers to the side before dropping to his knees at the edge of the bed. The hungry look in his eyes intensified as his hands came up to grip her thighs, pushing them apart and spreading her open before him. His head dipped down, hovering just close enough that she could feel each shaking exhale against her. A wave of want crept up her spine, but Hermione remained frozen, not willing to be the one to close the final gap; she needed to see him do it, needed to see that it was what he wanted. 

 

The bright blonde of his head almost glowed in the bright light that filled the room. She saw the exact moment when his head dropped down, felt the shock of sensation that spread through her body as his tongue dipped between her folds, licking a long, slow line from her cunt up to her clit. 

 

A strangled moan ripped from her chest. This was… the moan intensified in volume as his tongue swirled around her clit before focusing in, flattening against the bundle of nerves and repeating an up-down motion that was fucking perfect . 

 

The deep hum against her alerted to the fact that she’d whispered those two words aloud. There was no room for her to flush, all of her attention focused on the man who currently worked his tongue between her thighs. Each pass of his tongue against her clit sent a jolt through her, a heady fog building in her head as the pleasure intensified. 

 

Bringing her hands up to tangle in his hair, Hermione accidentally pulled some strands loose from the bun that he currently wore.  She had no interest in altering his current movements, content simply to touch him, to connect with him in any way possible. 

 

“Ohhhh,” she whimpered, as Draco’s tongue left her clit to dip into her now-wet cunt, dipping inside before trailing the moisture that gathered on his tongue back up. It was as if he were intentionally avoiding her clit, his tongue and lips tasting everywhere but the place where she wanted, no, where she needed him to be. 

 

“Please…” Hermione tried to hold his head in place while she tilted her hips up to meet his mouth in just the right place, but Draco was stronger, resisting the pull of her. 

 

Teeth nipped at the place where her inner thighs met. “Use your words, witch,” his voice ground out between bites and licks against her skin.

 

A wave of want swept her body at the sound of the gravel in his voice, of his command to vocalize what she wanted from him. Use your words . The phrase implied that he didn’t need her to tell him what she wanted from him; no, it meant that he wanted to hear her tell him what to do, that he would derive pleasure from hearing the words from her lips. 

 

Hermione barely recognized her voice as she breathed the words that she knew he wanted to hear. “I want you to make me come.”

 

She quivered as another low hum vibrated against her. “And how exactly would you like for me to do that?” The question was punctuated with a kiss on the curls that covered her mound. 

 

“Gods,” she whimpered, eyes falling closed. “With your mouth and tongue on my clit, Malfoy.” 

 

The sudden absence of his mouth between her legs caused Hermione’s eyes to jerk open as she lifted her head up to look down at him. 

 

Gods, he was beautiful . Draco, still kneeling before her, looked up at her. His hair was mussed from her fingers, pieces falling down into his face. His lips were swollen, and the light reflected the moisture that covered most of the lower half of his face. Hooded eyes, silver almost completely overwhelmed by the black of his pupils, stared up at her as his chest heaved in deep breaths. 

 

Hermione simply stared back, her heart beating furiously, trying to figure out why he’d stopped. 

 

When one of his hands left where it’d been gripping her thigh and came to rest against her quim, her hips involuntarily bucked up into him, desperately seeking friction. 

 

“What is my name, Granger?” Draco asked, his voice deeper than Hermione had ever heard it, his eyes flashing with that same primal need she’d seen earlier. 

 

Two of his fingers slid between her folds, coming to rest on either side of her clit. Providing just enough pressure, they began to slowly circle. 

 

The heat immediately began to build again. “Fuck, Malfoy, please…” 

 

His fingers sped up incrementally. She was rapidly approaching the edge. “Answer me, witch. What. Is. My. Name?”

 

It took Hermione a moment to filter through the haze and understand what he was asking of her. 

 

His name. 

 

They had crossed so many lines, bridged so many divides, but this was one that had never come up between them. Sure, she knew that he had a name, but Hermione had never even considered using it. It felt forbidden. Taboo, even. 

 

The wave that had been building in her body hovered on the edge of crashing. She felt the cramping in the arches of her feet that signaled that her orgasm was nearing, and she shamelessly bucked her hips up against his circling fingers. 

 

When the word fell from her lips, it was carried on a strangled cry. 

 

“Draco…” 

 

With a growl, Draco’s head dropped back to her quim, his tongue replacing his fingers on her clit. Immediately, he returned to the same firm licks that sent fire radiating out from her center. 

 

Now that his name had breached the space between them, Hermione couldn’t stop it falling from her lips like a mantra. Her body, already hovering at the edge of the cliff, shook with the need for release. 

 

Draco, Draco, Draco. 

 

It was his name that filled the air when she came, a shattering orgasm that started in her toes and was felt through every nerve in her body. The edges of her vision went dark as waves upon waves of release moved through her, and Hermione was unable to do anything but surrender. Vaguely, she could feel the steady licks of Draco’s tongue against her, each touch of his tongue on her quim sending aftershocks through her spent body. 

 

His mouth finally moved across to her hip, trailing wet kisses that moved up her stomach. Hermione’s eyes remained closed as she struggled to regain some control of her breath. She felt his kisses linger on the slightly more sensitive flesh of the scar that bisected her chest, shivering as the wet trail of his tongue traced the damaged flesh. When the kisses moved to her neck, she craned her head to allow him easier access to her skin. 

 

It was the warmth of his breath against her lips and the feeling of the heat of his body hovering just above her that finally brought Hermione to open her eyes. She was immediately lost in the edges of swirling silver that stared down at her. 

 

Her tongue darted out to lick at her lips. Draco’s eyes dropped to her mouth to follow the movement. His face was still covered with the slick sheen of her orgasm, and something about the sight stirred new heat low in her belly. 

 

“Draco,” she whispered, unsure of what else to say. 

 

His pale lashes caught the sunlight as his eyes fluttered shut, a low groan coming from his chest. “I don’t think I could ever get used to hearing you say my name, Granger.” His voice still held the low rasp from before. 

 

Hermione brought one of her hands up to his face, her thumb brushing against his flushed cheekbone. When he leaned into her touch, she smiled. “Bloody hypocrite,” she murmured. 

 

His eyes flashed to hers before looking down, and she saw the bob of his Adam’s Apple as he swallowed. “I don’t,” he started, a hesitancy in his voice that she hadn’t heard that afternoon. “I don’t know if I can.” He glanced up at her again. “I’m sorry.” 

 

Nodding, Hermione bit the corner of her lip as her thumb continued to move against his face. “I want to taste you,” she whispered, bringing her other hand between them to finger the waist of his denims. 

 

Another low groan reverberated from Draco’s chest as he leaned into her touch, the obvious hardness of his cock bumping into her hand. “Fuck,” he breathed. “I want you to, believe me, but right now I would much rather fill your cunt and save your mouth for another time.”

 

His words sent a pulse of heat directly between her legs. Hermione moved her hand from his cheek to curl behind his neck, and tugged his face down to hers, capturing his swollen lips in a kiss. 

 

She tasted the unmistakable musk of her release on his mouth, but didn’t hesitate to deepen the kiss to include their intertwined tongues. More than anything, she wanted to see him come undone, wanted to see him overwhelmed with pleasure under the influence of her mouth. Hermione pulled back just far enough to whisper against his lips. “Please, Draco. Just a taste.” 

 

Draco pushed himself up and off of the bed with superhuman speed, his hands immediately dropping to his fly. His movements were quick and efficient, and Hermione watched him quickly rid himself of the denims before bending down to tug off his black boxers. 

 

When he stood back up, Hermione raised herself up on her elbows to properly survey his fully nude form. She’d seen pieces, yes: she’d seen the scars, the tattoos that covered his entire arm and upstaged the magical brand that haunted him, the fine blonde hairs that covered his legs and the odd elegance of his bare feet. But to see him all at once, to see just how well each piece fit together to make the man who stood before her: Hermione was unprepared for just how handsome he was in the unfiltered light of afternoon. 

 

Her eyes drifted down to his cock, which stood rigid and straight from his body. Pale blonde curls surrounded it, and his balls hung heavy at the base. It was just as she’d felt it: thick, almost impossibly so, and long enough that she could already imagine it hitting that place inside of her that she’d only managed to find once with a Muggle vibrator. Seeming to sense her attention, the cock twitched upward, somehow hardening further.

 

Pushing herself up to a sitting position, Hermione scooted forward until she sat perched on the edge of the bed. She held Draco’s gaze as she reached out with both of her hands, curling them around the backs of his bare thighs and dragging him closer to her. A few shaky steps brought him directly in front of her, his cock standing a breath away from her lips. 

 

Vibrating energy from the effort of restraint radiated from the wizard who stared down at her, his eyes flashing with barely constrained hunger. Hermione dug her fingers into the back of his thighs and Draco hissed an exhale. 

 

“I swear to Merlin, witch…”

 

Hermione leaned forward, wrapping her lips around his cock and sliding her mouth down until she met resistance. She’d considered teasing, considered making him wait before taking him, but she couldn’t deny that she was impatient. She’d given blow jobs before, of course. Well, not frequently, but it certainly was something she was familiar with. Sure, Hermione had tasted the rush of power that came from watching a man lose himself in pleasure. But imagining Draco, a man so tightly controlled and stoic, losing himself at her hand sent fire running through Hermione’s veins. 

 

She wanted to be the one to bring him that pleasure , she realized as she swallowed around his cock. It was wide enough that it stretched her lips, and she struggled to take more than a few inches into her mouth without choking. But the feral growl that filled the room and the hands that tangled in her hair encouraged her, and she forced air in through her nose as she took him in deeper. When the head of his cock brushed the back of her throat, she paused, tightening the muscles of her mouth to constrict even further around him. 

 

A strained “Fuck” sounded from above her, and she slowly withdrew, pulling back until just the tip remained in her mouth. She let her tongue circle the head, slipping beneath the foreskin to lick at the slit. Another groan encouraged her to deepen her movements, and she found a rhythm: sucking him completely into her mouth before drawing back with a swirl of her tongue. 

 

The clues from Draco’s body seemed to communicate that he liked what Hermione was doing. His hold on her hair tightened with every swipe of her tongue, and his hips were beginning to react, jerking forward to meet her motions. She could hear his breathing grow louder, gasping even, and she felt heat beginning to grow again in her belly. 

 

She was doing this to him.  

 

“Granger…” His voice was choked as he pulled his cock out of her mouth. Hermione looked up at him, meeting the dark eyes that stared down at her, reverence clearly written in them. 

 

When his hands pushed her back, Hermione scooted back on the soft blanket that covered the bed until she lay fully stretched out. Draco, pale skin catching the beams of afternoon light, crawled to hover over her, his eyes never leaving hers. 

 

They both knew what would happen next. The words didn’t need to be spoken, but still hesitation filled the air between them, as if each of them were waiting on the other to say no, to voice an objection or point out a flaw in their logic. 

 

But as Hermione searched Draco’s eyes, she saw nothing but certainty, nothing but an honest desire to be there, in that moment, with her. She searched her gut, trying to find the voice that would tell her that this was a bad idea, but there was only silence and certainty. 

 

When his mouth sought hers she rose to meet him. Their lips parted and tongues tangled as their hips closed the distance between them, Hermione’s legs spreading to allow him to settle between her thighs. Their sighs mingled as she felt his slicked cock slip between her thighs, perfectly sliding along her folds and nudging her hooded clit. 

 

His mouth left hers to kiss the skin of her pulse point before rising to her ear. His voice was a low whisper. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes,” she whispered back. The tingling sensation that swept over her abdomen signaled that Draco must have cast a contraception charm. Just to be certain, Hermione pulled her head back to meet his eyes. “Did you…” she questioned.

 

Draco nodded. “I’ve got you, Granger.” 

 

Hermione squeezed her thighs around his slim waist and brought her hands up to his shoulder blades, digging her nails into the smooth flesh. Now there was no reason to delay, and she felt the burning want overwhelming her body again. “Please, Draco.” 

 

The low growl Draco made in his chest sent heat directly to the place where his cock rested, and Hermione felt her heartbeat pound in her quim as he pulled his hips back to allow his hand to grasp his cock. Hermione held her breath as she felt the tip nudge at her entrance, which was still wet from her release. 

 

When his hips pushed forward, an unrecognizable moan ripped from Hermione’s lips. Her eyes fluttered closed, unable to focus on anything but the stretch of her walls as her body adjusted to his girth. Slowly, steadily, he filled her; the muscles of his back trembled under her hands and Hermione felt a rush of gratitude for his restraint. 

 

His stuttering breaths in her ear kept her senses grounded as she was overwhelmed by the feeling of him. Draco filled and consumed her body in a way that was unfamiliar and completely new. When his hips met hers, he lifted his head up to look down at her. 

 

“I…” he breathed, his cheeks flushed and eyes blown completely open, a look of awe and disbelief painting his features. “Why, fuck, I, Granger, you feel, I can’t…” 

 

Hermione could only nod and kiss him, bucking her hips up into him in encouragement, as one of her hands moved to his hair, tugging the elastic that held his hair back loose, releasing a curtain of bright blonde that surrounded their faces. 

 

That was all he needed. Draco pulled back and thrust into her. His movements were slow and patient, each drag of his cock along Hermione’s inner walls building up the pleasure that was already beginning to once again grow in her body. Their kiss was frantic, lips and tongues and teeth fighting to communicate the intensity of the fire that burned between them. 

 

When Hermione broke the kiss and pushed against Draco’s shoulders, he knew exactly what she was asking for. One of his hands slid under her body, tugging her flush against him as he rolled them over while maintaining the connection between their bodies. 

 

Somehow his cock seemed to stretch her in new ways as she adjusted to the depth that it reached now that she straddled his hips. Draco lay back on the blanket, which Hermione now noticed was a deep blue color that perfectly complimented his silver eyes. His hair spread out around his head, forming a halo of bright blonde. 

 

He was a beautiful man . 

 

Hermione could feel the rough pads of his thumbs brushing against her hips where his hands held her in place. Tentatively, she rolled her hips forward, not taking her eyes off of the wizard underneath her. She repeated the motion, watching as Draco’s eyes fluttered and a hissed breath fell from his lips. 

 

Slowly she sped up her motions, lifting herself up on her knees before sliding back down his cock and rolling forward, perfectly nudging her clit into his pubic bone. She felt her own breathing growing more ragged as she rode him, bringing her hands up to rest on his chest. 

 

Draco’s hands tightened on her, and when she rolled her hips forward his thrust up to meet hers, intensifying both the angle of his cock and the pressure on her clit. 

 

How could something so new feel so good? The fevered thought drifted through her mind as her movements grew less controlled and more frantic. When his hands left her hips to cup her bouncing breasts and she felt the first pass of his rough thumbs against her nipples, a cry fell from her lips. 

 

“Oh Gods,” she whimpered, arching into his touch. 

 

The thumbs swiped again. “Beautiful fucking witch,” Draco ground out between breaths. “Come here.” 

 

At the command, Draco once again wrapped an arm around her back, stilling her movements and pulling her against him as he moved them both back on the bed until he reached a pile of pillows and a wooden headboard. With one hand, he propped a pillow behind him before leaning slightly back. With both of his hands, he maneuvered Hermione’s legs to circle around his waist before wrapping his arms around her. 

 

His hips bucked up, thrusting his cock deeper into her quim. Taking the hint, Hermione rolled her hips forward, immediately noticing the difference in the angle. Because of Draco’s upright torso, her clit had prolonged contact and pressure, and she already felt her body responding. 

 

Their movements were unhurried, each seeming content to prolong their slowly building pleasure. Their current position was closer, more intimate. It left no room for distance and space, and as Hermione’s hands encircled Draco’s neck and returned to tangle in his loose hair, she reeled at the overpowering sensation of him everywhere . 

 

Ducking her head to kiss the long lines of his neck, Hermione moaned as the sharp taste of salt hit her tongue. She nipped at the side of his neck, humming against his skin as she felt his hips thrust harder in reaction. 

 

Hands on either side of her head pulled her back to him. Draco’s eyes burned as he brought their faces closer, letting their foreheads rest against each other as they each struggled to control their breaths. 

 

“I...” Draco groaned. “I’m so fucking close, Granger.” 

 

Hermione was getting closer, but she knew that she needed more to come again. “Touch me,” she said against his lips. One of his hands dropped from her face to the place where their bodies met, and Hermione let out a whimper when she felt a calloused finger brush against her clit. Now that he was touching her, the heat that had been slowly building crescendoed. 

 

She continued to grind into his lap, suspended between the heady rush of his cock dragging against that spot inside of her and the steady circling of his fingers. Draco thrust furiously up into her, muttered words falling from his lips as she watched his control waver. 

 

“Fucking goddess,” he mumbled. “You should see yourself like this, so beautiful, so perfect…” Draco’s eyes closed and a groan fell from his lips. 

 

“Don’t stop,” she whimpered, now rapidly approaching the edge of the cliff. “Don’t you dare stop.”

 

The hand that held her back moved up to grip her braid. “Never stopping,” Draco promised before capturing her lips in a quick and searing kiss. Pulling back from her lips he whispered, “I wouldn’t know how to stop.”

 

One more second under his fingers was all that it took to send her hurtling over the edge of her second orgasm. Spasms wracked her whole body as she succumbed to wave after wave of pleasure, her broken cries filling the room. Even as she lost her grip on the world, Draco continued to thrust into her, holding her body tightly against his chest. 

 

“Fuck…” His cry was tortured, a low, drawn out growl against her lips as he came inside of her, his cock pulsing as he drove into her still-fluttering quim. His hands dug into her flesh like his life depended on their connection, his panting breaths hot and frantic. Hermione felt the warmth of his release filling her as she slowly came down from her high, dropping her head to his shoulder and collapsing boneless in his arms. 

 

Hermione struggled to find her breath as she felt Draco still, his hands coming up to trace gently up and down her back. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel that they were both covered in sweat, their skin slick from their physical efforts in the warm afternoon. But at that moment she couldn’t summon the energy to care. 

 

Draco’s body shifted underneath hers, lowering them both to lay, still connected, on top of the blue blanket that covered the bed. The feeling of total relaxation oozed over her as Hermione nuzzled closer to the man who held her tightly against him. The rise and fall of his chest slowly returned to a consistent rhythm, and the catch of his fingers against her bare skin pushed her toward drowsiness. 

 

The brilliant sunlight of the afternoon that filled the small room kept her awake enough to notice the soft pressure of lips against her forehead. Blinking her eyes open, Hermione pulled her head up, propping her chin on his chest so that she could look at him. 

 

His silver eyes swirled, open and clear as he looked at her, his swollen lips curved up in a tired smile. “Hello, witch,” he murmured, his voice deep and gravelled. 

 

Hermione smiled back. She liked seeing him like this: fully relaxed and unguarded. She brought a finger up to trail along the valley formed by his sternum, feeling his skin pebble in the wake. “Wizard,” she replied. 

 

Draco’s pale brows furrowed. “No.” 

 

“No?” Her grin widened.

 

Shaking his head, Draco let both of his hands drift down her back to rest on her arse. “Absolutely not.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because it doesn’t sound even remotely endearing.” His hands squeezed the flesh of her ass.

 

Hermione laughed. “So it is endearment you are after? Something more along the lines of ‘babe,’ or ‘sweetness’?” She cocked an eyebrow at him. 

 

Groaning, Draco tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Bloody hell, witch.”

 

“See! And why is it that you get to call me ‘witch’?” 

 

“Because, coming from my mouth, ‘witch’ is a term of endearment.”

 

Lifting her head up, Hermione scowled at the blonde man who lay underneath her. “Oh? So to be given the honor of being acknowledged as a witch by a man such as yourself is something I should be thanking you for?” 

 

Draco paled, his eyes widening. “Obviously not, Granger. I, fuck, I’m sorry -”

 

Hermione leaned forward, silencing him with a quick kiss. Pulling back, she softened her gaze. “I know, Draco,” she said. “And I happen to like it when you call me ‘witch.’” Her mouth captured his in another, deeper, kiss. 

 

He hummed against her mouth, murmuring, “And I fucking love it when you call me Draco.”

 

“Of course you do,” she whispered between kisses. Suddenly she stopped. “Draco.” 

 

“Hm?” Silver eyes that were slowly returning to grey blinked up at her. 

 

“Are we supposed to be working right now?” Hermione asked, finally looking up from the bed and trying to locate a window, as if she would be able to accurately assess the time. 

 

Tugging her back down, Draco rolled them over so that his body draped over the top of hers. In the process his cock finally slid out of her, releasing a rush of their combined release. Without wasting a second, Draco grabbed his wand from where it had fallen on the bed and cast a Scourgify , clearing their fluids away. Tossing the wand back down on the bed, he brought his hand up to push the curls out of her face, looking down at Hermione with such fondness that she felt her chest constrict. 

 

“They won’t miss us.” His face transformed into a familiar smirk. “Besides, Granger, after all of these years don’t you think you’ve earned the right to play hooky at least once?”

 

Hermione felt a deep itch in her gut that hadn’t been present in months, an itch that told her that she had to go, that her self-worth depended on her professional perfection. For a second she was suspended in limbo, between leaving and staying, between falling prey to habit and fighting for flexibility. 

 

“Fine,” she finally agreed, smiling as Draco kissed the hollow of her neck, allowing herself to fully surrender to the moment; laying naked in a bed with a no-longer strange man, simply content to be. 

Notes:

Well they finally did it... Let me know what you think!
As we come into fall and our lives get crazier with work and families, I want to acknowledge the time and energy that it takes to edit and read for someone else, and it is a gift that I am SO grateful for. So to the big three, I wouldn't be here without your time, love, and support. Thank you thank you, Lauraloveschristmas, Bookishteddy, and Miiisterbear.

Chapter 27: Chapter 27

Summary:

**Chapter Updates will now be every Wednesday!**

When Hermione woke up, the purple light of dusk illuminated the wooden beams of the ceiling above her. Glancing to her right, she came face to face with a still-sleeping Draco. His loose hair fell over his face, which lay nestled against her shoulder. In fact, his whole body lay curled up against her, with one arm draped loosely over her stomach. His lips, still swollen from their earlier activities, were turned down in a slight frown.

 

Sex was a funny thing.

 

It wasn’t new in principle; she’d had sex consistently throughout her relationship with Ron. Sure, it had at times felt more like something that they were supposed to do rather than something that they desperately wanted, but the actual motions of the deed were familiar. She’d learned early on that the patience required to achieve an orgasm through Ron’s attentions alone brought her more anxiety than it was worth, and she’d turned to a vibration charm she’d found in the restricted section for achieving release. While Ron had initially protested the addition of her wand to their sex life, eventually he gave in. It was no fault of Ron’s: no, Hermione had just concluded that between her body and mind she wasn’t capable of orgasming without additional stimulation. Which, of course, she controlled, because the one time she’d allowed Ron to try he hadn’t done it correctly. 

 

She thought she’d known exactly what to expect from a male body, both the gifts and limitations. But what Draco’s body had just done, what his fingers and cock and mouth had just done didn’t fit into her previous categorization of sex. Any expectations and assumptions she’d had based on her past experience were now shattered. She would have to start reconstructing her understanding from scratch. 

 

Even now, what couldn’t be more than two hours later, her body still reverberated with the memory of what they’d done. Beyond the physical joining of their bodies, Hermione was still trying to grasp the revelation that she was capable of such all-consuming bodily desire. The woman who had just fallen into bed felt like a stranger she’d just learned happened to be sharing her body. 

 

Beyond the greater implications of self-doubt, there was the matter of the man who lay next to her. What did this mean for them? Were they a couple now? It felt rather silly to be stuck in the semantics, but Hermione couldn’t help the need that gnawed on her gut to know , to be able to clearly define what they were. She’d already been overriding the voice in her head that constantly needed control and clarity in the recent weeks with Draco. Funnily, it was easier to ignore when he was around. 

 

Hermione took a slow, deep breath, the smell of Draco surrounding her where she lay in his bed. Her thoughts continued to swirl, growing louder. 

 

She needed to think. 

 

Glancing around her, she saw that she was close to the edge of the bed. Carefully, she eased out of Draco’s grip; she didn’t want to wake him. Pushing herself up to a seated position, she actually took in the room that surrounded her for the first time. 

 

It was larger than her loft, but still had a feeling of contained coziness that made it seem small. It was sparsely furnished: beyond the bed there was a simple, wooden desk, an overstuffed armchair upholstered in crimson, a bookshelf, and a large wardrobe. The walls were painted a simple cream color. What surprised Hermione were the small details of personalization that could be initially overlooked. The tall stack of books beside the bed, the vase of fresh flowers on the desk, the unframed photographs that covered the strip of wall between the bookshelf and the door. On the bookshelf, she immediately recognized the worn spines of Muggle novels. 

 

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but the pieces of Draco that obviously filled the room caught her off guard. A wave of embarrassment filled her when she realized that she had expected a room full of austere mahogany, emerald accents, and serpents. So much for having moved past stereotypes . Here, again, was another reminder that Draco was not the man she thought. This was the room of someone who loved to read, and who possessed a softness that few had the opportunity to know. Now that she knew him, it was easy to imagine Draco living in this space, carefully arranging freshly picked flowers or reading in the chair. Even in light of what they’d just done, there was an intimacy to being in his space, almost a feeling that she was intruding. 

 

Sliding to her feet from the bed, Hermione took a moment to track down her clothing from where it had fallen to the floor. Careful to make as little noise as possible, Hermione re-dressed quickly, casting one last look over her shoulder at the sleeping wizard before slipping out the door. 

 

_______________________________________

 

A few minutes later, Hermione sat on their bench as she chewed absently on a slice of cold pizza. They’d slept through dinner, but she’d found leftovers on the counter as she passed through the kitchen on her way outside. It was still early, but apparently the rest of their housemates were otherwise occupied because the downstairs of the cottage was empty and quiet. 

 

Dusk was just giving in to the influence of night. It was a little bit earlier than Hermione usually came to the bench, and her eyes took in the subtle difference time made. The fields that extended beyond the stream were still visible, not yet cloaked in darkness, and the green of the foliage had not yet melted into shadow. 

 

It was a beautiful place. 

 

A rustle in the grass behind her drew her attention away from the scenery. When a flash of purple and yellow peeked through the tall grass, Hermione had to stifle a groan. 

 

“Odd one!” Sergio’s gruff voice bridged the remaining distance between them. “I could smell you from a mile away.” 

 

Her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of the gnome’s statement. “You could smell me?” 

 

“Yes.” The gnome trudged up to the table, now fully visible in the shorter grass. It was unsurprising to see the hodgepodge of colorful knit garments. Wrinkling his large nose, Sergio looked up at her. “You smell like mating.” 

 

Mouth agape, Hermione stared at him in shock. “Pardon me?” The words came out as a squeak. 

 

“Ach,” Sergio muttered, seemingly displeased. “You humans is wasting so much of your life on this earth with being polite. I is only saying fact: you didn’t smell like mating before. Now you do.” 

 

As seemed to be the trend in most of her interactions with the gnome, Hermione was torn between righteous indignation and respect for the small being. While he seemed to have no tact whatsoever, he had proven to possess an uncanny ability for accurate observation. “Fine,” she conceded. “You aren’t wrong.” 

 

“I am knowing this.” Sergio said this as if it were an obvious statement. “You mated with Mister Draco.” It wasn’t phrased as a question, and yet his large, blinking eyes looked up at her as though gauging her reaction. 

 

Rather than contest what the gnome obviously had correctly concluded, Hermione returned the stare, raising her brows. “And?” she asked. 

 

Sergio’s weather-worn lips turned down in a thoughtful frown as he adjusted his crocheted cap. “You is afraid.” 

 

Afraid? The statement caught her off guard. “Afraid?” she parroted back, unable to think of a better response. 

 

“Yes,” Sergio nodded. “You is afraid that letting Mister Draco come close to you after all of your alone work will be undoing you. That you will be losing yourself in him.” 

 

Stunned, Hermione brought a hand up to toy with the end of her braid. 

 

Was she afraid? 

 

What was it that had originally snapped her out of the professional stupor she’d been living in? It was that silly question from the Prophet reporter, such an innocent and standard question that it was almost laughable how it had single handedly upturned her entire life. The question of whether or not Hermione wanted to be Minister for Magic brought into question everything she had done since leaving Hogwarts: her career, her personal relationships, how she chose to spend her minimal spare time. 

 

And it had all boiled down to want . What did she want from her life, a life that she’d almost lost in a war, a life that she couldn’t sit back and take for granted? 

 

It was that question that had brought her to Italy. The question that had prompted her to leave her carefully constructed routine and seek something else, something more. 

 

And what had she found? 

 

Peace, for one. She’d slowly grown more comfortable with surrendering her iron grip of control that she was used to having over her life: trying new foods, adjusting to different and new situations on a daily basis, letting go of previous assumptions in order to meet the people that now surrounded her as they were in the now.

 

Her panic attacks had slowly abated. Hermione was hesitantly optimistic that perhaps she’d finally overcome them, maybe through devoting a small amount of time each day to herself. The running was something that served no greater purpose to her career and life beyond bringing her joy and a sense of accomplishment. 

 

She’d taken steps forward to making a life without Ron. She’d found the courage to let him go, to leave something safe and known behind in favor of the possibility of more . She hoped that he was finding his own way forward, perhaps with someone better -- for him, she made sure to add. Not just someone better, but someone better for Ron . 

 

And was she finding her own way forward? 

 

She thought of the wizard she’d left sleeping peacefully, of the something that had been steadily growing and shifting between them since she’d arrived. What she’d found with him -- the companionship, his uncanny ability to see her, the precious moments of intimacy -- was so unknown that she couldn’t properly define whether she was moving forwards or backwards with him. 

 

In the hours and days that Hermione had spent studying and considering the something that had been slowly happening between herself and Draco, she’d never paused to observe how Hermione , the individual, fit into the equation. She’d only ever had this kind of experience with one other person, and in that partnership, she had settled into a routine of safety and avoidance. But now, not only was she somewhere new, but she had the sense, no, she knew that she’d changed. But how? 

 

Who and where was she when she was with Draco? 

 

“Odd one,” Sergio interrupted. “Afraid is…good, but fear is bad. Be afraid, but don’t be letting fear keep you from letting the want win.” 

 

Damn gnome with his damn riddles , Hermione thought as she offered the gnome a forced smile. “So I should let the want win?”

 

The gnome nodded. “When gnomes are dying, we ask: ‘Are you ready for beyond?’ And for one who has been living full, they will nod and say: ‘Yes. I am ready. I have been living, wanting, feeling, loving, and crying. I am at peace because I have left no stone unturned on my path to find enough, and when I was finding it I knew when to stop.’” A rough chuckle came from Sergio as he smiled, revealing a row of crooked teeth. “You are not ready for dying yet, because you still aren’t being okay with stopping.” 

 

“Um,” she started, her head swimming with the effort to decipher the deeper meaning behind his words. “Thank you?” 

 

Sergio gave a short snort. “Someday you will be coming to me and saying that you understand,” he said with a firm confidence that Hermione certainly didn’t feel. “And that, Odd One, will be being a good day.” 

 

With a final dip of his head, the gnome turned and trundled off, disappearing into the taller grass. 

 

The sound of larger footsteps approaching the table had Hermione looking back over her shoulder. She shouldn’t have been surprised to see Draco walking slowly towards her, loose sweatpants and crumpled white t-shirt perfectly complimenting his messy hair that now almost brushed against his shoulders. 

 

When their eyes met, Hermione looked away, a sharp pang of shame pulsing in her chest as she realized that she didn’t know what to say to him. She kept her eyes downcast on her wringing hands as she felt him settle in beside her, noticing that he didn’t sit as close as she’d grown used to. 

 

“Don’t do this.” There was a harsh edge to his voice that was still raspy from sleep. 

 

Hermione glanced over at him from the corner of her eye. “Do what?” Her voice was small, smaller than she wanted it to be. 

 

Draco sighed loudly. “Act like nothing happened, Granger. Don’t let it all mean nothing.” She could hear in his voice how painful these words were, how hard it was to move them from his mind to the air between them. 

 

“But what does it mean?” She stumbled upon the question that had driven her out of his bed, the question that had brought her outside to this spot,to their spot, to think. 

 

“I don’t know,” Draco’s voice lowered to a pained whisper. “But I need it to mean something. I mean...you were there, Granger. How the fuck could that not have meant something?” 

 

The sudden burn of tears in her eyes surprised her. “Of course it meant something, Draco!” The words were choked with emotion. “I’ve never felt like that before, and honestly I don’t know how to process it. I don’t know how to fit what we just did into my understanding of myself and the world. It just… I feel naked, Draco; naked and raw and vulnerable, and that scares the shit out of me.” 

 

She looked up at him, aware that he would be able to see the evidence of the unshed tears that gathered in the corners of her eyes. The look that he gave her in return held just as much barely contained emotion, his grey eyes dark. 

 

The muscles in his jaw clenched as he flexed his hands where they rested on his thighs. “And how do you think that I feel?” He exhaled a slow breath through his nose. “Merlin, Granger, I told you that I needed for this to be real with you, that you needed to actually want this, before letting myself do, well, that , and you just left! You fucking left.” 

 

“I-” Hermione scrambled to find the words to explain, to get him to see just how wrong he was. “I do want it, so badly, but what actually is this something that we keep saying we want? I need to know what it is, Draco. I need definitions and clarity.” 

 

“Us. Together. A relationship. A committed, adult relationship where we choose each other. A relationship where we find joy in sitting on this gods’ damned bench that always gives me splinters in my arse and in the simple pleasure of each other’s company. A relationship where we get to know each other better every day.” The hint of a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And I would very much like to have sex with you again. Hopefully frequently. In an ideal world, daily.” Hermione flushed, looking down at her lap. “So, Granger. That is the ‘something’ that I would like to choose, but obviously, it isn’t only up to me.” 

 

A relationship . 

 

They’d been dancing around the idea, somehow artfully avoiding it in all of their conversations about what was happening between them. It was funny how something so obvious could hold such monumental weight when voiced out loud. 

 

Why did everything have to come back to the same question? What did she want?  

 

In this case, it was almost too easy to answer. 

 

“Okay.” Hermione looked back up at him, gnawing nervously on the corner of her bottom lip. “But you have to know that I’m probably not going to be very good at this.” 

 

Draco’s hand on her cheek sent a line of chills down her spine. She couldn’t help but lean into his touch. “Of course you’re not,” he chuckled softly. “We’re probably both going to be rubbish at the whole thing and have to figure it out as we go.” He leaned towards her, brushing his lips experimentally against hers once, twice… 

 

When his mouth pressed to hers, he somehow channelled all of their words into the act. His lips were confident as they moulded against her mouth, his tongue certain as it slipped between her lips to taste her. When his other hand came up to cradle her head Hermione had the distinct feeling of being revered, perhaps even precious. 

 

She broke the kiss to catch her breath. “What you did to my body, Draco…” 

 

His lips shifted to her jaw, tilting her head so that he could more easily kiss down the side of her neck. “Yes,” he hummed, urging her to continue. 

 

“I didn’t know that it could feel so good.” Her breath caught in her chest and her eyes fluttered shut as his teeth nipped at her sensitive skin. 

 

“Really,” he murmured, and she felt his lips curve up in a smile against the base of her throat. 

 

Swallowing, Hermione slid her hands up his arms until they arrived at his shoulders, letting her fingers dig into the wide muscles that strained against the worn fabric of his shirt. “Does it,” she started, her breaths becoming more strained as he resumed kissing her neck. “Does it always feel like that?” 

 

Somewhere in her mind she chastised herself for voicing such a thing, for so obviously putting her insecurity on display. But it was a valid question, wasn’t it? Draco had more experience with more women. It was possible that Hermione had limited her own horizons simply by being with the same man.  

 

The hands that still gripped her face tightened, and Hermione opened her eyes to see Draco’s face staring intently at her, his eyes bright and flashing, demanding her attention. “Listen, witch,” he growled. “What happened in that bed was fucking magic. No sex has ever come close to what we just did, and I know you felt it to.” His measured exhale was warm against her lips. “It’s never felt like that before, and now that I’ve found that feeling, I can’t imagine giving it up anytime soon.” 

 

Any response Hermione had been planning was quieted by another kiss, this one full of the promise of more . Rather than putting her reply into words, Hermione made the fact that she agreed with him clear in the pull of her lips, with her hands that tangled in his hair, and the pressing of her body as close to his as she could given their current position sitting side by side. 

 

In one of those profound moments of serendipity, Draco reached for her hips, pulling her up and over to straddle his lap without breaking their heated kiss. Hermione’s body melted into his, her breasts meeting the firm muscle of his chest as their hips aligned, their closeness encouraged by his hands that had fallen to grip the soft muscle of her arse. 

 

“I want you to know,” Draco murmured against her lips as he rocked her hips forward against the hardening bulge that pressed against the seam of his sweatpants. “You are my witch now, Granger.” 

 

Hermione’s fingers raked against his scalp at the intoxicating friction of him against her fabric-covered quim. “And what does it mean to be your witch, Draco?” Her question was whispered, breathless. 

 

“It means that I don’t have to hold back anymore.” His hands now guided her hips in a repeated rhythm against his arousal. “I get to tell you how beautiful you are, and how infuriating it is to see you doubt yourself.” His lips captured hers in a quick, searing kiss. “I can kiss you in the middle of the day when you are flushed and sweating,” he moved to kiss a line up her cheek bone. “I can tell you that I have come to prefer your company over just about anyone in this world.” The kisses lingered on her temple before tracing an arch over her forehead. “It means that I no longer have to pretend that you aren’t an absolute fucking treasure .” 

 

Draco spoke those words with such certainty, with not even a hint of doubt. She felt his lips come to rest on her opposite temple and her chest constricted.

 

Hermione tugged his head back down until his blown pupils were level with her eyes. “I’m not perfect, Draco, you have to know-”

 

“I know.” His voice was serious as he held her gaze, his hands on her hips gripping her tightly against him. His nose barely brushed up against hers, such a tiny motion that communicated so much. “I’m not here because you’re known as the Golden Girl, or because you won a war. No, I’m here in spite of those things. I have no interest in perfection or bright, shiny things. You’re just as broken as the rest of us, Granger, and the more cracks that I discover, the more I want to learn.”

Notes:

Sorry it's a bit of a short one! I promise the next one will be longer.
Writing Sergio brings me joy. And Hermione and Draco speak to my soul. That is all.

Thank you @lauraloveschristmas (who loves Sergio more than anyone) and @bookishteddy for the editing and love.

Chapter 28: Chapter 28

Summary:

*NSFW content ahead*

The next Wednesday there was another full moon, which meant that the group, once again, gathered after work to make the journey to the quarry. This time, everyone rode bikes, and Hermione observed with mild amusement that most of the bicycles looked like they had been fabricated twenty years prior. Blaise was in a particularly cheerful mood, and when they all began to ride down the bumpy two-lane track to leave the estate grounds they were accompanied by his tenor voice rather terribly singing an Italian ballad. 

 

Draco and Theo raced, some remnant of the competitive spirit of childhood that neither wizard had outgrown, and their yelled insults and shouts drifted back to where the rest of the group rode at a leisurely pace. Hermione rode next to Luna, and the two witches were deep into discussing the implications of Hermione’s new discovery in her research into the greater magical problem facing the property. 

 

The sudden breakthrough that had sent Hermione running to Draco on that fateful afternoon had been the realization that most Pureblood estate holders had a long tradition of performing magic on the land that surrounded their ancestral homes. She’d stumbled across a reference to a monthly ritual in the gardens in her reading of the Zabini estate records that had sparked the idea; there seemed to have been some sort of unspoken understanding that the family needed to be imbuing the land itself with their magical signatures. In the book Hermione had found in Draco’s room, various magical rituals designed to take place outdoors were explained in great detail. While upon initial perusal they could be brushed off as seasonal pagan celebrations, closer examination of the spells clearly showed that there was specific intention to perform magic that would linger in the land itself.   

 

Her hypothesis, then, was that because the Zabini family had been absent from the estate for over ten years, and, since Blaise’s return, none of his magic had been performed directly on the land, there were lingering magical wounds that were affecting the magical beings that made their home there. However, they now had a potential plan of action: having Blaise work with his magic on the grounds that surrounded the estate.

 

“But, as you said, we haven’t yet had the opportunity to track the impact that Blaise could have if he used his magic in direct work with the land,” Luna was saying. “Even if the outcome is as you have predicted, we don’t know how long it could take to see results.” 

 

Hermione nodded as she leveled the handlebars in the wake of a pothole. “You’re right,” she stated, unable to fully hide the disappointment in her voice. Patience was not exactly her strongest quality, and she struggled to accept that fully addressing and solving the problem facing the garden gnome population would take more time than she thought. “Do you think that we could combine Draco’s research into administering a healing potion that focused on fertility with having Blaise begin his work in the gardens? Or would doubling up on protocol be detrimental to our results?” 

 

Luna’s laugh was airy and light as she shook her head. “Hermione, we are not worried about the constraints of protocol or tainting results. We are simply a group of capable individuals trying to find a way to help our community who, in this case, are a community of garden gnomes. Anything that we can do to bring them a solution should be done!” The witch’s blonde hair flowed behind her, catching the afternoon light as it streamed down through the trees. “Once Draco hybridizes the pollen that is the missing ingredient of the fertility potion, we will begin administering doses to Sergio.” 

 

“Sergio?” Hermione didn’t try to contain her surprise.

 

“He immediately volunteered when he heard we would be experimenting with a new potion. He would very much like to have children of his own, you know.” 

 

Hermione smiled, imagining a tiny, swaddled creature with Sergio’s potato-like nose wearing a colorful knit hat. “I cannot say that I am surprised to hear that.” 

 

They fell into a comfortable silence as they left the heavily wooded estate behind them and the road smoothed into gravel. Fields of golden grasses surrounded them, and the heat from the day still radiated oppressively from the road. Hermione was grateful that she’d chosen to wear the blue and white striped linen tunic that felt like wearing nothing at all on top of her swimming suit. 

 

By the time they passed the faded Portico sign, they were all sweaty and dusty, and when they rolled to a stop in front of the cafe where they’d pick up their pizzas, Hermione was grateful for the break. Draco and Theo were already there, having kept up their furious pace throughout the duration of the ride, and Pansy and Neville went into the cafe while the rest of them waited outside. Once Hermione climbed off of her bike, a firm hand curled around her waist, tugging her back against a tall, firm body. At the feeling of lips brushing the side of her neck, Hermione flushed and turned around to face the man who held her. Draco looked down at her with a satisfied grin, seemingly oblivious to the layer of sweat and dust that covered his face. 

 

When he dipped his head, Hermione rose up on her toes to meet his kiss, her blood singing with the simple joy of reciprocating his affection. Their lips met; it wasn’t an overlong kiss, just a simple meeting of their bodies, but to Hermione it was a gesture full of meaning. She’d never engaged in blatant public displays of affection before. She’d never wanted to. This was yet another new experience for her to add to the growing list of ‘Things Hermione Granger Had Never Done or Considered Before Dating Draco Malfoy.’

 

Because that’s what they were doing. Dating. They were in a relationship. Sure, it had only been a few days, but there was a tangible shift in the air between them. The spark of tension that used to permeate every interaction was replaced by a steady, pulsing warmth. Before, any hint of Draco’s feelings towards Hermione were concealed behind his carefully constructed mask of stern indifference. Even within the larger group, around those he’d known his entire life, there were pieces of him that he hid. Before, it was only in the shadow of night that she’d gotten to see tiny glimpses of Draco’s honest feelings towards her. 

 

But now, while still subdued, Draco was no longer hiding. He didn’t conceal the fact that his eyes followed her the second she walked into a room. He didn’t feel any need to hide the lingering of his fingertips along her hip when he passed her in the kitchen, or the warm smile that he gave her when he handed her a cup of coffee every morning. No, it was all there: quiet, true to who Draco was, but still clearly written on his face. 

 

“How was the ride?” he murmured against her lips. 

 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” Theo called out from where he stood leaning against the stucco wall of the cafe. “I know I said that I wanted details, but this...this is just too much.” 

 

Hermione flushed as Draco gave an exasperated sigh and looked back at his friend, all while maintaining his tight grip on her hips. “Theo,” he drawled. “After all of the snogging we’ve had to witness between you and your disgustingly wonderful fiance, I think you can find it within yourself to tolerate my daily appreciation of my witch.” 

 

“Did Malfoy just pay me a compliment?” Neville’s laugh boomed from the cafe door where he and Pansy were emerging with a stack of pizza boxes. “Mate, I think ‘disgustingly wonderful’ may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.” 

 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Don’t get used to it, Longbottom.” 

 

Hermione stifled a laugh against Draco’s t-shirt at the look of mock sadness on Neville’s face as he went to run a hand through Theo’s tangled mess of curls. “And here I thought your friend finally approved of me, love,” he whined. 

 

“Oh babes,” Theo’s voice dripped with feigned emotion as he comforted the wizard. “Draco’s just a big bad boy whose daddy never loved him.” 

 

“Fucking -” Draco started. 

 

“Hey!” Pansy interrupted, as everyone except for Draco devolved into laughter. Hermione glanced up at his face, reassured to see the humor dancing in his eyes as he struggled to maintain his frown. “You are all a bunch of repressed wizards who repeatedly make absolute fools of yourselves rather than honestly express how much you adore each other.” 

 

Blaise scoffed. “I resent the fact that I am being grouped in with these immature -” 

 

“You,” Pansy interrupted, her hands busy shrinking the pizza boxes and putting them in the basket on the front of her bike, “are madly in love with a woman who only occasionally humors your advances when it suits her fancy. You don’t get to claim superior emotional intelligence while you are still groveling for crumbs.” 

 

Hermione winced and she felt Draco’s hands tighten slightly against her skin. While undeniably astute, Pansy’s comment about Blaise’s attraction toward Andromeda seemed to be a little too harsh for their casual setting.

 

But Blaise simply shrugged as he climbed back on his bike. “If you’d tasted what I had, Pans, you’d devote your life to chasing whatever crumbs that woman gave you.” He finished with an exaggerated wink, pushing off and pedaling towards the quarry. 

 

The rest of the group followed, quickly reverting back to the joking and conversation that had accompanied them so far. This time, Draco hung back with Hermione and Luna, who pried the wizard for a progress report on his plant pollen experiment. No one was in a rush, and the lazy buzz of the gears combined with the ambient sounds of the afternoon backed the rest of their trip. 

 

This time, Hermione recognized the small path that led off to the side of the road where they stopped. It was remarkable how much had changed in one month’s time: the grass now brushed her thighs as they walked, and some of the bushes in the undergrowth were covered in fragrant blooms. The air was heavy with heat and the almost intoxicatingly-sweet smell of flowers, which luckily faded as they approached the edge of the quarry. 

 

The water, at least, remained the same, the color bordering on blue-green and the surface smooth. Luna spread a quilt on the grass and they all immediately collapsed; while the ride had been unhurried, the sun had been unforgiving and all of them were sweaty and flushed. Neville immediately distributed paper cups for the prosecco and some Italian beer that came in a large glass bottle, which he magically levitated around the loose circle that they’d formed. As Hermione watched the prosecco pour into her cup, she made the mental note to remind her peers of the importance of hydrating with water as well, but figured that now wasn’t the time. 

 

In addition to the margarita pizza, Pansy had ordered one with thick slices of salami and another with a variety of roasted mushrooms. Hermione sampled both, quickly deciding that she vastly preferred the mushrooms to the salami. Seeming to notice her hesitation, Draco plucked the slice of salami pizza from her hand, claiming it for his own. 

 

“So,” Theo announced once the group was well into both the drinks and the pizzas that spread out between them. “Nev and I have picked a date for the wedding.” 

 

Pansy’s excited shriek echoed through the clearing. “When?” The question was practically shouted. 

 

“A month from now,” Neville said, a huge smile on his face as he scratched at his beard. “We know it’s soon, but we just figured: why wait, you know?”

 

One of Theo’s tanned hands came up to pick a stray leaf off of Neville’s shirt. “We want to keep it pretty small, you know? Just you all and a couple more of our close mates from England.” 

 

“I think it sounds perfect,” Hermione beamed at the two wizards. 

 

Pansy’s eyes glowed with an expression Hermione had come to be intimately familiar with in the preparations for the estate gala they’d attended when she’d placed herself in Pansy’s custody for the day. The witch practically glowed with barely restrained excitement. “Can I help? Please?” 

 

Theo and Neville pretended to consider the request for a few seconds before breaking. “It’s all you, Pans,” Theo started. “As long as you agree to play nice with Blaise and work together.” 

 

Pansy and Blaise seemed to size each other up for a moment. Some sort of accord must have been reached non-verbally, because they both nodded at the couple. “It’s a deal,” Blaise intoned, a completely serious expression on his face. 

 

“According to Blaise my opinions don’t matter anymore,” Draco chimed in from where he lay propped up on one elbow. “Somehow my change in attire has rendered my aesthetic thoughts useless, but just let me know how I can help.” 

 

His comment prompted Blaise to launch into a detailed explanation of how Draco’s departure from his more fashionable garb signaled his greater fall from societal grace. Hermione tuned out the details, thinking that she rather preferred the Draco who wore almost see-through white t-shirts and denims that perfectly complimented his arse to the austere black that he’d favored when he was younger. And she certainly wasn’t complaining about the hair. Or the tattoos. Or anything about his outward appearance, for that matter. 

 

“I have a question for the group.” Luna’s bright voice called out over the din of quiet conversations. When she had everyone’s attention, she continued. “What are your hopes and dreams for the future? Where do you want to be and what do you want to be doing?” 

 

Hermione half expected someone to make a joking comment and refuse to participate, but everyone immediately showed signs of deep concentration as they considered her question. From where he sat beside her, Draco adjusted his mostly empty cup and rubbed the back of his neck. 

 

“I can answer that.” Blaise was the first to interrupt the silence. “I want to stay here in Italy, keep working at the Casa , and maybe, if they,” he gestured at where Hermione, Draco, and Luna all sat, “aren’t completely off their rocker, I can do something about the magic of the estate.” 

 

There were a few nods in response to him. 

 

Pansy cleared her throat and tucked her hair behind her ears. “I definitely want to open a restaurant. Italy would be nice, but I’m open to exploring somewhere else. I’d have to come back and visit though. You get used to living surrounded by people who understand you, who you don’t have to explain all of the bad shit to, you know?” 

 

Pansy’s comment was met with even more agreeing nods. 

 

“I’d like to have a family,” Neville said quietly, and for a moment Hermione was reminded of the boy he used to be, more hesitant and unsure of himself than the man he’d become. “And a big garden.” He paused to look over at Theo, who was listening attentively. “If I can do all of that at the Casa , why would I leave? As long as I have the plants and Theo, what more could I ask for?” 

 

A private look passed between the two wizards, and Hermione glanced down to where Draco’s hand rested on her bare knee. 

 

“I just want to live with Nev and have a peaceful life,” Theo began. “And some chickens. And some babies, perhaps some babies that were abandoned or don’t have a home. I think we could be pretty good at that. That’s all.” He chuckled. “I don’t need anything more than that, as long as I get to see all of you fools frequently.” 

 

Everyone laughed as Neville leaned over to press a kiss to his blushing fiance’s cheek. 

 

“I am going to travel.” There was no question in Luna’s voice. “There are too many creatures who still need to be discovered, and I’m not sure who else has the patience to find them. But I’m in no hurry, and for now this seems like the place where I’m supposed to be.”

Beside her, Draco shifted himself up to rest his elbows on his knees. “I just want to be left alone to live.” His low voice commanded everyone’s attention while not being overpowering. “As long as I am given peace and privacy, I’ll be content.” 

 

His words echoed within Hermione’s mind, and she let herself imagine what it would be like to live that future. To choose peace and privacy, to choose contentment. With him. 

 

Draco’s hand squeezed her knee. Suddenly, she was aware that everyone was looking at her expectantly; she’d forgotten that they were waiting for her response. 

 

Her mind raced to come up with an appropriate answer. She thought of the invisible weight on her shoulders, the obligation that she had to the world to do something important and meaningful. Her eyes darted around the circle, thinking of the simplicity of their answers; they just couldn’t understand what it was like for her. She didn’t have the option of abandoning her responsibilities. The world looked to her. There were people and magical creatures who relied on her, on her advocacy. What would become of them if she just...left? 

 

“I…” she started, her stomach churning as she realized that whatever answer she gave wouldn’t be the truth. “I just want to make the world a better place.” There . That was at least a partial truth. 

 

As she looked around the circle, Hermione tried not to grimace at their almost hesitant nods. When her eyes met Draco’s, her stomach plummeted. The look that he gave her clearly said that he in no way believed her. She held his gaze for a moment, silently daring him to protest, but he simply shook his head and looked away. 

 

Luckily, Pansy chose that moment to break out a shrunken tray of torta barozzi , a dense chocolate cake with just a hint of rum flavor. Drink refills followed, and soon they were all hysterically laughing at Theo’s attempts to imitate Professor Snape’s unforgettable monotone. 

 

It was well after dark and the full, yellow moon hung low in the sky by the time they began to move to the water. This time, it was a slightly tipsy Draco who challenged Neville to a contest to see who could create the largest splash when they jumped off the cliffs. Theo of course insisted on joining, as did Luna, who insisted that she had a ‘secret technique’ that assured her the win. Hermione, Pansy, and Blaise sat on the grassy bank, dangling their feet in the shallows as they watched the dramatic lead up to the contest. Blaise was chosen to be the judge, as no one could claim a personal conflict of interest with him. 

 

After Blaise shouted “three, two, one!” the wizards and witch launched themselves into the water. Neville’s splash certainly was the largest by overall volume, but Luna did manage to create a shockingly high splash by landing in a contorted position that Hermione wouldn’t even try to recreate on land. Upon revealing that Neville was the winner, Draco proceeded to loudly accuse Blaise and Neville of having a secret affair, which prompted Theo to drag a protesting Blaise into the water to ‘defend his honor.’

 

There was a levity to the group, almost as though they were reverting to the carefree innocence of childhood, fully embracing life without responsibility beyond living to see the sun rise the next morning. Laughter and screams filled the night, and Hermione let her eyes close, enjoying the soothing cool water as it lapped against her ankles. 

 

A finger poked against her thigh. 

 

Peeling one eye open, Hermione met Pansy’s dark eyes, immediately noticing her eyebrows were raised as though she’d asked a question. “Hm?”

 

“Let’s get in. They’re having all of the fun without us,” Pansy commented as her finger repeatedly poked into the muscle on the top of her thigh.

 

Hermione felt her body stiffen. Last time, she’d had the privacy of the cliffs to hide her scars as she disrobed, and only Draco had been there to witness them. This was different. Pansy was different. Sure, Pansy was a friend, and yes, Hermione had been repeatedly proven wrong in her assumptions about the witch, but this… 

 

It was an intimacy she’d never afforded to Harry or Ginny , she realized. There was a part of her that felt like revealing herself to Pansy like this, to someone who hadn’t been with her through it all, was a betrayal. Of course Ron had seen her, but it was always accidental: she’d always made sure to never directly expose her scars to him. It was too much for both of them, an inescapable reminder of everything from the past that they were trying to bury. 

 

But she was here , her mind argued. Hermione was in Italy, surrounded by a small community of people she never would have chosen, but with whom she had found something that had been missing from her life in England. Betrayal or not, it was the simple truth. 

 

She had found comfort here.

 

Hermione tugged on her dress, shifting her hips to pull the fabric up to pool around her waist. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, and lifted, trying to keep herself calm as the air touched her stomach, chest, and arms. 

 

“Fuck,” she heard Pansy whisper, and reflexively Hermione wrapped her arms around her middle. “No, stop Granger…” The witch’s voice was closer now, and Hermione winced as she felt warm fingers gently peel her arm away from her skin. “I didn’t know.” Her voice was smaller, pained. 

 

It was a struggle to slowly inhale through her nose, forcing herself to hold it in for a moment before releasing the air from her mouth. Cautiously, Hermione opened her eyes, once again seeing Pansy staring at her. However, this time there was only pain and anguish in Pansy’s eyes.

 

Gathering herself, Hermione tried to smile. “It’s… I just don’t show them to anyone.” 

 

“Okay,” Pansy said calmly, her hand still gently holding Hermione’s forearm. 

 

“No one knows,” Hermione continued slowly. “Except Draco. He… he’s the first person who’s ever seen them. Like this.” She gestured vaguely in the vicinity of her scarred flesh. 

 

Pansy’s eyes softened. “He would understand better than most.” 

 

Nodding, Hermione followed Pansy’s gaze down to the inside of her forearm. The white, raised flesh of the scar almost glowed under the light of the full moon. 

 

“Bellatrix. Cursed blade.” Hermione offered a weak explanation. 

 

“Bitch,” Pansy hissed through her teeth. 

 

The smile that broke across Hermione’s face was real this time, and she felt overwhelmed by a feeling of appreciation for the witch who sat there with her, for the friendship Pansy had willingly offered in spite of Hermione’s initial aversion to her. 

 

“Thank you,” Hermione said, hoping that her tone conveyed the depths of her sincerity. “Truly.” 

 

Pansy simply shrugged, and then promptly stood up and shimmied out of her clothing. “Ready?” she asked, looking down at Hermione and offering her hand. 

 

Hermione let the witch pull her to her feet, forgetting for a moment that she was standing, bathed in moonlight, wearing nothing but a bikini. In that moment, all that Hermione thought about was the call of the water and the promise of youthful oblivion that awaited her. 

 

______________________________________

After what felt like hours of playing a magical version of ‘Marco, Polo’ that Luna taught them, the group was breaking off into rather predictable pairs. Pansy and Luna were suspiciously missing from the water, while Theo, Neville, and Blaise, who were well past inebriated, sprawled together on the quilt as they drained the remaining bottles. 

 

When Draco, who she was almost unconsciously orbiting, started to swim in the direction of the hidden beach where they’d spent time during their last visit to the quarry, Hermione eagerly followed. Sure, she’d enjoyed the power of the full moon as the whole group frolicked together under the almost surreally bright moonlight, but something about the night and the stillness of the air spoke to a quieter magic, a magic that could only be experienced wrapped in the arms of a lover. Already, her body sang with a mixture of alcohol and the latent arousal that waited just below the surface anytime she was around Draco. 

 

He swam ahead of her, the broad expanse of his shoulders just visible at the surface of the water. She watched, entranced, as droplets slid down from his wet hair, dipping between the dramatic contoured muscles that flexed with every stroke. 

 

They passed the final outcropping of stone, leaving only the small beach ahead and to their right. Draco slowed, testing the depth until he was comfortably standing with his chest above the water. Hermione could barely brush the bottom with her toes, and she tread water until Draco reached for her. 

 

One kick of her legs sent her to him, and his hands gripped at her swimming bottoms, using the elastic band to tug her into his embrace. Her legs battled the resistance of the water to wrap around his waist, slotting her perfectly against his body. Draco’s wide palms flattened against her back, sliding up until they came to rest above her shoulder blades. 

 

He watched her. 

 

His eyes bore into hers, bright and burning. She let her gaze dip to his mouth, revealing his soft lips barely parted. When her eyes returned to his, she watched the silver swirl before suddenly shrinking, overwhelmed by the expanding darkness of his pupils. 

 

Hermione’s hands moved from his shoulder to trail up the sides of his neck, feeling the pebbling of his skin under her fingertips as his abdomen tightened. When her hands continued to trail along his scalp, Draco dropped his head down to meet hers.

 

“Gods, witch,” he breathed. “Do you have any idea how badly I want you right now?” 

 

In response, Hermione rolled her hips against his body, tensing when her barely-covered core came into contact with the half-hard arousal in his trunks. 

 

Draco’s guttural groan sent a wave of heat throughout her body as his hands slid down to her hips where they gripped her to more firmly align with his. This time when his hands tugged her forward, his hardening cock perfectly slotted against her, and their moans combined in the air between them. 

 

Any further words were abandoned as Hermione surged forward, claiming his mouth in a desperate kiss. She immediately delved forward with her tongue, exploring his mouth as their lips pressed together. Somehow, without ever needing to exchange words, their mouths found a rhythm of give and take that perfectly stoked the fire that simmered between their bodies. 

 

Only when Draco’s mouth left hers to trail searing kisses and bites down her throat did Hermione register, between gasping breaths, that their bodies rocked together of their own accord, building her arousal to the point where she was sure that she could come from the external stimulation of his fabric-covered cock alone. 

 

“Draco,” she sighed as her neck fell back. When his kisses dipped to her sternum and continued downwards, she pressed herself closer to him, silently willing him to go just a little further, so close…

 

His mouth met one of the small triangles of fabric that covered her breasts. Somehow, she could still feel the heat of his breath through the wet spandex, and she let out a gasp as his lips curled around her nipple. As the bud hardened under his attention, straining to escape the confines of the fabric, his tongue began to lick languid circles around the peak. 

 

One of his hands slid up her back to fumble with the tie at the base of her neck. With a tug, Hermione felt the suit fall forward, baring her naked chest to him. Draco wasted no time, immediately returning to her aching breasts and devouring her hard nipples with his lips and tongue. 

 

The growing pulse of need between her thighs grew louder in her head, her soft moans and whispered words of encouragement filling the air around them. His cock, now fully hardened and straining against his suit, bumped repeatedly against her fabric-covered clit, her hips growing more frantic as they bucked against him. 

 

Their wet bodies slid against each other, their combined movements breaking the stillness of the water that surrounded them. 

 

This is what youth is supposed to feel like , Hermione thought to herself. Saying yes to the call of the night, to lust and attraction, without worrying about what the next day will hold . 

 

If only life could always be like this…

 

His teeth biting into the side of her breast brought her back to her body, and immediately Hermione was overcome with the furious arousal that coursed through her veins. She needed him, all of him. Now. 

 

Draco started to mutter a protest when she pulled him away from her breasts by tugging his hair, but the words were replaced by a grunted curse when she dove a hand between them, dipping under his waistband to grasp his cock. It throbbed in her hand as she squeezed gently, a satisfied warmth spreading in her chest as she listened to Draco’s strangled groans against her neck. Slowly, she pumped her hand up and down. 

 

“Should we,” Hermione breathed into his ear. “Move? Out of the water?” She was struggling to form coherent thoughts through the haze. 

 

Draco growled into her skin as she circled the head of his cock with her thumb. “No,” he panted. “Now. I want, I need you here.” His mouth closed around her pulse point, biting just hard enough to tear a quiet cry from Hermione’s lips. 

 

He slowly licked the skin his teeth had come close to piercing as one of his hands left her hips, tracing the elastic hem of her bathing suit bottoms to the front of her body. When Draco’s long finger -- the catch of his calluses noticeable even in the water -- reached her inner thigh, there was no hesitation before he pushed aside the fabric and plunged a finger inside of her. 

 

“Oh,” she whimpered. It was immediately obvious that her quim was slicked with arousal and his finger slipped in with ease. More, her body practically begged. Every part of her still hummed with the need grinding against his cock had generated in her. She needed more . “Please, Draco…” 

 

The next moment the wizard who held her became a frantic flurry of movement. Draco’s need was clear in the urgency with which he peeled off her swimming bottoms, barely looking away from her as he tossed them up onto the nearby beach. Her top, which he’d practically ripped off, was almost immediately followed by his trunks, which he somehow managed to remove while still holding her body against his. 

 

Now there was nothing between them but water. Hermione moulded her body against him, curling her legs back around his waist and locking her ankles together so that their chests were pressed together. She couldn’t, in that moment, imagine that she could ever truly be close enough to satisfy the overwhelming need that her body had to be consumed by him. 

 

Draco’s hands were everywhere, caressing her body as though he wanted to be everywhere at once. His lips found hers, and he kissed her deeply, reverently. Passionately, even, like she was precious to him. 

 

When she felt Draco align his cock with her entrance, Hermione shifted her hips forward to encourage him. 

 

This time, his entrance was initially met with the resistance of the water, and Hermione hissed at the slight pinching feeling, her grip tightening where she held Draco’s shoulders. Immediately he slowed, and after a moment the pain subsided. Hermione wiggled her hips, lowered herself the rest of the way down, a pleasured moan now falling from her lips at the feeling of her body stretching to accommodate his girth. 

 

Now that he was fully seated inside of her, they both paused, chests silently heaving against each other. Draco lowered his head so that he could look Hermione directly in the eye, leaving barely enough room for air between them. 

 

“My beautiful fucking witch.” The words were a whispered prayer that she felt on her lips.  

 

“Gods, Draco…” She couldn’t craft words beyond that, beyond his name. 

 

He began to move below her, his hands keeping their bodies flush as his hips thrust into hers. Hermione met each movement with a roll of her hips, perfectly bumpin her clit against his hard lower abdomen. 

 

Draco . 

 

Their faces remained connected by their foreheads, a second bridge between their bodies. Draco looked at her, his eyes wild as he captured her with a stare. Hermione, already teetering on the edge of oblivion, returned the stare, letting herself get lost in his eyes. 

 

Draco.

 

He was intoxicating, and in that moment, Hermione was sure that there had never been someone more beautiful than him. Her wizard. Her Draco. 

 

Draco. 

 

Their movements grew faster, the urgency as they both approached the end tangible between them. Draco’s breaths were ragged, each thrust punctuated with a low grunt that Hermione felt in her bones. 

 

When the wide pad of his thumb slid between her legs, a strangled cry fell from her lips. Still, she stared into his eyes, watching them darken even further as his touch on her clit elicited a string of involuntary whimpers. 

 

Draco . 

 

She had been approaching the edge before, but now she was careening towards it, hurtling towards her orgasm without an ounce of control over the outcome. She wanted to close her eyes and lose herself in the wave of pleasure, but Draco...Draco held her captive under the intensity of his gaze. 

 

She didn’t want to look away, couldn’t imagine looking away. 

 

“Are you going to come for me, witch?” He growled the words out between clenched teeth, his thumb still working furious circles around her clit while his cock thrust deeply into her. 

 

Unable to find the words, Hermione simply nodded furiously, her breath quickening and her chest tightening. She was so close, so so…

 

“Draco!” 

 

Her orgasm crashed through her body. She felt her body stiffen, and then she was gone. It wasn’t a single wave of pleasure that dragged through her; no, this was a series of waves that crashed into her repeatedly, holding her whole body captive in overwhelming rapture of the churning undertow. 

 

Aftershocks wracked her body as whatever restraint had been previously holding Draco back fully shattered as he came deep within her. He captured her lips in a kiss that broke the low moan that reverberated from his chest. He continued to thrust through his orgasm; she could feel the pulsing of his cock and the warmth of his release filling her still-fluttering quim. Even as their bodies stilled, their mouths were still connected, almost as if they were prolonging the moment past its natural conclusion. 

 

Finally, Hermione pulled away to take a breath, unable to ignore the burning of her lungs any longer. Immediately she was trapped by Draco’s eyes, which looked down at her with something she couldn’t quite identify. 

 

An easy silence stretched between them as Draco held her in his arms, their bodies still attached as the water once again stilled around them. His hands held her tightly against him, his head lowered to her neck so that she could feel the warmth of his exhales on her wet skin. Hermione felt a deep sense of peace. There was nowhere else in the world she could imagine being in that moment, wrapped in the arms of the most unexpected man who had helped her find contentment in the most unexpected place. 

Notes:

Another week another chapter! I hope you all enjoyed.

Thank you to Lauraloveschristmas and Bookishteddy for fitting me into your wild lives! Your time, love, and energy mean the world to myself and this story.

Chapter 29: Chapter 29

The sky outside the windows of Draco’s room was still dark, although the last traces of the lingering moonlight cast long shadows that stretched across the wooden floor. Hermione let herself enjoy the simple pleasure of waking up in a bed with another body for a moment before stirring, shifting to scoot to the edge of the bed. It wasn’t even the touching that necessarily stood out to her; most mornings she woke up with just the hint of warmth from his skin where it touched as they lay, back to back, with their feet intertwined. 

 

As the warm blankets slipped off of her bare skin, she felt the bed shift behind her as the rough pads of hands gripped her wrist. 

 

“Running?” Draco muttered, obviously still hovering in the hazy twilight between sleeping and waking. Glancing back over her shoulder at him, Hermione smiled fondly at the deep lines from the pillowcase that criss-crossed his face. 

 

Nodding, she pushed his mussed hair back from his face. “Want to come?” 

 

Draco lifted her wrist to his lips, pressing an unhurried kiss to the delicate skin before letting her go. He nuzzled his face deeper into the pillow. “More sleep,” he croaked out, his voice husky and muffled as his eyes fluttered shut again. 

 

Hermione snorted a quiet laugh, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead before crawling out of the bed. 

 

She noticed with surprise that she wasn’t bothered to find her clothing from the night before littering the floor beside the bed. The fact that her jeans were inside out and her blouse was wrinkled was more of a matter of amusement than annoyance. 

 

Once clothed, Hermione slipped quietly out the door and down the spiraling staircase, only pausing briefly in the bathroom to take care of the necessities before climbing the ladder to her loft. 

 

It was odd to be entering the room in the early morning to find a perfectly made bed. She immediately moved to the clothing rack, her quick, efficient movements gathering a pair of shorts and… 

 

She hesitated. The long-sleeved spandex shirt that she wore most mornings was there, on the hanger, waiting and ready. It would be the easy choice. The obvious choice. But next to it was a short sleeved t-shirt that she never wore without a jumper. It was getting warmer out each day: even in the early mornings the heat of summer was inescapable. 

 

In a moment of impulsive clarity, she grabbed the t-shirt from the hanger. Rushing to pull the shirt over her head, she felt her breath quicken; she refused to give herself the time or permission to second guess the choice.

 

She was actually doing this . 

 

Hermione tried to slow her pounding heart, tried to regain control of her breaths while intentionally avoiding looking at her uncovered forearm. 

 

She rushed down the ladder and down the stairs, tugging her shoes on and willing her fingers to cooperate as they fumbled with the laces. Finally she ran down the steps, trying not to fixate on the air that suffocated the exposed skin of her arms. Each tiny hair that covered her skin was alert, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of wind as Hermione broke into a full sprint.

She never ran this fast, typically preferring the long and slow burn of sustaining a moderate speed over a longer distance over the rush of a sprint, but today she gave in to the heady need to push her body to the limit. The gravel crunched beneath her trainers as she flew down the garden paths, her familiarity with the route allowing her to focus all of her attention on going just that tiny bit faster, pushing her muscles just that little bit more to gain that minute increment of speed. In spite of the burning in her lungs as she struggled to take in enough air, the months of running had paid off, and her body responded to the push, rising to the occasion and falling into the steady rhythm of her arms and legs pumping powerful beats against the earth. 

 

She was flying. Free. Unburdened. 

 

It took her a moment to realize that she was smiling -- one of those smiles that is just on the cusp of breaking into laughter. As her path led her down the front drive of the estate, she let the laugh fall from her lips. It rang out in the quiet stillness of the dawn just as the first sunbeam left Hermione momentarily blinded. 

 

But still she ran, her strides confident and trusting in whatever lay ahead. 

 

___________________________________

Work that day was a whirlwind. After speaking with Neville, Hermione had been granted permission to devote her days to continued research with Luna and collaboration with Draco on his piece of the project. Today they had set up Blaise practicing some very basic stem cutting spells on the flowers in the gardens that were reaching their prime. Draco gave him very specific instructions regarding which flowers to cut and which to leave to mature further. Hermione had tried to hide her smile as she watched Draco threaten one of his oldest friends with bodily harm if he damaged the plants or blossoms he had poured countless hours into cultivating. 

 

While the spellwork itself was rather small and subtle, Hermione and Luna hoped that it would be enough of Blaise’s magic to start mending the damage that had been done through years of magical neglect. While Blaise made quite a show of complaining about his demotion to manual labor, it was obvious to Hermione that he was deeply invested in helping his family estate, even if it meant dirtying his designer trousers in the process. 

 

Summer had fully arrived, and the gardens were an intoxicating blur of colors and sweet smells. Most of the vegetables were in the height of production: kale plants stood as tall as Hermione, while vibrant red tomatoes and green beans weighed down the vines that trailed along the trellises that Neville had woven by hand. The trees were heavy with fruit that wouldn’t be ripe for a few months. The smell of flowers filled the air, and Hermione frequently found herself distracted by some exotic bloom or another as she and Pansy struggled to keep up with harvesting the massive amount of food that the garden produced. 

 

Hermione was exhausted by the time she and Pansy dropped off the last basket of chives with Jacopo in the kitchens. They walked slowly back to the cottage, the conversation between them the lazy exchange of words that came with time and familiarity. As they approached the front door, they were greeted by the hopeful grin of a turquoise-haired Teddy who stood there, looking every bit like the posh young lad that he was, with the exception of the old football tucked under one arm. Beside him, Draco, looking equally as tired as Hermione felt, sat on the steps with his chin resting in the palm of his hand, fingers drumming absently along his jaw. He raised a brow as his lips quirked into a smile when he caught her eye.

 

“Miss Hermione!” The little boy called out. “Can we please play?” He held the football out in front of him, leaving no room for questioning what he was asking for.

 

She couldn’t help her grin. Sure, she was exhausted, but she couldn’t say no to the excitement that practically radiated from the little boy. “Of course!” She approached Teddy with her hand raised, hoping that he remembered the universal signal for a high five. Luckily, he gave her hand a loud slap as he returned her grin. “Give me a minute to get changed,” she continued, slipping her boots off, “and I’ll meet you in the field out back.” 

 

Minutes later, Hermione, Draco, Theo, Neville, and a very grumpy Pansy (they hadn’t been able to find Luna, and thus coerced Pansy into playing) joined a very energetic Teddy in the field. All of the adults seemed to be suffering from the same lack of athletic energy, but they still managed to jog up and down the sloped, grassy field all in the name of preserving the young wizard’s joy. It didn’t take very long for the group to fall prey to the competitive spirit of the game, with the greatest surprise being Pansy, who channeled her ferocity into ensuring that neither Draco nor Theo were able to maintain control of the ball for more than a few seconds. She decided to have mercy on Neville, who she loudly proclaimed “Wouldn’t be able to take the heat.” 

 

Hermione was content to play at a slower pace than usual, relying on her technical advantage to set Teddy up for scoring opportunities. Of course, whenever Draco started to get that swagger after making a goal she had a moral obligation to retaliate, and there was nothing quite like the look on his face when she scored against him. 

 

The players were fully engrossed in the game when a sudden gust of wind hit the back of Hermione’s neck. Whirling around and tugging her wand from her sleeve at the same time, she barely dodged the wing of a large owl as it dropped an envelope to the ground in front of her. Banking sharply, the bird immediately departed, the strong beats of its wings carrying it off and over the treetops. 

 

Distantly aware that the game had come to a stop behind her, Hermione tucked her wand back up her sleeve before she knelt down to pick up the letter where it had fallen in the grass. Her eyes quickly noted her carefully printed name, and, flipping it over, the unmistakable seal of the Ministry of Magic. 

 

Her brows furrowed as she carefully opened the envelope with her thumb, wincing slightly as the dirt from her hands marred the perfect white of the paper. Gingerly, she drew out the trifolded parchment, unfolding it before reading the message. 

Miss Hermione Granger,

 

This is the official notice that your Ministry-approved vacation time will expire in exactly one week’s time. You are expected to return to your full job duties and responsibilities at promptly 7:30am on the scheduled day of your return. Failure to comply with this timeline will result in immediate termination. 

 

Martha Urkledorf

Human Resources

One week. One fucking week. 

 

Where had the time gone? A feeling that she had escaped for months began to claw its way up her throat. She tried to swallow the feeling away, shoving it back to wherever it had been hiding. 

 

One. 

 

Her breaths grew shallower. 

 

Two.  

 

Her ears filled with the roar of imagined water, muffling the sounds of life that surrounded her. 

 

Three.  

 

The letter fell from her hands, but she couldn’t see where it had landed. She couldn’t see anything but darkness. 

 

Four . 

 

The curtains shut the world out from her eyes, and for a moment she was afraid, like the sudden darkness wasn’t just a part of being Hermione Granger. 

 

Five . 

 

Like she’d forgotten how common this was. 

 

Six.  

 

Her knees buckled and she fell to the grass in front of her, barely catching her fall with her hands that threaded through the soft grass like it could save her. Her lungs chose that moment to give up, the last of her air falling from her lips in a desperate sigh. The roar started at the base of her spine and spread across the surface of her skin, reaching an echoing crescendo as it overtook her senses. 

 

Seven . 

 

The water consumed her. Breath was a memory, light was a fantasy that couldn’t possibly be true. An invisible weight tugged her down, down, down. 

 

Eight . 

 

The last fragment of real she had been clinging to slipped out of her fingers and she surrendered to the darkness, the last memory of her body the shadow of a choked sob. 

 

___________________________________

Where the fuck is Draco?

 

He had to get Teddy out of here. He’ll be back at any moment. 

 

Should we read it?

 

No. 

 

I say we should read it and figure out whose ass we need to --

 

No. Not without talking to her first. 

 

Damn it. Where is he? 

 

___________________________________

 

Granger.  

 

At least the world of darkness was still. At least the noises were all far away. Here it was safe. 

 

Breathe for me, Granger.  

 

The command. It was one that she’d heard before, a voice that she knew well. She’d listened to the voice before. 

 

Please, Granger. 

 

There was something in the voice that made her want to try. She had to try. She struggled to remember where her lungs were, tried to remember what steps she needed to take to tell her body to take in air. Maybe she was concentrating too hard. Maybe she’d forgotten how to breathe. But still she tried. 

 

When the first breath hit her lungs, she became aware of her body, because yes, she still had a body, and it was surrounded by firm warmth and a familiar smell. She had been here before. 

 

Good, Granger. That’s good. Now exhale through your mouth. 

 

She remembered how to do that. She found her lips through the trapped darkness and let them part, a wave of relief replacing the burning in her lungs and she let the air go. 

 

Come back to me, Granger. Please. Reach for me and I’ll catch you. 

 

And so she reached. She clawed through the fog and water that filled her head, the blanket of darkness that kept her separate from the world, drawing strength from the slow breaths that now filled and emptied her lungs. She reached and reached and reached and…

 

When Hermione arrived back in her body, the sharpness and brightness of the world overwhelmed her even through the barrier of her closed eyelids. She shrunk back into the warmth that surrounded her, and she felt the firm walls tighten, holding her close. Safe. 

 

“There you are.” The words were whispered against her temple. 

 

She took another shaky breath, taking a quick inventory of her surroundings while her eyes were still closed. Skin. She was enveloped in the warmth of skin and soft fabric covering skin. Her back was pressed against a firm body, and legs and arms encircled her tightly huddled body. Rough hands held her tightly in place. And cedar. She smelled cedar and sweat. His sweat. 

 

Draco. 

 

“Is she okay?” Pansy’s voice called out from somewhere behind them. A wave of embarrassment swept through Hermione as she put together the pieces of how she’d ended up like this. 

 

An attack. 

 

For the first time in months. 

 

With an audience. 

 

Hermione tried to shrink in on herself, make herself small and invisible in Draco’s arms.

 

Draco’s reply interrupted her thoughts. “Just give us a minute. Please.” His voice was firm, as though daring someone to challenge him. The silence that followed his words seemed to indicate that whoever was there had listened, leaving the two of them alone. 

 

Hermione blinked her eyes open, immediately squinting against the bright white afternoon light. Her lashes were heavy with moisture: tears. She was crying. After a minute of furiously blinking, she was able to actually take in the shapes and colors that surrounded her. 

 

They were in the grass at the edge of the stream that ran behind the cottage. While the ground was hard underneath her, she wasn’t uncomfortable. She shifted slightly, turning her head toward where she felt Draco’s soft, steady breath on the back of her neck. 

 

“I…” she started, not sure of what to say. What could she possibly say? She looked up at his face. It was drawn, concerned, his eyes shadowed by his furrowed brow. 

 

She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed slowly. His grey eyes sought hers, holding her in place. “Let’s go for a walk.” 

 

Hermione let out the breath she’d been holding. She could do that. Nodding, she began to untangle her limbs from him, letting herself mourn the loss of his body as they both moved to stand. Her legs trembled underneath her, but she managed to steady herself as she brushed the grass off of the back of her shorts. 

 

When Draco began to walk purposefully along the footpath that bordered the stream, Hermione rushed to follow him. Luckily the path was smooth and sandy, as both of them were barefooted from playing football. Draco moved quickly and confidently, and Hermione struggled to keep up with him, her body still sluggish and weakened. 

 

“Draco,” she finally panted out between heaving breaths. “Stop.” 

 

The wizard slowed to a standstill. Hermione could clearly see the tension in his shoulders and the stiffness in how he held his head perfectly still. He didn’t turn around. 

 

Hermione took another pained breath. “The letter. Did you read it?” 

 

His shoulders rose and fell. His hands slipped into his front pockets as he turned to face her. For a second, the honesty in his eyes bridged the distance between them and Hermione felt her heart twist in anguish. But with one blink it was gone, whatever truth he had revealed hidden behind a mask of carefully constructed calm.

 

“Yes.” His reply was clear, but his eyes dropped to the ground between them.

 

The seed of anguish only grew, sinking into her gut. “I knew,” she started, grasping for the right words to explain the raging battle inside her. “I knew, intellectually, that I would have to go back, but somehow I forgot what that actually meant. Damnit, I’m not making any sense.” Unshed tears were burning the corners of her eyes. “What am I supposed to do?” She looked at the man who stood farther from her than he had in weeks, silently begging, imploring him to have an answer. 

 

“I can’t tell you that.” His eyes held hers as he shook his head. “No one can give you the answer but yourself, Granger.”

 

The tears were falling in earnest now, leaving wet trails down her flushed cheeks. “Please, Draco…”

 

“No!” Hermione stiffened; there was a harshness in his tone that hadn’t been there a moment before. “You don’t get to ask me this. You don’t get to put your life in my hands, to put a decision like this on me.” Draco took a breath that looked like it pained him. “You said it yourself: you knew that you would have to go back. So it sounds to me like you already have this whole thing figured out. You’re going to go back to England.” 

 

Hearing him say the words sent another wave of panic over her. “But I don’t want to go back.” It was just a whisper, but the weight of the truth carried the words over the distance between them. 

 

“Alright,” he said carefully. “If that is what you want, then you get to make that choice.” 

 

An almost hysterical laugh bubbled from her chest as the tears continued to fall. She didn’t have a choice. She’d made promises, commitments to the greater world that she needed to fulfill. “I can’t just quit my job and abandon my life…” 

 

Her job. Her career. Her life. Hermione was suddenly confronted with something that was painfully real, an assumption so basic that she hadn’t even realized she’d made it until now. 

 

Her life was back in England. Whatever she was doing in Italy, it was a pause, a blip along the way before she ultimately returned to her “real life” when she was healed, fixed. She’d come to Italy to repair something within her that was broken. 

 

From the beginning, Italy had been categorized in her head as a break. 

 

Draco took two steps towards where Hermione stood. It was still far enough that she couldn’t touch him, but the fire in his eyes was unmistakable. “Right now, you are here, Granger. And you are breathing, eating, sleeping, and living here. Your attention is here. What you are doing here is living , witch. None of the rest of it matters, unless you decide that it does. No one else gets to tell you what comes next. It is your choice: not mine, not the Ministry’s, not the world’s. Yours.” 

 

There was something in his words that deserved closer examination, but at that moment Hermione was overwhelmed by exhaustion, the weight on her shoulders that she’d managed to ignore suddenly making itself known. Draco must have seen the shift in her body, because he closed the distance between them, wrapping his long arms around her shoulders and bringing her to rest against his chest. 

 

She took a long inhale, wondering when his smell had become a comfort to her. “The timing of all this…” she murmured against the fabric that covered his chest. 

 

“I know, Granger.” His words were soothing, soft as they vibrated against the crown of his head. “I know.” 

Notes:

I'm sorry... but also not :)
Only 11 chapters to go on this journey, and already it feels like we are approaching the end!
I want to thank the House of Nott discord, as their sprint bot (although sassy and occasionally reluctant to do the job) and the community of writers who sprint there have been so encouraging and welcoming. So thank you!
Also, this chapter was beta'd by the one and only Lauraloveschristmas, who never fails to show up, asking all the right questions and cheering me on. Love you.

Next chapter update will be Wednesday, November 10th.

Chapter 30: Chapter 30

By the next morning, word that Hermione was returning to England had spread throughout the cottage. Over breakfast, she was faced with concerned glances from Neville and Theo, while Pansy’s demeanor bordered on hostile, promising a confrontation as soon as they were alone. Luna, for her part, simply observed Hermione with a curious expression, as though she were a specimen that required further examination. 

 

Throughout it all, Draco remained quiet, but Hermione could feel the weight of his gaze. He’d joined her for her run, which they’d completed in a comfortable silence as the sound of their trainers crunching against the gravel paths accompanied them. He hadn’t said much since their conversation by the stream, and yet there was now a tension between the two of them that hadn’t existed before. 

 

They needed to talk. 

 

When breakfast concluded, everyone went off to their respective tasks, leaving Hermione alone with Draco, who was finishing the last of the cleaning spells on the dishes from the meal. She hovered just outside the kitchen, watching the relaxed, almost lazy flicks of his wand as he dried the stack of plates and sent them soaring to their proper cabinet. 

 

“I’m leaving in a week,” Hermione blurted out. 

 

A tense silence followed her words as Draco completed his task, the last dish settling on top of the pile with a quiet clink of ceramic. He turned to look at her, his face impassive as he leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “I know.”

 

Exasperation filled her at how unhelpful his response was. She tried again. “What are we going to do? About,” she gestured frantically between them, “this?”

 

“What would you like to do about this , Granger?” Draco’s eyes were intent as he looked at her, grey perfectly framed by blonde that shone in the morning light. 

 

Hermione took a deep breath, realizing in that moment that there was no space between them for anything other than honesty, that even if she’d wanted to hold back the truth from him she couldn’t. She couldn’t go back to pretending. “I don’t want it to be over. I don’t think that I’m ready to let you go. Not like this.” 

 

Draco ducked his chin in an almost imperceptable nod while still holding eye contact. “I would have to agree with you.” Pushing himself from the counter, he moved a step closer to her. “So. Now that that is decided, we can discuss how you would like to spend your last week in Italy.” 

 

Shaking her head, Hermione held up a hand to halt his advance. “The solution cannot possibly be that simple!” Her voice rose in volume as the reality of their situation crystalized in her mind. “I will be in England and you will be here. It will never work! How will we -”

 

“Granger,” Draco closed the remaining distance between them, large hands gripping her shoulders as he lowered his eyes to hers. “Listen to me. You’re right, we may not last a day living in different worlds, but we have no way of knowing that now. What matters now is that we both still want this relationship. You are still my witch,” his eyes flashed as his lips curved up in a quiet smile, “and I have no intention of letting you go until you ask me to.” 

 

Something beautiful and painful settled in Hermione’s chest at his words. “But what if it doesn’t work?” 

 

“Then it doesn’t.” There was a sadness in his eyes that hovered at the edge of his smile. “I can commit to telling you the moment this changes for me. If I no longer feel this way toward you, I promise to tell you first, and I would hope that you would do the same for me.” One of his hands came up to cradle her face, the rough edge of his thumb rubbing softly against her cheek. “Does that seem fair?” 

 

Nodding, Hermione leaned into his touch. “It seems more than fair,” she replied. Still looking up into his eyes, she murmured, “How was I so wrong about you?” 

 

The wizard’s eyes danced with amusement as he shrugged. “I wasn’t particularly correct in my assessment of you either, Granger.” He tucked a curl behind her ear before letting his fingers trail down the side of her neck. Involuntarily, she shivered. “Returning to the more important question: how would you like to spend your last week in Italy?” 

 

“We have to work, don’t we?” Hermione asked. 

 

“Not necessarily.” Draco shook his head. “Andromeda lets us take trips every now and then; I’m sure she’d let you take a day or two off if you asked.” One of his blonde brows arched. “Any ideas?” 

 

Hermione thought for a moment. “Would you go on a trip with me?” 

 

The smile on Draco’s face was everything in that moment. She captured the image, fixing it in her memory and committing to never forget his perfect, open beauty as he looked down at her. 

 

“I’d love to, Granger,” he said before leaning down to press his lips against hers. 

 

She opened her mouth to him, their lips melting together as their tongues barely touched. Sighing, Hermione reached up to grasp his shoulders, sinking her fingers into the firm muscle. 

 

Too soon, he pulled away, his eyes closed and his lips flushed. “I’ll talk to Blaise,” he promised as his eyes opened. “He’ll have suggestions for us.” 

 

Hermione leaned forward until her forehead came to rest against his chest, giving herself a moment to take comfort from his presence. “Sounds perfect.” Her words were muffled in the soft fabric of his shirt. 

 

“We should probably get to work,” Draco said against the top of her head. 

 

Groaning in protest, Hermione nuzzled deeper into him. 

 

Draco chuckled. “What? Hermione Granger doesn’t want to go to work?”

 

Withdrawing from his warmth, she glared up at the wizard as she smacked his arm. “Shut up, Malfoy.” 

 

His laughter only deepened as he grabbed her hand, leading them both to the front door. “Malfoy again, is it?” he teased. 

 

“Only when you act like an arse,” Hermione retorted, but she wasn’t able to hide her smile as Draco held the front door open for her. 

 

This , she thought as they separated to pull on their boots, this is how it is supposed to be . 

 

__________________________________

That night, Hermione sat at her desk, a blank piece of parchment in front of her. She gnawed at the end of her ballpoint pen, a lingering habit from her Muggle childhood that she hadn’t been able to relinquish. 

 

Lowering the pen from her mouth, she began to write: 

 

Monday - Received correspondence from Ministry 

Tuesday - Work

Wednesday - Trip with Draco (Andromeda approved time off)

Thursday - Trip with Draco

Friday - Return to Estate (Portkey at 8am) and Work 

Saturday - Last day

Sunday - Depart (Portkey at 10:00am - confirmed with Andromeda)

 

The pen clicked as she set it down. Leaning back in her chair, she took a heavy breath. Okay. There it was. The next seven days of her life, written clearly and concisely, without any room for interpretation or imagination. A set ending to something that, when Hermione really considered it, felt more like a beginning. 

 

It was all moving so quickly. Too quickly. Andromeda had enthusiastically approved their request for two days off of work, while Blaise had taken up the task of planning their, in his words, “romantic getaway.” The wizard had only needed two hours and a few Floo calls to organize their trip, presenting them with a neatly organized folder complete with an hour to hour itinerary. 

 

She and Draco would depart early the next morning, Apparating to Crema before using Muggle transport to travel North to Lecco, a town on the south-eastern fork of Lake Como. From there, Blaise had given them a suggestion for a hike in the mountains that surrounded the town, and had booked them a room in a small bed and breakfast. Their second day, they were scheduled for a boat tour on the lake, and then dinner at some particular restaurant that Blaise said “came highly recommended.”

 

Hermione folded up the parchment in front of her: first in half, then in quarters, using her nails to precisely crease each fold. She was rather indifferent about the activities, if she were being honest, although she was looking forward to watching Draco navigate the Muggle train system; it was the idea of spending two days, alone, with Draco Malfoy that currently occupied her mind. 

 

She was nervous. Of course they’d spent time together, even time alone together, and time naked and alone together. They’d spent the night together. None of that was new. But the idea of spending two entire days with no one for company but this man who she was growing increasingly fond of...what if it was terrible? What if they couldn’t stand each other’s company and descended into bickering? It was one thing to find attraction with someone within the time constraints of work, but they would have nothing to occupy their time and attention but each other. 

 

Hermione stood up, double checking the mental list of things she needed to complete before they departed. Blaise had assured them that the weather in Lecco was beautiful, if not somewhat chilled at night. They planned on purchasing food from a market upon their arrival, and Pansy had given Hermione a list of the local delicacies that they needed to sample. She picked up her beaded bag from the bed, reaching in and touching each of the items she’d carefully packed to confirm it was all accounted for. 

 

Slinging the strap of the small bag over her shoulders, Hermione moved quietly down the ladder, cognizant of not disturbing her housemates at the late hour. Her soft footsteps led her on the now-familiar path up the spiraling staircase to the unassuming, wooden door that held a world that still felt so new to her. She didn’t hesitate before turning the knob and nudging the door open with one arm, slipping into the dark room as quietly as she could. 

 

The soft exhales coming from the bed told her that Draco was already asleep. Carefully, Hermione set her bag on his desk before slipping off the large t-shirt and pyjama shorts she wore. The early-July nights were warm, and the body heat of the wizard who currently lay carefully curled on one side of the bed would be more than enough to provide her comfort. 

 

Draco’s bare torso almost glowed in the darkness as Hermione lowered herself into the bed beside him. It was in moments like these that she felt like an observer in her own life: watching their scarred, naked bodies find each other, noticing the distinct softening of the sleeping man’s features when her knuckles brushed the skin of his arm as she found a comfortable position next to him. Reaching down, she pulled the thin sheet up to her waist before settling into the pillow and letting her heavy lids fall shut. 

 

____________________________________

 

The sun was just breaking over the tiled roofs of Crema as Hermione and Draco walked from the Apparition point to the train station. They’d woken up at their usual time, moving through their routine in a comfortable silence that had become common for their mornings together. Rather than donning exercise clothes, they both, without consulting the other, pulled on denims and a t-shirt for their day of traveling. Hermione topped her ensemble with a worn flannel that was thin enough to be tolerable in the summer heat. 

 

Pansy had packed them a bag of pastries the night before, and it took them only a few extra minutes in the kitchen for Draco to brew them each a thermos of coffee. As they walked towards the front door of the cottage, their eyes found each other and they both paused. 

 

They were really doing this. There was a degree of gravity to them leaving this place together that seemed to hit them both at the same time. Sure, it was one thing for them to find each other when circumstances forced them together. That was perhaps understandable. But for them to willingly leave this place in each other’s company...it made everything seem more real. 

 

It was Draco who bridged the chasm between them. His hand brushed against hers, his fingers demanding entry beyond her tightly clenched fist. As Hermione let go of the breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding, she felt his fingers interlace with hers. 

 

“Last chance to bail, Granger,” his gravelled morning voice murmured as his lips brushed against her cheek. 

 

Shaking her head, Hermione brought her free hand up to push back a lock of hair that had predictably already escaped his bun. “I’m ready.” Her reply was accompanied by a smile. 

 

And now they were walking through the quiet streets of Crema, the soft stillness of the morning somehow mirroring the two of them as they approached the train station. 

 

Hermione preemptively reached into her bag for her wallet, fishing out the stash of Euros that she kept for occasions like this. There was no queue at the ticket booth, so Hermione stepped up to the window, smiling at the elderly gentleman who sat inside. 

 

Clearing her throat, she launched into the Italian phrase she’d practiced with Draco as they sat under the willow the night before. “Due biglietti per Lecco, per favore.” The words felt clumsy on her tongue, and she glanced up at the gentleman to gauge his reaction. 

 

Other than the barely perceptible twitch of his eye, the man simply nodded as he typed on the computer that sat in front of him. Beside her, Hermione could feel Draco leaning forward in an effort to get a closer look at the contraption. 

 

“Passando per Milano o Bergamo?”

 

Hermione glanced up at Draco in a panic. She hadn’t prepared for questions. 

 

The wizard didn’t hesitate. “Do we want to go through Milan or Bergamo?” 

 

“Um,” she started, her mind racing. She had no idea. “Maybe Milan?” 

 

Draco shrugged, obviously just as unsure of the better option as Hermione. 

 

She only gave herself a second more to contemplate her choice before turning back to the man behind the glass. “Milan, per favore.” 

 

He nodded once, resuming his furious typing on the keyboard. A sharp, whining noise came from the small machine that printed their tickets. Hermione tried not to laugh at the expression of curiosity on Draco’s face. 

 

“Trenta euro,” the man said, and Hermione handed over the appropriate bills. Giving them one final nod, he handed Hermione their tickets and gestured to the open platform beside the tracks. 

 

Grabbing Draco’s hand, Hermione pulled him away from ogling the small television that the ticket attendant had flipped on as soon as he’d completed their transaction. 

 

“Did you see…” Hushed awe filled his whispered words. 

 

“Yes, Draco.” She sighed, but honestly couldn’t find it within herself to summon genuine annoyance. “Have you really never seen a television?” 

 

“No. Never have. So they are moving pictures? Do they tell stories?”

 

“Anything can be captured in motion; a special camera is used that, when passed through a particular device, shows moving pictures. Our conversation now could be filmed and shown on television.” 

 

Draco’s brow was furrowed as though he were concentrating deeply. 

 

“I’m honestly surprised you’ve never seen one before,” Hermione continued. 

 

“Why?” He seemed genuinely confused. 

 

Hermione shrugged. “You wear Muggle clothing, you live within close proximity to a Muggle town where you dine at Muggle restaurants and get Muggle tattoos… I guess I thought you would have been exposed to just about every facet of the Muggle world by this point.” 

 

A sharp whistle pierced the air, and both of them turned to watch their train approach. The sleek, modern shape of the locomotive with its dramatic red and silver coloring was a far cry from the picturesque, almost antique cars of the Hogwarts Express. Based on Draco’s current expression -- wide-eyed and slack-jawed -- she could guess that this was the wizard’s first exposure to the more modern iterations of trains. The brakes whined as the cars came to a stop directly in front of them, and the many doors hissed open in unison. 

 

“Bloody fuck,” Draco whispered under his breath. 

 

Laughing, Hermione tugged him forward, quickly double checking their tickets to make sure that she had the correct car. The trip to Lecco was only slated to take two and a half hours, meaning she didn’t think splurging on anything other than the standard, second-class seats would be worth it. 

 

She quickly found their seats, and she insisted that Draco take the seat by the window. He begrudgingly agreed after muttering something about “not being able to properly see approaching threats” which Hermione chose to ignore. There were three seats on either side of the aisle, and already the train was quite crowded. However, the third seat in their row was unoccupied, meaning that they would have some privacy on the ride to Milan. 

 

They’d barely gotten settled when the whistle announced the train’s imminent departure. Hermione watched Draco closely as the outer doors shut automatically and the subtle lurch beneath them indicated that they were moving. Against the blurring backdrop of buildings, Hermione could see the reflection of the single furrow in the middle of his forehead and the concentrated frown on his lips, as though he were focused on a particularly challenging Arithmancy problem. Almost tentatively, Hermione nudged his thigh with hers, noticing as she did so how close his knees rested to the seats in front of them. 

 

“You alright?” she asked, careful to keep her voice quiet enough so as to not disturb those sitting in front or behind them. 

 

Rather than speaking, Draco simply placed a hand on her denim-covered leg and squeezed firmly, never taking his eyes off of the blur of color that sped by outside of their window.

 

_____________________________

 

By the time they stumbled out of the train station in Lecco, Hermione and Draco barely registered the orange stucco walls of the building or the dramatic rock faces of the Dolomites of Lecco rising above the city. They walked in silence down the busy street; neither of them had bothered to consider where they were going, but both were driven by some internal force to keep moving. 

 

“I fucking hate Americans,” Draco spat, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Seriously, what kind of people go through the world with no consideration for the space, time, or sanity of anyone besides themselves?” 

 

Hermione nodded in agreement as she stretched her legs to keep up with Draco’s long stride. “It’s one thing to make a basic inquiry into someone’s well being when you sit beside them on the train, but changing socks? Fixing a tuna sandwich? Asking you to untangle her disastrous braids?”

 

“Fucking disgusting.”

 

They fell back into silence, still seemingly oblivious to the town that surrounded them. 

 

It had all started well. Their trip to Milan was uneventful until the train came to an unanticipated stop as they waited for a herd of cows to move from the tracks. That then caused them to miss their connecting train to Lecco. They were able to reschedule to a later train, although they’d been forced to compromise on finding seats beside each other for the final leg of their journey. Their seats were in the same row, but there would be a stranger sitting between them. 

 

There had been about two minutes of hope that whoever had purchased that ticket had missed the train, but at the last minute a young woman, complete with an overstuffed backpack, came running down the aisle to claim the seat between them. 

 

Although the total time that they were on the train was right around an hour, each minute dragged by painfully as “Ashleigh,” with her bleached-blonde hair, orange-hued skin and grating accent, talked without pausing for air. Looking back, Hermione could admit that it was her initial friendliness with the girl that had opened the floodgates, but once the girl started, there was no stopping her. There was also the fact that she seemed particularly taken with Draco, and seemed to interpret his cold indifference and obvious annoyance as a challenge, flirting endlessly with him: regailing him with stories of the complex yoga poses she could do while coming up with any excuse to touch him. 

 

Draco had made desperate eye contact with Hermione around the girl who sat between them, silently begging for some sort of interference or escape, but there was nothing they could do but sit and suffer, counting down the minutes until they could escape the train. 

 

Hermione stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk, catching herself before she fell to the ground. The sudden jolt shocked her out of whatever haze had clouded her mind, and she stopped abruptly, looking around at their current surroundings. 

 

“Draco.” 

 

He took a few more steps before he stopped, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Hm?”

 

Hermione laughed, spreading her arms wide as she spun in a circle. “We made it. We’re on vacation.” She righted herself as she came to a stop, grinning up at the scowling wizard. “Fuck the American, let’s enjoy ourselves.” 

 

A slow, wry grin spread on his face. Draco took a step closer to her, reaching a hand out to tug on the long sleeve of her loose shirt. “Fine, Granger,” he drawled. “I guess I will consent to whatever whirlwind of fun awaits us.”

 

“Don’t sound too excited.” Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, fully aware of the petulence of her gesture. 

 

Draco laughed, his full laugh that moved through his whole upper body, interlinking their arms and tugging them down the sidewalk. “Come on, witch. Let’s figure out where in the bloody hell we are supposed to be going.”

 

_________________________________

By the time they got their hands on a map of the town of Lecco, they realized they had been walking in the completely opposite direction of their bed and breakfast. Based on their location, they decided that it would make the most sense to go on the hike that Blaise had recommended before they got settled in their lodging. Now that the annoyance from the train ride had dissipated, it was replaced by a buzzing energy that filled them both as they explored. 

 

Lecco was beautiful. There was a sense of timelessness that permeated the town; the narrow streets were lined with almost yellow stucco buildings with red tiled roofs, and many of the store fronts sported cement columns that had a variety of flowering vines trailing up and down them. There were coffee shops and cafes whose tables spilled out into the sidewalks, and the smell of rich cooking combined with the distinctly aquatic aroma of the vast lake. The early afternoon was hot, but the breeze that rolled off of the water offered moments of respite from the heat. 

 

Their path led them up toward the dramatic face of the mountains that towered above the town. Heavily wooded hills gave way to bare rock faces that jutted up into the sky, with only the most resilient of vegetation clinging to their weather-rounded tops. According to Blaise’s itinerary, their hike would lead them up Monte Resegone, with a round-trip time of three hours. It was supposed to be a trek of moderate difficulty, but Blaise assured them that given the nature of their work and their running routine, their physical fitness wouldn’t be problematic. The almost barren terrain at the top of the mountain promised incredible views of the town of Lecco and Lake Como. 

 

It was a pleasant walk. The map that Blaise had given them led them along narrow lanes that were bordered by towering trees, and the occasional road split from their path, leading to more remote homes. As soon as they’d left the town, Hermione had magically shrunk Draco’s leather knapsack and added it to her beaded bag. It always felt odd to her to do even the small bits of magic while out in the Muggle world; it reminded Hermione of the school holidays when she’d practically forgotten that she possessed magical abilities at all. 

 

She’d imagined that Draco would be resistant to the idea of hiking, given both his luxurious upbringing and the fact that most wizards Hermione had come to know found hiking to be a rather mundane activity that was associated with the Muggle world. However, when she asked, she was shocked to find out that Lucius had actually been an avid hiker, and had selected exclusive wizarding resorts for their family holidays specifically based upon their proximity to interesting terrain for trekking. Apparently, the wizard had a fondness for birds and birdwatching that led him to exploring remote areas. Of course, that also further explained the infamous white peacocks that lived at Malfoy Manor. 

 

There was something deeply freeing about being with Draco in a place where no one knew them. Even as they walked alone through the forest at the base of the mountain, with only the sounds of their voices breaking the reverie of the natural world that surrounded them, there was a lightness, a giddiness, in both of them. It was so easy to be with him like this. There, as they conferred over the map, there were no choices facing them beyond whether to take the left or the right fork in the trail. Of course they disagreed, but there was an almost musical rhythm to their bickering: Draco’s sarcastic quip was inevitably followed by Hermione’s indignant reply. Finally they agreed to take the path to the right, and they fell right back into conversation. 

 

After an hour of walking, two things became abundantly clear. Firstly, they had definitely taken the wrong fork in the trail, and secondly, the terrain was extremely, not moderately, difficult. 

 

Hermione was using her hands just as much as her feet to stay balanced on what must have been a goat trail that wound along the edge of a cliff face. Draco was ahead of her, moving with a careful slowness that said that he was just as concerned about the terrain as she was. While it should have been comforting to know that her concerns for their well-being were shared, in that particular moment, Hermione wouldn’t have minded a strong, strapping man to whisk her away to safety. 

 

It was no surprise when both of them channeled their increasing stress over their painfully slow progress along the trail into arguing over whose fault it was that they found themselves in their current position. 

 

“We agreed, Draco,” Hermione practically shouted at him. 

 

Draco’s loud snort echoed off of the rockface. “Only after you pulled the ‘I’m Granger and I know things’ card!”

 

“It’s not my fault you chose to change your position, Malfoy.” 

 

“Ah, predictable. Back to Malfoy when the going gets tough.”

 

“You turn into a right arsehole every time your life becomes even slightly inconvenient!”

 

“Oh, and that’s rich coming from you -”

 

“Draco. Did you feel that?” 

 

They looked up in unison. Hermione flinched as a heavy drop of water fell directly in her eye. She wiped her eye with the hand that wasn’t clinging to a rock as she glanced over at Draco. He still looked up at the sky, obviously taking in the dark, low-hanging clouds that now hovered over them. 

 

“Where the fuck did those come from?” He sounded genuinely perplexed. 

 

It began to rain in earnest, picking up speed with every second that passed until even the details of Draco’s face were difficult to make out in front of her. Her clothing was already soaked through, and she felt her curls sitting heavy on her head as they retained the water that fell on her. 

 

“I didn’t even think to check the weather!” Hermione called out over the roar of the rain that surrounded them. I always remember to check the weather , she berated herself. This is what you get for being distracted by blonde wizards.  

 

Draco muttered something that she couldn’t make out over the noise before yelling, “We need to keep moving, Granger.” 

 

He wasn’t wrong. Their current position on the bare side of a mountain gave them no protection against any of the elements. Briefly rubbing her hands together to bring some limberness and warmth back to them, Hermione resumed moving forward, now even more slowly, as they adapted to the additional hazards of the low visibility and wet rocks. 

 

Hermione lost track of time. While she knew that it couldn’t be that cold, the oppressive rain that showed no sign of letting up had sunk into her bones, and her teeth chattered as she struggled to keep moving forward. They’d continued along the cliff’s edge for what must have been an hour before the path leveled slightly, allowing them to move more quickly as they searched for any place to take shelter from the rain. 

 

“Fuck,” Draco groaned, bending over and resting his hands on his knees. His hair had fallen free of the bun awhile ago, and soaking wet pieces of blonde hung limply around his face and neck. Hermione felt an irrational wave of annoyance that he still managed to look handsome when anyone else would resemble a waterlogged river rat. She was certain that she did. 

 

She stopped beside where Draco stood, looking in all directions for any sort of rock outcropping or tree, but all that she could see through the sheets of rain was bare rock and a few shrubby bushes. There was nowhere for them to go. 

 

It was simply habit that led Hermione to stick her hand into her beaded bag, a habit that had been built in the months she’d spent on the run with Harry and Ron. It was a habit she hadn’t needed in years, but still, in the moments when her body and mind were overwhelmed with fatigue, some deep part of her mind knew to reach into the bag. 

 

Once her wrist brushed the familiar velvet that lined the interior of her magically expanded bag, she knew. She had a plan. It took a minute of sorting and some muttered cursing, but when her fingers found the rough canvas, she laughed. Tugging, she pulled the large bundle out and stuffed it under her arm. 

 

“Find us the flattest spot you can,” she shouted at Draco over the rain. 

 

She could barely make out the puzzled look on his face, but he simply nodded and began to search. It took them a minute, but they found a section of rock that was relatively flat. Hermione threw down the canvas bundle in the middle of the area, and with a few careful waves of her wand, the ancient canvas tent rose up through the rain. The charms to secure it in place against wind and rain were second nature as well, and less than a minute later Hermione was ushering Draco in through the flaps of fabric that served as the front door. 

 

A wave of nostalgia came over her, and for a moment she was eighteen again, entering the only place where they could find peace and rest during those months when they were on the run. The slightly musty smell, the wooden stair that led to the low platform where their cots still stood in a row...it was all so unchanged. 

 

The firm hand on her shoulder reminded her that she wasn’t alone, and she leaned back into the wet body that stood behind her. 

 

“So, are we going to pretend that keeping a spare tent on hand is a common occurrence among witches?” Draco asked, his amusement obvious in his tone. 

 

Hermione laughed, a tired laugh that was more like a soft exhale as she relaxed into him. “Care for a story about three brave and valiant Gryffindors that lived in a tent for months while tracking dark artifacts?” 

 

His arms encircled her shoulders and she felt his warm breath on the top of her head. “Given that the only alternative is being out there in the rain, I cannot imagine anything better.”

Notes:

Beta'd by Lauraloveschristmas.

Chapter 31: Chapter 31

Summary:

**Lemons ahead**

The sound of the pounding rain against the taut canvas of the tent punctuated the silence between them. The yellow glow of the lanterns that had magically lit when they’d entered the tent flickered as wind buffeted the fabric that protected them from the elements. Hermione tried to suppress her shiver; she shifted her weight back and forth between her feet, hovering next to the small, rickety table that stood to one side of the room, unsure of what to do next. 

 

Draco paced in front of her, his long legs covering the width of the tent in four strides. Back and forth he walked, his head bowed and a deep frown on his face. The fact that his clothes were still soaking wet and clinging to his body didn’t exactly help the tragic image he currently made. 

 

He’d been at it since Hermione had concluded the story of how she, Harry, and Ron had made the tent their home while they were hunting horcruxes and attempting to avoid Snatchers. She’d initially thought that he just needed a moment to process what she’d just told him, but now the silence was extending well beyond the point of comfort. 

 

“I feel like I’ve lost.” Draco spoke just loudly enough for his voice to be heard over the steady roar of the rain. 

 

Hermione blinked. “What?” 

 

Draco’s frown deepened, but he stopped his pacing to stand in front of her. His stance was guarded, as though he were preparing to run at any moment. “Not that I’ve lost, necessarily,” he continued, carefully crafting his words one at a time. “It’s more that I think that I will always lose.” 

 

“Always lose what?” Hermione struggled to read between the lines, to make some sense out of what Draco was saying. 

 

“You. I feel like no matter what I do, I will always lose you to this.” His arms opened wide as he looked around them at the flapping walls of the tent. 

 

“What?” He was making absolutely no sense. “I don’t understand, Draco.”

 

“Fuck,” he muttered, pushing wet strands of hair that stuck to his skin behind his ears before taking a slow breath. “You will always have this with them. With Potter and Weasley. You will always have this history, this shared story of what you went through, and the moments that only they can understand.” When his eyes met hers, there was a resigned sadness. “If it comes down to choosing between them and...well, this,” he gestured to himself, “there’s no chance. They will always win.” 

 

“Why, exactly, am I having to choose between Harry and Ron, and you?” Annoyance was rapidly replacing the concerned confusion she’d felt moments before. “Under what circumstances is this a choice that I am required to make?” 

 

“It’s the choice facing you right now, Granger! It’s the fucking choice you’ve been thinking about since the arrival of that bloody Ministry owl.” Draco’s voice was rising in volume to match hers. 

 

Hermione scoffed. “Oh, and you, in your infinite wisdom, assume that my decision of whether or not I return to England is a popularity contest between you and my childhood best friends?” 

 

“Isn’t it always?” he probed, his face flushed as he looked down at her. 

 

“Where is this coming from, Draco? Up until now you’ve been nothing but understanding, refusing to give me any indication of what you want me to do beyond encouraging me to trust myself. Well, Draco, since you seem to have everything figured out, what do you think that I should do?” 

 

Draco responded with an exasperated groan. “I can’t fucking tell you!” He shouted his response, his words dripping with frustration and anger. 

 

Cold, calm rage vibrated through Hermione’s veins. “You are unbelievable,” she ground out between clenched teeth as she took a step toward him. “You stand there, saying that you know me, assuming that you understand what factors I’m considering when deciding if I want to throw away my entire fucking career , and you sit there and pretend that you don’t have an opinion on what I choose? It’s fucking bullshit , Malfoy.” His surname fell from her lips like a curse. 

 

His step forward further closed the distance between them. She could clearly see the swirling grey of his eyes as they flashed in the dim light of the tent. “You think I don’t have an opinion? You think I haven’t spent every moment since you got that letter trying to figure out how to get what I want out of all of this?” Draco’s lips parted as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. “I’m trying to be a better man, Granger, and part of that is not being a controlling asshole, even when the witch I...that I have come to treasure more than anything in this tragic world tells me that she’s leaving.” Something behind his eyes fractured, giving Hermione a glimpse of hurt and pain, leaving her breath caught in her throat. “As I’ve said, my opinion doesn’t matter in this. You have to be the one to make the choice.” 

 

“But then why are you saying that feel like you’ve lost me, when --”

 

“Because I feel fucking sad!” Draco’s voice was raw. “The thought of you not being here with me makes my fucking heart break, Granger.”

 

For a moment, Hermione simply looked at him, committing the truth in his eyes and the beauty of him to memory. She let his words sink in, let their meaning penetrate her soul and become a part of her. It was overwhelming.

 

Swallowing thickly, Hermione focused her attention back on him. “Why are we fighting?” The words were quiet enough that they were immediately swallowed by the storm. 

 

But Draco had heard them. 

 

“Because we care?” The softly spoken answer that fell from his lips came out as a question. 

 

Hermione lifted her gaze back to his eyes, staring deeply into them in an effort to see what lay hidden inside. 

 

Because we care . 

 

Something inside of Hermione snapped, and she surged forward, grabbing his shirt in one fist and tugging his head down to hers. Her mouth moved to his like a magnet, furiously claiming his lips in a kiss. 

 

Draco’s low moan as he responded to her with equal desperation only encouraged Hermione to tangle her fingers in his wet hair. She pressed her body against his, squirming in an attempt to close any distance between them. He responded by enveloping her with his long, muscled arms and holding her close as he devoured her mouth with his. 

 

When his tongue parted the seam of her lips, she tasted him , a taste that she couldn’t imagine concretizing with words, and she met each movement with equal hunger. Their teeth bumped and Hermione winced at the pain, but neither bothered to stop, too consumed in each other to care. 

 

It was Hermione who started tearing at his wet clothes, her cold fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as their kiss deepened. His hands followed behind hers, breaking their connection for a second so that he could draw her blouse over her head before tossing it aside and reclaiming her mouth. As she peeled the fabric from his shoulders, his fingers found the clasp of her bra, flicking it open and practically ripping it from her body. 

 

She drew her hips back from his, creating enough space for her hands to dip down to his waistband. As she unbuttoned his denims, she made sure to drag her knuckles along the bulge of his cock straining against the wet material. Draco’s responding groan sent a flash of heat through her, intensifying the already burning need for him that consumed her. 

 

At some point they both abandoned any hope of removing the others’ clothes, instead turning their attention to not tripping as they struggled to escape from the soaked fabric that clung to their own skin. 

 

Hermione lifted her gaze, searching for Draco, as she peeled off her knickers. Her eyes immediately locked with his, caught in the obvious hunger in his eyes. He watched her intently as he mirrored her movements, tugging his black boxers down the scarred planes of his thighs. Even when his cock sprang free, she refused to look away from his eyes. 

 

When they were both fully naked, free from the wet clothing and shoes that they’d entered with, there was nothing left standing between them. Hermione practically launched herself into his arms, and Draco caught her effortlessly, moulding their naked bodies together as she wound her legs around his hips. 

 

Her mouth first met his smooth cheek, and her tongue darted out, tasting the rain that still lingered, wet on his skin. She felt his fingers sink into her arse, holding her in place as his hips thrust slowly forward. 

 

His movement made her instantly aware of his hard cock that was pressed between their stomachs, perfectly lined up with her slit. She trembled as it slid through the slippery wetness that was already leaking from her body, and her hips rolled forward, nudging her covered clit against him. 

 

An unrestrained growl sounded in the back of his throat, and Draco began to move more deliberately against her. The sounds of their breathing grew uneven, and Hermione didn’t bother to hold back the high-pitched whine that fell from her lips as he hit her just right.

 

She needed him. Her desire for him burned like Fiendfyre through her veins, and suddenly the kisses and the touches and the nudging of his cock in the perfect fucking place was not enough. 

 

Hermione broke their kiss. “Fuck me,” she whispered against his swollen, parted lips. 

 

Draco’s eyes were closed, his head bowed forward as beads of sweat mingled with the rain dripping down his temples. Blossoms of red bloomed along the rigid tendons of his neck as his breaths filled the air between them. 

 

His eyes opened, and Hermione tried not to drown in the swirling silver. “What,” he panted, as another groan ripped from his chest. Still, their bodies moved together. 

 

“Fuck me.” She grabbed a handful of his hair, wrenching his head back so that his eyes were level with hers. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, Hermione registered that she was actually saying those words out loud, but couldn’t come up with any valid reason not to say them. “Fuck me, Draco,” she repeated. 

 

His movements stilled, and he simply held her tightly against him. Hermione felt her inner walls clench as his throbbing cock rested there, coated with the moisture that already threatened to drip down her thighs. He buried his face into the skin where her neck met her shoulder, biting his teeth down into the lean muscle. Hermione’s cry at the delicious sting faded to a whimper as lips and tongue moved to suckle gently on the spot. 

 

“Please, Draco…” Hermione keened, rapidly moving beyond desire and into desperation. 

 

The moment of stillness between them fractured. In two strides, Draco stood next to the small table, loosening his grip on Hermione and lowering her feet to the ground. She protested, clinging to him, but the wizard was insistent in his movements. When he grabbed her hip bones in his large hands and spun her to face the rickety piece of furniture, her breath caught in her chest. 

 

“Beautiful witch,” he whispered against the skin of her ear. 

 

His warm, wet body moved to press against her back. She shuddered as one hand curled around her to rest against the base of her throat, while the other drifted forward from her hip. As his long fingers raked through her curls and settled to cup her mound, she tried to buck forward into his touch, but found that she was trapped, suspended between his body and the two hands that almost effortlessly held her in place. 

 

“Please…” She barely recognized the sound of her voice. 

 

Draco’s lips kissed down the column of her neck, and she arched toward the tantalizingly soft touch, the fingers that rested there gentle and yet searing in their touch. The hand between her thighs remained still, holding her with firm, even pressure. Somehow, that only heightened her need, and Hermione felt her breaths becoming shorter, more hurried and ragged as she struggled to hold on to sanity. 

 

“Bend over, witch.” The command was growled into the shell of her ear. His hands on her body tightened briefly before releasing her. 

 

She sagged back against him, trembling, and she struggled to make sense of his words. 

 

A firm hand came to rest on her lower back, tipping her forward to drape over the table that stood in front of her. Surprised, Hermione caught herself with her hands. 

 

Glancing back over her shoulder, she met Draco’s searing gaze as he stared down at her. One of his eyebrows lifted in a question. 

 

What did he...oh. Oh. 

 

Without responding, Hermione turned back to table, painfully aware of her heartbeat hammering in her chest, and lowered herself down to her elbows, arching her spine and meeting the pressure of his hand that still rested on her lower back. Wiggling her hips, she tried to silently encourage him. 

 

He was obviously ready. 

 

A cry tore from her lips as he plunged into her. There was no nuance, no hesitation, no pausing for affirmation. No, his fingers dug almost painfully into the flesh of her hips as he found a punishing rhythm of his cock stretching her quim as he filled her with each thrust of his hips. 

 

Hermione writhed under him, rocking back on her heels to meet each movement. Draco’s angle was perfectly hitting the spongy flesh of her front wall, and the coil that had been winding tighter and tighter with every touch somehow compressed further. Her legs quivered. She wasn’t sure how much longer she would last. 

 

Sex wasn’t like this. Sex was carefully orchestrated and required focus and only provided limited pleasure and…

 

Oh. 

 

The stinging smack of his wide palm against her arse sent a wave of heat directly to her quim, which fluttered and contracted. Hermione, in her daze of pleasure and confusion, could do nothing but moan. 

 

Above her, she could barely make out Draco’s mumbled words. “Fucking… witch, yes… your perfect arse… so good… my witch…” 

 

The second smack against her arse took her equally by surprise, but this time she anticipated the wave of pleasure that followed the sound. She heard Draco curse as her quim tightened around his cock, groaning as he slowed his withdrawal from her body. 

 

Hermione felt his hands rest on her arse, and his fingers tightened, digging into the rounded flesh as the pace of his fucking grew more frenzied. She was intoxicated by him, consumed by his body, trembling on the edge of release where it seemed she’d been hovering for hours . 

 

“I’m so close...please…” she managed to choke out, burying her head into her arms that clutched at the smooth surface of the table. 

 

One of his hands left her arse and dipped between her legs, fumbling for only a moment before the rough pads of his fingers found her already throbbing clit.

 

That was all it took. 

 

It shouldn’t have been that easy. 

 

But Hermione flew, her whole body overcome with the orgasm that raged through her. Wave after wave of excruciating pleasure coursed through her body. Dimly, she was aware of strong arms circling her and holding her tenderly as her body jerked uncontrollably. 

 

This, this , was pleasure, was release, was the reconciliation of all-consuming want. 

 

She was upright now, Draco’s arms and upper body enveloping her as he slowly thrust in and out of her still-fluttering quim. The trembling of his breath against the back of her neck slowly brought her back to earth. 

 

With the last sliver of control that Hermione grasped, she managed to will her mouth to form the words: “Come for me, Draco.” 

 

It felt like he’d been waiting for her permission, and while he remained almost careful as he held her practically boneless body in his arms, his thrusts deepened, somehow finding places within her he hadn’t yet discovered. He was beyond words, a string of incoherent growls and groans that matched the feral way in which he possessed her. 

 

Because, in that moment, he did. He possessed her so completely and thoroughly that Hermione couldn’t say where she ended and where he began. When he came deep inside of her, she felt the vibrations of the desperate shout that ripped from his chest as his cock pulsed within her. As his body practically collapsed on top of hers, she felt each of the aftershocks that rolled through his body as his hips came to standstill. 

 

When he slipped out of her and gathered her into his arms, she didn’t mind the rush of their combined fluids that flowed down her inner thighs. When he began to move, she simply nuzzled into his chest, even licking at the wet sheen that covered his skin. She hummed in approval at the combined taste of rain and his sweat. 

 

She felt Draco lower them to the floor, and was surprised when she didn’t feel the wooden boards beneath them. Blinking her eyes open, Hermione watched Draco set his wand onto the floor beside the pile of sleeping pads, blankets, and pillows on which they now sat. It almost resembled a nest, or a messy fort made by a child. 

 

Large hands tugged at her waist, and Hermione let them lead her. Scooting back, she met Draco’s chest, and sighed as his arms came up to wrap around her. A string of soft kisses brushed against her shoulder, and a sigh of contentment fell from her lips. 

 

“Are we going to be okay?” There was a fragile vulnerability in the words that he whispered against her skin. 

 

Turning her head, Hermione kissed his exposed cheek. “I think so,” she replied. 

 

________________________________

 

It quickly became apparent that the next burning need that existed between them was their hunger. Much to Draco’s amusement and horror, Hermione’s search through her bag had yielded two cans of carrot and coriander soup, a box of stale crackers, a bar of chocolate, and a bottle of Firewhiskey. 

 

In spite of Draco’s complaining, they devoured the food, still completely naked in their nest of faded pillows and blankets. At some point the bottle of Firewhiskey opened, and they took turns drinking directly from the bottle. 

 

“As I was saying,” Hermione said loudly, her words beginning to slur. “If Theo and Neville have babies, I’m definitely going to be the godmother.” 

 

She passed the mostly empty bottle to Draco, who seemed to consider it for a moment before lifting it to his lips and taking a long drink. His face was flushed and his hair rumpled, and Hermione thought he looked rather adorable. 

 

“You look adorable,” she informed him. Words were better out than in , she thought, thinking it was a rather wise observation on her part. 

 

Draco scowled. “I take issue with being called adorable.” His tone was that of a petulant child, which in no way aided him in his argument. “I am a big and handsome wizard.” 

 

Something about that struck Hermione as being quite funny, and she giggled. “You are stupidly good looking, Draco. It’s a real tragedy for the rest of the world, you know.” 

 

“You’re one to talk,” he retorted with a dramatic pout on his full lips. “You’re the most beautiful witch that ever was! Even more beautiful than Morgana, and she was a fucking 10.” He took another long drink from the bottle, before cocking his head to look at her. “I am so lucky,” he breathed out the words like a sigh. 

 

Hermione blushed, and reached out her finger toward his face. Ignoring his eyes narrowing at the movement, she poked the tip of his regal nose. “Boop,” she whispered. “I think I may be falling for you and I’m afraid.” With her other hand, she grabbed the bottle from him and took a long drink, letting her eyes flutter shut as the burning of the whiskey flowed down her throat. Swallowing, she looked back at him. 

 

Draco simply nodded in response as he gripped her finger between his teeth, shaking his head side to side like a dog with a bone. When he released the gentle grip on her finger, it fell down between them. “I like my life with you in it.” He leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers. “And I don’t think that I want to re-learn how to live when you’re not here.” 

 

Her lower lip trembled. “My heart hurts when I think about it,” she choked out as a tear rolled down her cheek. 

 

“It’s really fucking sad.” Draco’s thumb swept across her skin, intercepting the droplet and wiping it away. 

 

She sniffed. “Why can’t we be happy?”

 

His quiet laugh huffed between them. “We can, Granger.” 

 

“Okay.” At that moment, his reassurance was enough. 

 

____________________________________

When they woke up the next morning, the soft light that filled the tent did nothing to tame the violent headache that pounded through Hermione’s skull. A quick glance at Draco’s pained grimace indicated he was feeling just as bad as she was. 

 

Their bodies were intertwined rather uncomfortably, and as Hermione extracted herself from Draco’s arms, the crick in her neck and the throbbing pain in her back brought a groan from her lips. They’d wrapped themselves in a worn quilt and piled the sleeping pads below them in an attempt to make a comfortable place to sleep. Obviously, the haze of the whiskey had impeded their nest-building abilities. 

 

She half-crawled to where her purse lay discarded on the floor. It took a minute of fumbling before she found what she was looking for. 

 

Hermione barely looked back before tossing one of the bottles of hangover potion to the wizard who still lay sprawled in their nest of blankets.

“Bless you and that fucking bag,” Draco muttered as he unstoppered the potion. They both gulped it down, and their synchronized sighs of relief at the almost immediate effects made Hermione laugh. 

 

“I guess the inescapable paranoia that accompanies a survivor of war comes in handy at times,” she quipped, pushing herself up from the floor and stretching her arms above her head. The air was cool, but not painfully cold, and it felt soothing against her bare skin as she took a deep breath. 

 

Bare skin. 

 

“I am very naked right now.” 

 

“Yes you are, Granger.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “And I am very much enjoying it.” 

 

She glared over at him. A sudden thought occurred to her. “Why didn’t we Apparate?” 

 

Draco frowned. “What do you mean?”

 

“I mean last night. In the storm. We are bloody wizards, Draco! Why didn’t we Apparate?” 

 

The look on Draco’s face morphed from confusion to horror to disbelief. “I… It honestly didn’t even cross my mind.” 

 

Her laugh filled the tent. “What is wrong with us?” Hermione rubbed at her face, trying to come to grips with the fact that they seemed to have forgotten the most obvious solution. 

 

Draco shook his head. “Apparently we were determined to suffer through a night in this terrible cloth shed.” 

 

“Was it really so bad?” Hermione moved toward him, fully aware of his eyes raking up and down her naked body as she came to stand above him. “I seem to recall you thoroughly enjoying your stay here in the Weasley tent.” Her lips curved up in a smirk. “You’ll have to write Arthur a thank you note.”

 

“Fucking witch,” Draco muttered, tugging on her ankle until she fell on top of him. Her laughter was muffled by his lips as he kissed her, enveloping her in his naked warmth until anything but him faded to dust. 

 

__________________________________

 

When they finally extracted themselves from the tent, it was already late morning. Once they’d packed the tent away in Hermione’s bag, they took a moment to appreciate the incredible view from the mountaintop where they’d slept. 

 

Any hint of last night’s storm was gone, leaving clear, blue skies and the gentle warmth of the summer sun. Lake Como stretched out beneath them, surrounded on all sides by round-topped mountains with dramatic cliffs lining the lakeside. The town of Lecco was visible on the edge of the lake to their left, the classic architecture a muted palette of tan stucco, terracotta roofs and grey stone that seemed to blend perfectly with the green of the trees that surrounded it. 

 

They Apparated to the edge of town, immediately referencing their list from Pansy and purchasing coffee and too many pastries from a bustling corner shop. They ate as they walked, ignoring the mess that they made as they devoured the buttery pastries. When Draco absently wiped powdered sugar from the corner of her mouth, she smiled up at him, a deep, resounding warmth filling her chest. 

 

It didn’t take them long to find their bed and breakfast near the edge of the lake. True to Blaise’s word, it was charmingly beautiful, with deep blue painted walls and planters overflowing with flowers. After Draco gave a highly edited explanation of their delay in Italian to the young man at the front desk, they were led to their room. They walked through a courtyard with a bubbling fountain, up a narrow stair, and down a long hallway before they reached the door to their room. Handing Draco the key with a small bow, the concierge left them alone. 

 

Draco slowly eased the door open, stepping aside to allow Hermione space to enter alongside him. Her quiet gasp as she took in the space before her echoed around them. 

 

The room had tall ceilings, and, while not overly large, was at least twice the size of Draco’s attic bedroom in the cottage. Floor to ceiling windows lined the wall that faced the lake, opening to a wide balcony that was shielded from the sides by trellised vines. A cushioned bench that could easily fit two sat tucked into one corner, shaded by the roof above.

 

Inside, a large bed stood against the opposite wall facing the view. Cream colored linens covered the bed, and the typical excess of pillows lined the carved, wooden headboard. Two low benches perfect for holding open suitcases stood along the inner wall, while to the right, an open doorway led to the bathroom. 

 

Hermione walked into the adjacent room. A deep, copper tub, whose size was only surpassed in Hermione’s memory by the Prefect’s Bathroom tub, stood along one wall, and a high window covered by white, gauzy curtains let the natural light in. A walk-in shower stood in one corner of the room, complete with glass walls and a waterfall showerhead. Green tile accents surrounded the long mirror that took up the wall above the stone sinks. 

 

It was beautiful, luxurious while not being austentatious. Blaise had picked well. 

 

Although it was quickly approaching midday, when Draco suggested they try out the bathtub Hermione couldn’t strip out of her clothing fast enough. They’d had their luggage with them on the mountain, magically shrunk into Hermione’s bag, which had allowed them to put on fresh and dry clothes in the morning, but still, the idea of soaking in the warmth was incredibly appealing. 

 

As she fiddled with the taps and tested the water temperature, she felt Draco come up to stand behind her. The warmth of his rough palm rubbed lazily up and down her back; a simple gesture with no need beyond the simple comfort of touch. 

 

When she bent down to plug the drain, it dawned on her that she was, once again, naked in broad daylight in the company of Draco Malfoy. More importantly, she was naked and relaxed , comfortable even, in the presence of another person. Maybe it was due to the fact that he was scarred like her, and somehow that made him even more beautiful in her eyes. Maybe it was more to do with the changes that she’d made in her life, the outward adjustments to the environment that surrounded her. Maybe it was the quiet that she’d found inside of herself that had bled beyond her mind. 

 

Whatever it was, there was a deep, humming contentment that filled her in that moment. And when she climbed into the hot water and felt Draco slide into place behind her, she leaned back into his chest and let her eyes drift shut, remembering a moment months ago, when he’d held her in an empty bathtub while she drowned in the depths of her mind and it was his voice that called her back to the surface. 

Notes:

Thank you all for the continued comments and support! It means so so much to me. Please, if you haven't already, connect with me on TikTok, where my username is @romensreviews.
Thank you to @lauraloveschristmas for the beta-ing on this chapter. Our lives ebb and flow with the seasons, and I am so grateful to the small group of women who support me in the writing of this fic, even if they cannot always fit editing into their busy lives. Love you all.

And, love to all of you who read this. It's hard to believe that we are almost done! I love to see your theories about what Hermione will do...keep 'em coming!

Chapter 32: Chapter 32

When her feet returned to solid ground, Hermione took a deep inhale through her nose, sighing as the familiar smells of wet soil, blooming flowers, and the faint hint of basil flooded her senses. There was a deep sense of relief to return to the familiar, and as Draco’s arm held her close against his side while the last effects of Apparition faded, she looked up at the stone cottage that stood before them. 

 

Home . 

 

Or, Hermione quickly corrected, a place that feels like home. A home in a world where it is possible to have many homes. A place that has home-like qualities.

 

Now well into the middle of summer, mornings at the estate were already hot and humid; an omen of the oppressive midday sun that came almost every day. 

 

She and Draco walked hand in hand up the stone pathway to the front stoop, not letting go as they nudged their shoes off. In a moment of synchronicity, they both paused before entering the cottage. 

 

Draco cleared his throat as he looked down at their joined hands. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget this,” he said. 

 

Tightening her fingers, Hermione took a step toward him, bringing her body flush against his. Rather than tugging his head down to hers, she placed a soft kiss at the base of his neck.

 

“And so they return from the honeymoon,” Pansy’s voice called out as soon as they stepped inside. Their four housemates sat around the table, finishing the last of what appeared to be a full English breakfast. Blaise sat with them, looking significantly less formal in a coordinated khaki button up and trouser set. 

 

The widely grinning wizard leapt to his feet. “Tell me everything.” Blaise’s eyes flashed with child-like excitement. “I haven’t been able to take Martin’s boat tour yet, but I’ve heard it’s incredible...OH and the hike! You two little garden-y dirt people must have loved that…”

 

“Please tell me you did not just call us ‘garden-y dirt people?’” Draco deadpanned.

 

“What?” Blaise defended. “Sure, the phrasing is clumsy, but the meaning is perfectly accurate.” 

 

“Wait,” Pansy called out from where she sat with her feet tucked underneath her. “How was the food? You have to tell me about Cafe Margarite !” 

 

Hermione looked up at Draco, who was already staring at her with a slightly panicked brightness in his eyes. It was a silent battle between them, and when Hermione lowered her brows into a piercing glare and he winced, she knew she’d won. 

 

The room had fallen into a rather awkward silence while they were engaged in their silent negotiations. Draco opened his mouth to speak, but Theo’s gasp cut him off. 

 

“No! Did you two break up?” 

 

The others echoed his gasp, staring between the two of them with combined horror and pity. 

 

“Wait, I’m so confused…” Neville rubbed a tattooed hand over his eyes. 

 

Luna shook her head, surveying Draco and Hermione as if they were a new magical specimen. “No, they are very much still entangled. Their auras are still blended together.” 

 

Pansy’s eyes narrowed at Hermione. “What did you do, you worthless --”

 

“STOP!” Draco shouted above the din. “Granger and I didn’t break up.”

 

“Then why are you --”

 

“We didn’t go on the boat tour,” Hermione blurted out, interrupting Pansy. She glanced at Draco, who was shifting his weight back and forth, conveying what she now knew was nervousness.She kept her eyes on him as she continued. “Or go to the restaurants.” 

 

“We went to the bakery!” Draco jumped in. “The pastries were incredible, right Granger?”

 

Hermione nodded emphatically. “The best I’ve ever had!” 

 

Maybe they were trying too hard?

 

Nervously gnawing on her lower lip, Hermione looked over at the table. Pansy’s face was painfully calm, almost too serene, like the dead quiet that settles over the ocean before a hurricane. Blaise looked as though someone had informed him of the death of a family member -- a beloved family member. 

 

“You see, it started when Granger took the wrong turn on the hike,” Draco rushed to explain. 

 

Scoffing, Hermione turned to him. “Excuse me, Draco, you agreed that we should take the --” 

 

“The important thing,” Draco loudly drowned out her protests. “Is that we got stranded on that Merlin-forsaken mountain in a storm, and for some incomprehensible reason we forgot that we were wizards --”

 

“How the fuck do you forget that you’re wizards,” Blaise muttered.

 

“--And ended up sleeping in a tent that this one,” he nodded in Hermione’s direction, “keeps in that bloody endless handbag of hers.” 

 

“So. You two somehow managed to cock up a hike on a well established trail, resulting in you missing out on the absolute magic that is Casa Carlotta , which I specifically picked for you.” Disappointment was evident on his face, and Hermione rushed to reassure him. 

 

“No, Blaise, we went to the bed and breakfast the next morning, and it was absolutely perfect.” 

 

“So perfect, in fact, that we didn’t particularly want to leave.” The wicked grin on Draco’s face left no imagination as to what kinds of activities prevented them from wanting to leave. 

 

Smacking his arm, Hermione hissed, “Absolutely unnecessary, Draco.” 

 

Draco was completely unphased by her reprimand, continuing to wear that almost maniacally cheerful smile that she struggled to reconcile with everything that she knew about the man. 

 

“You didn’t even leave to eat?” Pansy prodded, her eyebrows raised to the point where they disappeared under the dark fringe that covered her forehead. 

 

“Room service?” Draco supplied with a shrug. “It was excellent, although Granger has a disappointingly limited palette for cheese.” 

 

“I’m sorry I don’t like to eat food that has actual mold growing on it!” Hermione’s taste buds had expanded significantly since her arrival in Italy, but she drew the line at cheese that smelled and appeared like it had been stored in the Weasley attic for generations. 

 

“So no boat tour,” Blaise interrupted. 

 

They both shook their heads, and when the back of Draco’s hand grazed her knuckles, she snagged his fingers between her own. 

 

“Fine, Pans,” Blaise said, his voice resigned, and yet not overly offended. “Now we know that we cannot trust these sex-crazed plebians to fully appreciate the benefits that a new location has to offer. Next time, we will have to take the trip ourselves. That way there’s no potential for...distraction.” 

 

 “Deal.” Pansy smirked at him. When she turned back to Draco and Hermione, her brows were furrowed into a glare. “Circling back to the two of you. While I am deeply annoyed and mildly offended at the fact that you didn’t take advantage of my personalized recommendations for you, I am having a hard time being angry when you look so obnoxiously happy.” 

 

“I really am sorry,” Hermione mumbled to Pansy.

 

With a wave of her hand, Pansy dismissed the apology, turning back to Blaise. “So where should we go for our first official adventure?” 

 

Hermione let their voices fade into the background, focusing instead on all of the tiny places where their skin touched as their hands joined between them. 

 

A small part of her did feel somewhat guilty that they hadn’t taken full advantage of the activities and outings their friends had planned for their trip. But it hadn’t been about seeing something new or experiencing the food and culture of Lecco. Not for her, and, based on what she’d experienced, not for Draco either. It was about...well... them . The two of them together, alone, away from the place where all of the magic of beginning had filled them and drawn them towards each other. 

 

Now that they were back in the cottage, with the people who surrounded them and filled their life each and every day, Hermione could see that the trip had been a test, of sorts. Did their relationship transcend the beauty of the estate? Did the attraction still hold without the smell of damp soil and the vibrant colors of the flowers punctuating their lives? Without the work filling their days, were there enough words to fill the hours of daylight?

 

Yes.  

 

The answer was yes. 

 

While Hermione wouldn’t exactly catalogue their experience on the top of the mountain as a positive one, there was something about the rain and human frustration that had ripped down any remaining hesitation between them. Maybe it was the wind that had given them permission to tear out their souls and bare them to each other, to leave no words unsaid. 

 

But there were still words unsaid.  

 

Hermione tried to shove the thought aside, but it had sunk its claws in, unwilling to be ignored. While so much truth had been laid bare between her and Draco, there was a new realization that was now demanding consideration. It was a deeper feeling, a deeper question that she wasn’t ready to answer. She thought she’d seen the answer in his eyes when the grey turned to silver in bright moonlight, or when he cradled her face in his hands. But…what did he see in those moments? Did her eyes reflect the same truth in return? 

 

____________________________________

“Hermione.”

 

She jumped, startled by the deep voice calling her name as she patiently watered the seedlings in the greenhouse. It was cyclical work: plant the seeds, water at exactly the right time until the first sprouts of green break through the soil, then water more selectively, gradually expose to the elements, then transplant into the gardens. 

 

Neville walked toward her, pushing up his sleeves as he wiped his brow with a handkerchief he kept in his back pocket. 

 

She met his smile. It was incredible to see her friend, someone she’d seen grow and change beyond what was fathomable, standing before her a tanned, bearded, tattooed man, wearing the engagement ring of a wizard she knew he loved, and who loved him equally in return. 

 

“So,” her friend began, gingerly sitting on the edge of one of the benches that held the trays of seedlings. “Are we going to talk about it?”

 

She glanced over at him. “Talk about what?” 

 

“You.. Going back to the Ministry.” There was a careful evenness to his voice that set Hermione on edge. “Going back to England.”

 

She shrugged, keeping her eyes on the task before her. “What is there to talk about? I have a job that I have committed to, responsibilities that I need to uphold. People depend on me.” 

 

There was a slow exhale in response. “People change, ‘Mione.”

 

Now she turned to look at him. “I’m perfectly aware of that, Neville. That’s been the whole point of this...this experiment that I’ve been in the thick of for the past months. Everyone has changed, and everyone can change. I mean, look at you!” 

 

Neville’s expression had fallen slightly at her words, but he offered her a small smile. “And look at you , Hermione.” 

 

Swallowing, she turned back to the plants. 

 

Hermione wasn’t oblivious. Of course she’d changed. She’d mended the broken pieces within herself and was now...fixed. Better. Stronger. 

 

“It’s alright if the world you used to live in no longer fits right,” Neville continued, his voice softer. “You are allowed to outgrow things and move on.” 

 

She felt her shoulders stiffen. Move on . 

 

“I spent my entire childhood fighting for my right to have a place in the wizarding world. And now that I have it: a position in the Ministry I never could have dreamed of, with the power to make all of the changes that I’ve ever imagined, what kind of a person would I be if I walked away from that?” 

 

Because that was her question. 

 

The concern on his face deepened. “But Hermione, when you came here…” his words trailed off as he picked at a loose string on the knee of his work trousers. 

 

“That wasn’t about my work! It was about me, about the...issues that I hadn’t addressed and the ways that I was broken. That was the problem.” A sharp pain behind her ear made her realize that she was clenching her jaw, and she tried to relax. 

 

She felt the weight of Neville’s eyes on her even as she watched the gentle mist fountain out of the tip of her wand. 

 

“Okay.” His voice was resigned. “If that’s what you really want.”

 

Want . Damn him, bringing that singular word into the equation. 

 

It was what she had to do. 

 

He wouldn’t understand. 

 

“It is,” she whispered, tasting the bitterness of the words as they fell from her tongue.

 

“Are you sure?” Neville asked, leaning his body forward to lessen the distance between them. 

 

She couldn’t do anything but shrug. “I’ve made a commitment that I intend to fulfill, Nev. I can’t quit.”

 

“And what about the commitment to yourself?”

 

“What commitment?” She didn’t know what he was talking about. 

 

Her friend sighed. “The commitment to choose yourself. To find what you were looking for. To be happy.” 

 

Hermione tried to swallow away the aching tug in her chest. “I…” her words died in her throat. 

 

Standing, Neville came to stand beside her, stilling her wand where it waved slow, sweeping arcs over the seedlings. “Whatever you choose, ‘Mione, I’ll be here for you. I just...as your friend, I want to see you happy. And I can’t lie and pretend that I’ve ever seen you as bright or full of joy as you’ve been this past month. You’re… it’s the most alive that I’ve ever seen you.” His lips quirked up into his lopsided grin. “Even if you go, you know you’ll always have a home here, right?” 

 

It took every ounce of control that she possessed to blink away the tears that clung to the corners of her eyes as she nodded her response. Neville, in all of his subtle wisdom, simply gave her shoulder a firm squeeze before walking away. As the greenhouse door closed behind him, Hermione leaned heavily on the low table in front of her, letting her head hang down, surrendering fully to the weight of possibility that echoed through her mind. 

 

___________________________________

It was her last dinner at the cottage. 

 

She tried not to fixate on that fact as she helped Pansy roll the sheets of fresh pasta on the counter, the witch beside her suspiciously quiet as she commanded the kitchen space. She tried not to think that she wouldn’t see Theo quietly cooing to Lester, who sat cradled in the wizard’s arms as his bulging eyes took in the room with combined terror and curiosity. She wouldn’t come home to Neville, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, patiently chopping whatever ingredients Pansy required. She wouldn’t look up from her reading to see Blaise sweep into the cottage just in time to join them for dinner, or find Luna nursing a wounded rabbit she’d found by the stream back to health. 

 

While it wasn’t her last night in Italy, the group had agreed to return to Crema for a night on the town the following evening to bid Hermione farewell. It was rather poetic, she thought, that she would be returning to the very same restaurant and bar where they’d gone dancing her first weekend in Italy. Where she’d first danced with Draco. 

 

She definitely wasn’t watching him as he carefully prepared their mixed drinks that Pansy had insisted on pairing with their meal that evening. When she watched his hands picking the tiny sprigs of thyme from the stem, she knew those fingers, knew their rough texture and their dexterity and the confidence with which they touched her. When his tongue wet his lips as he concentrated on what his hands were preparing, she knew how it crafted honest words, words spoken in his low voice that had become a part of her world. She knew how it felt when his head was lowered between her thighs and he --

 

“Granger.” 

 

She glanced over at Pansy, who was looking down at the counter with an amused smirk. “Hm?” she asked. 

 

“The pasta. I think it’s thin enough.” There was a twinkle in the witch’s eye as she gestured to the almost paper thin dough that spread out in front of Hermione. 

 

Flushing, Hermione nodded, and adjusted her focus to Pansy as she explained the next step: folding the sheet of pasta and cutting the individual noodles. 

 

Seemingly minutes later, Pansy was putting the final touches on the meal, and Hermione joined the rest of her housemates as they prepared the table. She thought back to her first night there, how separate she’d felt from the easy dance of the group as they worked around each other to set the table. Now, as she set jars of water beside each place setting, carefully ducking under Theo’s arm as he moved in the other direction placing cloth napkins at each spot, she realized that at some point she had truly become a part of whatever ensemble existed there. 

 

The meal was freshly made fettuccini with a cream sauce, roasted chicken garnished with fresh herbs, an assortment of seasonal veggies topped with some sort of balsamic and pomegranate sauce, and a cocktail that combined fresh peaches, thyme, elderberry, and an unknown liquor. 

 

When she sat down in her seat, she felt Draco’s arm rest along the back of her chair, a position from which his fingertips could gently brush her shoulder every few seconds. Glancing over at the wizard, she found him looking at her with a fondness that almost hid the sadness that lingered in his eyes. She couldn’t face that yet, couldn’t handle the looming inevitability of goodbye that hung over them, and so she reached for her drink and turned to the meal in front of her. 

 

It was all delicious. As she wound the pasta around her fork, she mused on the evolution of her taste buds. There were certainly still foods that she didn’t like, but overall, she’d come to love the complex and unexpected combinations of flavors that Pansy brought to life through her cooking. She even enjoyed the surprise. 

 

“So you’ll be back for the wedding?” Theo’s voice rang across the table. He seemed genuinely concerned. She felt Draco’s fingers pause where they were tracing circles against her shirt. 

 

Hermione nodded as she swallowed the mouthful of pasta in her mouth. “Of course I’ll be back,” she assured him. “It’s only...what, three weeks away?” She looked to Neville for confirmation. 

 

He grinned. “Only three weeks to go.” 

 

When he reached over to grasp Theo’s hand in his, Hermione felt a surge of love for her friend. She could see the happiness written in his eyes mirrored in the look that Theo returned to him. 

 

His previous words echoed: I want to see you happy.  

 

“We need to discuss the menu,” Pansy interrupted the intimate moment as she sipped her cocktail, complete with an extended pinky. 

 

“We trust you,” Neville stated. “Implicitly.” 

 

Theo nodded along with his fiance. “Whatever you pick will be perfect.” 

 

Pansy scowled at the couple, turning to look at Blaise who was shaking his head as he neatly sliced his chicken breast into perfect, bite-sized pieces. 

 

“Why are they like this?” she asked the Italian wizard.

 

“It’s absolutely exhausting to work with them,” Blaise replied.

 

“What are you talking about?” Theo butt in, craning his neck to look between his two friends. “Neville and I are arguably the least controversial couple: he’s a fucking saint, which balances out any of my shortcomings, and I’m bloody hilarious. What’s wrong with working with us?” 

 

Pansy threw her hands up as she let out an undignified groan. “Neither of you have any fucking opinions, Theo! It’s impossible to plan a wedding, your wedding, without knowing what you like and don’t like!” 

 

Blaise nodded along as he frowned at the two men. “She’s right. Your apathy is deeply frustrating.” 

 

“But you know us!” Theo protested. “All of you do!” 

 

“Theo is rather open about his love of avocado toast,” Luna chimed in. 

 

Rolling his eyes, Blaise turned back to the couple. “I can’t base an entire wedding off of avocado toast! What about colors? Themes? Music? Decor?” 

 

“What about browns and greens?” Hermione offered. “They are both very...earthy.” 

 

“See!” Theo laughed. “That’s perfect, Granger. There you go, Blaise. You have your colors.”

 

As the conversation moved on to flowers and table decorations, Hermione grabbed her almost empty drink and leaned back in her chair, a wide grin on her face as she watched the chaos surrounding her. And when the hand on her shoulder moved to cup the back of her neck, and the thumb swiped slowly along her bare skin, she leaned into the touch, wondering if this was contentment.

 

________________________________

Hermione was trying to focus on the words on the page in front of her. Truly, she was making her best effort to take in the black markings on the white page and translate them into sentences that communicated something meaningful.

 

But her eyes kept sliding over to the other person who reclined on the bed beside her. He was also reading, the novel he held in one hand dwarfed by the sheer length of his fingers. But it wasn’t that that currently distracted her. 

 

It was the glasses. The damned reading glasses that he’d nonchalantly grabbed from his bedside table when they’d climbed into bed after sitting out under the willow. Completely oblivious to the absolute wreckage he was doing to his witch’s self control and focus, Draco continued to read, fully engrossed in the pages before him. 

 

When Hermione had, on very rare occasions, let herself imagine an ideal romantic partner, nights spent in bed reading together in a comfortable silence was at the very top of her list of criteria. And now that she was living out the fantasy, watching it unfold before her, she was about to ruin it. 

 

It was the fucking glasses’ fault. 

 

In an effort to not disrupt Draco’s reading, she gently placed her book to the side and slid under the covers that had rested around their waists as they read. She could only make out vague shadows under the sheets, but she scooted down the bed until she was level with his hips. 

 

She reached out with one hand, sliding her fingers under the waistband of his black boxers. 

 

She felt his startled jump as she shifted, climbing over his extended leg to rest on her belly between his thighs. “What are you…” his voice started, somewhere above her.

 

When her other hand dipped into his boxers, his words trailed off, replaced with a hissed exhale as his hips lifted to allow her to tug the fabric down his legs. 

 

Hovering above him in a cave made by the soft sheets, Hermione let her fingernails dig into his lean muscle as she traced twin pathways up his thighs. She traced over the ridges of the deep scars that criss-crossed his skin, careful to avoid touching the thick cock that rested between his thighs. 

 

“Granger…” his voice warned, already dropping to the low tone that only seemed to emerge in moments like this. 

 

Encouraged, she retraced her fingers’ path, except this time she let her thumbs trail down the distinct V-shape before stopping before they met the base of his cock. When they moved to massage slow, deep circles in the muscles of his upper thighs, his groan of disappointment brought a smile to her face. 

 

She could barely make out the silhouette of his cock where it was beginning to stiffen just below her face. When she took a deep inhale, she felt her veins ignite with the heady smell of his musk. 

 

Fuck . He smelled good. Intoxicatingly good. What was wrong with her that the smell of this man’s sweat managed to turn her on beyond any pornography she’d ever found?

 

Dim light flooded her vision as the sheets were wrenched from above her head. Without moving from where she hovered, she looked up. 

 

Draco, book now nowhere to be seen, stared down at her. His mouth was parted and the flush of his skin extended from his cheeks down to his bare chest. But it was his eyes, his eyes that flashed behind the round glass lenses held in their unassuming wire frame, that captured her and held her frozen in place. 

 

“You’re so beautiful.” His deep voice murmured the words as his eyes remained fixated on her face. 

 

Without looking away from him, Hermione slowly dipped her head until she felt the wet tip of her tongue meet the smooth flesh of his cock. The muscle jerked up toward her at the contact, but she didn’t let it deter her as she licked upwards. When she reached the head, her tongue traced a languid circle before retreating into her mouth. 

 

She could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the desperation in his eyes. She was about to take another taste of him when she saw him reach a hand up toward his glasses. 

 

“No.” The word escaped her before she had a chance to think about it. 

 

His hand froze in mid air. “No?” He echoed the word back to her as his eyebrows rose. 

 

“No.” There was absolute certainty in her tone. 

 

Draco lowered his hand down to her head, where his fingers tangled in her hair before tugging gently, eliciting a sharp inhale as shivers of pleasure spread down her spine. His hand moved with her as she ducked down, this time holding nothing back as she took his now fully erect cock between her lips. 

 

She shut out everything except for his eyes and the barely controlled response of his body as she devoted herself to pleasuring him. Every lingering piece of the mask that Draco Malfoy frequently wore on his face crumbled away, leaving a painfully honest want written clearly across his features. 

 

When his cock hit the back of her throat, the hand in her hair tightened and a choked “Fuckkkk” ground out between his gritted teeth. As her movements sped up and she brought one of her hands to roll his heavy balls together, words began to flow from him.

 

“Fuck yes, witch…”

 

“Your perfect mouth…”

 

“A fucking treasure, Granger, that’s what you are…”

 

“You’re going to ruin me…” 

 

But then he was pulling her away from his cock, holding her above him as he looked up at her, his eyes flashing as he took in her wild, unrestrained curls and the spit that covered her swollen lips as she panted. 

 

“I need to taste you,” he growled. “May I please take off these fucking glasses?” 

 

The question caught her so off guard that she couldn’t stop her laugh as she sat back, straddling his stomach. “I guess that could be arranged,” she teased, reaching up to remove the reading glasses, and carefully folding them before placing them on the bedside. 

 

“Take this off.” He tugged on the hem of her t-shirt. Hermione practically ripped the fabric from her body, tossing it to the floor. 

 

“And these.” Draco’s finger snapped the elastic of her knickers against her skin. His darkening eyes promised so much, and Hermione tried not to look away from him as she clumsily stood up on the bed, struggling out of the black lace before returning to her previous position.

 

“Turn around.” It was a clear command, and it sent a wave of anticipation straight to her core. 

 

As she complied with the instructions, she felt his hands grab her hips. 

 

She shrieked in surprise as he tugged her upward at the same time as he shifted down to lay flat on the bed, perfectly aligning her hips to hover above his face. When she felt his breath against her bare quim, chills broke out along her skin as she bit her lip to try to contain the whimper that hovered in her throat. 

 

“Do you remember what I told you about being my witch, Granger?” Each word sent another wave of air against her, and she strained against his hands that held her hips still. 

 

“No…” it came out as a moan as his teeth nipped at the soft flesh of her inner thighs. 

 

He lowered her hips incrementally, so that his next words were spoken directly above the already wet lips of her quim. “I’m not going to let you go until you ask me to.” 

 

And then he consumed her. 

 

She couldn’t decipher the difference between tongue and lips as he devoured her, somehow still managing to concentrate his attentions where she craved him the most. The flames of arousal that had been hovering on the sidelines roared to life within seconds. 

 

Leaning forward to give Draco a better angle, she came face to face with his still hard cock jutting up from between his legs. 

 

Oh. 

 

She lowered her upper body further, and based upon the hum of approval that vibrated against her throbbing quim, Draco approved of the current trajectory of her movement. When she took him into her mouth again, moaning when his taste and smell hit her senses, she  channeled all of her approval into her mouth as she swallowed him as deeply as she could.

 

This position was new to her. Sure, she’d heard it described by some of the more...adventurous girls in the Gryffindor dormitory, but she never could have imagined the all consuming nature of the circle of giving and receiving pleasure she found herself trapped in. They spiraled upward together: the masterful circling of his tongue wrenched a moan from her chest that sent deep vibrations through his cock that only encouraged his attack on her body… 

 

How was she already so close?

 

Even in the pounding haze of pleasure and almost there that filled her head, she let herself consider that she trusted this man with her pleasure. That she had surrendered her body to him because he had established that yes, he could reciprocate whatever pleasure she gave him exponentially. There was no room for doubt and questioning as his hands held her arse in place as he devoured her. 

 

His hips bucked up to meet her mouth, signaling his waning control, and Hermione took a slow, deep inhale through her nose before taking him down the back of her throat. 

 

The strangled growl that Draco made was muffled by her quim, but the way that the noise met her flesh nudged her even closer to the edge than she’d been moments before. 

 

Debauched, wet, and desperate noises filled the air as they lost themselves in those final moments before oblivion, when nothing else matters but the singular goal of crossing the finish line together. Hermione was suspended, unaware of anything beyond him, when his soft lips closed around her clit and she was gone.

 

First her body stiffened, and then the waves of shaking ecstasy radiated out from her core. Inadvertently, her throat constricted in a scream that was the final piece to send him over the edge with her. She found unexpected pleasure in swallowing his release amid the all-consuming pleasure that still coursed through her veins. Draco’s gentle licking only prolonged her orgasm, bringing her gently back to earth. 

 

Draco stopped, tugged her hips off of him, and somehow spun her around so that their sweaty, flushed faces lay side by side. His hands were all over her, gathering her still-boneless body close to his as he looked at her with unfiltered, unguarded adoration. 

 

When he pressed his lips to hers, they echoed the emotion in his eyes. Hermione leaned into him, returning each probing caress of his tongue against hers, not even bothered by the taste of herself on his lips. 

 

Pulling back, Draco looked at her, his hair mussed and his eyes still dark and wild. “I’m yours, witch.” The words were whispered. “I just...need you to know that.”

 

An overwhelming wave of affection filled her chest as she freed a hand from the tangle of sheets to caress his smooth cheek. “You have me, Draco,” she said softly. “Until you decide to let go.”

Notes:

Okay I saw a lot of you in a panic because it wasn't tagged as HEA, so I went ahead and added that :) The plan from the beginning has always been for these kids to get the happiness and contentment that they have worked so hard for.
Thank you for the comments as always. I'm sorry that I am not great about responding, but please know that I read them and each one brings me SO MUCH JOY.

Thank you betas for the love and support: Lauraloveschristmas and bookishteddy, and of course miiisterbear has been supporting from afar.

How are we this close to the end???

Chapter 33: Chapter 33

“Do you have last week’s -”

 

“Right here, Granger.” 

 

“Thanks.” She grabbed the stack of offered parchment without looking up, taking a moment to flip through the pages to make sure that they were all accounted for. 

 

Although it was a Saturday and they certainly weren’t obligated to work, Hermione had convinced Draco to spend the morning in Greenhouse D reviewing the early data they’d collected since Blaise had started using his magic in the gardens. Through a series of spells that Hermione had found in the Zabini library, they were able to extract a variety of graphs that showed both the strength of the magic on the grounds and the actual characteristics of that magic. 

 

It was complex work. The information they’d retrieved wasn’t easy to interpret, and she and Draco had spent hours trying different methods of organizing and understanding the data. The process was lengthened by their tendency to argue and push back on the other’s ideas, but Hermione had to acknowledge that the questions he asked prompted her to think differently, and even more effectively. 

 

The work had consumed all of their focus for hours, and the tempus charm Draco cast revealed that it was already early afternoon. They were currently gathering the piles of parchment they’d spread over the workbench, trying to organize them and take any last-minute notes. There was a frenzied panic rising in Hermione that she tried to stifle as they wrapped up their work.

 

“Why does time always have to move so bloody fast,” she muttered under her breath as she tried to divide her attention between fifteen different things simultaneously. 

 

The sudden, firm pressure of his hands on her shoulders brought her to a stop. She closed her eyes, letting a sigh fall from her lips as she leaned back, knowing exactly what waited for her. 

 

Her back met his chest, and his breath ghosted along the side of her neck. She inhaled sharply as his lips kissed the skin there. 

 

“You’re not going to finish it all now, Granger.” She smelled a whiff of cedar as he planted a kiss on her cheek. “And that’s perfectly fine. I’m happy to take it on from here.” 

 

“But,” Hermione started to protest.

 

“I know that you think rather highly of yourself, but I would like to take this opportunity to remind you that although I come nowhere close to measuring up to your superior intelligence, I’m not so dull myself.” 

 

Hermione laughed, twisting around to face him. There was an almost goofy grin on Draco’s face, one that she knew was a precious and secret thing that most of the world would never get to see. It was easy to forget that she’d spent most of her life living without it. 

 

“Your intellect is perfectly adequate, Draco,” she teased in return. Her hands fiddled with the buttons of his shirt. “I just don’t feel right abandoning it when it feels like we’re close to something.” 

 

“Look at me.” She felt his fingers under her chin and didn’t fight when he tilted her head up to meet his eyes. Grey captured her amber, and she was struck by the same feeling that sunk into her bones every time that he looked at her like this. 

 

He saw her. 

 

“The work is in good hands,” he continued. “Luna and I are more than capable of carrying on what we started.”

 

“And you’ll write me? And tell me everything?” 

 

Draco laughed. “If that would ease your burden, witch, then yes, I’ll write to you every damn day.” 

 

Reaching up between them, Hermione grasped the collar of Draco’s shirt, pulling him down to her. “This was so much easier when you were a prat,” she whispered against his lips. 

 

She felt his smile. “But it’s so much more entertaining this way,” he murmured in reply before pressing his lips to hers. 

 

It was a quick kiss, finishing before it even began. Hermione whined in the back of her throat as he gently removed her hands from where they gripped his shirt.

 

“Come on,” Draco said, rising up to his full height and reaching around her to grab the carefully stacked parchment they’d spent the morning organizing. “I believe you have a party to attend, and Pansy will absolutely murder me if I’m the reason that you’re late.”

 

“Coward.” Hermione poked him in the side as she followed him out of the greenhouse. 

 

Draco swatted her hand away with a yelp before tugging her forward to walk beside him, holding her close against his side. “You,” he growled against the crown of her head, “are lucky that I find you so attractive.” 

 

She laughed. “You find me attractive? Draco, I’m flattered.”

 

“Bloody witch.” His arm tightened around her shoulders. His voice softened and she almost didn’t hear the next words as he whispered them into the messy bun on top of her head. 

 

“Fuck, I’m going to miss you.”

 

________________________________

Approaching the small mirror she’d affixed to the otherwise empty wall, Hermione placed the last bobby pin to the crossed Dutch braids she decided to wear that evening. Some of her curls had already escaped, but she felt no desire to tame them. 

 

“I have to admit,” Pansy commented from where she reclined on Hermione’s bed. “You have learned how to tame that terrifying mane of yours since we were in school.” 

 

Hermione snorted, amused. “Is that your circuitous way of telling me that my hair looks nice?” 

 

“Possibly.” 

 

Pansy was already dressed for their night out, wearing a short, thin-strapped velvet dress in a blue so dark that it looked black. As always, her hair was down, sleekly combed to perfection. Hermione envied the way that the witch was able to make dramatic, black eye-liner and deep, red lips look effortless. 

 

At Pansy’s encouragement, Hermione had pulled out a short, satin slip in a peach color, which she’d paired with a flowing, cotton blouse; again, at Pansy’s encouragement, she’d tied the blouse over the dress, giving the effect that she was wearing a short skirt underneath rather than a garment that was definitely intended for the bedroom. 

 

“You’re leaving tomorrow.” 

 

The statement interrupted Hermione’s wandering thoughts as she surveyed herself in the mirror. She turned to fully face Pansy, noting that her lips were curved down in a thoughtful frown and her arms were crossed in front of her chest. 

 

“I know,” Hermione responded. “It doesn’t quite feel real.” 

 

“Are you excited?” 

 

She considered Pansy’s question before answering. “Not particularly. No. Not when…” She paused, trying to pick the words to best match the feeling in her chest. “When things here don’t feel finished.” 

 

“Draco?”

 

Hermione nodded. “Draco, and the research.”

 

Nodding, Pansy tilted her head, almost as if she were trying to take Hermione in from a slightly different angle. “But you’ve made progress, right? With Blaise?” 

 

“Yes, but not enough. I can’t help but feel like l’m quitting, and I don’t… I don’t quit.” 

 

She was surprised to hear Pansy snort, and she looked up to see the witch regarding her with an exasperated expression. “So stay then! Merlin knows we aren’t ready to see you go.” She muttered the last words, but not quietly enough to keep Hermione from hearing them. 

 

Hermione groaned, going to run her hands through her hair before pausing at the last second, remembering her curls were braided and pinned into submission. Instead, she lowered her hands to her sides. “I can’t, Pansy. My job… Like I said, I don’t quit.”

 

Pansy simply shook her head. “You know, there’s a difference between quitting and making a choice. It is one thing to give up on something, and something entirely different to make the conscious choice to not pursue something. Especially if that choice is whether or not to return to the place you were trying to escape when you first came here.”

 

The slow exhale from her nose was pained, shaking, unsure. She picked up the golden hoops -- the only earrings that she ever wore -- from where she’d placed them on the desk. As she returned to the mirror, she looked at the witch’s reflection in the glass. “I’ve worked too hard and sacrificed too much to just...give it up.” 

 

Sighing, Pansy sat up on the bed, leaning forward as she held Hermione’s gaze through the mirror. “But you’ve gotten what you wanted, Granger. Space. Privacy. People around you who love and respect you.” Hermione forced herself to look back into her friend’s fierce eyes, to resist the urge to relieve the intensity of her words by looking away. “I’ve listened to you since you arrived,” Pansy continued. “I’ve paid attention. And, as someone who has come to consider you to be a very, very , dear friend, I just...I don’t want to see you return to the way you were when you first arrived. Because that wasn’t living; that was barely surviving.” 

 

Hermione swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat, looking down at her tanned, freckled hands that now had calluses of their own. For a moment, she had to remind herself that they were her hands, that it was her work and time that had transformed them.

 

 She looked back up at Pansy, who looked at her with unfiltered worry. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I would also consider you a very, very , dear friend.” 

 

Pansy tried to hold back the smile, but failed miserably at hiding the warmth that filled her features at Hermione’s words. “Well that’s enough of the sappy stuff. Shall we go get rightfully pissed and dance the night away?”

 

Grinning, Hermione dropped into a shallow curtsy. “It would be my most esteemed pleasure, my lady.” 

 

Both witches were laughing as they climbed down the ladder from Hermione’s loft, and Hermione felt the warm and comforting weight of certainty that yes, Pansy Parkinson was a very, very , dear friend. 

 

___________________________________

The fading light of evening offered no relief from the summer heat, and the laughing faces that sat around the long table on the patio all showed the distinct flush of warmth and wine. Well, Teddy’s face was red from playing tag with the children of another restaurant patron, but, for the adults at the table, the wine had been flowing since the moment they’d been seated at the table. It was positioned along the edge of the stone patio, meaning that the flower-filled planters that lined the metal fence released a heady fragrance into the evening air. 

 

It was thanks to Pansy’s careful planning that they dined on a series of dishes made for them by the chef; a “seasonal offering,” according to Pansy. Smaller, bite sized appetizers were followed by large bowls of pasta and salads, followed by plates of various meats and cheeses. The entire feast concluded with a variety of individual sized desserts, which were shared and passed around as though they were in the comfort of the cottage. 

 

The addition of Andromeda and Teddy did little to change the relaxed and comfortable dynamic that existed between them; if anything, Andromeda brought out more of Blaise’s quick humor, while Teddy bounced between Draco’s lap and a chair between Neville and Theo, showing a profound ability to bring out the soft sides of all three wizards. 

 

There was no logical pattern to the conversation that filled the air between them. Stories blended with arguments and questions; sometimes the whole group participated in one discussion together, and at other times small groups fractured to consider a particular topic in greater depth. 

 

Hermione leaned back in her chair as she listened to Theo telling a story about the first time Neville tried pizza in Italy. A huge grin strained at her cheeks as she watched her friend blush at the attention from his fiance, who was both a long-winded and yet entertaining storyteller. 

 

She felt Draco’s hand where it rested on the bare skin of her thigh where her already-short skirt had ridden up; his thumb rubbed patiently back and forth, back and forth, as he carried on a conversation with Blaise. 

 

He had been like that all evening -- unable to stop touching her. Not overt touches that fell into the category of ‘public displays of affection,’ but little touches: brushing a wayward curl behind her ear, playing with the strap of her slip dress when her shirt slipped off her shoulder, putting gentle pressure on her lower back as they were led to their table. 

 

It was so different from Hermione’s previous experiences of touch. She shuddered at the memory of strange hands grabbing at her and jostling her anytime she tried to walk through Diagon Alley. There was a powerlessness that paralyzed her in those moments, and she’d learned to avoid them as much as she could. It reached the point that even Ron’s touches brought up that same panic and fear, and eventually, with significant protests on his part, he stopped, cutting off any sort of public intimacy between them. 

 

She took a long sip from her wine glass and let her eyes drop to where she could just make out the outline of Draco’s wrist disappearing under the table where he touched her. 

 

What was different?

 

Was it the setting that surrounded them that made his touch feel more like a reassurance than a burden? Was it a result of the gradual, internal changes she’d been building since her arrival in Italy? Was it something about Draco Malfoy himself? 

 

He must have felt the weight of her attention, because he squeezed her thigh gently and turned to look at her. 

 

“You alright, Granger?” he whispered. 

 

She met his gaze, seeing the quiet concern in his eyes. WIthout hesitating, she leaned toward him, placing a chaste kiss on his lips before retreating with a smile. “Perfect, Malfoy.”

 

Returning her smile with another squeeze of his hand, he turned back around, resuming his previous conversation. 

 

As she shifted in her chair to focus back on Theo’s story, she met the eyes of the older witch who was smiling at her in a way that led her to believe that there was some sort of secret that she wasn’t privy to. Andromeda simply chuckled as she raised a brow at Hermione, communicating something that was lost on the younger witch, before returning her attention to Neville. 

 

When the music got incrementally louder, there was an exodus of patio diners to the dance floor. Pansy, Theo, and Blaise immediately left the table in favor of dancing, but the others seemed content to see their conversations through to their natural end. 

 

Andromeda rose to her feet, circling around the table to take the recently vacated seat on the other side of Hermione. The woman looked stunning as always, in flowing, lavender trousers and a cream colored blouse that contrasted her dark hair that was pulled back in a low chignon. 

 

Hermione, who had been talking quietly with Draco before her arrival, smiled. “Are you enjoying yourself?” 

 

Laughing, Andromeda settled herself on the chair as she looked around. “I talk myself into thinking that I’m too old for these sorts of things, but once I’m here… I feel the call of my twenties like it was yesterday.” 

 

She felt Draco’s chuckle from where he sat beside her. “No one here could possibly argue against your youthful energy, Aunt.” 

 

“Thank you, Draco.” She laughed again, exhaling quietly before turning her full attention back to the younger couple who sat before her. “I want to share a piece of unsolicited advice with the two of you.” 

 

Hermione straightened in her chair, and she felt Draco shift as he circled an arm around her shoulders. It was second nature to lean into him, to seek the steady comfort of his body. 

 

A small smile spread on Andromeda’s face as she watched them. “I won’t presume to know what agreements or promises the two of you have made regarding your relationship with one another. It is honestly none of my business, but I can’t help myself. However, I think at this point it is rather obvious that the two of you have committed to something, to being something for each other.” She looked between them. “Am I correct?” 

 

When Hermione glanced over her shoulder at Draco, she saw him nod. 

 

“Beautiful. In that case, I just want to remind you both that this thing between you, whatever magic you have found together, is only as strong as your commitment to it. You have to decide what role your relationship plays in your life. Is it the north star that guides every decision you make? Is it something that is weighed equally against the other parts of your life? Is it simply one small piece of the puzzle that makes up who you are?” She paused, again taking a moment to look at each of them. “There isn’t one correct answer to the question, only the answer that the two of you agree upon. And when you consider this question, be honest and clear about what you need for it to feel real and beautiful.” 

 

Completely at a loss for what to say, Hermione simply sat there, letting Andromeda’s advice slowly sink in, letting the individual words and their meanings combine with the ideas behind the words, creating a kaleidoscope of ideas in her mind. 

 

“Thank you. Truly.” Draco spoke into the pocket of quiet that surrounded them; the noise of the music and loud conversation had faded into the background. 

 

Andromeda reached toward Hermione, clasping one of her smaller hands between hers and looking deeply into her eyes. “And you, Hermione. When you came here it was obvious that you were struggling; how, exactly, I don’t know, but what I can see is that you have found something here that has reawakened the light within you. Don’t ever let the world take that light from you again. That light, that fire, is what you fought for, and to let it flicker out is to let them win.” 

 

Her dark eyes said so much in the wake of her words. Hermione felt the suggestion of tears burning in her eyes and she tried to blink through the wave of emotion that filled her. 

 

“Thank you, Andromeda,” she said as she regained control over herself, stopping the tears before they’d fully formed. 

 

The witch simply gave her a knowing nod and then stood up, smoothing any wrinkles from the front of her slacks. “Well. That’s enough of that. I believe there is dancing that we are currently missing out on?” 

 

Hermione twisted back in her seat to look at Draco, who was already looking at her with an unreadable and yet pleasant expression on his face. 

 

He rolled his eyes and shrugged at the question in her eyes. With an exaggerated sigh, he rose to his feet, offering her his palm. “Well, witch. Shall we dance?” 

 

Draining the last of her glass of wine, Hermione accepted the offered hand, interlacing their fingers as they took off after Andromeda to join the rest of the group who had all congregated near the center of the patio. They wove through dancing bodies, the pulsing beat of the music vibrating through the stone patio under her feet. 

 

And then they danced. 

 

Under the strings of twinkling lights, Hermione danced with the people who had come to hold a position of importance in her life. It was a position that, in her mind, had to be earned, through time, consistency, and trustworthiness. And all of them, in their own way, had found a place within that trusted circle. Even Teddy, whose face lit up in a huge smile every time he saw her and insisted on at least ten proper high fives after every scored goal, had earned a place of importance. 

 

When the song that piped through the speakers was more upbeat, Hermione twirled and jumped with Pansy, Luna, and Theo, laughing and simply letting the music move through them without shame or consideration of how chaotic their movements appeared. Draco’s dancing hadn’t improved since the last time she’d watched him bobbing along with Italian Muggle music, but rather than feeling unsettled in his presence, she found the enigma that was Draco Malfoy called to her. And when the music slowed, she answered. Hermione would fall, entangled, into Draco’s arms, where they would sway together, letting the outside world fade to nothing as they whispered precious words to each other.

 

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured as his thumbs traced along her eyebrows. 

 

“Someday, I want to get you a garden that is all your own,” she spoke the words into his chest where his shirt was slowly coming unbuttoned as the night continued. 

 

“Can you feel how much Italy loves you?” he asked as his hands sat on her lower back. 

 

“I feel so happy with you,” she said as she rose on her tippy-toes to kiss his chin. 

 

And so the night went, punctuated by short breaks to drink wine and fan their sweaty faces with the laminated menus. Hermione watched Draco, her chest swelling at the sight of his relaxed slouch as he stood with an arm slung around Theo. He’d further unbuttoned his simple, white shirt, and the now-exposed toned chest that was barely covered with fabric bordered on indecent. He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves too, exposing the tattoos that Hermione had traced with her hands, lips, and tongue. 

 

Her wizard. Her beautiful, physically perfect wizard. 

 

She took a long drink of wine, finding the flavor no longer registered as the night wore on. She remembered it had tasted good earlier, and she decided it was probably safe to assume that it still did. 

 

When she looked back at him, he was staring at her with a fond smile. His hair had long ago fallen out of the bun, and now hung messily around his neck and face. Hermione grinned back at him. She watched as his cheeks flushed and he ducked his head to try to push the loose hairs out of his face, and when he failed spectacularly, she laughed out loud. 

 

“Come here,” she called to him, still laughing. 

 

He disentangled himself from Theo and walked towards her. She noticed the slight stagger in his normally smooth steps -- the wine was catching up with him too. He came to a stop directly in front of her, before shaking his head wildly side to side, further messing up his already wild hair. 

 

“Help me, please,” he whined, in a perfect imitation of his younger self. 

 

Hermione cackled, laughter ripping from her chest until she couldn’t breathe. “You --” she tried to say, but had to stop to gasp for breath. “You look --” Again, the laughter overtook her. Resting her hands on her knees as she tried to slow her breathing, she looked up at him again. “You look like the most handsome drowned ferret I’ve ever met,” she finally gasped out, only to surrender to the laughter once again. 

 

He lifted the curtain of hair that had shielded most of his face from view, revealing the indignant furrow between his brows and his open mouth. “Please tell me you did not just call me a ferret.” 

 

Standing up to face him, Hermione tried to school her features into a serious expression. She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. “I was simply making an honest observation.” 

 

His eyes narrowed further. “You will pay for that, Granger,” he practically growled, and even through the haze of wine and the levity of their banter she registered the way his voice had the profound ability to send her blood rushing to the apex of her thighs. 

 

As the blood thrummed louder in her veins, she took a step toward him, watching as his eyes shifted from grey to silver and as his glare softened. Grabbing the front of his shirt with one hand, she tugged his face down to be level with hers, immediately sinking her fingers into his hair and gently combing it back from his flushed face. 

 

Their foreheads touched, leaving only a breath between their lips. “And how exactly, Draco, do you plan to make me pay?” she whispered. 

 

His shuddered exhale smelled like red wine and mint, and she let her eyes shut as shivers of anticipation spread down her spine. 

 

“I can think of many ways, Granger,” he murmured as he brought her body flush against his. She leaned into him, relishing his hiss as her stomach came into contact with the already growing bulge in his pants. “Fuck you, witch.” 

 

She simply grinned in response. “Dance with me?” she asked, craving the feeling of being held by him in the cocoon of Italian music. 

 

Dipping down to kiss the tip of her nose, he took a small step back. “I’m going to step outside and have a smoke,” he replied. “Want to come?” He looked hopeful. 

 

“So sorry Draco, but the little Lion Princess will be unable to join you.” 

 

Theo sauntered up to them, looking delightfully pissed. 

 

Draco raised a brow at his friend. “And why is that?” 

 

Sidling up alongside Hermione, Theo offered her a hand with a dramatic curtsy. “She will be otherwise occupied in a friendly dance with her dearest friend Theodore.” He gave her a Cheshire cat smile. “Please?”

 

Laughing, Hermione placed her hand in Theo’s, who immediately proceeded to raise his fist to the sky in triumph. 

 

“Thank the gods, the lady said yes!” he crowed into the night. Thankfully his cry was drowned out by the music and noise that already filled the patio. 

 

Glancing back at Draco, Hermione saw him roll his eyes with a small smile. “Take care of my witch, Theo,” he said, as he leaned down to give her lips a quick peck. 

 

“Come on little lovebird, we have a dance to do!” Theo tugged her rather forcefully by the arm, forcing Hermione into a clumsy run to catch up with him. 

 

When they arrived back at the dance floor, Theo swung her around in a dramatic twirl before settling them into a very traditional dance position: their clasped hands extended to the side, his other hand on her hip, and hers resting on his shoulder. 

 

“He’s happy with you,” Theo said as they followed a very basic box-step pattern to the music. “I never thought I’d see him like this again.” 

 

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but then closed it, thinking. After a few careful breaths, she responded. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been like this.” The confession fell from her lips, and she felt something shift inside of her as those words became concrete.

 

“He deserves the world, and right now it looks like you are the one who is giving it to him.” Theo stated, matter-of-fact. 

 

Her stomach flipped. “I wish I could give him everything,” she said. “I wish that the world could see how good he is, how kind and caring he is, how…” Her voice trailed off, but the words were there, waiting on her tongue. 

 

How much he means to me. How he truly sees me and how he has become as much a part of me as my skin and bones and the breath that I breathe. 

 

Hermione swallowed. There was something about Theo’s honest face and the wine and the music that made her want to unload all of the words that had been swirling in her head. 

 

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

 

Theo frowned. “About what?” 

 

“About leaving. About leaving him.” She shook her head, trying to find the right words. “He sees me, you know? He sees a me that is alive and healthy, and honest, and happy…” Damn the wine. She tried again. “I’m afraid that I will lose myself without him.”

 

“Hm.” Theo looked at her, tilting his head to the side in an almost-perfect imitation of the small rooster he’d adopted. “Because we’re friends now, I’m going to tell you some shit.” He cleared his throat. “It’s not his job to save you. And if he did actually save you, then that’s not the kind of thing you can build a life on. I used to say that Nev saved me. In many ways, you could argue that he did. But actually, what really happened is that he came into my life at a time when I was trying to save myself, and he gave me the space, time, and support to do it. I couldn’t have done it without him, but in the end, it was me. 

 

“So, Granger. You can’t ask him to keep you whole, because if you do, he will. That fucking man will go to the ends of the world for you, even if it kills him. So give yourself some damn credit. You’re strong and fucking determined, and it’s you who have healed yourself. Not him. And you, for your sake, need to figure out how to find that strength without him. Because then, you can be with him, fully, and be there for him, and love him, without the added pressure of needing him to save you.” 

 

So many words . Theo had said so many words, and Hermione had listened to each one, heard the caution and advice and wisdom in the words that came from this goofy man, who, based on the slight slurring of his speech, was equally affected by the wine as she was. But words were important, and so she closed her eyes, committing each one to memory in the fabric of her mind. 

 

“It’s not just him who wants you here, you know.” 

 

“Hm?” She didn’t fully register his words. 

 

Theo sighed, looking down at the ground between them. “Draco isn’t the only one who wants you to stay here. You’re a part of us now, and it won’t feel right to have you gone.” He looked back up at her, offering his best, teasing smirk. “Even if you are an insufferable swot who I can barely tolerate.” 

 

Hermione joined in with his laugh, but her mind was occupied with the ache in her chest as the reality of leaving them became more and more concrete as each second went by. 

 

She was overcome with gratitude for the man in front of her, and she stepped into him, wrapping her arms around his skinny frame and squeezing as hard as she could. 

 

“The world is lucky to have you in it, Theo.” Her words were muffled against his chest. 

 

She felt his arms wrap around her as he returned the hug, and she smiled. 

 

“Oi!” 

 

Theo took a step back, lifting his hands up in a show of innocence as he looked at someone standing behind her. “I’m sorry mate, your witch is a bloody siren!” 

 

Turning, Hermione came face to face with a scowling Draco, who held his hands clasped behind his back. 

 

“You,” she said to the tall, blonde wizard, “Are behaving like a child.” She poked him in the stomach for good measure, grinning at the pained grunt from above her. 

 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, lowering his face to her hair. What was his infatuation with her hair? Hadn’t he teased her mercilessly for it when they were younger? As her face came to rest against his chest, she smelled the hint of smoke combining with the cedar and salt. 

 

The song changed, lyrics in Italian accompanied by synth and a pulsing drum beat. Hermione stepped away from Draco, falling into step with the rhythm and letting her arms swing by her sides. 

 

Draco groaned. “Why are we still dancing?” he called over the music. But he reluctantly followed her, his steps just slightly off beat as he began to dance in front of her. 

 

With a laugh, Hermione spun around, loving the feeling of her skirt’s smooth fabric swishing past her legs, as she let her body move. 

 

Her attention, though, remained fully on Draco, and his was fully on her. Their eyes held, unwilling to look away and break the bridge between them. What always simmered under the surface with him grew louder as she watched his body: his hips, his thigh muscles that strained against denim, his sweaty chest that reflected the lights, his large hands that pushed his hair back from his face, his strong jaw, his pale lashes that framed his darkening eyes. 

 

When his hands lowered to her hips, she reached her hands up to the sides of his neck, letting her fingernails scrape along his scalp. She felt the low hum in his chest. 

 

Still their bodies moved with the music, even when his thigh slipped between her legs and each sway of her hips brought a wave of delicious friction against her. His eyes were shut as he rested his head against her forehead, his breaths quick and strained as she continued to move against him. 

 

Their movements became increasingly intentional. His hips ground his hardening length against her, while she shamelessly rode his thigh. The heat in her body was reaching a fever pitch. She needed him. Now.  

 

“We need to go,” she panted, struggling to remember that they were in a public place and ripping his clothes off was not an option. 

 

Draco simply nodded, grabbing her hand and weaving through the crowd that grew smaller as they got farther away from the dance floor. His steps got faster, until they were both running, dodging tables and chairs as they went. 

 

When they spilled out onto the street, Draco pounced, pressing her against a stone wall and claiming her mouth in a searing kiss. He wasted no time, delving his tongue between her lips and immediately tangling with her own. 

 

The cold stone on her back barely relieved the fire coursing through her veins. She gripped his face, pulling him closer to her, wanting nothing in that moment more than him. She wanted him to consume her, take her, imprint himself onto her soul so that she could never forget him. 

 

She wrenched her lips free. “Bed. Now.” 

 

Draco growled as he stepped back from her, only putting enough distance between them so that they could walk down the dark street in the direction of a place where they could safely Apparate. They tried to walk side by side, but Draco’s lips were glued to her neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin behind her ear, and his hands trailed up and down her arms, refusing to let her go. 

 

Then it was Hermione who broke, sinking her hands into his hair, pulling his face to hers and biting down on his lower lip. She felt his body respond, his already straining cock jerking against her stomach, and she freed his lip, only to then kiss him deeply, tasting him and pouring herself into him. 

 

A loud whistle and laughter pierced the night, and they jumped apart. Looking around, they saw a group of young men pointing at them from where they walked on the other side of the street. Hermione tried to even out her breathing as Draco made an undeniably rude gesture at them before turning back to her. 

 

“I’ve got to get you into bed.” His chest heaved as he reached for her. “I can’t keep my fucking hands off of you,” he whispered in her ear as he drew her body against his. 

 

She could only nod in response. 

 

Suddenly he was walking them forward, keeping her body tightly against his. “Just a little farther…”

 

Her back bumped up against another stone wall, and he pulled her body even closer to his. 

 

“Hold on, Granger.” There was a sudden wrenching in her belly, and the world swirled into oblivion around them as they Apparated into the night. 

 

___________________________________

As her senses steadied in the wake of the sudden Apparition, Hermione’s head filled with the smell of the gardens. Their gardens. The gardens that held his flowers. She took a moment, leaning into Draco’s body that still held her close, sighing at the comfort of his breath on her face. 

 

Her wizard. 

 

Slightly withdrawing from him, she glanced up at the dark cottage that stood before them. 

 

Draco’s eyes followed her gaze. “May I take you to bed, Granger?” 

 

When she looked up at him, his features were soft, reverent even. After nodding in agreement, he grabbed her hand, tugging her behind him as he ran toward the front door. 

 

She couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up in her chest. She felt light, alive, even while she struggled to keep her balance as she tugged off her shoes and opened the door, reaching for his hand to make sure that he was with her, that he wasn’t left behind. 

 

Their bare feet echoed through the empty house as they ran up the stairs and down the hallway, not pausing as they climbed the spiral stair that led to Draco’s room. Flinging the door open, Hermione turned, chest heaving from the running, from the gradual build of the flames that now raged between them, and came face to face with Draco.  

 

For a moment he stood there, too far away to touch, just looking at her. Then she heard him mutter something, and she inhaled sharply as the soft glow of his reading lamp filled the room. 

 

She opened her mouth to ask, but he spoke first. 

 

“I need to see you.” Draco took a step closer to her. “When I remember this, when I think of this night, I want to be able to see you.” 

 

He brought a hand up to her face. Every movement was deliberate: trailing his fingers along the skin he passed along the way. And when she leaned into his touch, she didn’t rush, savoring the initial connection between their bodies. 

 

She watched his face as his fingers moved up to her hair that still lay pinned across the crown of her head. His eyes narrowed slightly as he searched the edges of the braids, but once his fingers met the slim metal of a pin holding her hair in place, he gently tugged it free. He took his time, removing each pin that his fingers discovered as they traced the sensitive skin of her scalp. 

 

Hermione knew that he’d found the last one when both braids fell down to rest against her shoulders. But still the wizard wasn’t done: he tugged the elastics from the bottom of each braid, pausing for a moment to stash them and the pile of discarded pins in his pocket. 

 

Returning his full attention to her, both hands began to thread through the braids, freeing the curls that had been tamed and trapped all night. The gesture was so intimate, so caring: Hermione felt herself melting under his touch, appreciating that she was the one who got to see this softness that he normally hid from the world. 

 

When the last curl bounced free, he sunk both hands into her hair, starting from the roots and combing through to the ends. His hands were gentle, carefully untangling any snags that met his fingers and Hermione hummed as her eyes fluttered closed, contentment thrumming in her chest. 

 

She noticed the absence of his hands in her hair, and she slowly blinked her eyes open. 

 

Draco had moved back to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning forward to rest his weight on his elbows, looking at her. Hermione started to move toward him. 

 

“Stop.” 

 

She immediately stopped, recognizing the command in his voice. Without realizing it, she held her breath, waiting for his next command. 

 

His hands dropped to his waist. Quickly, his fingers undid the button before lowering the zipper. Without looking away from her, he withdrew his hard cock, holding it almost lazily in one hand.

 

“Take off your shirt.” His eyes held hers, like he was daring her to argue. 

 

Slowly, Hermione brought her hands to the buttons of her blouse. Starting at the top, she opened one at a time. She couldn’t look away from his face, not when he was watching her hands like they were unveiling something rare, something beautiful. 

 

When she reached the last button, she moved to undo the knot that held the shirttails in place around her waist. It came undone easily, and she slid the fabric from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind her. 

 

His eyes darkened as they lowered to her chest. The hand that still gripped his cock began to move, languidly stroking himself. His lips parted and she watched his chest expand with an inhale. 

 

“You aren’t wearing a bra.” 

 

At his whispered words, Hermione glanced down at her chest, seeing the unmistakable outline of her nipples against the satin bodice of the slip dress. As the blush spread across her cheeks, she brought her hands up to cover herself. 

 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Draco growled from where he sat on the bed. When she looked up, she met his flashing eyes before glancing down at his lap. He stroked himself with the ease of someone who knew exactly how they liked to be touched. “You,” he breathed, “Are so fucking beautiful, Granger.”

 

She could feel the flush spreading across her chest now, but she lowered her hands to her sides. 

 

“Good, Granger.” 

 

Her core pulsed in response. She noticed his hand constricted around the base of his cock for a moment before resuming his unhurried movement.

 

“Take off the dress.” 

 

It was much easier to remove; one shrug of her shoulders and the slender straps slipped down her arms; within a second the peach satin pooled on the floor at her feet, leaving her bare except for the black lace knickers that she’d picked out earlier in the hopes that he would be removing them later that evening. 

 

Sometimes dreams come true, she thought as she watched his eyes trace up and down her body. Her skin warmed under the attention, yearning for his touch, ready for the waiting to be over. 

 

“Come here.” His voice was rough. 

 

It only took three steps to reach him. He opened his thighs for her, releasing the hold on his cock as his hands circled around the backs of her thighs, tugging her toward him until she bumped against the edge of the bed. 

 

In one fluid motion, he flipped her so that she was sprawled underneath him on the mattress. Hermione’s small yelp of surprise turned into a keening moan as he lowered his head to her chest, placing quick kisses down the valley between her breasts. She felt him yank off her knickers before she had the chance to lift her hips to make their removal easier. When he lifted himself from her body she made to prevent his retreat, but he evaded her touch with a heated smirk. 

 

His hands grabbed her hips and dragged her to the very edge of the mattress. His thumbs massaged into her thighs as he slowly dropped to his knees between her thighs. Hermione’s breath shook as she watched him stare at her bared body through hooded eyes. One of his hands lifted to push his loose hair back from his face, and his eyes flashed up to hers as he dipped his head down. 

 

The silver in his eyes was barely suggested as he looked up from under his pale brows, his dark eyes penetrating hers as she felt the first electric swipe of his tongue through her folds. A strangled breath caught in her throat as she tried to gain control of her body, but Draco didn’t relent, didn’t tease, unleashing himself on her body with the single goal of bringing her pleasure. 

 

When he’d done this before, it had been patient, exploratory, a gradual building toward release. But what he now did between her legs -- what he did as he watched her reaction -- was the practiced motion of a man who knew her body better than she did. 

 

A constant stream of whimpers and cries fell from her lips, and she couldn’t summon the will to restrain them. She bucked against the hold of his hands on her hip bones, but he held her firmly in place. 

 

She was hurtling toward the edge; it was too fast, too much, pushing the boundary of pleasure that she thought was possible. 

 

“Draco,” she cried when two of his long fingers joined his mouth, plunging into her dripping quim and immediately curling, perfectly brushing that spot inside of her that only he had ever found. 

 

“Please, Draco…” She wasn’t sure what she was asking for. 

 

Time slowed down around her as she reached the brink, suspended on the cusp of release, her entire body tensing in anticipation of the fall. After what felt like minutes she finally fell with a scream, waves of pleasure almost painfully coursing through her. Her mind went white, capable of nothing beyond riding the orgasm through to completion. 

 

Her vision slowly came back into focus, and she blinked through the haze to watch him plant one last kiss to her throbbing clit before standing up. She noticed that he was still fully clothed, although his hard cock still jutted out, fully exposed, from between his legs. 

 

He must have been able to read her thoughts, because he made quick work of his shirt and pants until he stood, naked, above her. She would never get used to the sight of his nude form; it had to be some sort of divine error that a single human was granted that much beauty and power. 

 

Hermione’s gaze snapped down to his cock as he took it in hand, resuming the practiced stroking motion, although the patient pace from earlier was abandoned for quick, urgent tugs. 

 

He took a shuddering breath. “My beautiful witch,” he whispered, his face flushed and his lips swollen and shining with her release. “Are you ready for me?” 

 

“Come here, Draco.” Her voice was raw and broken as her arms strained to reach for him. 

 

There was a low groan in his throat as he lowered his body to hover above her. One of his arms slid under her back, and with seemingly minimal effort he shifted them both to the middle of the bed. 

 

His hips settled between her spread thighs, and he dipped his hand between their bodies to position his cock at her entrance. For a moment he waited, holding himself suspended above her on his elbows, searching her face for something, his eyes bright with need and want. 

 

Hermione brought one of her hands to his clenched jaw, trailing her fingers along his smooth skin. “Please,” she murmured.  

 

In one powerful thrust, he was fully sheathed inside of her. Draco’s guttural growl sent chills down her spine as she bucked up into him. Slowly he withdrew, his cock hitting all of the hidden places inside of her, and Hermione couldn’t help the whine in her throat at the contact to her still-sensitive quim. When just the tip remained, he drove his hips downward again, filling her completely. 

 

His rhythm was patient; slow thrusts that Hermione rolled her hips upward to meet. Small gasps fell from her lips when his pelvic bone met her core. The swirling heat low in her belly began to build again. 

 

When Draco kissed her, he claimed her. Each pull of his lips and nip of his teeth and swirl of his tongue said that she was his, that her pleasure belonged to him. She tried to say the same thing in return: Your passion is mine. Your body is mine. Your happiness is mine. 

 

Their building desire was channelled into the desperation of their hands, tracing each others’ bodies like they wanted to memorize each and every dip and curve, while their kissing escalated to a frenzied battle between their lips. His thrusts lost their earlier rhythm, his hips driving into her at a punishing pace that would likely leave bruises, but Hermione couldn’t imagine protesting. He was giving her body what it wanted, what it craved in that moment: him. 

 

He broke their kiss, burying his face into her neck and hair. She could feel the words and low groans vibrating against her skin between harsh breaths, but his voice was muffled by her curls. As his body lowered to hers, she took advantage of the closeness, circling his hips with her legs and hooking her ankles together while her fingers dug into the broad muscles of his back. She pressed her body up into his, whimpering at the friction between their sweaty chests as he fucked her, but it still wasn’t close enough. 

 

“Gods…” she heard Draco groan. “I’m so fucking close…” 

 

Something in their bodies was aligned in that moment, because Hermione felt herself quickly approaching a second release. She rolled her body against his, intoxicated by him. 

 

Turning her head, she nipped at his ear. “Come for me, Draco,” she whispered. 

 

“Hermione!” 

 

She had imagined this moment. She’d dreamed of the first time his voice would speak her given name. There was no doubt that she knew it would mean something, that it would be an essential piece of the puzzle between them clicking into place, but nothing could have prepared her for the sound of her name ripping from his chest like something both painful and precious. 

 

She was equally unprepared for the sound to send a hot wave of arousal straight to her core that pushed her over the edge. As she rode her orgasm, she felt his release pumping deep inside of her as her name fell from his lips in a broken loop. Clinging to him, she let herself go, blanketed by his body and his words that filled the night around them. 

 

Hermione wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, holding each other in the soft light of his reading lamp. Draco slowly shifted above her, his breathing still labored. He rolled them over, somehow managing to stay inside of her as Hermione came to lay on top of him. She nuzzled into his chest as his arms circled possessively around her. 

 

She felt him kiss her forehead. “Do want to clean --”

 

“No,” Hermione interrupted. “No.”

 

His hand traced swirling shapes on her back and she felt his breathing slow. 

 

“You said my name.” She spoke the words against his flushed skin. 

 

The hand on her back stilled. “Yes,” his reply was quiet. 

 

“What changed?” 

 

“You.” She felt his fingers tighten against her skin. “You changed everything.” 

Notes:

WHEW y'all this was a long one! I hope you enjoyed the extra words in there.

I think it is a testament to you all, the readers of this story, that I can't seem to stem the flow of ideas and words that I feel the story needs as it begins to end. Don't worry -- there is still so much to come, but please know that I am spending a lot of time and energy trying to make sure that the ending is worthy of all of you who continue to be so kind and supportive of this fic. While it is all plotted and the big moves are decided, I always try to leave the characters space to surprise me.

Thank you all for your continued comments and support for this story. I especially want to thank tiredwetdog, childfreegirl and rosenymphadora who have been here since the VERY beginning. Thank you thank you THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart. To everyone else who has continued to follow and comment, your engagement means the world to me!

A huge thanks need to go out to the beta squad for this chapter. They came in clutch last night when I panicked mid-smut and didn't know what to write. Our evenings of smut play-by-plays will forever remain some of my fondest memories. This story would not be what it is without their time, enthusiasm, and wisdom. Thank you Lauraloveschristmas, bookishteddy, and miiisterbear.

You can find me on TikTok @romensreviews if you want to connect!

Chapter 34: Chapter 34

“Granger.” 

 

His voice vaguely registered as Hermione nuzzled deeper into the soft warmth of the pillow under her face. 

 

“Wake up.”

 

She groaned: she had no interest in waking up or relocating from her current position. 

 

A hand gently shook her shoulder. “Come on,” his gravelly voice murmured in her ear. “I want to get one last run in with my witch.” 

 

One last…  

 

It was her last morning. Her last day was gone, used up, consumed, and all that was left was this morning. 

 

Rolling over and only getting slightly tangled in the sheets, Hermione met Draco’s soft, morning eyes, the grey irises clear like a lake on a cold, winter morning. His hair was pushed up on one side and the pillowcase had left deep creases on his left cheek. He was perfect like this. 

 

Hermione stifled a yawn with one hand. “You’re not allowed to call me Granger anymore.” 

 

Draco snorted before schooling his expression into one of somber seriousness. “Hermione,” he drew out each syllable in his almost musical drawl. “Get your arse out of bed.” 

 

He yanked the blankets off of both of them, a low chuckle reverberating from his chest as she shrieked and tumbled out of the bed. She regained her balance as she stretched the last yawn out of her system, watching fondly as Draco slowly extracted himself from the tangle of sheets, his long limbs unfolding as he stood and walked toward her. 

 

Gazing up at his wide shoulders and broad chest, Hermione realized how unfazed she was by his nudity or her own nudity in his presence. That wasn’t entirely accurate; she was very affected by his naked form, but not in a way that overwhelmed the comfort that she felt around him. It was as if her body trusted him even beyond the trust that had been built in her mind. Like it somehow knew that the broken pieces were safe with him, that he was also broken, but both of them had been put back together. 

 

She thought of Dickinson, and the poem she’d shared with Draco one night under the willow. 

 

I have been broke, but — I hope — into a better shape. 

 

Maybe that was at the root of the trust and comfort she felt with him. Through him, through getting to know and find the beauty in his broken pieces, she’d found some amount of acceptance of her own cracks. Perhaps there was some beauty in her, too. 

 

She felt his lips kiss her forehead, and she caught a glimpse of his smile before he turned to the armoire, opening the door and bending over in his search for clothing. After giving herself a few seconds to appreciate his bare arse, she pulled on the dress she’d been wearing the night before, waved her wand to collect the rest of her scattered clothes, and slipped out the door to return to her room. 

 

Five minutes later, they were running through the gardens. The sun was just beginning to light the eastern horizon, starting to illuminate the deep purple of the sky. The birds were awakening, their calls sparse and scattered as they emerged from their nests that filled the trees of the estate. 

 

The steady crunch of their feet on the gravel path determined the rhythm of Hermione’s breath. It was easy to follow now: in through her nose for three steps, out through her mouth for three steps. Where her lungs had burned and protested before, they now held strong and consistent. She’d recently increased her pace, and felt a sense of pride as she felt her body respond and adapt to the demand. 

 

Draco had also grown stronger. While he’d already shown the physical signs of strength from working in the gardens, his endurance now matched the toned muscle of his body. He matched her pace, and even followed the same rhythm of her breath. They were truly synchronized as they moved from the garden to the wide paved drive in front of the main estate building. 

 

When Hermione continued on through the wards at the front gates, Draco didn’t comment, holding his steady pace beside her. She had a destination in mind, and while it would be a reach beyond their typical distance, she believed it to be well within their physical capabilities to make it. 

 

It only took them ten minutes to reach the small meadow where Draco had taken them after their date in Crema. The sun was now hovering just below the treeline, and piercing beams already filtered through the foliage. In the light of early morning, Hermione was able to see the pink and yellow wildflowers that had been hidden in the night the last time she was there. 

 

She slowed to a stop, immediately putting her hands on her hips and arching her back as she took deep breaths in an attempt to maintain the flow of oxygen to her straining muscles. Draco came up to stand beside her, lowering his hands to his knees and hanging his head between his heaving shoulders. 

 

“Standing up will help,” she forced the words out between breaths. 

 

Groaning, Draco stood up, lifting the hem of his t-shirt to wipe off his face. 

 

They stood there in an easy silence, content to simply observe the world waking up around them. More birds joined in the scattered song that filled the trees around them, and the hum of insects began to sound in the grasses. 

 

When the first ray of sun broke above the trees and touched her cheek, a quiet sigh fell from Hermione’s lips. “This doesn’t feel real.” She wasn’t sure if she was talking about the magic of the morning or her imminent departure. 

 

“I know.” She heard his feet shuffling in the grass. “What time is your Portkey?” 

 

“Nine.”

 

“We’ve got time.” 

 

____________________________

 

The cottage was still quiet when they returned. The only sound was their heavy breathing as they climbed the stairs, Hermione leading the way. This part of their routine was established: she’d run up to grab a change of clean clothes before showering, and when she finished, Draco would be waiting downstairs with her coffee before going off to shower himself. 

 

But today, when she entered the bathroom with her armful of clothes, she came up short. The shower was already running, and a shirtless Draco already occupied the small space. 

 

Hermione stared at him in the mirror. “What are you doing?” she blurted out. 

 

“Showering.” He barely glanced up at her as he freed his hair from the low bun. 

 

“But,” she started, “I need to shower too.” 

 

“I know. I was hoping to join you.” 

 

Hermione stared at him. Oh . 

 

Her confused expression must have come across as apprehension, because Draco’s brow furrowed and he took a step toward her. “I didn’t mean to presume, Hermione. If you want me to go --”

 

“No!” she quickly jumped in. “You’re welcome to join.” She turned to the stone counter, setting down her pile of folded clothes carefully before peeling off her sweaty clothes. She paused, glancing over at him. “But who’s going to make my coffee?” 

 

The incredulous look the wizard gave her was so endearing that she laughed. Draco closed the distance between them, grabbing her face with his big hands and tilting her head back so he could look her in the eye. “Hush, witch, or there will be no coffee at all.” 

 

They made quick work of the rest of their clothes. Hermione climbed over the lip of the wide tub, immediately turning into the spray of water. It was a little colder than she typically liked, so she ducked down to adjust the knobs, humming in contentment as the temperature reached the steaming heat that she loved. 

 

“Ow! What in the bloody fuck is wrong with you?” 

 

Hermione turned to find Draco standing toward the back of the tub, contorting his body in an effort to escape the spray of water. 

 

“Please tell me you don’t actually enjoy this.” He yelped as she shifted her body, sending a stream of water directly at him. 

 

“It’s not that hot,” she retorted, pulling her curls out of the ponytail and turning to let the water wet her hair. 

 

Her eyes were closed, but she could hear his growled: “The things I do for this bloody woman…” as she felt the presence of his body grow closer to her. 

 

Blinking through the water, she looked up at him. She stepped to the side, pulling him forward under the direct line of the water. She ignored his hiss of discomfort, instead reaching for her bottle of shampoo that sat on the window sill as she watched his back curve forward, submerging his head under the water as his fingers threaded through his long hair. He didn’t stay there for long, turning around and pushing the dripping sheets of blonde back from his face. 

 

“Wait.” His voice echoed off the stone wall. “May I?” He pointed to the bottle of shampoo she held in one hand. 

 

Something in Hermione melted as she nodded, passing the bottle to him. She watched as he squeezed the product into his palm, rubbing his hands together quickly before bringing them to her head. As his fingers began to massage the soap into her scalp, she looked up at him. The man seemed to be genuinely fond of her hair.

 

She cleared her throat. “I’ve been thinking about what Andromeda said.”

 

“Okay.” Draco’s expression remained unchanged as he focused on what his fingers were doing in her hair. 

 

“And I think we should talk about...exactly what we mean when we say that we are going to be together.” She paused. “Especially with you here and me there.” 

 

Draco’s eyes dipped down to hers for a moment as he ducked his chin in a nod. “I agree.” 

 

“Okay.” Hermione allowed herself a small sigh of relief. “So...should we communicate frequently?” 

 

She watched Draco’s eyes narrow. “I fucking hope so!” His voice was definitely too loud for the small space. Flushing, he looked back up to where his hands were now lathering the curls that hung around her shoulders. “Sorry,” he muttered. Something flashed behind his eyes and his tongue darted out wet his upper lip. “How much is too much?” 

 

“What?” 

 

He looked increasingly uncomfortable. “Communicating. How much is too much?”

 

“Oh.” Hermione considered the question. “I...I don’t think there is such a thing as too much, but maybe we should aim for at least once every three days?” She was trying to be reasonable; they did have busy lives. 

 

His hands stilled. “Would it upset you if I wrote more than that?”

 

Her wizard . 

 

“Not at all.” She bit the corner of her lip as she felt the smile spread across her face. Another question crossed her mind. “Shall we write or Floo?” 

 

Draco shrugged, resuming his attention on her hair. “Either. Perhaps we should wait to see what works best for both of us?” 

 

Nodding, Hermione let herself think for a moment. There were too many questions, too many unknowns --

 

She glanced up at him. “How do you feel about me telling people that you are my…” she trailed off. 

 

“Boyfriend, Granger.” Draco said, his eyes flashing silver. “I’m your boyfriend.” 

 

“Hermione,” she reminded him. 

 

He groaned, but his hands were soft as they moved from her hair to cradle her jaw. “Fine,” he murmured, his breath cool on her wet forehead. “Hermione, I’m your boyfriend.” 

 

Grinning up at him, she quirked a brow. “And can I tell people?”

 

“I certainly hope that you will.” Draco switched their positions, putting her directly underneath the stream of water. Tilting her head back slightly, he began to rinse the suds from her curls, his touch against her scalp tender.

 

“And...there will be no one else. If at any point that changes, we will tell each other first.” 

 

Draco barked an unexpected laugh. “You are mad if you think that I’m going to be paying attention to any woman that isn’t you.”

 

“But if you do,” she started.

 

“Like I said before,” Draco said, “the second my feelings change, I promise that you will be the first to know. Trust me.” 

 

Hermione peered up at the wizard, seeing the earnest sincerity in his eyes. “Okay.” She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding: they were really going to try this.  

 

“Okay,” he echoed. “I have one last important question.” 

 

Her heart skipped a beat. What else could he need to discuss? Hadn’t she thought of everything? Swallowing her doubt, she nodded for him to continue. 

 

“Will you do me the honor of attending the Italian wedding of the century as my date?” 

 

She peered up at him, sure that her confusion was clearly written on her face. “Weren’t we already planning on attending together?” 

 

“Damnit witch!” Draco slumped forward to rest his head on her shoulder for a moment before looking back at her. “Of course I was hoping you wanted to go with me, but I thought I’d be a gentleman and ask you. Bloody hell, it’s like you’re allergic to attempted romantic gestures!” 

 

Blushing, Hermione put her palms on his chest. “I’m sorry!” Laughter bubbled up from her at the warring expressions of annoyance and dejection on his face. “Draco. I would love to be your date.” 

 

She watched the smile begin in his eyes before slowly spreading to his lips. “Good. I’ll pick you up at quarter past two.” 

 

Still laughing, Hermione leaned into his body, sliding her arms around his waist until she embraced him. “We can do this, right?”

 

“We have to try.” She heard him whisper above the sound of the shower. “Now which of these bottles is your conditioner?”

 

____________________________________

Hermione climbed the ladder to her room quickly, even with the bundle of clothes tucked under one arm slightly slowing her progress. Clambering to her feet, she tossed the still sweaty clothes she’d worn to run that morning on the bed.

 

She hadn’t let herself overthink her clothing that day, opting for cut-off denims and one of her favorite linen blouses tucked into the high waistband. She let her hair hang loose as it dried, pushing it back from her shoulder so that it would be out of her way as she packed. 

 

Holding her wand loosely, she summoned her beaded bag. Tugging open the drawstrings, she took a moment to look around the small space she had come to consider hers. One of her jumpers draped over the small chair at the desk where piles of her books were stacked. Her record player sat on the floor with a stack of her favorite records next to it. The photograph of her parents oriented so that she could see it from her mattress. There were signs of her here, things that marked the space as her own. 

 

First she packed the clothes that hung on the wooden rack she’d formed from a small splinter of wood. She didn’t overthink their destination, simply shrinking them and sending them into the bag. Next, her books. Then, the handmade blanket from Molly Weasley. The shoes that had sat in a neat line along the floor. The journal, filled with confessions and pressed flowers. The records. The record player. The photo. 

 

In a matter of minutes, the only evidence that Hermione Granger had ever lived in the small loft space was the clothing rack that now curved along one wall. For a moment, she considered removing it in an effort to leave the space exactly as she’d found it, but something made her hesitate. 

 

Slinging her bag over her shoulder and stashing her wand into her back pocket, Hermione climbed down the ladder. Her sock-covered feet barely made a sound as she jumped off of the last rung and onto the wooden floor. There were quiet stirrings from the rooms on either side of the hallway as she walked quickly to the stairs. 

 

She paused on the bottom step, grabbing her wand and casting a quiet Tempus . 

Quarter past seven. 

 

Taking a slow breath, she moved toward the kitchen, smiling when she saw Draco was already there. Twin trails of steam curled from the two mugs that already sat on the counter, and the spicy aroma of cinnamon filled the air. She approached, wrapping her arms around his waist and ducking under one of his arms to see what he was doing. 

 

He greeted her with a kiss on her head as he continued to carefully slice the ripe peach on the cutting board before him. Hermione was struck by a memory of sitting next to him in Potions, watching the deft precision with which he wielded a knife. Even then, she’d admired the confidence in his hands.

 

Two bowls that already contained yoghurt, Pansy’s granola, and a drizzle of honey sat to the side, and she watched Draco divide the sliced peaches evenly between the two. He nudged one of the bowls towards her. 

 

“Breakfast.” 

 

She thanked him and took both of their bowls to the table as he cleaned the dishes with a quick wave of his wand. Returning to the kitchen for their mugs of coffee, Hermione let herself appreciate the image of the tall man carefully wiping down the counters: the small frown that played on his lips when he was deep in thought, the way he pushed his loose hair behind an ear like he hadn’t quite mastered its length, all of the little things that she couldn’t remember ever not knowing. 

 

Draco joined her at the table, sliding into the chair beside her and nudging her bare thigh with his clothed knee as they began to eat in a comfortable silence. Hermione tried to commit the flavor of the fresh ripe peaches combining with the tang of fresh yoghurt to memory; there would be no replicating the food she’d grown accustomed to eating in Italy. Not only were the ingredients fresh and incomparable in their taste and quality, but she’d grown more open to trying new things under the influence of Pansy and the others. Food wasn’t simply a necessity or an obligation to them. No, food was a celebration, and each meal was prepared and consumed as a community. 

 

The others slowly joined them, all bleary-eyed and blinking away the lingering discomfort of a night of drinking even after downing the hangover potion. Since none of them typically got up so early, it was quite clear that they were there with the purpose of saying goodbye to Hermione. They all sat around the table drinking a combination of coffee and tea with differing quantities of milk and sugar, quietly laughing and reminiscing on the night before. 

 

Hermione drank the last drops of her coffee, setting the mug down on the table in front of her. Her thumb traced image of the head of garlic that was carved into the ceramic, and for a moment she was lost in thought. Glancing over at Draco, she found him already watching her. 

 

“Time check?” she whispered. 

 

Draco shifted in his seat to draw his wand. Waving it, he looked down at the small numbers projected in the air above him. “Three ‘til eight,” he read aloud. 

 

It was time. 

 

Hermione rose to her feet, her movement mirrored by those around the table. Looking around, she saw their sad smiles, and a piece of reality clicked into place: she was leaving them. They would stay, would remain a constellation of chosen people living in rare harmony, and she would be gone, living in another world. The realization splintered the edges of her resolve; did she have to go?

 

Luna approached her first, enveloping her in a hug that smelled of fresh herbs and chamomile tea. Hermione leaned into the taller witch, giving her a gentle squeeze.

 

“Take care of yourself, Luna.” 

 

“Oh, no need to worry about me, Hermione,” Luna replied in her light and airy voice. “Don’t let anyone convince you that there is a cause greater than peace.” 

 

Hermione simply smiled in response to the typically vague advice, giving Luna’s willowy hand one last squeeze before moving on to Theo. 

 

“I’m going to miss you, Granger,” he said as he gave her a fierce hug. 

 

“I’ll miss you too, Theo.”

 

“Me and the boys already made plans to practice football every day that you’re gone, so get ready to get your arse kicked when you come back.” 

 

Hermione pulled back from the hug, laughing as she looked up into his dancing green eyes. “I look forward to proving you wrong,” she teased. In a whisper, she added, “Take care of him please?”

 

Theo followed her eyes to where Draco leaned rather stiffly against the counter, arms crossed over his chest as he watched them. Looking back at her, Theo smiled sadly. “We always do, Granger.” 

 

She tried to communicate her thanks in a smile, but was interrupted by Pansy who practically shoved Theo out of the way to grab Hermione’s face between her hands. Wide eyed, Hermione simply stared at the witch, unable to form words through the shock that rendered her speechless. 

 

“Listen here,” Pansy began, her voice low and threatening. “You are my friend now. Even though you are leaving, which is incredibly fucking lame and a terrible idea, you have a responsibility as my friend to write me. Frequently.” Her dark eyes flashed back and forth as if she were checking for understanding. “Am I clear?” 

 

Hermione tried to nod, but Pansy’s hold on her face was too tight. “Crystal,” she managed to force out of her constrained mouth. “Pansy?” 

 

“What.” 

 

Jerking her head back and away from the witch’s vice-like grip, she glared at her friend. “May I please give you a hug?” 

 

Huffing out a sigh, Pansy rolled her eyes and spread her arms wide. “Fine,” she muttered, but Hermione felt her immediately melt into the embrace when their bodies met. Obviously Pansy isn’t one for goodbyes , Hermione thought as she hugged Pansy as tightly as she could, somehow hoping that she could convey the gratitude and love that she felt for the woman through the simple touch of their skin. 

 

“Thank you for everything,” Hermione whispered against her shoulder. “You...you will never know how much you have helped me.” 

 

“It’s what girlfriends do,” was Pansy’s quiet reply. 

 

Slowly the witches disentangled from each other, exchanging one last look that communicated too much to put into words in that moment. 

 

When Hermione turned to see Neville looking down at her with his damn crooked smile, she had to choke back the tears that threatened to escape. Instead, she threw herself into his arms, and he chuckled as he held her to his chest. 

 

“I thought you didn’t like hugs,” she heard him say from above her. 

 

She turned her face away from his chest so that she could reply. “I didn’t before,” she answered honestly. 

 

“What changed?” 

 

“Me, I think.” It was the truth that had been slowly unveiling itself day after day. She had changed, transformed, grown even, into something newer and, in her opinion, stronger. 

 

“This is your home now, Hermione, whenever you want it to be.” 

 

Another splinter in her resolve .

 

“I’ll be back soon, Nev,” she murmured, giving him one last squeeze. Stepping back, she met Draco’s eyes and registered his quick nod. 

 

The final round of goodbyes passed in a daze, and soon she and Draco were out the front door. Hermione slid into her boots and waited for Draco as he knelt and tied his shoes. When he rose to his feet he grasped her hand tightly in his, and they walked together down the front steps of the cottage. 

 

The walk to the field where the international portkeys came and went passed too quickly. Hermione felt the contents of her stomach rising in her throat and she swallowed, trying to calm her nerves and to stay awake; she had to stay awake for this moment, for this goodbye that was the most important. 

 

Hermione reached into her purse and pulled out the partially crushed Coca-Cola can that she’d been sent by the British Ministry. She wondered briefly whose job it was to determine which objects would be used for portkeys before shaking her head and tossing the can into the grass between them. 

 

“Time check?” Her voice was unsteady. 

 

“Twenty ‘til.” 

 

She closed her eyes and took a strained breath. 

 

“When you get back there,” Draco’s voice was low and urgent and she felt his hands gently gripping her upper arms. “You have to keep taking care of yourself. You need to keep running -- I don’t care if you have to run one hundred circles around Potter’s tiny garden, Hermione. It’s important. And don’t forget to eat. Put something edible other than cans of soup in that bag of yours; it bloody goes with you everywhere already. And tell someone. About the panic attacks. Someone there needs to know so that you’re not alone.” He paused to take in a quick breath, his thumbs tracing along her raised collarbones. “No one should be alone with that. But if you feel like you’re going under, hug your shoulders tight. That’s always worked for you.” 

 

The tears that had been lurking in the wings since her goodbye with Neville gathered in the corners of her eyes. She blinked furiously, trying to compose herself. 

 

“Don’t let the world take your joy again,” he continued, and she was trapped in his piercing gaze, even as the tears blurred clear, clean silver into storm clouds. “When you first came here your eyes were shadowed, almost dull in color. But now?” His lips curved upwards in a pained smile. “Now your eyes shine, like the sun can’t help but perfectly illuminate them. Have I told you how beautiful they are, Hermione? It’s like they are lit from within, like a jar of honey on the windowsill or a perfectly preserved piece of amber.” 

 

Hermione shook her head, looking up at the man who spoke of her with such beautiful words, unable to articulate everything that she wanted to say to him at that moment. How much better this exhausting world was with him in it. How much she wanted it to be easy to stay. 

 

I came here to seek contentment. I found it. 

 

Why am I leaving?

 

What is wrong with me?

 

“Time check?” she whispered.

 

“Twelve ‘til.” 

 

Draco looked down at the ground between them, sighing heavily as he removed his hands from her shoulders and plunged them into his pockets. His weight shifted, and he kicked absently at a clump of grass. While she couldn’t see his eyes, she could practically feel him constructing a wall between them. 

 

“Hey.” She reached out a hand to touch his cheek. “Talk to me, Draco.”

 

When he looked up and met her gaze, the anguish and turmoil that swirled in his eyes hit her like a well-aimed Stupefy . “I want to be angry with you, Hermione, for doing this to me.” His voice was low and fractured, like he was trying to cling to control. “For ruining the solitude and independence that I’ve found here. You tore it all down with your sharp words and your little fucking hands and even your silence…even when you sat there in silence , you ruined me. You have become a part of me and I hate you for making me give that up.” 

 

“But we are --”

 

“Yes. We are going to try. We are going to have to trust and try and believe that distance won’t matter.” He shook his head, a bitter laugh barking from his chest. “I can’t not believe. But fuck...I don’t know how I’m going to do it.”

 

There was such desperation in his eyes as he looked down at her.

 

“Come with me.” 

 

It was the obvious solution to their current problem. If she couldn’t stay, then he could come with her. She started imagining it: Draco’s pale hair under the grey English skies, the two of them bundled in scarves walking hand-in-hand down a leaf-covered sidewalk…

 

“Hermione --”

 

“No, Draco, this can work,” she gushed, the plan becoming more concrete in her head with each second that passed. “There’s plenty of room for you at Grimmauld Place, we can find something for --”

 

“Hermione.”

 

“This can work,” she repeated, her voice pleading in her own ears. “We can make it work.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

She finally slowed her mind, focusing back on the man in front of her. “What?” 

 

Draco heaved a ragged sigh, bringing his hands up to rub against his face. When he lowered them, she saw the unnatural brightness of his eyes and the tinge of red that ringed them. “I can’t go back there.” His voice cracked. 

 

Hermione stepped closer to him, desperate to bridge this newly formed space between them. “What do you mean?” she questioned, trying to understand. “I can find --”

 

Shaking his head, he met her eyes, which burned in the corners as she tried to blink back the tears. “You can’t ask me to go back there, Hermione.” 

 

“But…” Hermione began.

 

A whirring rattle suddenly filled the air. Hermione looked toward the source of the sound; on the ground between them, the portkey was beginning to shake violently. 

 

It was almost time. 

 

“Fuck,” Draco muttered. She watched through her own tears as he wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs brushing the moisture from her cheeks as he looked at her with a watery smile. “Okay. We’re going to be okay, you know that, right?”

 

Hermione leaned into his touch, bringing her hands up to grip his forearms. “I don’t think I can go, Draco,” she choked out. “I didn’t think it would hurt this much.” 

 

“I know.” His eyes echoed the emotions that currently fell silent from her eyes. “Come here,” he whispered, and with a gentle tug, he took her into his arms. 

 

Hermione inhaled his cedar scent, giving herself that moment of comfort. “Time check?” she said, the words muffled by his shirt.

 

“One minute,” he replied. 

 

Stepping back from him, Hermione grabbed his face between her smaller hands and pulled his mouth down to hers. She claimed him with her lips, and he responded with equal heat and passion. Their tongues wasted no time before tangling and tasting the other. She could feel his hands touching her desperately, fingers digging into her flesh and leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Her hands tangled in his loose hair, trying to memorize the exact texture of him. 

 

Too soon, they broke apart. The portkey underneath them was reaching a fever pitch, bouncing and hissing as the seconds counted down. 

 

Their foreheads pressed together as they fought to catch their collective breath.

 

“We’re going to be okay,” Hermione murmured into the air between them. 

 

Draco pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “And I’ll see you soon.” 

 

“Only three weeks, Draco.” 

 

“Until then, Hermione.” 

 

Her mind was telling her hands to move, to bend down and grab the crumpled can, but she couldn’t move, her hands glued to his face. She barely registered Draco gently peeling her fingers from his skin. He knelt down and she had no choice but to follow. When he placed one of her hands on the rattling metal, her eyes jumped up to his. 

 

A quiet, reassuring smile.

 

A nod. 

 

Lips that were moving, forming words.

 

Silver eyes that swirled. 

 

The familiar jerk as the world imploded into a kaleidoscope of color and noise. The vivid greens of Italy faded to black and blue, a roaring filled her head, and then suddenly the world was white. 

 

In spite of her best efforts, Hermione landed on her hands and knees on the cold, linoleum floor. She gasped for breath, her lungs burning at the stale air. She struggled to her feet, straightening her blouse. 

 

The interior of the British Ministry of Magic was unmistakable; the black marble stone walls and the scent of sterilized parchment and cleaning spells permeated every corner of the center of England’s wizarding community. 

 

Shuddering against the cold, Hermione steadied her shoulders and walked out of the small room. 

 

“Welcome back to England. Please report any adverse effects to the Department of Magical Travel on Level 3,” a wizard dressed in grey robes announced as she passed into the hallway. 

 

She gave the employee a stiff nod before turning toward the lifts. Her work boots scuffed along the polished floors, echoing in the silence. Turning sharply to the right, she pulled open the door to the witch’s restroom and ducked inside. 

 

Only when she faced the wide mirror that stood above the row of white, pewter sinks did she notice that a steady flow of tears still streamed down her face. Against the white walls, everything about her appearance was disheveled and unrefined, from the wildness of her loose curls to her casual Muggle clothing. None of it belonged here. 

 

Wiping her eyes with the back of her hands, Hermione removed her beaded bag from her shoulder and set it on the counter in front of her. With a practiced wave of her wand, she summoned a set of black, professional wizarding robes and a pair of unremarkable black kitten heels. 

 

The fabric, which at one time had felt as familiar as a second skin, now felt scratchy as she pulled the robes over her head. Cinching the matching belt around her waist, Hermione noted that she had to adjust it to a larger size; she’d gained weight in Italy. As she threw the outer robe over her shoulders and fastened the row of gold buttons that held the garment in place, she surveyed herself in the mirror. 

 

The hair. 

 

She’d always straightened her hair for work, finding it was easier to keep out of the way. However, she didn’t have time, opting instead to pull it back into a low braid, and used the extra minute to swipe some mascara over her lashes. 

 

Hermione gave herself one last glance in the mirror, noting with some relief that the cooling charm she’d cast on her face had successfully taken care of her puffy red eyes, and there was no evidence that she’d arrived in tears only minutes before. 

 

She could do this. 

 

Grabbing her bag, she opened the door, joining the now busy stream of employees that walked toward the lifts. She smiled politely at the scattered greetings from various colleagues, but her mind was still occupied elsewhere. Once she entered the crowded lift, she selected Level 1 and retreated to the back corner. 

 

It was a short ride. Emerging into the brightly lit hallway of Level 1, Hermione walked purposefully, taking three left turns and then the second right, until she came upon a stern-looking witch who occupied a very sparse desk that stood at the end of the hall. 

 

“Good morning, Irene,” Hermione greeted the woman with a stiff nod. 

 

The woman gave her a tight smile before gesturing to the large, closed door behind her. “Miss Granger, the Minister will see you now.” 

Notes:

We all knew it was coming, right?

Don't worry. Plenty of time left for the HEA. In my mind, Hermione is the kind of person who needs to experience things for herself before trusting them. Everyone around her can give her the same advice, but she needs to try it herself before believing it. I know it is hard to see her leave Italy, but I cannot imagine her doing it any other way. She's Hermione Granger, after all.

Thank you all for your response to the previous chapter. It gives me the strength to keep going! You all, the readers of this fic, have brought so much joy into my life this past year. Thank you thank you thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Also, only 6 chapters left in this fic! And, for any of you who aren't connected with me on TikTok, one of the wild things going on in my life is that I have my first baby due in 7 weeks! So I am doing everything within my power to make sure this story is completed and uploaded before I go into labor. So. Please wish me writing luck as we come to the end of this journey!

Beta credit on this one goes to Lauraloveschristmas, and thank you miiisterbear and bookishteddy for supporting in the wings.

Chapter 35: Chapter 35

Kingsley Shacklebolt’s office was warmly lit by a large fireplace and a few strategically placed tall lamps. The walls were lined with the portraits of the Ministers for Magic that had preceded him, most of whom were napping or arguing quietly with their neighbor over some policy or another. From experience, Hermione knew that the current Minister kept them silenced for that reason. The rich, red rug that covered the floor also served to warm the room, offsetting the otherwise austere mahogany furniture that adorned the space. Beyond the small collection of books that Kingsley had added to the shelves and the beautifully crafted model of the planets that hung from the ceiling, there had obviously been minimal effort to personalize the space. 

 

“Hermione.” Kingsley Shacklebolt’s smile was warm, bright, and unencumbered as he rose from his seat behind his desk, circling around to meet her and grasp her hand in a firm handshake. “You look well. I trust that you have enjoyed your extended vacation?” 

 

It was easy for her to return his smile as she replied, “Very much, sir. It was...a welcome change.” 

 

They found their respective chairs on either side of his formidable wooden desk: his, a sleek rolling chair of black leather, and hers, a simple but comfortable straight-backed chair covered in a crimson, brocaded upholstery. 

 

Without asking, Kingsley waved over a mug of black coffee that smoothly settled on the desk in front of her, closely followed by the small pot of cream and the bowl of sugar cubes. As Hermione busied herself with preparing her drink, she felt a sharp pang in her chest; she hadn’t prepared her own coffee in months. 

 

She blinked furiously at the burning in the corners of her eyes. Focus, Hermione . 

 

“Your recommendation of Miss Forsythe was inspired. She has done an outstanding job in caring for your department in your absence.” 

 

Nodding, Hermione gave Kingsley a small smile. “She has an excellent eye for legislation. I’ve always found her work to be above average.” 

 

They both returned to their cups, a few moments of silence passing between them. 

 

“I have to admit,” Kingsley resumed, “I’m somewhat surprised that you came back.” 

 

Hermione choked on the mouthful of coffee she’d been attempting to swallow. Kingsley simply watched her as she regained her composure. “Pardon?” she finally squeaked out. 

 

The Minister seemed unphased as he took a slow drink from his own cup. “You have always been exceptional, Hermione. In your studies, in your courage, and more recently in your career. But, as someone who has come to know you in the years following the war, I was always hopeful that you would find something that ignites your spirit.” 

 

“I’m sorry sir,” Hermione began, “I’m afraid that I don’t understand.” 

 

Kingsley regarded her for a second, rubbing one hand across the closely trimmed beard he’d grown out at his wife’s behest in the past year. “Why did you want to work for the Ministry, Hermione?” 

 

“To make a difference in the world.” It was an easy question.

 

Kingsley smiled, as though he knew that would be her response. “And what kind of difference did you want to make?”

 

Hermione paused for a moment, considering the question. “I wanted to make the wizarding world a better place for those who have traditionally been viewed as less than.”

 

“Inspired by your own experience of entering the wizarding world as a Muggle-born witch, correct?” 

 

She realized that her mouth was hanging open, and abruptly shut it. “Well,” she stumbled over the word, “I, well, I’ve never thought about it like that, but I guess that you’re correct.” 

 

“Indeed.” The older wizard steepled his fingers on the desk in front of him. “And do you feel that you have made a difference? For those who have historically been viewed as less than by the wizarding community?” 

 

“Well, the current data would show that additional rights and protections afforded to magical creatures through our legislative efforts has made a difference both in the experience of those individuals and in public opinion, so --”

 

“The answer is yes, Hermione,” Kingsley chuckled. “Your professional efforts have made an incredible difference in this world.” He paused, taking another slow drink of his tea. Just as Hermione was opening her mouth to speak, he continued. “But even before your professional contribution to our world, you had already changed it. All of you who sacrificed your childhoods to fight the evil that the adults around you were too blind to see: you have already made enough of a difference to forever change the course of our history.” 

 

Hermione swallowed. “Thank you, Kingsley.”

 

He waved off her thanks. “Don’t thank me; I am simply stating the facts.” He quirked a brow at her as he pointed to the teapot and carafe of coffee that sat on a shelf behind his desk. At her nod, he summoned her cup with a flick of his wrist, filling it carefully before handing it back to her. She watched him fill his own cup with hot water as she added her cream and sugar, the small silver spoon clinking against the sides as she stirred. 

 

Kingsley’s face broke into a wide smile. “Did you know that I enjoy painting?” 

 

“No, I did not.” 

 

“I leave my office early on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I have drawn a very strict boundary with all of my staff that they are not to schedule anything after four on those two days, because I like to retire to the apartment to paint. I even built a studio, with tall windows and skylights, and an assortment of both magically derived and Muggle fabricated oil paints.” He chuckled to himself before taking a drink of tea. “Of course, I had to have the room warded against any missives that aren’t announcing the sudden rise of a new dark wizard, and it has become a place where my peace and privacy are honored. And I do all of this why? Because painting brings me joy. Painting reminds me that there is more to human life than career success. Do you have a hobby that brings you joy?”

 

“Well,” Hermione began, tugging on the sleeve of her formal robes. “While I was away I was able to begin conducting research on the relationship between wizarding estates and the magical well-being of the creatures who live there.” 

 

“Fascinating,” the Minister mused. “And did it bring you joy?”

 

She was barely aware of her smile. “Very much, sir.” 

 

Kingsley mirrored her smile, giving her an appraising look as he smoothed the front of his deep purple robes. “I think it is important to say that I also love the work that I do as Minister for Magic. I love the daily challenge of leading, making decisions, and helping those who disagree find common ground. It is a hard job that requires significant sacrifices on my part, but it also feeds my soul. Does your work here, with the Ministry, feed your soul, Hermione?”

 

“I…”

 

“Take some time to think about it. If your work at the helm of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures does that for you, if it is like the pulse of your heartbeat that keeps you going, then please, Hermione, continue to devote your body, mind, and spirit to your career. But if it doesn’t?” Kingsley paused, his dark brown eyes staring across the wide desk at her. “Then you owe it to yourself to keep seeking until you find it.” 

 

Hermione felt her heart speeding up in her chest. A bead of sweat trailed down the back of her neck. “But.” Her voice was small. “The world still needs --”

 

“The world will always need, Hermione.” 

 

There was a rustle of fabric as Kingsley rose from his chair. Hermione recognized the gesture of dismissal and stood as well. 

 

“Thank you for the coffee, sir.” 

 

“Please take some time to consider our conversation, Hermione. And, should you have further questions, please stop by.” His eyes twinkled as he inclined his head. 

 

Hermione found herself doing something between a bow and a curtsy and felt her entire body flush at the clumsy goodbye. Rather than prolong the embarrassment in front of her boss, she practically ran from his office, completely ignoring Kingsley’s secretary’s dry farewell as she walked down the hall and back toward the lift. 

 

It was only a quarter ‘til ten, but by Hermione’s standards, the day had already been full. She took a steadying breath as she entered the lift that was vacant of anyone other than the cloud of folded parchment correspondences that hovered near the ceiling. She grabbed hold of the bar that ran along the sides of the small metal box, silently cursing whatever wizard thought that the nauseating experience of riding the Ministry lift was preferable to the Muggle technology that accomplished the same thing. 

 

Kingsley’s words swirled through her head. He talked of joy like it was something that outweighed obligation and duty. She had no idea that he painted, and was even more shocked to hear that he departed the office early to do something so…well, selfish. But when the Minister described his relationship to painting, she couldn’t see it as something that he did as a snub to the rest of his obligations. No, it was more like, for Kingsley, painting was an obligation to himself, something that he needed to do in order to sustain his life. 

 

She thought about Italy, and how the work and joy bled together, how there wasn’t even the option of taking a working lunch because such a thing simply wasn’t done. She thought about researching with Draco and Luna, how the hours had flown by, how the excitement filled her entire being when they approached a solution. She thought about collaborating, about not working alone, about the simultaneous relief and frustration that came with working with someone like Draco, whose mind was sharp and quick, but who also challenged her ideas and opinions. She thought of how she’d felt…alive. 

 

The lift came to a lurching stop at her floor. Steeling herself and tucking her escaped curls behind her ears, Hermione exited the lift and walked down the hall, taking the first right and the second left until she came to the small collection of cubicles that made up the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. 

 

Her department, while serving what in her mind was an essential role within the wizarding world, was rather small. Hermione had two undersecretaries who reported directly to her and oversaw the two main branches of her department: Gemma Forsythe (who had been filling her role in her absence) oversaw the regulatory side of their work, working directly with the Wizengamot and other departments on the legislation that impacted magical creatures, while James Littlefoot handled direct relationships and contact with the communities of magical creatures throughout wizarding England. Underneath both of them were ten other employees who Hermione had minimal contact with beyond their weekly team meetings that began promptly at eight on Mondays. Of course, Hermione had a secretary, a bright Hogwarts graduate named Gus, who assisted with her scheduling and communications, but she found she had little use for him, preferring to handle her affairs herself. 

 

A number of eyes jumped up at her entrance. She exchanged polite nods and waves with her team, who seemed both surprised and almost nervous at her arrival. Making her way to the corner office that she usually occupied, she was greeted by a flustered and fumbling Gus, who adjusted his glasses as he approached her. 

 

“Miss Granger!” His voice cracked slightly; she suspected that he was experiencing some sort of delayed puberty, as his voice and appearance still resembled those of someone in their mid-teens. “I’m so sorry, I don’t have your coffee prepared, or your memos organized, or --” 

 

“It’s perfectly fine, Gus,” Hermione reassured the young man, hoping a smile would calm his frazzled state. 

 

Instead, he gave her a confused stare before turning to open the door to her office for her. As she walked into the cramped but familiar room, she heard Gus ask: “May I get you anything, Miss Granger?” 

 

Glancing back over her shoulder, she offered him another smile. “A coffee would be lovely, Gus, along with any post or memos that require my attention.” 

 

“Uhm,” the wizard started to say, but then simply pointed to her desk. “Gemma, I mean, Miss Forsythe, handled everything except for your personal messages, which are there for you.” 

 

Hermione glanced down at the desk, surprised to find it empty beyond the small stack of parchment organized neatly in the center. In all of her time occupying the space, she’d never actually seen the surface of her desk, as it was usually overflowing with things that required her attention. 

 

She picked up the small stack, unable to decide if she was pleased or disappointed. “Well then, please let Gemma know that I’m here and would like to see her at her earliest convenience.” 

 

Gus gave her a sharp nod. “And coffee will be coming right up, Miss Granger.” 

 

“Oh, Gus?” she called as he turned to leave her. “Would you mind seeing if you could find some cinnamon for my coffee?” 

 

Her secretary, who had learned and perfected how she took her coffee within his first week of employment, gave her a disbelieving stare. “Are…are you sure?” he stammered. 

 

What was wrong with him?

 

“Yes, Gus. I’m certain.” 

 

He shook his head before seeming to come back to his senses. “Of course, miss. Right away.” 

 

_____________________________________

As it turned out, the sprinkle of cinnamon that Gus had put on top of her coffee was a very poor replacement for whatever magic Draco did when he brewed his coffee. She almost choked on the loose powder that hovered on the surface, and even after vigorously stirring the cinnamon stuck together in large clumps. 

 

A knock on her door startled Hermione from frowning down at the cup of coffee. “Come in,” she called, setting the cup down as she stood. 

 

The door opened, and Gemma Forsythe entered. Gemma had been one of Hermione’s first hires when she began to move up within the department. She was an attractive woman in her forties, with straight brown hair that brushed her shoulders and curves that she always dressed to perfectly accentuate. While her face was open and friendly most of the time, Gemma was a force to be reckoned with when facing the Wizengamot. Hermione wouldn’t say that she was friendly with Gemma, but she had immense respect for the woman and had found working with her to be productive. 

 

The witch greeted her with a huge smile. “Hermione! Welcome home!” She reached out to take Hermione’s offered hand, their handshake firm and brief. 

 

Both of them settled into their chairs. “Gemma,” Hermione began. “I owe you an apology for my abrupt departure. I should have given proper notice that I was taking some time, and I am so sorry for any inconvenience that may have caused you.” 

 

Gemma waved off the apology, revealing long nails that were perfectly painted red. “Hermione please, it was truly the opportunity of a lifetime!” She looked almost bashful as she crossed one leg over the other. “I should be thanking you for suggesting my name to the Minister. I’ve had the most magical time, you know. The things you get to do in your job! Merlin, it was truly incredible.” 

 

Hermione was sure that her eyebrows almost reached her hairline. She appreciated her work, certainly, but she would never speak of it as Gemma was. “Really, Gemma, you don’t have to --”

 

Adamantly shaking her head, Gemma interrupted, “I’m being completely serious! When the kelpie bill passed and I got to sign that parchment; Hermione, I’ve never felt anything like that in my life!” 

 

“You passed the kelpie bill?” The department had been working on that bill for the past three years, long before Hermione was in a leadership position. 

 

“Yes!” Gemma gushed. “It was quite possibly the best day of my life!” 

 

Hermione watched the witch in front of her as she gave a detailed, minute-by-minute account of the final arguments that led to the passage of the bill that had quite honestly been haunting her since she’d been in the department. Gemma gestured emphatically, her face alight with passion as she spoke about the political leveraging and lobbying that had gone into passing the bill. 

 

It was obvious that the woman loved their work. But what was giving Hermione pause was the fact that Gemma loved the work itself: the paperwork, the red tape, the meetings with all parties that could potentially be impacted by a piece of potential legislation. Gemma loved the game, not just the outcome. 

 

When the witch concluded her retelling, she looked to Hermione for a response. 

 

“Well done, Gemma,” the witch replied honestly. “I am so impressed.” Hermione let out a rueful laugh. “Perhaps I should let you continue, as you seem to be thriving in this role.” 

 

Gemma’s eyes went wide for a second, but almost immediately began to shake her head. “Don’t be silly, Hermione. I was just happy to help while you were away. No one can possibly compare to the work that you do!” 

 

Hermione could tell that the enthusiasm was somewhat forced, but she still appreciated the effort. “Thank you, Gemma. That is very kind.” She took a sip of her coffee, instantly regretting it as she swallowed a large clump of cinnamon. Coughing into her hand, she glanced up at Gemma. “Is there anything that needs my attention today?”

 

The witch tilted her head as though calculating a complicated maths problem in her head. “Not yet! I will make sure that memos are re-routed to you, but otherwise we are completely up to date.” 

 

“Wonderful,” Hermione said, standing up behind the desk. Gemma mirrored her motion. “Thank you again for everything you’ve done, Gemma.” 

 

“It was truly my pleasure, Hermione,” Gemma said as she backed out of her office with one last smile. 

 

With a sigh, Hermione sat down again. Drumming her fingers on the desk, she glanced around the room, finding everything in its usual place. The office was small and windowless; the only light coming from a hanging light that, in spite of her many requests to the maintenance department, still flickered constantly. Short bookshelves were overstuffed with rolls of parchment and large tomes that held all of the laws that governed the wizarding world.  Early in her working life Hermione had made the decision to maintain a healthy distance between her work life and her personal life, and, as a result, she’d never decorated her office. 

 

But now, the almost uniform shade of tan that covered the bare walls, shelves, desk, chairs, and even the waste bin was distractingly drab. Maybe it was that Italy was so fresh in her mind: the vivid colors and fresh air and life that permeated everything there was a stark contrast to the walls that now contained her. 

 

The silence in her office was stifling. She’d finished reading all of her personal correspondences, penned responses to those that required them, and even re-organized the drawer that held her magical and Muggle writing implements. There was, quite literally, nothing to do.

 

She cast a Tempus charm: fifteen ‘til noon. 

 

It was earlier than she normally took her lunch, but Hermione didn’t think she could stand to sit in her office a minute longer. Grabbing her bag, she opened her office door. 

 

“Gus, I’m going to lunch,” she said as she walked past her employee. 

 

“What?” the wizard practically yelped. “But it’s only fifteen ‘til!” 

 

Hermione furrowed her brows at him, watching his throat bob as he swallowed. “Is that a problem, Gus?” 

 

“Not at all, miss. Apologies.” 

 

Giving him one last curious look, Hermione walked over to Gemma’s office. Knocking against the open door, she tentatively poked her head in. “I wanted to let you know that I am heading to lunch, and to see if anything came in this morning that requires my attention.” 

 

Gemma looked up at her from where she sat at her desk, which was practically filled with framed photos of her husband and three young children. Hermione glanced at the walls of her office, which held a variety of colorful paintings of tropical beaches and sunsets. “Nothing at the moment. But I hope you have a wonderful lunch!” 

 

Hermione gave her a tight smile as she backed out of the room, feeling what she could only describe as a pang of envy as Gemma returned to whatever paperwork was currently occupying her attention.

 

With a quiet sigh, Hermione walked out of her department, unsure of what to do with herself as she left her office for lunch early for the first time since beginning her career with the Ministry. 

 

______________________________________

By the time the reminder for Hermione’s weekly three o’clock meeting with her two undersecretaries came up on the magical calendar her staff had gifted her the past Christmas, she was almost bored to tears. The only work that had crossed her desk were three proposals for field research from James and a recent performance evaluation that needed her final signature. Gathering her notebook, calendar and Muggle pen, Hermione made her way to the one meeting room housed within their department. 

 

Gemma and James were already there, engaged in an animated argument about something or another. James was a short, athletic man in his early thirties who kept his head shaved in contrast with his dark, well-shaped beard. He initially joined the department given his experience with both pixies and mermaids, but the same qualities that had won him favor in those creature communities had served well. Within a few years, he’d emerged as one of their most reliable communicators, and his relationships with all of the creature communities had earned him the role of undersecretary three years prior. 

 

Hermione had worked well with him so far, but sometimes struggled with the independence the man had in conducting his work. He almost never consulted with her, leaving Hermione no choice but to put additional protocol in place requiring him to pass ideas by her. While it required more time and energy on her part, it was worth it to feel like she had an understanding of the daily goings-on in her department. 

 

James rose to his feet and extended a hand to her as she approached the table. “Welcome home, Miss Granger,” he said politely. “You look well.” 

 

Hermione glanced between his eyes to gauge his sincerity, but it seemed that he was being honest. “Thank you, James,” she replied. 

 

Settling herself into her chair, Hermione took a moment to twist side to side in an attempt to stretch her stiff back. She wasn’t used to sitting this much, and already her body was feeling the very different sort of strain that came from a sedentary job. 

 

“Alright then,” she started, her mind whirling as she tried to reassemble the persona of the witch who had risen through the Ministry ranks in record time. Hermione hadn’t had to be in that role for a long time, and it felt forced, rusty. “Thank you both for all of your hard work while I was away. It seems that everything is running smoothly.” 

 

Both of them nodded in agreement. 

 

Hermione cleared her throat. “But aren’t things a bit slow for a Monday?” 

 

Gemma and James exchanged a quick glance. 

 

“Is there something going on that I should know about?” Hermione narrowed her eyes as she looked at them, hoping to bring some of the weight of her position to the table. 

 

“Nothing’s wrong, Hermione,” Gemma said, an almost nervous giggle escaping her lips. “It’s just that, in your absence, we made some slight adjustments within the department in an effort to streamline the efficiency of our work.” 

 

Streamline the efficiency? “Please explain, Gemma.”

 

At that point James cut in. “You see, Miss Granger, with Gemma taking on the additional responsibility of your role, we came to realize just how much of the department’s workload you had personally been carrying. It became impossible for Gemma to maintain her job responsibilities while also taking on what you did in a day.” He looked to Gemma for confirmation, and Hermione saw her give him an affirming nod. “So, we re-allocated many of your responsibilities within the department. Felicity now balances the weekly budget, as she has a background with Gringotts, while Bertrand schedules and organizes travel. We re-routed the correspondence that comes into the department so that now it goes through the department from bottom to top, and anyone who is able to respond to the request is empowered to do so, only consulting with one of us if they require assistance.” James looked across the table at Hermione, his face revealing very minimal emotion. “The employees have responded well. In all honesty, Miss Granger, your previous workload was astronomical. I can understand your desire for understanding when it comes to the inner workings of your department, but there is a reason that you have a team.”

 

“Hermione,” Gemma jumped in. “We in no way want to undermine what you have built here, but I have to say that things seem to be running very smoothly. We are a month into the responsibility adjustments at this point, and we have seen overwhelmingly positive results: turn around time is quicker, everyone is clocking fewer overtime hours, and the department morale is high. It also should allow you more time to devote to the projects that interest you. We understand if you would like to go back to the previous system, but want to encourage you to give it a week to see the results for yourself.” 

 

Silence followed in the wake of Gemma’s words. Hermione’s attention retreated inward, her mind whirling as the words from her two undersecretaries reverberated in her head. There was too much there to process in the moment, too many truths revealed between the lines, too many parallels to other conversations she’d had recently. 

 

She owed them a response. Straightening her spine, Hermione forced a smile. “That sounds remarkable, and I am very impressed with the time and energy that both of you have obviously devoted to making these changes. I look forward to seeing them at work over the next week, and then we can reevaluate at our next meeting.” 

 

“Thank you, Miss Granger,” James gave her a nod.

 

“Yes, thank you, Hermione,” Gemma echoed. 

 

The three of them got to their feet and returned to their offices. When the door shut behind her, Hermione collapsed into her chair, scrubbing at her face as she let out a low groan. 

 

It was too much; it was all too much. Just this morning she’d woken up in the warm bed of Draco Malfoy, a bed where she’d found the most peaceful sleep since the war, and she’d eaten a ripe peach fresh from a tree that she ran by every morning. And then there had been too many goodbyes, important goodbyes, and now she was here, once again trapped in this office, and things were changing around her…

 

No. It was too much to solve in one day. Hermione cast a tempus: four o’clock. It was the official end of the work day at the Ministry, and for the first time, Hermione had absolutely no reason to stay any later. 

 

She joined the crowded stream of employees making their way to the lifts, realizing that she’d never actually experienced the traffic of normal business hours. Her schedule typically meant that she was more likely to interact with the janitorial staff than a colleague when she moved from her office to the Atrium. 

 

It was amazing how quickly she’d forgotten the feeling of the smiles, the touches, and the unsolicited greetings from strangers that followed her anytime she was within close proximity to a crowd of wizarding folk. Now that she was crammed into the corner of an over-full lift, trapped in a conversation with an elderly witch about how “inspired her granddaughters were” by Hermione’s bravery, Hermione longed for the space and freedom she’d felt in Italy. There had been room to breathe there. 

 

Rather than Floo directly to Grimmauld Place, Hermione decided that she would walk. Transfiguring her heels into a pair of more comfortable ballet flats, she moved into Muggle London. She missed the feeling of fresh air on her face, but the distinct smell of petrol that filled the London air was better than nothing. 

 

She was nervous about seeing her friends. Her occasional correspondence with Harry and Ginny still left large gaps to be filled, and she wasn’t sure what to expect from her reunion with Ron. It had already been a seemingly never-ending day, and the thought of taking on the weight of an emotional encounter was overwhelming. 

 

On a whim, she decided that she would pick up dinner for her roommates. It would be a nice gesture, she thought, as her mind began tracing her route to the townhouse, trying to visualize what would be convenient and on the way. Just as she was about to cross a busy street, she caught sight of an Indian restaurant that Harry and Ginny had raved about. Of course, Hermione had never eaten there. Her tightly controlled food restrictions had prevented her from trying the many restaurants that London had to offer. In fact, there had only been two places where she’d been willing to eat, and even then only one specific dish from each. Her roommates had been accommodating and understanding, careful not to push her beyond her comfort zone, although she noticed that they took advantage of her late nights working to order a variety of food that she wouldn’t eat. 

 

But, as she pushed open the frosted glass front door of the small restaurant, Hermione decided that she would try. She had spent three months trying, growing, stretching, and had seen nothing but benefits as a result of her effort. There was no reason for that growth to come to a halt just because she’d returned to the place where previously she’d been constrained. 

 

Her initial reaction was that the food smelled good, albeit different, and she approached the older woman at the counter with a hesitant smile and greeting. 

 

As it turned out, the woman, clad in a traditional sari, immediately identified Hermione’s lack of familiarity with the cuisine, and offered to send her home with a variety of options to feed four. Hermione, flushed and embarrassed, thanked her profusely as she took the two heavy bags of food with a promise to stop by and report on her favorite dishes. 

 

When the stone facade of Grimmauld Place slid into view, Hermione rolled her shoulders back and took a deep breath. The stone in front of her, while very clearly showing the wear and tear of time and neglect, was still a home for her. 

 

Without wasting any more time, Hermione nudged the door open with her shoulder and called into the dark hallway: “I’m home!”

 

Footsteps pounded down the stairs above her and as the antique wall sconces flickered to life. The removal of the mounted heads of previous generations of house elves certainly improved the ambience of the entryway, but it still had the lingering shadows and dust that no amount of paint or cleaning could liberate. 

 

The footsteps came to a halt as Ginny Weasley appeared at the far end of the hall. “Bitch!” she shrieked, before running forward and squeezing Hermione tightly to her chest in a hug. “Herms, it is damn good to see you.” 

 

Hermione winced at the nickname. It was absolutely loathsome, but she hadn’t yet managed to discourage Ginny’s usage of it. However, all of that was outweighed by the familiar scent of sugar and vanilla that always seemed to surround her red-headed friend. She smiled and heaved a sigh of relief. “I missed you too, Gin.” 

 

Drawing back, Ginny’s eyes raked up and down Hermione’s body, her sculpted copper brows raising in a look of surprised appreciation. “Damn, Italy looks good on you.” Her freckled face broke into a wide grin. “Really, you look good.” 

 

Hermione rolled her eyes at the compliment, but still let a small bit of pride bloom in her chest at the words. Rather than reply, she changed direction: “I brought take out,” she said, holding up the two bags that felt like they were growing heavier in her arms. 

 

“India House?” Ginny exclaimed, looking at Hermione with suspicion. “Who are you and what have you done with Hermione Granger?” 

 

Shrugging, Hermione handed her one of the bags as they walked down the narrow stair into the basement. A wave of nostalgia washed over her at the sight of the long, wooden table where she’d first met the members of the Order of the Phoenix all those years ago. Harry had opted to keep the original, mis-matched chairs that surrounded the table, although they’d updated the framed magical portraits that covered the walls to include photos of them throughout their Hogwarts years in addition to a collection of gathered images of his father and friends from their youth. 

 

“But seriously Herms,” Ginny called out from the kitchen where, by the sound of clattering, she was gathering plates and utensils. “You need to tell me everything about -”

 

“Gin, did you get India House?” A male voice echoed down the stairwell. 

 

“No! Herms did!” Ginny yelled back. 

 

“Hermione’s here?” 

 

Heavier footsteps sounded from above them as Ginny carried four plates to the table. After hanging her beaded purse on one of the chairs, Hermione moved into the kitchen, going straight to the Muggle refrigerator, which, last time she checked, Kreacher had still been trying to remove. She retrieved two hard ciders and two beers, nudging the heavy door closed with her hip and turned back to the informal dining area. Just as she set the drinks down at the four places Ginny had set, the unmistakable messy black hair of Harry Potter ducked around the corner. 

 

“Hermione!” His whole face lit up with a smile, and Hermione ran to meet him in a hug. “I didn’t realize you were coming home today; wait, and what time is it? The sun is still out and you’re home?” 

 

She shoved Harry away as she waved off his not-so-subtle jab at her previous work schedule. He wasn’t wrong; she’d hardly ever made it home before dark. 

 

Harry moved around her to give Ginny a slow kiss, which the redhead enthusiastically returned. Hermione looked away, wanting to give the couple some privacy. 

 

“Okay, but am I dreaming or did you actually say that Hermione brought the India House?” 

 

Harry’s question was obviously directed towards her, so Hermione gave him a grin and did a small twirl before curtsying. “What can I say Harry, I figured I would do something nice for my roommates while trying something new.” 

 

His eyebrows rose above the black frames of his glasses. “That’s… that’s really amazing. Seriously, thank you.” He sounded sincerely impressed. “And I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

 

As Harry and Ginny both moved to sit down, Hermione hesitated. “Is Ron coming?” She hated that her voice sounded small when she asked the question. 

 

Hermione noticed Harry scratching the back of his neck. “Actually he’s going to the pub with the guys tonight. Won’t be back until later.” 

 

“Oh.” She wasn’t sure what else to say and moved to a seat across from the couple, who’d chosen to sit next to each other. 

 

She watched them absently as they unloaded the bags of food, laying the paper takeaway containers out in the middle of the table. Ginny wore her straight red hair up in a messy bun that was perched on the crown of her head. The thin tank top that she wore paired with oversized, low-slung sweatpants accentuated her broad shoulders and toned arms; playing professional Quidditch since her graduation had only added to her physically intimidating stature. Harry, where he sat beside her with his red Auror robes unfastened, looked almost unchanged from the boy that he’d been throughout their childhood. He was slightly shorter than Ginny, something she loved to tease him about, and still wore his hair a bit too long, although the black-rimmed glasses he’d taken to wearing did make him appear more distinguished. 

 

Once Harry and Ginny had served themselves generous helpings of everything, Hermione began her exploration of the new cuisine, carefully tasting little bites of the dishes before putting them on her plate. In the end she found two chicken dishes that were not only edible but delicious, and found the garlic flatbread paired well with the flavors. It was different, certainly, but she was reminded of the sophistication of flavor that she’d grown to love in Pansy’s food. 

 

Glancing up after taking a large bite, she saw Harry and Ginny both watching her, twin looks of curiosity on their faces. 

 

“You’ve changed.” 

 

Hermione met Harry’s green eyes and nodded. “I have. I think I needed to.”

 

“I wasn’t lying when I said that you looked good,” Ginny added. “Happier and healthier, too.” 

 

Reaching for one of the ciders she’d brought to the table, Hermione cracked the can open and took a slow sip. Swallowing, she looked back at them. “It was almost easy to change there. Well, not easy, exactly, but it felt more natural to adjust my life in that environment.” 

 

“And what environment was that?” Harry asked. 

 

“Outside.” A fond smile spread across her lips as she thought of her home in Italy. “Even the house where we lived was as much a part of the outside world as the inside. The doors and windows were constantly opened, and most of the food that we -- well, Pansy, to be more accurate -- cooked came from the gardens.”

 

Ginny’s eyebrows rose. “Pansy? As in Pansy Parkinson?” 

 

Hermione fidgeted with the paper napkin. “Yes. She was there. Didn’t Ron tell you who was there?”

 

Ginny and Harry exchanged a look. “He did,” Ginny started, “but didn’t share details beyond the fact that there were Slytherins there and that you seemed friendly with them.” 

 

A laugh escaped from Hermione’s throat. “I mean, I lived with them! They became my…my friends! Pansy is, well, she’s still a bit rude but is also fiercely loyal and honest. Theo is a pain in the arse, but you should see him with Neville. It’s obvious that they love each other. And Blaise is kind and funny, although his concern with his appearance takes up significant space in his head.” She paused, taking a breath, as she conjured the image of the last Slytherin who had been lingering at the edge of her consciousness all day. She’d had to nudge him to the side so that she could operate throughout her work day, but now she let herself imagine him. “And Draco is… he’s changed.” 

 

“So they’re actually different?” Harry questioned, a thoughtful expression on his face. 

 

“Completely,” Hermione spoke with certainty. “I couldn’t have changed without them.” 

 

They all returned to their food, the sound of thoughtful chewing the only thing that fractured the gentle silence that surrounded them. 

 

Hermione let her thoughts wander. There was so much still to be said, but she didn’t know where to begin. How does one put into words that their life has transformed? That something fundamental, something deep within themselves shifted and changed? How do you tell that to people who have known you for most of your life and yet have never met this new and fragile version of you? 

 

How do you tell them about the man who walked with you down the dark path of self discovery? The man who steals your breath and then returns it to you stronger?

 

“So. You and Ron are done?” 

 

Harry’s question broke through her thoughts. She swallowed before responding. “Yes. Our romantic relationship is over.” 

 

“And are you okay?” Concern was clearly written on Ginny’s face. “I know he’s my brother, but I just want to make sure that you’re alright.” 

 

“I’m…” Hermione began, stopping for a moment as she tried to pinpoint exactly how to describe how she was feeling in the wake of her separation from Ron. So much had happened since then, so many layers of happiness had been built in the time since he’d left. “I’m okay. I think that it needed to happen, for both of us. We were stuck in a cycle of accepting less than we each deserve.” 

 

“And now?” 

 

She looked at Harry, and then at Ginny. Their faces were open, curious, and loving. Sighing, she took another long drink of cider. “I’m seeing someone now.” 

 

Both of their eyebrows shot up. It was almost comical how their expressions were perfectly matched. 

 

“What!” 

 

“Who?”

 

Hermione burst into laughter as the couple glared at each other. “I missed you guys,” she said fondly, overcome with another wave of laughter as Ginny smacked Harry on the arm. 

 

“Seriously, Herms, who?” The redhead’s eyes were bright. 

 

“Draco Malfoy.” 

 

Stunned silence filled the room. Harry’s eyes widened, while Ginny’s mouth hung open. 

 

“No.” Harry shook his head.

 

Hermione winced as she replied. “Yes.” 

 

“How?” 

 

She glared at Harry. “It just happened. Slowly.” 

 

He shook his head again. “‘It just happened slowly?’ What does that even mean?”

 

“It means exactly what I said it does. We became friends. He saw me for who I was. He kept showing up in my life with kindness. We spent more time together. We fought and argued. He challenged me. I challenged him. We just fit, Harry.” 

 

She watched the wheels turn behind Harry’s eyes. 

 

“Draco was already starting to change back then,” Ginny interjected. Glancing over at her, Hermione noticed the serious expression on her face. “That year when you guys were gone, it was Neville and I trying to keep everything afloat, you know. I learned pretty quickly about Theo, although Neville asked me to keep it quiet. But Theo was helping us. Blaise joined pretty quickly, although he left before the year was through. Sure, they were still snakes, but they were directly defying their parents and the Carrow twins by helping us.” She peeled up the corner of the paper label on the beer she’d opened with a fingernail, frowning. “We didn’t see Draco much that year. Everyone knew at that point that he’d been marked, and so no one messed with him. But I heard the younger Slytherins talk. He was helping them, trying to protect them from the worst of it.” 

 

Harry looked over at his girlfriend. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” 

 

“I don’t know,” Ginny gave them both a pained smile. “By the time it was over, I just wanted to be done. I didn’t want to talk about it or think about it or re-live any of it. All of them avoided Azkaban and I figured that was enough.” She turned to look at Hermione. “But I won’t ever forget what I heard about Draco. And when I saw him…he was haunted by it all. There’s no question about that.” 

 

Hermione reached across the table, squeezing Ginny’s hand. “They told me, Gin. All about it. And they have so many regrets, but what is the most beautiful is that they are all trying to move on, to not let their past actions define them.” 

 

“And Draco makes you happy?” Harry’s face was carefully absent of emotion.

 

“He has helped me find happiness, yes.” 

 

“Fucking hell,” Harry mumbled. “I guess I’m going to have to befriend Draco bloody Malfoy, then.” 

 

“Oh shut up,” Ginny smacked Harry on the arm again. “You’ve been obsessed with him since that first day at Hogwarts. This is your dream come true!” 

 

“I hate you, do you realize that?” 

 

“Love you too.” 

 

____________________________________

Later that night, Hermione climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, utterly exhausted and already on the cusp of sleep. She, Harry, and Ginny had talked and laughed and caught up on what had been happening in their lives over the past three months. It was nice to spend time with them like that, a beautiful reminder of the friendships that she had and the pieces of beauty that existed in her life in England. 

 

When she reached the fourth floor, she almost turned to Sirius’s old room on instinct but stopped herself. That had been her and Ron’s room. That was another time. A time that had concluded. 

 

Instead, she walked down the hall to Regulus Black’s old room. She eased the heavy oak door open, wincing as it creaked. The room was dark and, in spite of the many hours of cleaning, still smelled slightly damp and musky. She ignored it all, barely pausing to wave on the lamp that sat beside the commanding four poster bed. Tossing her bag onto the floor, she practically tore off her robes, eager to be free of the material that had been slowly irritating her skin all day. Once nude, she crawled into the bed, grateful that they always kept fresh linens on this bed in the event of unexpected guests. 

 

Only once she had the thick blankets pulled up to her chin did Hermione let herself think of him. A dull ache filled her body and she felt a burning in her eyes. 

 

She was really here. She’d done it. She’d left Italy, left him . 

 

The final conscious thoughts floated by as sleep claimed her, as a single tear squeezed out from the corner of her closed eyes. 

 

Why had she left him? 

Notes:

This was a hard chapter to write. After spending so many blissful months in Italy, it was an adjustment to return to the constrained, urban setting. I even had to switch up my music to better fit the mood. I actually talked to Ashlyn about the conversation with Kingsley probably 6 months ago, so Ashlyn, thank you for planting that seed that is finally blooming.

Thank you to the House of Nott discord for the fully unhinged debate about the floors of the Ministry; I'm sorry that my question brought out the U.S. vs. U.K. debates. I also had a great time reacquainting myself with Grimmauld Place, as I'd never considered the floor plans beyond the basic entry. I am so excited for you all to journey with Hermione as she continues to wade her way through her return. And remember...cling to the promise of a happily ever after :)

Thank you to the beta team: Lauraloveschristmas and Bookishteddy for the support and edits on this one. It wouldn't be possible without you.

Chapter 36: Chapter 36

The first thing that Hermione was aware of when she woke was the stale air and silence. The mattress underneath her was too soft, and the blankets were too heavy. After blinking her eyes a few times to clear the lingering sleep, she threw the blankets off and rose slowly to her feet. 

 

There was no confusing this room with where she’d been sleeping in Italy. The ceilings were dramatically tall, with dark wood accents and severe wallpaper that brought to mind generational wealth. Her bare feet padded across the richly carpeted floor to the large window, tugging at the thick drapes that blocked out any hint of the outdoors. 

 

Dawn was barely breaking, the heavily clouded grey sky already bearing down on London from above. In the dim light cast over the world, Hermione could see the overgrown and neglected garden that sat enclosed by stone walls behind the house. Looking past the garden, rows and rows of uniformly austere homes lined dimly lit streets for as far as the eye could see. It was hard to distinguish between the light cast by the breaking dawn and the ambient light that came from the lamps that were scattered along the streets. 

 

Turning from the window, Hermione located her bag where she’d unceremoniously tossed it to the floor the night before. It only took her a moment to pull out running tights and a thin, cotton jumper. Quickly, she pulled the clothes on, followed by her well-worn trainers. Grabbing her wand, she sent her robes from the previous day back into the bag, leaving little evidence of her presence in the room. 

 

After a quick stop in the bathroom, Hermione carefully made her way down the many stairs to the ground floor. She wasn’t surprised that no one else in the house was up at the early hour; Harry and Ron especially were notorious for being late sleepers. 

 

Sliding her wand up her shirtsleeve, Hermione pushed open the front door and walked out into the London morning. Immediately, the fine mist that fell from the sky clung to her braided hair, and she twitched her nose at the barely-there tickle of the droplets. The temperature hovered between cool and warm, although the heaviness in the air gave the illusion of warmer weather. With a deep breath to test the air, Hermione turned down the sidewalk and began to run. 

 

Forty-five minutes later, Hermione arrived back at Grimmauld Place, soaked from head to toe in a combination of sweat and the rain that had begun to fall. There was a slight ache in her knees as she moved up the steps; she’d forgotten how different it was to run on hard concrete. 

 

Slipping into the house, she was relieved to find that it was still quiet. She didn’t want to have to explain that yes, she had also taken up running while she was gone, and no, she was sure she didn’t want any company. 

 

You let Draco run with you, her mind gently chided. 

 

But that was different. He was different. 

 

Hermione showered and prepared herself for work quickly. Today she was able to put on the clothing that she typically wore under her professional robes: a conservative silk blouse in sky blue paired with simple, grey trousers that she’d purchased from a secondhand Muggle store. She selected her grey robes, letting them hang loose as she turned her attention to her hair. 

 

Once again, she was faced with the choice of straightening her hair or not. It felt like such a silly thing to even be wasting her time on, but for some reason it was a sticking point in Hermione’s mind. 

 

She stared at herself in the mirror. She hadn’t needed to wash her hair that morning, and the loose curls that now reached the middle of her back were reacting predictably to the additional humidity of London. Flyaway curls defied gravity and surrounded her head like a halo. But, unlike before, when she’d clung to any opportunity to exercise control over her life and self, Hermione found that she didn’t mind them. The sight of her curls now brought to mind riding an old bicycle down a dirt road and sprawling on a blanket in the sun and him: his hands constantly returning to tangle in her hair and his lips whispering against her scalp. 

 

Nudging aside the wave of feelings that threatened to overwhelm her, Hermione gathered her hair, twirling it tightly into a bun that she fastened with an elastic. 

 

She left her face bare. There was nothing there in the mirror that she particularly wanted to hide or disguise with makeup. There was something in the warm glow of her skin that reminded her of her growth, of her changes; the new freckles she didn’t feel the need to hide from the world. 

 

Little had changed in the Grimmauld Place kitchen while Hermione had been away. The battered Muggle coffee pot that Harry had received as a Christmas gift years before still stood on the counter, and the tin of coffee sat right beside it. As Hermione’s hands fell into the familiar pattern of preparing the coffee, she made a mental note to ask Draco how exactly he added the cinnamon. She’d assumed that it was as straightforward as stirring it in, but after her disastrous attempt to recreate it yesterday she wasn’t sure. 

 

She was retrieving two slices of bread from the loaf that she knew was always kept in the bread box when heavy footsteps sounded above her. Her hands kept moving as she placed the bread in the toaster, but all of her attention was on the sound of someone’s approach. As the footsteps rounded the corner into the kitchen, they stopped. She stilled, waiting. 

 

“Hi.” 

 

She turned toward the familiar voice. “Hi Ron.”

 

Ron Weasley stood tall, not looking any different from the last time Hermione had seen him. He was still tall, still handsome in that ruddy, Weasley way, and still softening as the years went on. His hair was tousled from sleep, and he wore flannel pyjama pants with a Chudley Cannons t-shirt. 

 

I used to sleep in that t-shirt, she thought to herself. 

 

Ron walked forward into the kitchen, a hesitant smile on his lips. “You look great, ‘Mione.”

 

“As do you,” she replied. 

 

The sudden ding of the toaster filled the air, and Hermione turned back to the counter, her hands steady as she opened the refrigerator, grabbing the butter and the peach jam that she always kept hidden in the back corner behind the bottle of vitamins. No one ever moved the vitamins. 

 

Ron cleared his throat. “How are things?”

 

“Good.” The butterknife scraped against the brown edges of her toast. “Things are good.”

 

“You miss it, don’t you?” 

 

Hermione swallowed the emotion that rose in the back of her throat. “So much.”

 

“I’m surprised you came back.” 

 

Hermione looked back over her shoulder at him, surprised. “What?” 

 

“Yeah,” Ron smiled at her, that almost sad, wistful smile that reminded her of things that were. “You seemed really happy there.” 

 

“I was,” she replied honestly. “But I had to come back, you know?” 

 

Ron shrugged. “I dunno, ‘Mione. I don’t think that anyone in the world can force you to do something that you don’t want to do. You’re rather stubborn, you know that right?” 

 

Hermione took in the teasing tilt of his auburn brow before releasing a quiet laugh. “You’re an idiot.” 

 

Their joined laughter filled the kitchen, such a familiar harmony of sounds that Hermione felt her chest constrict. But it wasn’t a pain of loss of what used to be, no, it was quiet relief that perhaps her changes hadn’t upset the balance of the world, that maybe she could find the ease of friendship with Ron again. 

 

“I’ve thought a lot about what you said.” 

 

Her laughter faded in the wake of Ron’s admission. 

 

“And?” she asked. 

 

“I’m not angry with you.” 

 

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Angry?”

 

She watched Ron’s feet shuffle on the linoleum tile floor. “I’m not angry with you for…well…what you said to me in Italy.” 

 

“Angry? It was the truth, Ron.” A wave of indignation rose in her. “Everything that I said to you was the truth, truth that needed to be said.”

 

“I know.” Ron scrubbed his hands up and down his ruddy cheeks, a look on his face that Hermione recognized as resigned frustration. “You know I’m bloody worthless with words. I just, well, thank you, ‘Mione. Before you said those things, I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary in how we were. I thought it was all normal. But, I think I can see it now. You haven’t been okay for a while, and I let you convince me that it wasn’t something that I needed to worry about. But I think since, well, since we broke it off, I think I’m doing better.” 

 

His blue eyes searched hers, almost apologetic. “And I hope that you are too.”

 

Hermione picked at the sleeve of her robes as she held eye contact with him. “You know that I only want happiness for you, right?” 

 

Ron nodded, looking down at the floor between them. “I know, ‘Mione. And…” he let out a sighed exhale before looking back up at her. “And I think that I can get there.” 

 

_______________________________

Hermione,

 

I tried to run without you today and found the experience lacking. I got too bloody tired and almost gave up, until I remembered what you told me about breathing. It’s silly, but I had to imagine the sound of you next to me. It sort of worked. 

 

I hope that your reentry into work has been smooth. They are probably stumbling over themselves celebrating the return of the prodigal Granger. 

 

Have you been taking lunch breaks? How is England? How are the little lion cubs that you live with? I can’t believe that I’m writing this, but tell me everything. 

 

I miss you. 

 

Yours,

Draco

*****************************

Dear Draco,

 

I’m honestly surprised that you ran without me; I wasn’t sure if you actually enjoyed the exercise or just did it to humor me. 

 

Returning to work has been interesting. My replacement made changes while I was gone that have made my job dreadfully boring. I mostly sit at my desk and think about our research. How is it going? Any progress yet? And no one seems particularly phased by my return. I can’t say that I mind. 

 

To answer your questions: Yes, I have been taking lunch breaks. England is grey and rainy, as it always is. My *roommates* are well. Harry and Ginny are as much themselves as they’ve been, and Ron actually seems like he’s doing well. Things are less strained than I thought they’d be. 

 

I miss you the most at night. I look for you as the sun drops behind the rooftops, knowing that it’s time for us to go to the willow. At some point my life adjusted to have you in it, and I don’t know what to do now that you aren’t here. 

 

Oh! How do you make your coffee? More specifically, when and how do you add cinnamon? My secretary has been trying different things for days and none of them taste right.

 

Thinking of you always,

 

Hermione

 

__________________________________

 

Hermione was having trouble adjusting to the changes within her department. While, arguably, the new system was functioning exactly as intended, the result, which was removing the majority of the busywork from Hermione’s plate, made her job almost painfully boring. She certainly hadn’t loved the paper-pushing element of her past workdays, but there was something to be said for the delicious satisfaction that came from overseeing each and every detail of her department. She used to know about each meeting and proposal, every budgetary request and complaint. Now she received well organized summaries of projects for her review, and only needed to provide her signature of approval. 

 

She felt worthless. 

 

In anticipation of her upcoming follow-up meeting with Gemma and James, Hermione had been speaking individually with each member of her department. After each conversation, it became even more abundantly clear that Gemma was right; her employees were thriving under the adjustments. Not only was there more collaboration taking place within the department, but each employee expressed a degree of pride when she asked them about the burden of additional responsibilities. It seemed that, for the most part, the employees of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures genuinely cared about their work and relished the chance to take on more. 

 

She had to admit that the changes seemed to be working. Her department was thriving, working through proposals and legislation at a pace she hadn’t seen before. She watched the passion and fire that both Gemma and James brought to their work, and it seemed to ignite enthusiasm in their teams. 

 

Why was it so painful to watch them succeed?

 

________________________________

Hermione,

 

After five days of running without you, I can officially say that the only reason I ever suffered through the experience was because of you. Now, I simply do it because I don’t want to give up something that makes me think of our time together. 

 

I’m sorry to hear about the work adjustments, although I have to admit that boredom sounds like a better problem than sitting at your desk until dark every evening. Aren’t you the head of the department? Why not spend your time doing something that interests you? I would imagine there’s a library there. 

 

A part of me wants to withhold the secret of my coffee from you. Perhaps that will bring you back to me sooner? However, on my endless journey to become a better person, I will tell you: add the cinnamon to the coffee grounds before adding the water. Also, you have a secretary? I’m having a hard time imagining you with a personal Ministry minion. 

 

As far as our research, it is still slow. I’ve made no progress on the potion since you’ve left. I’m stuck on how to combine the shatavari tonic with ashwagandha root without directly interfering with the magical properties of the orchid. If you were here I’m sure we would already have it solved. Blaise is still reluctantly helping in the gardens, and we are collecting magical signature data on the land every two days to track progress. 

 

My bed still smells like you. If I close my eyes, I can pretend that you are still here. I wonder how long I can put off washing the linens before it becomes unsanitary? 

 

What have you done to me, witch? I don’t think that I’m very good at missing people. 

 

How are you? Really, are you alright? 

 

Yours,

 

Draco

*************************

 

Dear Draco, 

 

Please don’t force yourself to keep running on my account! Wasn’t it you who told me to stop doing what other people expected of me? Running through London is miserable for other reasons, the foremost being that the timing of my run coincides with the morning rubbish collection. Between constantly dodging the bins on the sidewalk and the horrific smell it’s nothing like our runs in Italy. But I keep doing it because I’m afraid of what might happen if I stop. 

 

I want to be annoyed with you because of how frequently you are correct, but in this instance I am simply grateful. I’d almost forgotten about the extensive collection of magical data and documents housed at the Ministry. Yesterday, I spent three hours looking for possible solutions to your question about the potion. I haven’t found anything yet, but I’ll owl as soon as I find something. Thank you, for freeing me from the confines of my office. 

 

You absolute angel of a man! Thank you THANK YOU thank you for sharing the secret of the cinnamon with me. Don’t be surprised if you receive a hand-written thank you note from someone named Gus. I may have been somewhat insufferable in my insistence that he figure it out. And you should see me in department meetings, Malfoy. I command a whole team of Ministry minions.

 

I get to see you in two weeks. I can’t wait. I’m not sure if this makes sense, but most days I feel like I am living in a dream. I can’t distinguish if it is my life here that feels like a dream, or if it is the memory of Italy that has blurred into something that can’t have been real. I know that you are real. You are with me every day, in my thoughts, in the thousands of tiny things that remind me of you, and especially in my sleep. Whatever I did to you, you reciprocated it a thousand fold. 

 

Am I alright? I don’t know. I am fulfilling my responsibilities here and spending some time with Harry, Ron, and Ginny. Ginny leaves most days for practice, and Ron and Harry are tied up on a case right now. I’m spending most of my evenings alone. It’s not bad, necessarily, but it’s not what I’ve been used to. 

 

And on top of that, there’s missing you, something that I still haven’t gotten used to. It hurts, Draco, in a way that I wasn’t expecting. 

 

And you? How are you?

 

Yours, 

 

Hermione

 

*****************************

 

Granger,

 

Draco won’t tell me shit about how you’re doing, probably because your letters are full of sappy nonsense no one else wants to read. 

Is the Weasel behaving himself? I worry about you around all of those lions. 

Write me and hurry up and come back. Your boyfriend’s been a right arse since you left.

Pansy

 

*****************************

 

Dear Pansy,

 

I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner. I will have you know that my letters with Draco are personal, and yet full of substance that any educated person would find interesting. 

 

Ron has been perfectly cordial. He spends most evenings out, so I really don’t see him much. There’s no need to worry about me. Other than occasional boredom at work, everything is fine. How is everything there? 

 

I miss you and your cooking. 

 

Your friend,

 

Hermione 

 

___________________________________

It was the little things at first, as the weekend passed in an anticlimactic montage of hours spent reading in the same chair by the window and Hermione went into her second week of being back in England. 

 

One day bled into the next: wake up, run, shower, coffee, two pieces of toast, work, lunch, work, home, read, sleep, and repeat. It was easy to fall into, too easy.

 

Maybe it was the fact that Ginny had left for an intensive training camp, while Harry and Ron were put on a smuggling case in the south that required them to work overtime. Whereas before Hermione had often sought silence and solitude, she now found the lack of human company left a large hole in her life. She spent many evenings wandering the halls of Grimmauld Place, searching for something to occupy her mind.

 

She tried to hold tightly to the memories of Italy, to the self that had emerged so naturally under the uninterrupted sunshine. But every day that she spent under the grey sky, that she fastened her formal robes, that she ordered the same cobb salad from the Ministry, she felt that self slipping out of her grasp.  

 

___________________________________

 

Hermione, 

 

Things here are descending into chaos, and the wedding is still a week and a half away. Perhaps that’s overly dramatic, but Pansy and Blaise are almost constantly at each other's throats over colors and flowers and archways and appetizers and other shit I don’t think Theo or Neville care about. The two of them spend most of their time wrapped up in each other; I think they’ve forgotten about the rest of us. 

 

Thank you for writing Pansy back. She kept hounding me for updates on how you were doing, but I figured I’m not foolish enough to presume to share your words with anyone else. I hope that’s alright. 

 

Fuck. I hate the idea of you alone in a house. Do you have friends that you can owl to come visit or stay with you? Gods, you have no idea how much it hurts me that I can’t be there with you. At least tell me that you’re reading a worthwhile book with all of that time. 

 

How am I?

 

I’m over one thousand kilometers from my witch, when every bone in my body is telling me to go to you. I’m fucking miserable. 

 

Yours, 

 

Draco

******************************

 

Dear Draco,

 

A little chaos sounds nice, honestly.

 

And thank you for keeping my words between us. Pansy assumed that the reason you weren’t showing her was because of the explicit nature of our letters. I’m not sure that she believed me when I told her they were really quite mild. 

 

Draco, I don’t have friends here. Outside of Harry, Ron, and Ginny, there’s no one that I’ve stayed close with. I was different when I was there with you: more open, more outgoing. Lighter, maybe. Normally I keep to myself. 

 

I’m spending a lot of time reading the research that I’m finding at the Ministry. Nothing fruitful yet, but it’s interesting, nonetheless. 

 

I’ll see you in six days. Time can’t move fast enough. 

 

Even when you are far away, I find strength in knowing that you are there. I can’t tell you what a gift that is. 

 

Yours,

 

Hermione

 

____________________________

 

There was nothing different about Hermione’s day. Everything had all gone according to schedule. She arrived early at the Ministry. She wore her navy robes. She braided her hair. Gus had her coffee waiting, now finally with the correct flavor of cinnamon permeating evenly through each sip. 

 

The mid-week team meeting had gone smoothly. Each person gave her a detailed report of their progress on the various projects that the department was currently working on, and all of them were progressing ahead of schedule. 

 

As she listened to the impassioned voices of her employees describing their work, Hermione nodded and forced a smile, feeling rather detached from the entire thing. They were meeting expectations, and she was fulfilling her role as Department Head in listening to them. 

 

When the meeting adjourned, she congratulated Gemma and James on their leadership, and retreated to her office. When the door closed behind her, she tried to quiet the ringing in her ears. She rubbed circles on her temples, trying to take slow, deep breaths as she leaned against the edge of her desk. 

 

In through her nose, out through her mouth.

 

The feeling settling in her gut was a new feeling, one she was unfamiliar with. What was her purpose? What difference was she making in the world signing paperwork and managing meetings? How was she fulfilling her responsibility to the magical world? 

 

She couldn’t help but feel that she was failing. That somehow, somewhere along the way, she’d broken the part of herself that was willing to sacrifice anything to make the world a better place. What she’d done for the past two and a half weeks wasn’t making a difference. It was simply existing, while she watched those around her be the catalysts for change. 

 

She glanced up at the clock. Three minutes to four. 

 

She’d sacrificed so much already for this duty to the world, and now she was incapable of seeing it through. What was the point if she couldn’t do what needed to be done? 

 

She could make it for three more minutes.

 

Her eyes stayed glued to the clock, watching the second hand click three times around the circumference. With each passing second, the echoing roar grew louder, slowly oozing out from the back of her head. 

 

At exactly four, she pushed herself from the desk, grabbing her bag and robes, and walked as quickly as she could toward the lift. Her vision narrowed to just the hallway in front of her, as her heart rate sped up at the sight of other employees leaving for the day. 

 

She felt the air tighten around her as a swell of people joined her in moving toward the lifts. Their bodies moved closer to hers, until she could feel the heat of their skin and the warmth of their breath. 

 

Breathing. She knew how to breathe. It was simple: in through your nose, out through your mouth. Repeat. 

 

It was a miracle that she was able to find a spot on the first lift, although any relief was quickly replaced by panic as bodies closed in around her. The only good news was that she was so tightly pressed against the bodies that surrounded her that there was no need to grab one of the handles that hung from the ceiling. She felt her lunch rise up in her throat, and swallowed against the flood of saliva in her mouth. 

 

Too long, her mind screamed. It’s taking too long…

 

She breathed. 

 

Finally the lift shuddered to a halt on the ground floor, and everyone spilled out and into the atrium. Hermione ran, dodging witches and wizards as she focused in on the line of fireplaces. All of the sounds of the Ministry had faded, replaced by the familiar roar of water. 

 

Run, Hermione.  

 

Grabbing Floo powder from the jar on the mantle, she forced her throat to open so she could choke out the words: “Twelve Grimmauld Place!”

 

Seconds later she tumbled out of the fireplace, her vision already closing in as the smell of Grimmauld Place washed over her. Her fingers dug into the rough carpet as she fell forward. 

 

She tried to count, tried to breathe, but the numbers mixed with the breath and she forgot how to swim as the water washed over her. Something was dragging her down, and she felt herself listening for something, for a reason to fight, but there was nothing there but the echoing roar that consumed her. 

 

_____________________________

 

Hermione. 

 

She could hear something. It was faint, but it was definitely something. 

 

Hermione, breathe. 

 

There was something wrong about the sound, but the words were familiar. 

 

Breathe for me, Hermione. 

 

She willed her lungs to expand, taking in air. As the oxygen hit her throat, she felt her hands and her feet. They were still there, still attached to her body that floated, suspended, underwater. She was perfectly fine where she was. 

 

Shit. Come on, Hermione. Take a slow breath in. 

 

It was all wrong. The voice -- because that’s what the sound was, a voice -- was too high. She couldn’t trust it. It was safer where she was. It was safer underwater. 

 

Breathe in, Hermione!

 

The voice was getting louder, more frantic. She just wanted it to go away, wanted to return to the silence that wrapped her like a cloak. Almost reluctantly, she complied with the demands. 

 

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

 

Repeat. 

 

Again. 

 

And again. 

 

The water slowly faded away. There was still pressure surrounding her body, but it was wrong, too gentle maybe, or not gentle enough. On her next inhale, the sharp scent of bergamot filled her nostrils. 

 

It was all wrong. 

 

Slowly, she opened her eyes. Her face was pressed into warm, red fabric. Slowly she pushed away, looking up to meet Harry’s concerned face looking down at her through the clear lenses of his glasses. Blinking up at him, she twisted around, finding his arms and legs wrapped around her. 

 

They were in the middle of the living room floor. Hermione shuffled back, putting some distance between herself and her friend, who was staring at her, his horrified relief clearly painted on this face. 

 

She watched him thread his fingers through his messy hair. “You okay?” he asked, his voice careful, so full of that selfless love that Harry carried everywhere he went. 

 

“Fine.” She silently cursed the weakness that was so obvious in her voice. “You, um, you knew what to do. To help me.” 

 

Harry looked down at the floor. “Yes.”

 

“How did you know?” 

 

He seemed to hesitate for a moment. “Malfoy. He wrote to me.” 

 

Any lingering fog that clouded her mind immediately evaporated. “What?” She tried to make sense of what Harry had said. 

 

Without responding, Harry pushed himself up to his feet. She noticed that he was still dressed in his work robes; he must have found her when he Flooed home. Her eyes followed his movements as he went to the small desk that sat in the corner, shuffling through the piles of paper that littered the surface as he muttered quietly to himself. 

 

Finally, he plucked a piece of parchment from a pile and walked back over to her. Rather than sitting on any of the couches or chairs that were available, he returned to sit on the floor in front of her. Wordlessly, he handed her the parchment. 

 

Hermione’s eyes dropped to the paper, not surprised when she immediately recognized the handwriting. 

 

Potter,

 

I am writing to you in spite of my complete indifference to your existence because of Hermione. As I’m sure you’re aware by this point, we are in a relationship, and, as a man and a Malfoy, I would do anything for her. I trust that you understand. 

 

Hermione has panic attacks. I hope that she tells one of you, although now that I think of it, the Weasel should already know. But even if she doesn’t, I want to make sure that you know how to help. 

 

She typically collapses, not too far off from fainting, and the most important thing is to talk her through breathing again. Say her name, and break each breath down into small steps. While you do it, apply steady pressure to her body, especially to her shoulders and arms. I typically sit behind her and embrace her with both my arms and legs. Keep talking to her through her breathing until she opens her eyes, and then give her a minute to fully come out of it. 

 

It should be me who’s there for her, but since I can’t be there she’ll have to make due with you. 

 

Take care of her, Potter. She means more to me than anything else in this world. 

 

Draco Malfoy

Notes:

Hang in there...I know our girl is miserable, but it's all for a good cause.

Readers, thank you so SO much for your continued support and comments. They give me the fire to keep going!
We are so close to the end! Thank you Lauraloveschristmas and bookishteddy for the beta reading and love.

Chapter 37: Chapter 37

Summary:

Sorry about the late posting! Hope the extra length will make up for it.

Hermione turned off the shower, allowing herself a moment with her eyes closed as the last drops of scalding hot water traced along her flushed skin. Grabbing a towel that had definitely grown more scratchy with time, she began to dry off, starting with her legs and working her way up her body.

 

“Herms, you said it’s hot there, right?” Ginny’s voice rang through the ancient halls of Grimmauld Place, interrupting the steamy silence of the bathroom. “Are we talking bikini-on-the-beach hot or muggy-London-afternoons-in-July hot?” 

 

Hermione took in a lungful of air to shout a response, but was interrupted by another voice. 

 

“Harry, are you wearing dress robes or your Muggle suit?” Ron called out. Hermione rolled her eyes; shouted conversations between the floors of Grimmauld Place were commonplace, in spite of the fact that they had proven repeatedly to be extremely ineffective. 

 

“Suit!” Harry’s reply echoed from below. 

 

Wrapping herself in the towel, Hermione slipped out of the bathroom and down the hall, pausing briefly to shout out her answer to Ginny: “It’s not as humid as here, and it only cools slightly at night,” she called down the stairs. 

 

“Thanks!” Ginny called back. 

 

Hermione entered the room that had been her resting place for the past three weeks. It remained exactly as she’d found it other than the presence of her beaded bag and the few pieces of clothing that were carefully laid out on the made bed. 

 

She tossed the towel to the ground, quickly drawing on knickers and a simple bralette before shimmying into high-waisted denims, and a cotton blouse with a scooped neck adorned with simple embroidered flowers along the seams. She wrapped her professional robes over the Muggle clothes, taking the extra minute to tuck any of the exposed fabric that revealed her casual clothing underneath out of sight. Grabbing her wand, she charmed the towel dry and folded it neatly on the desk. After putting her hair up in a quick braid, she grabbed her bag, closing the door to Regulus’s room behind her without a backwards glance. 

 

In the living room, her housemates were assembled around a pile of luggage that sat in front of the fireplace. Ginny kept darting in and out of the room as she remembered things that she had forgotten to pack, while Harry and Ron were both dressed for work and drinking from steaming mugs, seemingly oblivious to Ginny’s frantic commotion around them. Hermione simply watched the scene from the doorway with a fond smile, sighing quietly before joining them. 

 

“The Portkey departs from the Ministry at four,” she reminded them. “Ginny, you’ll Floo from the stadium, right?” 

 

Ginny flounced dramatically down on the couch next to Harry, who gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “Yes ma’am.”

 

Hermione shook her head at the younger witch. “Right. Well, see you all soon then?” 

 

The response was a chorus of silent nods, and, grabbing a handful of Floo powder from the mantle, Hermione stepped into the fireplace. 

 

“Ministry of Magic!”

 

____________________________________

Hermione stood up, heart still pounding in her chest, and smoothed out her robes before extending a hand across the large wooden desk. 

 

“Thank you for everything, sir,” she said as her hand was engulfed in a much larger one. 

 

Kingsley Shacklebolt smiled, his large, white teeth flashing. “No, Hermione, it is I who should be thanking you.” 

 

Their practiced handshake concluded, and her hand dropped back to her side. She gave the Minister one last smile, hoping that it conveyed the profound gratitude that she felt toward him, and then turned toward the door. 

 

“And Hermione?” She glanced back over her shoulder, meeting Kingsley’s twinkling gaze. “Sometimes stopping is the hardest part.” 

 

She gave the Minister one final nod before walking out of his office. She was careful to shut the heavy, wooden door with two hands to avoid slamming it shut, but once the latch clicked into place, she barely paused to wave at Irene as she moved down the hall as brusquely as her shorter stature could accommodate. 

 

Casting a Tempus as she walked, she took in the glowing, blue numbers. 

 

3:50pm.

 

Cursing under her breath, Hermione began to unbutton her robes while maintaining her quick pace. There wasn’t enough time for her to worry about everything that needed to be worried about, or to imagine all of the possibilities of what could come next. She reached the lift, and while she waited, she shrugged out of the heavy fabric and stuffed it haphazardly into her bag. With one hand, she tugged loose the elastic that held her braid in place, shaking her head and letting her curls free. 

 

After a quick and luckily empty lift ride, Hermione reached the room from which their Portkey was scheduled to depart. She came to a sudden stop, seeing the room more crowded than she’d expected. 

 

She knew from numerous conversations in the weeks leading up to her return to England that Neville and Theo would be having some additional guests attending their wedding. Looking around the small and sterile room, she took note of who would be joining them. 

 

Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan were laughing with Harry and Ron, while Lavender Brown and Hannah Abbott conversed with Ginny. Separated from the rest of the group, their professor, Pomona Sprout, engaged a rather hesitant-looking Millicent Bulstrode in conversation. 

 

Hermione’s eyes danced across the faces that had looked up at her upon her arrival; so much familiarity contrasted with a deep sense of estrangement. She hadn’t seen most of these people in years, beyond the occasional Ministry event that forced them into proximity. Hermione was amazed at how pronounced the changes were in the people who she used to see on a daily basis. Beyond the physical evidence of aging -- wider shoulders, faces that had grown sharper, weight lost or gained -- there was a confidence that was evident in their eyes and voices that spoke to the fact that they had all continued to grow after it all came to an end. 

 

Forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace, she ducked her head and walked to stand next to the wooden spoon that sat on the small table in the middle of the room. She glanced up at the large clock on the wall. 

 

One minute.  

 

She heard those around her getting into place, adjusting and shuffling so that everyone was able to touch the Portkey. As bodies closed in around her, she took a deep inhale through her nose, glancing up at the ceiling -- white against the black marble walls. 

 

She was going back.  

 

There was a moment of stillness from the bodies that surrounded her as the Portkey began to vibrate violently, and then suddenly: the pull, the swirl of black and white, the roar of sound, and then…

 

Even before her feet steadied underneath her she felt some of the anxiety within her melt as the sun met her skin. When she toppled over onto the hard ground, she didn’t even mind, relishing the excuse to touch the soft grass that tickled her palms. When she inhaled, the warmth and vaguely sweet smell of blooms and soil overwhelmed her senses. 

 

“Bloody hell, it’s beautiful here,” she heard Seamus call out. The voices of the others chiming in faded as Hermione looked up. 

 

The smile that curved her lips as she took in the empty, Italian sky was uninhibited. 

 

Free. 

 

Real. 

 

Ginny’s face appeared against the backdrop of blue, her red hair almost glowing in the sunshine. She offered a hand to Hermione, which she grabbed, letting the younger witch help her to her feet.  “No wonder you didn’t want to come home, Herms,” Ginny muttered, her eyes wide as she looked at the verdant green countryside that surrounded them. 

 

“So,” Harry called out, holding his duffel in one hand and Ginny’s in the other. “Where exactly are we going?” 

 

Without saying anything, Hermione’s feet began to lead them toward the footpath that disappeared into the thick copse of trees. She heard the others fall into step behind her, but her mind was elsewhere, remembering the last time she’d walked down this path, whose hand she’d held, why she’d been biting back tears. 

 

Now her feet walked along the same path, but rather than the sadness of leaving weighing down her steps Hermione’s chest was filled with the questions that came with returning. Was she wanted? Was there still a place where she fit within the constellation of individuals who had come to feel like a second family to her? Or had the hole she’d filled been seamlessly absorbed as the days passed by without her?

 

Even deeper still, burrowed somewhere within her chest, was a glimmer of fear. He’d written her letters. He’d even written Harry a letter. About her. The words in his letters were full of promises and sustained feelings, but were they real? Would what had felt like a solid foundation under her feet only weeks before still be there to stand on? 

 

You were the one who left , a voice in her head reminded her.

 

Hermione turned at the sound of footsteps moving alongside her as she led the group out of the woods and onto the sunlit lane that led to the main gates of the Estate. Dean Thomas, who had somehow grown taller since they’d been in school, looked down at her with a curious expression on his face. 

 

“So I take it you’ve been here before?” His deep baritone asked as he fell into step beside her. She’d always gotten on well with Dean. The fact that they were both Muggleborns meant that there was a whole world they’d shared that their Hogwarts classmates weren’t able to relate to. 

 

Hermione flushed, unsure why the question made her skin itch, like she had something to hide. “I actually spent three months here.”

 

Dean’s brows rose. “Really? Like a vacation?”

 

“More like a working vacation,” Hermione clarified. “I worked in the gardens while I was living here.”

 

“Sounds brilliant.” Dean sounded genuinely impressed. “I’ve talked to Neville some about living here, and I know that, well, some of the Slytherins are here too.” Hermione felt her shoulders tighten but kept her mouth shut; she sensed that Dean wasn’t finished. He adjusted the knapsack he had slung over one shoulder before clearing his throat. “What are they like?” 

 

It was hard not to react in anger, to not immediately jump to the defense of the friends she’d made. But the hypocrisy of her reaction wasn’t lost on her. Just a few months before she’d fainted at the unexpected sight of them when she’d first arrived. She’d held assumptions about Pansy, about Draco, about all of them, that would likely haunt her for the rest of her life.

 

“They’re,” she began, stretching her neck to the side as they passed through the tingle of the wards between the twin gargoyles that guarded the Estate entrance. “They’re just like us,” she finally said. “They went through the same war that we did, but without the benefit of adults looking out for them, or providing them with another way.” Hermione thought of the Order, of Kingsley, and the Weasley’s, and Remus and Tonks. “We had people to look up to who were working to make the world a better place. The fact that they found their way through it alive is incredible, and they are more deserving of grace and forgiveness than anyone else I’ve ever met.” She exhaled heavily before meeting Dean’s gaze. “They are good people, and I hope that everyone gives them a chance.” 

 

Frowning as though deep in thought, Dean nodded along with her words. “Even Malfoy?” he questioned. 

 

Hermione couldn’t bite back the smile. “Especially Malfoy,” she replied. 

 

They had reached the stone drive directly in front of the main house. Based on the awed comments from behind her, the group was impressed by the old Pureblood estate. For a moment, Hermione was unsure of where to go next;  in all of the months that she’d lived at the Casa de redenzione , she’d never actually seen anyone use the formidable front doors of the building. 

 

Just as she was about to lead the group around to the footpath that led to the back entrance, the large front doors burst open, and Neville and Theo ran together down the wide, stone stairs to green them. 

 

To her surprise, it was Theo who reached her first and enveloped her in a hug, lifting her feet from the ground and spinning her in a circle. “Welcome home, Granger,” he said, his voice muffled in her loose hair. Hermione could only smile in response, squeezing the wizard back with all of her strength. 

 

When he put her down, she turned to see Neville enthusiastically greeting the group with the exception of Millicent, who stood slightly removed from the rest of them with an uncomfortable expression on her face. Theo must have noticed her too, because he ran over to the witch and gave her an equally affectionate hug. 

 

Once the individual greetings had come to a natural end, Neville addressed them. “We are so bloody thrilled that you are all here to celebrate with us,” he paused as Theo came to stand beside him. Hermione watched fondly as her friend tucked his grinning fiance against his side, pressing a lingering kiss to his temple. “We’ve got rooms for all of you set up here in the main house. You’re welcome to explore this afternoon, and we’ll have dinner and drinks tonight out on the back patio. If you all want to follow me?” 

 

Neville led the group up the steps, and Hermione, unsure of what to do, decided to follow them. Harry and Ginny walked beside her through the wide hall that led them from the front of the house to the back, where the large ballroom and what was now the lobby were located. 

Andromeda, dressed in a simple and yet timelessly elegant cream-colored silk ensemble, greeted the group, exchanging a familiar embrace with Professor Sprout before summoning a basket filled with small envelopes. The basket floated into her waiting palm, and she began calling out the names of those present as she distributed envelopes to each of them. Hermione tried not to worry when she wasn’t given one. 

 

“There are keys to all of your rooms,” Andromeda explained to the group. “We have suspended our usual activities and reservations, so you all are welcome to enjoy the property and amenities to your hearts’ content.” Her eyes caught on Hermione and her already warm smile widened. “Miss Granger, I’m assuming you will be sleeping at the cottage with my nephew?”

 

Hermione’s jaw dropped as she managed a small nod, her eyes immediately darting to Harry, whose dark eyebrows were halfway up his forehead, and then over to Ginny, who seemed to be barely concealing her obvious amusement. When she made brief eye contact with Ron where he stood behind them, a tight grimace pinched his face. 

 

About a week ago, over coffee and toast, Hermione had broken the news to Ron that she was seeing someone. He hadn’t seemed surprised at the news, only responding with a resigned and yet sad smile as he voiced his hope that she was happy. But when the inevitable question of who was asked, any hope that the conversation would remain cordial was immediately shattered. 

 

The look on Ron’s face when she told him that she was dating Draco Malfoy left no doubt as to her friend and ex-boyfriend’s feelings on the subject. 

 

“You’re fucking joking, right?” he’d asked her. 

 

When she’d confirmed that no, she was not joking and yes, she really was serious, Ron’s face had morphed quickly from incredulity to disgust tinged with disbelief. 

 

“How could you?” he’d continued, his voice cracking with emotion. He wouldn’t look her in the eye. 

 

When she’d tried to talk to him, tried to explain the thousands of reasons why it worked, why Draco just fit , he interrupted her. “I…I can’t have this conversation, ‘Mione. I just… I need to go before I say something I’ll regret.” 

 

And that was the last time they’d discussed the matter. 

 

“You’ve got an hour to get settled in before dinner, and please make yourselves at home.” Andromeda once again addressing the group broke Hermione from her thoughts. 

 

She made her way over to Harry, Ron, and Ginny. “Are you all going to get unpacked, then?” she asked. 

 

Harry nodded. “Figured a shower would be nice; Robards had us running combat drills today and I didn’t have time to clean up before we had to catch the Portkey.” 

 

“We’ll see you at dinner then?” Ginny asked. Hermione silently blessed the younger Weasley for giving her an easy escape. 

 

“Absolutely,” Hermione confirmed, flashing Ginny a grateful smile. 

 

With that, she separated from her friends and walked out of the open patio doors, trying to will herself to slow down, to take a moment to breathe before what was inevitably coming towards her. Her nervousness buzzed near the surface of her skin, interwoven with excitement and anticipation. 

 

She was back. 

 

Taking in the ever-changing gardens as she walked, Hermione noticed that produce that had been green when she’d departed now hung ripe upon the vine. It was amazing how quickly she’d forgotten the deep satisfaction of watching the natural cycle of life that was constantly unfolding at the Estate. It was a physical reminder of the passage of time, more concrete and understandable, more real than what any clock or calendar attempted capture. 

 

When the cottage came into view, a warm feeling of happiness welled up within her. There it was, a home that housed an unconventional family who’d traveled thousands of miles to find peace together. A home where she had found peace with them. 

 

Nudging off her ballet flats to join the collection of boots and trainers that littered the front portal, Hermione eased open the front door. A few steps brought her into view of the kitchen, where Pansy and Luna were both laughing over flutes of bubbling champagne. 

 

“Hi,” Hermione called out. 

 

Immediately both witches looked over at her. Pansy’s shriek combined with Luna’s cry of “Hermione!” as both of them ran over to greet her. Sandwiched between the two taller women, Hermione couldn’t even complain when copious amounts of champagne spilled into her hair and onto her clothes. 

 

“It’s about damn time,” Pansy said as she withdrew from Hermione’s side. “It took you long enough, Granger.” 

 

Before Hermione could respond, Luna reached over to Pansy, one of her long fingers trailing down the ridge of the witch’s nose as she smiled serenely. “Be nice,” Luna hummed in her musical voice. “You know just as well as I do that she couldn’t find the truth here.” 

 

Pansy let out a sigh. “Fine, Lovegood.” She turned back to Hermione. “I fucking missed you and I’m glad you’re here.” Raising a brow at Luna, she added, “Better?”

 

Luna smiled, crinkling her nose as she took a dainty sip of champagne. “Much better.” 

 

Hermione laughed, accepting a full glass from Pansy. As she took a sip, she couldn’t help it that her eyes kept glancing toward the stairs, searching for a flash of pale blonde and listening for the methodical, unhurried footsteps she knew belonged to him.

 

“He’s not here.” 

 

Hermione turned to Pansy, who was regarding her with a smirk, feeling her face flush. 

 

“He’s out picking the last of the flowers for the weekend,” Pansy continued. “I’m not exactly sure where he is, but he’s out there,” she waved a hand in the general direction of the gardens, “somewhere.”

 

“I…” Hermione began.

 

“Sweet Circe, Hermione, go find your wizard and put us all out of our misery!” Pansy rolled her eyes, muttering something that sounded like “insufferable idiots” against the rim of her glass. 

 

“He’s been a bit testy recently,” Luna mused. “But I imagine you are uniquely qualified to help him clear the clouds that are putting his aura in the shade.”

 

Hermione could feel her cheeks flushing further. He was so close now. He was here . 

 

“I’m going to go get changed first.” Hermione finished the last of her champagne, walking over to the sink and quickly cleaning the dainty glass. She’d noticed that Pansy and Luna were already out of their work clothes and dressed for the evening ahead. Both of them wore sundresses: Pansy’s was a pale green, strapless dress that hugged her curves before flaring at her hips, while Luna’s dress was a vibrant, royal blue with straps that tied on her shoulders, a fitted bodice, and silver stars embroidered on the wide skirt that brushed against her shins. Pansy’s elaborately strapped heels contrasted with Luna’s white Chuck Taylor’s, but somehow the combination of the two of them worked beautifully together. 

 

Placing the dried glass on the counter, Hermione turned back to her friends. “I missed you both so much,” she said, unable to keep the emotion from her voice.

 

Pansy smiled sincerely. “We missed you too, Granger.” Luna nodded her agreement. 

 

Hermione ran up the stairs, inhaling the distinct smell of the cottage that she hadn’t even been able to identify until she was now reunited with it. It was a subtle smell, but ever-present, like the sound of waves at the beach or the sounds of traffic in London. Eventually, you get used to it and it fades into the background, forgotten. 

 

The bathroom door was open, and she slipped inside the brightly lit space, locking the door behind her. It all looked the same, beyond a few new leaves that had sprouted from the pothos plant that sat on the window sill. She noticed that there was still an empty shelf where she’d previously kept her toiletries. 

 

She wasted no further time, changing quickly into the first dress she’d purchased specifically for this weekend. At Ginny’s urging, Hermione had agreed to an afternoon of shopping in Muggle London so that they could both find attire for the wedding. Hermione wasn’t fond of shopping, but Ginny, predictably, managed to make the experience more bearable. Ultimately, she was pleased with the two dresses she’d found.

 

Surveying herself in the wide mirror, Hermione waved her wand to fasten the buttons at the back of her dress. The dress was a muted, terracotta color, with wide sleeves that gathered at her wrists. The front of the dress was high, sweeping just under her collarbones, while the back scooped all the way down to her waist, fastening with three wooden buttons. It was simple, overall, but the flowing chiffon of the fabric that reached just above her knees made the garment look more formal. 

 

She did nothing to her hair beyond combing out some of the tangles with her fingers, and then applied a light layer of mascara to her lashes. Once her gold hoops were in place, she returned her bag to her shoulder and walked back into the hallway. 

 

Her feet paused of their own volition as she looked back over her shoulder at the spiral staircase at the end of the hall. She thought for a moment about climbing it, about giving herself a moment of relief and reassurance that what had happened here was real , but, with a brief shake of her head, she continued down the hall. 

 

“That color looks perfect on you, Granger,” Pansy called out from where she and Luna were sitting together on the couch, champagne flutes still full and clasped in their hands. Based upon the small amount that she could see remaining in the bottle on the floor next to them, they had continued to drink consistently while she was changing. 

 

“You can thank Ginny Weasley for that,” Hermione said with a smile, remembering the red-head’s insistence that that was the dress she had to buy. 

 

A shadow of something crossed Pansy’s face, but it was replaced by a smirk before Hermione could identify what it was. “I guess that I will,” she replied, somewhat subdued. 

 

“You’re going to like her,” Luna chimed in. “You two possess similar spirits, although your auras are distinctly different colors.” 

 

Pansy turned to regard her companion for a moment, her expression unreadable. “If you say so, Lovegood.” 

 

___________________________________

Hermione walked quickly along the garden paths, grateful for the light, flowing fabric of her dress as the late afternoon sun beat down upon her. She gradually moved closer to the Estate, making sure to check each and every planted area before continuing on. 

 

The heat was barely mitigated by a gentle breeze that rustled the trees around her. The sweet aroma of ripe fruit filled the air in a way that was almost intoxicating, and each tree that she passed had branches weighed down by apricots, peaches, plums, cherries, and pears, all flushed with color and begging to be harvested. Hermione resisted the urge to taste the fruit, taking note of their location and making an internal commitment to revisit them. 

 

Finally, she saw what her eyes had been searching for for hours: the flash of pale blonde hair, almost white in the bright sun, tied up in a high bun, with a tanned neck and broad back covered by a white t-shirt kneeling down in the dirt. 

 

She stopped, overcome with nerves. 

 

This is it , she thought. I’m here, he’s here, we’re both here. Say something, Hermione.

 

“Miss Hermione!” 

 

A turquoise-tinted blur raced toward her, jostling her back a few steps as Teddy Lupin hugged her legs with the enthusiasm only a child could summon. His head turned up to look at her, his wide, uninhibited grin showing off his small, perfect teeth and the red flush on his skin. 

 

“Hi Teddy.” Hermione couldn’t help but laugh as she returned the boy’s hug, only to have him immediately withdraw from her grasp and insist upon a series of palm-bruising high fives. 

 

“Hi.” 

 

The sound of his low voice sent a wave of chills down her spine. She looked up from the boy, meeting the gaze of the man who now stood before her, looking down at her with an intensity that she couldn’t name. 

 

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she replied. “Hi.” 

 

His grey eyes darted over her, seeming to take inventory of each piece of her; an attempt to verify that she was still whole. Hermione took the moment to survey him, his hands, his tattooed skin, the denims with dirt-stained knees, his full lower lip, the shadow of hair on his upper lip, the smudge of soil on his cheek. He was here and he was whole.

 

She began to move toward him. 

 

“Miss Hermione!” Teddy’s voice and the tugging on her hand pulled her attention. 

 

“Yes?” she asked, stopping to look down at the boy. 

 

“Are you going to help us carry the flowers?” He pointed a grubby finger to the baskets of cut flowers and other green foliage that lined the pathway beside them. 

 

She glanced up at Draco, who simply shrugged. He still stared at her, eyes piercing, like he couldn’t look away. 

 

Turning back to the boy, she gave him a soft smile. “Of course I’m going to help. Show me what to do.”  

 

A minute later, she held two large baskets under each arm. Each was overflowing with incredible blooms, only some of which she recognized. The overarching theme was apparent, however, in the fact that all of the flowers were various shades of white and cream, with a few of the palest blue. Everything else was green, with a variety of textures ranging from fluffy ferns to sleek grasses. 

 

Teddy walked between them, struggling to carry a small basket and adamantly refusing their offers to assist him. On the other side of him, Draco had somehow managed to balance three baskets in his arms while still maintaining his smooth and almost aristocratic stride. 

 

The little boy was obviously very excited to see her, and talked almost non-stop about what had been happening at the Casa since her departure. Baby chicks had been hatched, there was a large fish that lived under a rock in the stream behind the cottage, and he’d convinced the older wizards to play football with him at least once a week. When he assured her that none of them were as good as her, she glanced over at Draco, catching the end of an eye roll. 

 

He must have felt her gaze, because she saw red blossom on his cheeks before he looked back down at the path in front of them. 

 

When they reached the back patio, it was a flurry of activity. Andromeda and Blaise directed a group of employees that Hermione thought she recognized from the kitchen as they moved tables and hung paper lanterns from the beams of the pergola. 

 

When Blaise saw them, he rushed over, using his wand to levitate the baskets of flowers over to a nearby table. “Thank Merlin you got those.” The words were panted out as he struggled to catch his breath. He seemed to notice Hermione, giving her a halfhearted wave. “Hi little lion, lovely to see you. No time for formal greetings now…” The wizard trailed off as he rushed over to criticize the placement of a chair. 

 

“Oh Draco,” Andromeda moved toward them, careful to avoid the many bodies who were scurrying around the outdoor space. “Thank you for taking him with you. You got the…beautiful, yes, those are perfect.” She beckoned to the young boy. “Come on, love. Let’s get you cleaned up for dinner.” 

 

After a long hug with Draco and a high five from Hermione, Teddy allowed his grandmother to lead him inside. For a moment, the two of them simply stood there, as if they were unsure of what to do next. 

 

Draco cleared his throat. “I’ve got to shower, would you like to walk with --”

 

“Yes!” Her interruption was practically shouted, and she winced at her clumsiness with him. Why was this so --

 

The sudden touch of his skin against hers, his fingers demanding her hand open and interlace with his, pulled her from her thoughts. A gentle tug was all it took for them to walk away from the chaos of the Estate and back into the gardens. 

 

His hand squeezed hers. “You’re here.” His voice was hoarse. 

 

“I’m here.” She returned the squeeze, letting her body drift closer to his as they walked. She turned up to look at him, finding him already staring down at her. Their feet stopped moving. His eyes darkened, as his lips parted. 

 

“Hermione,” he whispered, and it was everything she had dreamed of when she’d imagined what it would feel like to once again be the recipient of his gaze. 

 

“Ahem.” A small, gruff voice interrupted whatever had been about to happen. 

 

Looking down at the path in front of them, she was unsurprised to find a poncho-clad Sergio astride Myrtle, who was looking especially perturbed as her beady eyes darted about. The gnome’s face was set in a deep frown as he looked between the two of them. 

 

“So. She’s back.”

 

Hermione, confused, looked up at Draco, who simply glared down at the gnome as if he were a pest that needed to be removed. The wizard exhaled loudly through his nose. “Yes, yes she is.” 

 

“Hello, Sergio,” she attempted to greet the magical creature, but was silenced by the accusatory look he sent toward her. 

 

Sergio returned his full attention to Draco. “Will you be behaving kindly to the flowers now?” 

 

Hermione looked up at Draco, who was flushing a deep pink color. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been perfectly cordial in my work with the flowers,” he replied tersely. 

 

“That is a lie.” The gnome shook his head, giving Draco a look typically reserved for disappointed fathers chastising their sons. 

 

“We’re in a bit of a rush,” Draco said as he began to continue down the path, Hermione following.

 

“That is fine,” Sergio replied, “I will be walking with you then.” 

 

In any other situation, Hermione would have laughed at the murderous expression in Draco’s eyes as the gnome guided the chicken to fall into step alongside them. However, her own frustration limited her ability to find the humor in the moment.

 

________________________________

“I’m going to kill that fucking gnome,” Draco muttered as they entered the cottage. “I --”

 

“You found him!” Pansy shouted across the room from where she and Luna still sat on the couch. “The lovebirds are finally reunited and all is well in the world.” 

 

Based upon the slight slurring of her words and Luna’s giggled response, Hermione assumed that they’d finished the first bottle of champagne and were well into their acquaintance with a second. 

 

The pull on her hand had her turning to face Draco, who ran his other hand over his face as he let out a low groan. “I would ask you to join me in the shower,” he whispered as his thumb traced circles on her wrist, “but you already look fucking beautiful and we’d definitely be late.”

 

Hermione cursed her planning. Why had she thought showering and getting ready for the evening early was a good plan? Giving Draco a quick nod of understanding, he gave her one last lingering look before running up the stairs. 

 

Time passed quickly when she joined the two tipsy witches, accepting another glass of champagne and falling easily into conversation and laughter. When steady footsteps moved down the stairs, Hermione looked up, almost surprised when she saw a freshly-bathed Draco enter the room. 

 

His hair was damp, hanging loose and almost reaching his shoulders. He wore slim, navy slacks and a flowing, grey, short-sleeved shirt with a crisp collar that hung open and unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of his smooth chest. The ensemble was almost stereotypically Italian, and yet it perfectly suited the British man who wore it. 

 

He looked incredible. Hermione was only vaguely aware that there were others in the room who were speaking; she was completely uninterested in looking anywhere besides at the man who slowly walked toward her. 

 

“Oi!” Pansy’s shout cut through the haze in her mind and Hermione looked over at the witch, who was looking between her and Draco with an amused expression on her face. 

 

“What?” Hermione asked, mildly annoyed that she was being interrupted. 

 

“We need to go,” Pansy said with a laugh, pulling Luna up to her feet. “Theo will murder us if we’re late.” 

 

Pansy and Luna skipped toward the door, bringing along the half full bottle of champagne “for the road,” Pansy explained. Hermione moved toward the door, her hand unconsciously reaching for his as their bodies brushed, her shoulder against his arm. It was simultaneously too much -- the smell of cedar, the warmth of his body, the knowledge that he was really standing next to her -- and not enough. 

 

The group began to walk up to the main Estate. While the champagne bottle was passed between them all, Pansy maintained a seemingly endless stream of questions about England that Hermione was barely able to keep up with answering. Draco moved steadily beside her, never letting go of her hand, but all that she could think about as they moved through the gardens was how much she wanted to hear nothing but the sound of his voice in her ears. 

 

Too soon they arrived at the transformed patio, already full of the small group of guests who had traveled to attend the wedding. The sun was still low in the sky, and yet the twinkling lanterns that hung from the beams of the pergola already created an enchanting atmosphere. Round, high tables and various constellations of chairs scattered about, as though designed to accommodate more intimate moments rather than the whole group unified together. Close to the open doors, a long table was already covered in a spread of food and various bottles of wine and champagne. 

 

Flowers filled tastefully small jars on each table alongside enchanted, gold flames contained in glass spheres. In the background, what sounded like jazz music played, noticeable enough that it was never silent, but not so overpowering as to interfere with conversation. 

 

Pansy almost instantly left them to greet Milicent, who stood, dressed in a lovely burgundy dress, with Blaise around one of the small tables. Luna pranced over to where Lavender and Hannah talked with Dean and Seamus. 

 

Hermione felt Draco’s fingers loosen from hers, and she gripped him tighter, refusing to let him go. Her gaze honed in on her three housemates from England where they stood with glasses of wine, and without saying a word, began to walk toward them, dragging Draco along with her. 

 

“Hey guys,” she greeted them, smiling through their surprised expressions. Beside her, she felt Draco stiffen. “Um, well, you all obviously know Draco,” she started, realizing belatedly that she should have devoted some time and energy into planning this moment. 

 

It was Harry who stepped forward, looking smart in black slacks with a crisp, white shirt and crimson tie. His expression was carefully shielded as he extended a hand toward the wizard who stood beside her. “Good to see you again, Malfoy,” he said. 

 

After a moment’s hesitation, Draco reached out to clasp the hand, giving it a brief but firm shake. “Likewise, Potter.” 

 

Behind Harry, Ginny scoffed. “You two are pitiful,” she said with a laugh. She looked stunning in a black, form-fitting dress that left very little to the imagination. It was something Hermione could easily imagine Pansy wearing. 

 

Releasing Draco’s hand, Harry glanced back over his shoulder at his girlfriend. “Gin,” he began. 

 

“What?” Ginny’s tone was incredulous. “The two of you have been absolutely obsessed with each other for most of your lives, and now you are pretending like the fact that your best mate is dating him isn’t the opportunity for friendship that you’ve been waiting for for years !” 

 

Hermione couldn’t help it; she burst into laughter, releasing Draco’s hand to clutch at her chest as she struggled for breath. “What the fuck , Ginny!” she gasped out between gasps. “Why would you say that?” 

 

The red-head had joined her, cackling as she gripped at her sides. “They’re just so fucking awkward, Herms, I couldn’t help it!” 

 

As another round of laughter overtook her, she heard Draco ask, “Are they always like this?” 

 

“Unfortunately, it’s quite frequent,” Harry replied. As Hermione carefully wiped the tears from her eyes, she could have sworn that she saw the wizards exchange a look of amusement. 

 

When she looked over to where Ron was, she was greeted by an empty space. A quick sweep of the room located him; she could clearly see the back of his head where he’d joined Seamus and Dean’s group in conversation. A quiet, resigned sigh fell from her lips. She’d been hopeful, optimistic even, that things would have been different here, but knew better than to intervene. 

 

After a few minutes of conversation that was less painful than Hermione would have imagined, Hermione and Draco split from Harry and Ginny. Hermione fell into a very intellectually stimulating academic conversation with Professor Sprout (who insisted on being called Pomona), and she saw that across the room Draco had joined Milicent, Pansy, and Blaise. 

 

As she conversed with her late professor, Hermione saw Neville and Theo arrive from inside the main house. They both wore wide smiles and were immediately swept up in another round of greetings as they went around the patio. She couldn’t help but mirror their happiness with her own smile; both wizards looked handsome in Muggle suits (Neville in a dark grey, and Theo in a heathered sky blue) and once again Hermione was struck with the easy harmony that obviously existed between the two of them. They wore their love proudly in each easy smile and touch that they shared; half of the time they seemed oblivious to the fact that there were people watching them. 

 

Neville briefly addressed the entire group, encouraging everyone to mingle, eat and drink. Hermione was joined by Luna as they made their way to the impressive spread of food: various cured meats and cheese were interspersed with jams, pestos, and breads, and round trays held traditional margherita pizzas. At one end, a variety of wine bottles were already opened, and even more were neatly arranged to the side. With a slice of pizza in one hand a glass of bubbling champagne in the other, Hermione was sucked into conversation with Pansy and Milicent, who, as it turned out, was working in field research with a centaur community in Northern Ireland, and was more than happy to tell Hermione all about her work. 

 

As the last light of day faded into night, the patio was filled with conversation and laughter. Hermione was beginning to feel the effects of the champagne she’d been steadily drinking throughout the evening, and she found herself more prone to laughter as the minutes wore on. She and Draco had remained separate through most of the evening, as the room remained divided rather predictably by previous Hogwarts house affiliation, or, more specifically, the Slytherins on one side and everyone else on the other.  

 

Seamus was regaling them with a story about his and Dean’s recent vacation to the United States, where they’d accidentally traveled to the wrong Las Vegas, spending a weekend that was supposed to be filled with gambling and wild night clubs in the tiny, cowboy-inspired town of Las Vegas, New Mexico. Hermione laughed along with them, but her eyes drifted to where they’d been for most of the night: her wizard. 

 

He was already looking at her. She watched him take a slow drink from his glass of wine, her eyes dipping down to the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed before darting back up to his eyes. The moment their gazes locked, his mouth curved up into a smile. When he jerked his head in the direction of the darkness of the gardens, Hermione replied with a nod. With a muttered excuse about going to the loo, she slipped away from the conversation, walking along the edge of the open space, her eyes glancing over to where Draco was extracting from his conversation as well. They moved parallel to each other on opposite sides of the patio, like they were connected by an invisible tether, until finally they reached the gravel path that led into the gardens. 

 

Their hands immediately found each other, warm skin clinging tightly together as their quick footsteps led them away from the faint laughter and music. They kept walking, the air between them quiet and charged, until the only sound interrupting the moonlit night was the crunch of gravel under their feet. 

 

Suddenly, Hermione was pulled from the path by two strong hands. Her breath caught as her back was pushed roughly against the trunk of a large tree, and the warmth of a tall body crowded against her. She barely felt the warmth of his breath on her face before his lips descended on hers. 

 

Finally.  

 

His tongue slid along the seam of her lips and Hermione immediately opened, granting him entry. She whimpered as the kiss deepened, relief sinking into her body as his touch and his mouth and his tongue said everything that he hadn’t yet spoken. He tasted of red wine and Draco, and she drank from him, her tongue curling and curving to meet his every movement. 

 

When his body pressed against hers, a keening cry ripped from her chest and her hands came up to tangle in his hair. She never wanted to let go. His rough hands cradled her jaw as one of his thighs slipped between her legs, coming to a stop when his firm muscle met her core. She leaned into him while tugging his head closer, driven by a wild desire to close any distance between them. 

 

He wrenched his lips away, lowering his forehead to rest against hers as he took low, gasping breaths. “I wanted to do this from the moment I saw you today, but I wasn’t sure…” He sounded almost hesitant. 

 

“Me too,” she breathed. “But I didn’t want to be too forward…” 

 

Draco chuckled, his thumbs rubbing gently on her warm cheeks. “We are fucking idiots, aren’t we?” 

 

Hermione let out a choked laugh. “Complete idiots,” she whispered back. 

 

“Next time,” Draco’s voice was muffled as he dipped down to press a line of kisses along her jaw, “Just do it. I don’t give a fuck who is there or what society deems is acceptable, just don’t make me wait again.” His mouth lingered just under her ear, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin, only to be replaced by the gentle soothing of his tongue. “Hermione…” he whispered against her. “Fuck, you’re really here.” 

 

She slid her fingers through his loose hair, letting her nails scratch lightly against his skin as she trailed from his neck down to his shoulders. “Draco.” His name fell from her lips. 

 

In a flurry of movement, Draco spun them around and slid his back down the trunk of the tree, bringing Hermione with him. She fell into his lap, her legs straddling him where he sat in the dirt. Immediately she was lost in the all-consuming kiss. There was no holding back now: her hands flew to his buttons, while he pulled her dress down to reveal her bare breasts, nipples already tight and aching for attention. With a desperate growl he abandoned her mouth, descending down to suck one nipple between his kiss-wetted lips, sucking without restraint as his tongue swirled circles around the bud. Hermione couldn’t contain the sighs of pleasure as he switched to her other breast, fanning the flames that were already building inside her with every touch of his tongue. 

 

Desperate for more, Hermione ground down with her hips, making contact with the thick outline of his cock that strained against his slacks. Their combined moans fractured the quiet night that surrounded them, but they were unphased. Hermione was frantically undoing the zip of his pants, while Draco, muttering a string of curses, ripped her lace knickers from her body in lieu of the inconvenience and time it would take to remove them. 

 

When her hand finally circled around his cock, she felt him shudder beneath her. “Fuck, witch,” he muttered, bucking his hips up into her tight hold. “I need you.” 

 

Hermione was quick to comply, her breath panting as she scooted forward on her knees to hover above him. The feeling of his rough hands on her hips sent another wave of longing through her: they were really here. This was really happening. 

 

Without warning, she sank down onto him. Her eyes fluttered shut as his cock filled her completely, the delicious stretch so familiar and yet still as earth-shattering as the first time she felt it. Her wizard’s groan underneath her prompted her to move, circling her hips forward every time she plunged back down onto his cock. 

 

Their mouths found each other again. It was as if they couldn’t stay apart, like there was a magnetic desperation that fueled their movements as Hermione rode him. One of his hands moved from her hip to where their bodies joined, and Hermione cried out in relief as his thumb rubbed clumsy circles around her clit. 

 

It wasn’t graceful, or elegant, or precise. It wasn’t carefully calculated or finessed. Their frantic coupling was punctuated by the repeated slaps of their bare flesh meeting and the moans and curses that were muffled by their prolonged kiss. 

 

She wasn’t sure how it was possible, but she was already close. After years of having sole ownership of her pleasure, of having to work and strive for every orgasm, Hermione was still baffled by Draco’s ability to draw them from her with what seemed like minimal effort.  When she broke their kiss to tell the wizard that she was there, she was on the edge, it was too late. With the next brush of his thumb against her clit she shattered around him, her back arching and her head thrown back in ecstasy as pulsing pleasure coursed through her veins. She could feel his cock still moving within her, his mouth attaching to her neck as his breathing grew more frantic. 

 

Opening her eyes, Hermione looked down at the man underneath her, holding his face between her hands. His eyes were screwed shut, his mouth hanging open as sharp breaths burst from his lips. “Look at me, Draco,” she demanded, her voice ragged. His eyes opened, and with the dim light of the distant moon she could barely make out the swirling depths that were overwhelmed by the dark pupils that stared up at her. “I want you to look at me when you come.”

 

That was all it took. With a strangled roar, Draco came. She felt wave after wave of his warm release fill her, and she continued to swirl her hips above him as she held his eyes locked with hers. He stilled with a shudder, arms surrounding her and holding her tightly against his heaving chest. 

 

Hermione curled into him, in no rush to sever their physical connection. She nuzzled her face into the heat of his neck, deeply inhaling him. 

 

She felt the soft kiss that he pressed into her hair. “I’m so glad that you’re back,” she heard him murmur. 

 

“Me too,” she replied, snuggling deeper into his embrace.

 

“I’ve decided that I’m not particularly fond of missing you,” Draco continued, his hands tracing slow trails up and down her spine. 

 

Hermione pulled back from him so that she could look directly into his face. She couldn’t make out his expression in the faint light, but could see well enough to press a slow kiss to his lips. 

 

“Were you actually grumpy with the flowers?” she whispered when she withdrew from him, smirking when he replied with an eye roll. 

 

“I’m going to kill that bloody gnome.” 

Notes:

And...we're back!
I'm not sure if anyone has ever had the experience of meeting someone, having a super-immersive "falling in love" experience, and then leaving them. It can really feel like a dream. And then, when you finally see them again, there is such a fear that it was all imagined. I tried to bring some of that into this chapter.

Thank you all for the comments! I love seeing your reactions and thoughts.

Also, this chapter was un-beta'd, so let me know if I missed any errors.
Thank you as always to the beta squad, who all have busy lives, and still found the time to answer my questions amid the chaos of the holidays. Love you all.

Chapter 38: Chapter 38

There was no moment of confusion when Hermione woke up in Draco’s bed the next morning. No wondering where she was, or trying to carefully catalog the sounds and smells that greeted her senses; no, Hermione immediately knew.

 

The comforting weight of an arm slung over her waist and the palm that rested lightly against her lower belly. The feeling of simple cotton sheets on her bare skin. The silence and stillness of the air before the first birds awoke with the sun. The sharp bite of cedar in her nostrils. 

 

Carefully rolling over, Hermione came face to face with twin grey eyes just beginning to blink open. The serene calm that filled Draco’s face while he slept morphed slowly into a soft, sleepy smile as he registered her presence. 

 

“You’re here.” His voice was graveled from sleep, and one of his hands emerged from under the sheets to rub at his eyes. It was adorable, really, watching the sweet vulnerability in his first waking moments. He was so soft, so unguarded. 

 

Hermione exhaled through her nose in a quiet laugh. “I’m here.” 

 

The arm around her waist tightened, pulling her naked body flush against his. His thigh easily slipped between her legs, while his hand dipped down to hoist her leg up and over his hip. Their faces were closer now, and she took a moment to explore the little details of him, once again committing him to memory: the smooth texture of his skin, his clumped lower lashes, and the proud arch of his nose -- all the pieces of his handsome features that she’d missed. 

 

“Are you alright?” 

 

Hermione blinked at him, noting the concern etched on his face. “Of course,” she murmured. “Why do you ask?” 

 

“It’s your eyes,” Draco said with a frown, shifting to prop himself up on one elbow while maintaining the connection between their lower bodies, his wide palm holding her in place against him like he was afraid that she’d drift away. “I haven’t seen them like this since you first showed up here.” 

 

“I…”

 

“Hermione.” Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t bullshit me.”

 

She swallowed. “It was hard, being back there. At work, especially. It almost felt like my purpose was gone, like I wasn’t really needed anymore. I think I’ve built my entire identity around the idea that I’m important and essential, and…they didn’t even need me, Draco. They’ve made changes that I never would’ve considered, and they’re better for it. They were fine without me.”

 

Draco watched her intently, nodding along with her words. “So what are you going to do?” 

 

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted, letting herself lean into the comfort of his warm chest.

 

She felt the kiss that his lips planted on her forehead. “Well, let me know if you’d like to talk about it. I’m fully aware that I can be an insufferable prat most of the time, but I hope you know that for you, I’ll always take the time to listen.” 

 

Hermione tilted her head up, capturing his lips in an unhurried kiss. Draco melted into her, his tongue engaging hers in a lazy dance that sent sparks through her veins. When she drew away from him to catch her breath, she held his grey stare, noting his darkening eyes. “And you?” she asked. “Are you alright?” 

 

Draco looked at her for a moment before a deep laugh vibrated from his chest. “Honestly? I’m just glad that you’re here now.” 

 

“Me too,” Hermione agreed. A quick glance toward the window confirmed that the sky was beginning to shift with the first rays of sunlight. “Would you like to accompany your girlfriend on a run, Sir Malfoy?” 

 

Draco arched a brow at her. “It would please Sir Malfoy greatly to accompany his witch in her scheduled dose of daily physical torture.”

 

With a laugh, Hermione disentangled their legs and climbed out of the warmth of the bed, pleasantly reminded of the gentle coolness of the Italian mornings that allowed her to move comfortably across the room to where her bag was hung over his chair.

 

As she retrieved her running clothes, she took a deep breath, taking a moment to appreciate that she, Hermione Granger, had returned to Italy. It was as if something that had been slightly off was now readjusted, put back into place. There was a tangible rightness to her being here that she couldn’t explain, and for the moment, she was content to leave that question unanswered. It was enough to be . 

 

_______________________________

Hermione sat perched on a stool in the kitchen, her coffee cup clasped between two hands and a dazed smile on her face. After their run, she and Draco had stumbled into the shower, where they had spent the next half hour doing a more thorough and patient examination of each others’ bodies after their hurried coupling in the garden the night before. After three orgasms and a scalp massage, Hermione was thoroughly content to get lost in her thoughts with her coffee while Draco went up to the Estate to spend some time with Teddy before the brunch that was planned for later. It was luxurious to sit in the kitchen without needing to be anywhere, and Hermione was enjoying the simple pleasure of watching the sunbeams shift with the brightening morning. 

 

At the sound of muffled footsteps padding towards her, Hermione glanced up. She broke into a huge smile at the sight of Neville, who looked like he was still very much in the process of waking up. 

 

For a moment she simply observed him: someone she grew up with, someone who shared in so many of the same life experiences as she had, was about to get married. It seemed impossible that someone their age could be even remotely ready for such a thing, for such a permanent decision. Marriage seemed like a far off concept, something for older people to consider. They were still so young, weren’t they? However, from what she’d come to know about both Neville and Theo, she couldn’t deny that there was something strong and unbreakable that existed between them, something that spoke to forever in a way she couldn’t understand.  

 

“Morning, Nev.”

 

The wizard gave her a sleepy smile, scratching at his sleep-ruffled hair. “Coffee?” he asked. 

 

Hermione pointed at the French press on the counter. “There’s enough left for at least one more cup.” 

 

Nodding in thanks, Neville shuffled into the kitchen, pulling a green mug from the cabinet and filling it almost to the brim. He took a slow drink of the coffee, letting out a low groan of appreciation. “Bloody hell, I’d forgotten how good Malfoy’s coffee is.” At her questioning look, he elaborated. “He gets up so bloody early that there’s never any left by the time I’m up.”

 

Hermione hummed in understanding as she took another drink of coffee, watching her friend curiously. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Brilliant,” Neville began. “Excited. Happy. Nervous?”

 

They shared a quiet laugh.

 

“I’m so blown away by you,” Hermione admitted, letting the tips of her fingers run over the carved surface of the mug, making note of each ridge and valley. “I can’t imagine taking the step of committing to anything forever. It’s brave and incredible, really.”

 

Neville shrugged. “I don’t necessarily look at it that way.” 

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“There’s no way for me to know what the future holds.” In a nonchalant show of strength, Neville hopped up to sit on the counter across from her. “As we’ve already seen in our lives, the most unexpected things can come out of nowhere and change everything in an instant. What I’m promising to Theo isn’t just a blanket commitment to forever, because that would be an impossible promise to make. I’m not committing to something that is going to remain unchanging and fixed. What I’m promising him is to wake up every day and see him with clear eyes, and get to know and love the man that he is on that day. I want to see him continue to grow and change, just as I know and trust that he wants the same for me. We’ve both transformed since those early nights sneaking around Hogwarts together, but we’ve continued to find love in each other through those changes. So that’s how I see it. I’m committing to show up for him every day for the rest of our lives.” 

 

Her mouth had dropped open as she listened to him. When he finished, she snapped her jaw shut, regarding her friend with genuine awe. “When did you get to be so brilliant?”

 

Laughing off her compliment, Neville simply shrugged with the same modesty that he’d carried effortlessly since she’d first met him. Changing the subject, Neville mused, “It’s pretty surreal to have everyone here together, don’t you think?” 

 

“It doesn’t feel real.”

 

“Think we can get them to take their heads out of their arses for long enough to realize how much they have in common?” 

 

“I hope so,” Hermione sighed. “I just wish that all of our friends could have the same opportunity that we’ve had, you know, to really see them and get to know them as they are now.”

 

Neville held his mug up toward her, tipping his head with a quirk in his dark brow. “Cheers to that.”

 

_________________________________

The brunch was set up, once again, on the back patio, except that this time there was only one long table set up for all of the guests. Hermione sat between Ginny and Draco, nibbling at some sort of almond pastry as she listened to the rise and fall of the voices that surrounded her.

 

The group still remained largely divided by previous house affiliation, with Hermione and Draco bridging the gap on one side and Neville and Theo on the other. Luna was sitting between Pansy and Millicent, seemingly oblivious to whatever invisible line was dividing the group. It was almost humorous how quickly both groups fell into their stereotypes: the Gryffindor-dominated end of the table loudly exchanging stories and laughter, while the Slytherins were more quiet, subdued, and intentional with their words. 

 

Hermione was content to sit back and observe. It was enough to be surrounded by the energy of the group, grounded by the firm warmth of Draco’s hand that rested on her knee under the table. 

 

“So,” Theo said loudly, bringing the other conversations to an end. “We thought long and hard about how to spend this day with you all, and after about thirty seconds of discussion, we decided that a game of football would be the most appropriate activity for our collective enjoyment.” 

 

Hermione looked wide-eyed at Neville, who simply grinned back at her. 

 

“Football?” Seamus called out from the opposite end of the table. “Like Muggle football?” 

 

“Exactly. Hermione taught us all to play, and we figured it would be a nice, safe activity to give everyone a chance to get to know each other better. And it doesn’t require wands, so it removes any possibility of hexing.” There were a few chuckles at the last comment. 

 

“This is going to be a disaster,” Draco muttered under his breath. 

 

Hermione agreed. She already saw Ron and Dean eyeing Draco and Blaise from across the table, and couldn’t imagine how throwing this group onto a pitch was a good idea.

 

______________________________

Hermione had to stifle a laugh at the sight of her friends from the wizarding world dressed in a variety of clothing that they imagined would be fitting for a Muggle sport that many of them obviously knew nothing about. Between swimming trunks and rolled denims, it was glaringly apparent which of them had any sort of exposure to the Muggle world. 

 

After a lively debate between Ron and herself about the fair selection of teams, dividing the teams into witches (and Teddy) against wizards proved to be the easiest solution. As Hermione suspected, both Harry and Ron voiced their concern that the teams were unfairly weighted in favor of the physically larger wizards, pointedly ignoring both Draco and Theo’s comments that they were underestimating their longtime friend’s abilities. 

 

“Have you seen ‘Mione on a broom?” Ron asked with a chuckle, looking questioningly at the two Slytherins. “She’s bloody brilliant with books, but can’t play sports to save her life.” 

 

Hermione glanced over at Draco, who was glaring at Ron with a pitying snicker. “I am so fucking excited to see you proven wrong, Weasel.” 

 

Ron, his face flushing a deep red, opened his mouth like he was going to respond, but Harry grabbed his shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Muttering to himself, Ron retreated, sending a rude gesture in Draco’s direction before turning away. 

 

Rolling her eyes at the two wizards, Hermione turned her attention back to explaining the rules of the game. With the help of Dean and Harry, who had some experience with the sport, they were able to begin playing. 

 

Much like the first time she’d played with the wizards in Italy, Hermione quickly established her dominance on the field. Ginny and Millicent both picked up the game quickly, with Millicent’s surprising foot/eye coordination and Ginny’s competitive will-power combining to make them a formidable duo. The most surprising alliance was between Pansy and Ginny, who made it their personal mission to trash talk the other team. Ginny directed most of her fire toward Harry and Ron, while Pansy chose to focus her attention on Draco. Hermione could only laugh when her wizard asked, “What did I do to deserve this?” when Pansy loudly claimed that his large nose was likely blocking his view of the goal after one of his attempts completely missed the net. 

 

It was complete chaos, but surprisingly fun. Even those who didn’t have the same affinity for athletic activities managed to engage in the game. At one point Hermione heard Lavender, Susan, and Luna discussing what sounded like a trend in fashion with Blaise in the middle of the field, while she could have sworn that Dean and Theo were working together to mob Hermione every time she touched the ball. The bright morning rang with laughter and shrieks as the group melded and combined. Even Ron and Draco were somehow managing to coexist on the same team without coming to blows. 

 

Eventually exhaustion brought the game to a halt, and the witches and Teddy were proclaimed the winners. Hermione would never forget the twin looks of vicious joy on Pansy and Ginny’s faces as they exchanged a handshake. Pansy summoned pitchers of water and lemonade for the group as they all sprawled on the edge of the stream that ran alongside the field behind the cottage. Within a matter of minutes most of them had drifted into the water, either wading in the shallows or sitting on the banks with their feet dangling in. 

 

Hermione’s mind wandered absently as she watched the ripples generated from her toes when a flushed and smiling Ron sat down beside her. 

 

“Hey, ‘Mione.” 

 

She gave him a warm smile. “Hi.” 

 

“I had no idea that you played football,” he started, wiping his palms onto his rolled up denims. “And I certainly didn’t know you were such a bloody ringer.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “I guess the ferret was right about that.” 

 

Hermione choked on her lemonade as she laughed. “He has the advantage of already having his arse kicked by me,” she explained. “I played in the summers when I was a kid. Football is a big deal in the Muggle world, very much like Quidditch is for you.” 

 

Ron frowned, as though carefully considering his words. “Why didn’t you ever tell me, or, well, us, about this?” 

 

She immediately knew who Ron was talking about: her other family, her wizarding family -- Ron, Harry, and Ginny. She’d always held the details of her life in the Muggle world closely, choosing not to share them with her friends in the wizarding world. She’d never actually considered why that was a choice that she’d made, keeping those parts of herself from Harry and Ron. Maybe it was because she’d been so eager to assimilate to the world she was immersed in at Hogwarts, to prove that she deserved to be there. 

 

“I never intentionally kept this part of my life from you,” Hermione reassured, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t want you to think that I made a conscious choice not to share this piece of myself with you. I guess that there was never the time or the right reason, Ron. My whole life shifted to the wizarding world when I turned eleven, and I haven’t had much time to look back. It was almost easier to keep the two separate.” 

 

“So then what changed? Why now?”

 

“I think I finally have both the time and the right reason to look back and piece together the little things that make me happy.” A wistful smile crossed her face. “And this game, and, more importantly, playing it with friends, is one of those things.” 

 

Ron didn’t respond, seeming to be deep in thought as they both returned their gazes to the other witches and wizards that were scattered around them. Laughter and the sound of splashing water filled the air, and the crisp coolness of the water curbed the midsummer heat. 

 

She could feel the weight of eyes watching her, and she looked around, quickly locating Draco, who stood in conversation with Blaise. While he appeared to be listening to what his dark-haired friend was saying, his eyes watched her intently, his furrowed brows conveying concern. Offering him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, Hermione turned her attention back to Ron, nodding along as he launched into a detailed analysis of the similarities between Quidditch and football. 

 

The minutes oozed from one to the next, the heat of the day creating the illusion that they were suspended outside the constraints of time, until someone had the brilliant idea to cast a Tempus , revealing that it was time for the group to disperse to prepare for the wedding ceremony, which was scheduled for the early afternoon. 

 

Hermione watched Neville and Theo share a moment of whispered intimacy before they parted ways; Theo would be getting ready with Blaise and Draco up at the main Estate, while Neville would stay at the cottage. She saw the softening of Neville’s eyes as he looked at his soon-to-be husband with such unfiltered affection that it made Hermione’s heart skip a beat. 

 

Love. What they shared was love. 

 

_______________________________

 

Wicker chairs had been arranged around the grove of peach trees that stood to one side of the cottage, creating a semi-circle that surrounded a wooden archway that was covered from top to bottom in a variety of fresh, white flowers that she recognized as the same ones that Draco and Teddy had harvested the day before. There were no further decorations, which Hermione found appropriate; the surrounding gardens and the trees heavy with ripe fruit provided more beauty than anything fabricated by human hands. The ceremony site was bathed in dappled sunlight that filtered through the taller cypress trees that bordered the orchard, offering some relief from the heat. 

 

Hermione picked at her thumb as she looked around at the gathered guests, reminded once again of what an intimate gathering the wedding of her two friends was going to be. Ginny, looking as confident and stunning as always in an emerald green dress that perfectly complemented the copper of her hair, sat on one side of her, while the chair on the other side was currently empty aside from her strategically placed purse. 

 

She smoothed the fabric that draped over her knees, grateful once again for Ginny’s guidance in selecting the sage green wrap dress. It was simple, with capped sleeves, overlapping fabric on her chest just low enough to show the suggestion of cleavage, and a modest length that reached just below her knees. At Pansy’s urging, she re-created the crown braid that she’d worn for the Estate gala earlier that summer, and was already grateful that she’d chosen a style that kept her hair up. 

 

When she’d found a small box with her name written in a now-familiar script on the countertop earlier, she’d run upstairs and shut herself in the bathroom before opening it. She immediately recognized the pile of magically preserved blooms that lay nestled at the bottom of the box, deeply inhaling the subtle scent. 

 

Wild roses. 

 

The combination of pleasure and pain. 

 

Looking up at the mirror, Hermione had used her wand to affix the delicate, pale-pink flowers into her braid, smiling at the subtle flashes of color nestled between her brown curls. Combined with the minimal makeup she’d allowed Pansy to apply, Hermione could admit to herself that she looked rather pretty.

 

“You’re showing them.” Ginny’s voice yanked her back into the present moment.

 

Hermione glanced over at her friend, noticing that her eyes were darting between her chest and her forearm. It was instinct for her to bring a hand up to cover her exposed cleavage. “I…”

 

“No!” Ginny reached out, carefully removing Hermione’s hand and returning it to her lap. “You’re absolutely fucking beautiful and I’ve never been happier to see your skin, scars and all.” 

 

She looked down, eyes taking in the marred skin of her forearm before ducking her chin to see the top of the purple scar peeking out from between her breasts. The choice to bare them like this, in front of these people, on this particular day, was not a choice made lightly. Hermione had never been more unsure of a decision to finally wear the dress. The decision had ultimately come down to the fact that she hadn’t packed anything else that would be suitable for a wedding. 

 

There had been stares when she’d first joined the group that gathered in the orchard, eyes that lingered on her bare skin and pitying glances that they likely assumed she wouldn’t notice. However, with Pansy by her side, occasionally squeezing her hand reassuringly, Hermione felt an invincibility that she hadn’t felt in years. 

 

Tilting her head up to look at Ginny, Hermione smiled at her friend. “Thanks, Gin. That means a lot.” 

 

Just then, Blaise stood up, his violin tucked under his chin, and, as quiet fell over the group, he began to play. 

 

Hermione didn’t recognize the song, but her lack of familiarity with the tune allowed her to fully fall under the spell of the music without being caught in the anticipation of what was coming next. It was a soaring melody, not so fast as to be overly light and jaunty, but not so slow as to take on a melancholic feeling. Blaise’s confident bow strokes filled the air with sure notes, a sense of wonder and beauty that only music has the power to evoke washing over all of them. 

 

All of those assembled in their seats turned to look back as Andromeda appeared, dressed in traditional dress robes in a striking silver. Her face remained serene as she walked through the small gap in the circle of chairs, coming to a stop when she stood perfectly centered under the archway. 

 

Next, Teddy marched forward, looking painfully adorable in a cream-colored suit. In one hand he held a basket full of white flower petals, which he dutifully spread as he walked. When he reached his grandmother, he upended the whole basket, making a rather forlorn looking pile of petals in the center of their circle. The boy flushed when a wave of giggles spread through the orchard, but remained stoic as he hurried over to the empty seat beside Luna. 

 

It was impossible to miss the subtle shift of the music as Neville appeared, escorted by Pomona Sprout. The much shorter witch wore modest, brown dress robes, which managed to look perfectly appropriate next to Neville’s heathered, forest-green Muggle suit. Under the beautifully tailored jacket, he wore a white shirt and a floral tie. His hair was artfully tousled, and it was obvious that he had carefully trimmed his beard so that it was cropped closely along his jaw. The crooked smile on his face was so full of hope and joy, and even from a distance his green eyes shone in the dappled light. 

 

Once the two of them reached Andromeda, Neville bent down to give the Herbology professor a prolonged hug before standing to Andromeda’s right. Just then there was another shift in the music, and once again, everyone turned in their seats. 

 

Theo and Draco walked side by side toward them. The other groom wore a linen suit the color of sand, which contrasted beautifully with his tanned skin. Foregoing a tie, the green shirt that Theo wore underneath was a near-perfect color match with Neville’s suit. On top of Theo’s unruly curls rested a crown of woven greenery that made the already-handsome man look like he was plucked from the pages of Greek mythology. 

 

Beside him, Draco looked equally appealing in a charcoal grey Muggle suit that, just like Neville’s, complemented his silver eyes. He wore his hair loose, and the black tie nestled at the base of his neck stood out sharply against the simple, white shirt below. For a moment, Hermione let herself appreciate him, appreciate the refined lines of his perfectly-tailored clothing contrasted with the more rough masculinity that the wizard had come into after Hogwarts. 

 

Hermione tore her eyes away from the two men, turning back to look at Neville. When she saw the shining tracks of the tears that traced down his face and onto the smile that she couldn’t imagine growing any larger, she felt her own eyes burn in response. The way that Neville looked at Theo, at the man who was about to become his husband, was the sort of thing that children dream about when they read fairy tales. It was all consuming and true, the love in Neville’s eyes. 

 

Theo moved to stand across from Neville on the other side of Andromeda, and Draco quickly took the open seat next to Hermione. After he gently placed her bag on the grass below the chair, he reached out and grasped her hand in his, interlacing their fingers and squeezing, a reassurance for both of them that they were here. Together. 

 

“Welcome, everyone,” Andromeda’s voice coincided with the end of the music, and Blaise slipped back into his seat. “Thank you all for being here today to witness the binding between these two incredible young men: Theodore Nott and Neville Longbottom.” 

 

“When you love someone, you do not love them all the time in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love and of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in the terror of the ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity, when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity, in freedom. The only real security is not in owning or possessing, not in demanding or expecting, not in hoping, even. Security in a relationship lies neither in looking back to what was in nostalgia, not forward to what it might be in dread or anticipation, but living in the present relationship and accepting it as it is now.

Relationships must be like islands, one must accept them for what they are here and now, within their limits—islands, surrounded and interrupted by the sea, and continually visited and abandoned by the tides of life*.” 

 

Andromeda paused, looking back and forth between the two wizards who listened intently to her every word. “Neville and Theo, know now before you go further that since your lives have crossed in this life, you have formed eternal bonds. As you seek to enter this state of matrimony you should strive to make real the ideals that give meaning to this ceremony and to the sanctity of marriage. With full awareness, know that within this circle you are declaring your intent before your friends and family as witnesses.”

 

“The promises made today and the ties that are bound here greatly strengthen your union and will cross the years and lives of each soul’s growth. Do you seek to enter this ceremony?”

 

“Yes.” Neville and Theo spoke in perfect unison. 

 

“Neville and Theo, join hands.” 

 

Both wizards extended their left hands, joining them together as if they were exchanging a handshake. 

 

“Sergio, would you please bring out the cord?” 

 

Hermione and the rest of the guests turned at the shuffling from the periphery of the orchard, as Sergio trundled forward on his short legs. In his hands, he held a flat, woven basket, which held what looked to be a long and colorful rope. His face was solemn as he approached the archway and presented the basket to Andromeda. With reverence, the witch picked up the thick rope, draping it over their clasped hands so that equal lengths hung to each side. 

 

With a bow, Sergio retreated, and Hermione watched as he returned to the dense bushes that lined the edge of the orchard, only just then noticing the many gnomes that stood silently in the shadows, watching the ceremony take place. 

 

“Neville, will you share in Theo’s pain and seek to alleviate it?” Andromeda asked. 

 

“I will.”

 

“Theo, will you share in Neville’s pain and seek to alleviate it?”

 

“I will.” 

 

Andromeda returned to the rope, which she twisted, before looping the ends over their wrists. “And so the binding is made.” 

 

Andromeda continued, asking if they would share in the other’s laughter and look for the bright and positive in them, if they would share in the other’s burdens so that their spirits could grow in their union, if they would share in the other’s dreams, if they would take the heat of anger and use it to temper the strength of their union, and if they would honor each other as equals. To each question both wizards replied in the affirmative, their eyes never leaving each other as they made their commitments. After each commitment, Andromeda would further manipulate the rope, until it wound around their hands in a complex series of knots and twists. 

 

“ Neville and Theo,” Andromeda continued. “As your hands are bound together now, so your lives and spirits are joined in a union of love and trust. The bond of marriage is not formed by these cords, but rather by the vows you have made. For always you hold in your own hands the fate of this union. Above you are stars and below you is earth. Like stars your love should be a constant source of light, and like the earth, a firm foundation from which to grow.”

 

Removing her wand from the wide sleeve of her robes, Andromeda muttered a quiet incantation and, with an elaborate sweeping motion, thin strands of shimmering gold moved to trace along the path already formed by the ropes that surrounded their connected hands. The air felt thick and charged with the strength and power of the magic the witch had summoned, and Hermione could feel that everyone gathered held their collective breath.

 

Andromeda’s voice was strong and unwavering. “May these hands be blessed this day. May they always hold each other. May they have the strength to hold fast during the storms of stress and the dark of disillusionment. May they remain tender and gentle as they nurture each other in their wondrous love. May they build a relationship founded in love, and rich in caring. May these hands be healer, protector, shelter, and guide for each other.”

 

The vibrant glow that emanated from the golden threads of magic grew brighter, consuming the couple in a pulsing orb of light. Hermione could barely see as Andromeda placed one of the loose ends of rope in each of the wizard’s hands. The older witch’s mouth was moving as she spoke to them, and their nod of understanding meant that they must have been able to hear her above the low hum of magic that filled the air. 

 

Suddenly, the orb of light that contained the couple burst outward, stretching like beams of sunlight, before collapsing inward and slowly disappearing as if it were absorbed by their skin. Each wizard held one end of the colorful rope, and between them hung a beautiful and complex knot, which now bore the flash of a golden thread woven throughout the cord. On each of their left hands, matching golden bands now rested on their ring fingers. 

 

Andromeda reached between them, lifting the knotted cord and draping it to rest over their shoulders, connecting them together. 

 

“Gentleman, you may seal your binding with a kiss,” she said, and the two men surged toward each other, leaving no distance between them as their bodies joined in a kiss that left little to the imagination as to what these men felt toward each other. 

 

Although the assembled group of guests was small, their cheers and whoops filled the air as they watched the wizards seal their binding. Finally, the men broke apart, both of them wearing blissful smiles, swollen lips, and eyes bright and wet with emotion. 

 

Rather than walking away from the group, the now-married couple launched themselves into the waiting arms of their friends, laughing and basking in the obvious joy that filled everyone there. Hermione even saw Ron wiping his eyes and muttering about how “Bloody beautiful that shit was.” For her part, she couldn’t imagine letting go of the hand that had held hers throughout the ceremony; even as she hugged the beaming couple, she didn’t let go of him. 

 

She wouldn’t let go of him.

 

She couldn’t let go of him. 

Notes:

Here we are at the beginning of the end! Expect Chapter 39 later today and Chapter 40 tomorrow!

Readers, thank you so much for being here and for your kudos and comments. They give me strength!

Some notes on the wedding ceremony:

*This is a direct quote: Gift from the Sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh
The vows themselves are traditional, although the original author is unknown: (The Hands of the Couple, Traditional Handfasting Prayer, author unknown)

For anyone who is curious, the ceremony script almost perfectly mirrors what we did for our wedding in 2019. We searched for so long to find the right words, and they seemed to fit perfectly with Theo and Neville, so they are getting used again :)

Chapter 39: Chapter 39

The festivities resumed once again on the patio, the lanterns and decor from earlier supplemented by cascading white blooms covering any and every available surface. The result was a fragrant explosion of beauty that reminded Hermione of Titania’s bower. Hermione was grateful that Pansy and Blaise had chosen to host the entirety of the wedding outdoors, as there was nothing that could compare to the natural beauty that the backdrop of the gardens and large trees that surrounded the Estate provided. 

 

A long table was set up for the guests, with Neville and Theo at the head sharing a beautiful, blossom-adorned wicker bench designed to fit two. Hermione, from her seat between Draco and Luna, watched the newlywed wizards, who were making no effort to keep their hands to themselves, as they took turns feeding the other bites of food. If it was anyone other than Neville, Hermione would have found the whole scene rather nauseating, but she had to admit that her friend, well, both of her friends, deserved to feel every bit of the obvious happiness that filled the air. 

 

The Casa kitchen staff had prepared a family style feast of traditional food. The center of the table was lined with various bowls and platters, which everyone took turns serving and passing up and down the table. It was a meal that Hermione had come to recognize as familiar from her time spent living in Italy: pasta dishes tossed in a variety of sauces, salads, freshly baked bread, cured meats and cheeses, and platters of freshly harvested fruit sliced and served with sprigs of mint. The dishes moved from guest to guest, who all raved about the rich flavors of the meal. 

 

A full bar had been set up along one edge of the patio, and Luna had somehow charmed pieces of parchment so that all a guest needed to do was write their drink order with a provided quill and then the bartender would both prepare and deliver that drink to the table. While it was an undeniably genius idea, the result was that everyone moved much more quickly toward inebriation than they would have if they’d needed to stand up and retrieve the drinks themselves. 

 

Looking around at the group, Hermione could see that getting everyone pissed was having the effect of blurring some of the barriers that had been dividing the group up until that point. Somehow the topic of Peeves led to the whole table sharing their favorite stories about the poltergeist’s pranks. Blaise had everyone crying with laughter at the image of Peeves with a chamber pot stuck on his head after attempting to prand Madam Pomfrey, to which Andromeda and Pomona added their own anecdotes about the poltergeist from their years at Hogwarts. 

 

After that, the ice was broken, and as plates began to empty, conversations began to tangle and cross between unexpected combinations of people. It was as though each of them were discovering commonalities that they’d been previously unaware of, and through the sharing of experiences, interests, and stories, empathy and understanding began to bloom. 

 

When Andromeda vanished the table and its contents with a wave of her wand, there was a moment of shuffling as everyone abandoned their chairs, continuing their conversations in small groups. The chairs were cleared, and the enchanted gramophone began to play more upbeat music. As if the loud strumming of guitar had cued the transition from day to night, the final traces of sunlight faded, leaving them surrounded by the purple-hued darkness of evening. 

 

Hermione held an almost-empty bellini in her hand as she, Luna, and Millicent talked about the various initiatives relating to magical creatures that were taking place around Europe. Millicent, while she focused on centaur relations, was quite well connected with the independently-funded work that was being conducted to preserve and create habitat for magical creatures. Hermione had thought herself very well-versed on the subject, but found that her work in government hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface of what groups with private funding were able to accomplish. It was also surprising to learn that Luna kept frequent correspondence with various magical researchers who were working to encourage collaboration between individuals and groups in various countries who were working on similar projects. When Luna informed her that she’d received an owl from a wizard in Spain who was also struggling with waning birth rates in the gnome population of his ancestral villa Hermione almost combusted with excitement; she would have abandoned the festivities in favor of resuming her research if Luna hadn’t reassured her that “there is plenty of time for such things.” 

 

A small hand tugging on her dress pulled Hermione’s attention from her conversation with the two witches.

 

Teddy, his hair turquoise and delightfully poofed on the top of his head, frowned up at her and fidgeted with his hands. “Miss Hermione,” he started.

 

Leaning down so that she could be at eye level with the young wizard, Hermione placed a hand on one of his shoulders. “What is it, Teddy?”

 

“It’s just…I don’t…” He huffed out through his nose. “I don’t think Uncle Draco and Uncle Harry want to be friends.” 

 

If it wasn’t for the sincere sadness etched on the boy’s face, Hermione would have burst into uncontrollable laughter. However, it was obvious that he was deeply concerned about the fact that his godfather and older cousin were not openly friendly. Her heart went out to the boy, who knew nothing of the years and history that had resulted in the animosity between the two men. 

 

“Would you trust me to talk to them about it?” she asked. “They’re both my good friends, and I can be rather convincing, you know.”

 

Teddy seemed reassured, nodding his head with a small smile. “Thank you, Miss Hermione. I just want them to get along.” 

 

“Just wait, we’ll have those two wizards dancing together in no time at all.”

 

________________________________

“You’re up to something.” 

 

Harry glared at her, his eyes searching hers in a way that only someone who’d known her for most of her life could, weighing her sincerity. 

 

“I happen to agree with Potter on this one,” Draco muttered, surveying Hermione under furrowed, pale brows. 

 

She rolled her eyes at the two wizards who stood in front of her. She held out the two overflowing shot glasses again. “Come on, just take the shot and be done with it,” she encouraged. 

 

It was Draco who acquiesced first, grabbing the shot and throwing it back. Harry quickly followed, wincing as he swallowed. “Tequila? Really?” 

 

Hermione shrugged, pulling her wand from her pocket to summon another three shots for them. “Again, and this time I’ll be joining you.” 

 

“I would like the record to show that I am not enjoying myself,” Draco drawled, grabbing the second shot and taking it with less ease than the first. He shuddered, although he did chuckle when Hermione coughed at the burn of the liquor going down her throat. 

 

When Harry had taken his, Hermione looked between the two of them, feeling the buzz of alcohol in her fingertips. She shook herself to clear her head. 

 

“The two of you have a problem,” she began. 

 

“We do?”

 

Hermione snorted a laugh at the perfectly synchronized response, and laughed harder as they glared at each other. 

 

“Teddy. He’s noticed that the two of you aren’t exactly friendly ,” Draco and Harry both winced at the word, “and it’s making him sad. You’re the two most important men in his life, and so you’ve given me no choice but to assist you in getting your heads out of your arses so you can be there for that magical little boy who thinks that you both hung the moon.” 

 

She looked intently at Draco, who looked down as he tugged on the sleeve of his jacket. When his eyes returned to hers to find her still staring, he grimaced. “You’re trying to use your girlfriend mind-powers against me,” he accused. 

 

Harry snorted. “She’s quite good at that.” 

 

Draco’s eyes darkened as he looked between her and Harry. “Granger, please tell me that you didn’t --” 

 

Hermione immediately recognized the misunderstanding. “Sweet Circe no! There has never been anything even remotely romantic between Harry and myself!” 

 

A look of horror filled Harry’s face. “You thought that --”

 

“Nevermind,” Draco muttered, splotches of red blooming from his cheekbones. “All of you Gryffindors are just so friendly ,” he grumbled. “It gets rather confusing.” 

 

“Returning to the topic at hand,” Hermione continued, eager to move past the mixup. “Can you two please tolerate each other for long enough to dance with Teddy? It would mean the world to him.”

 

“Wait.” Harry held up a hand, looking incredulous as his dark brows rose to disappear under the black fringe that fell onto his forehead. “You want me and Malfoy to dance together.” 

 

“With Teddy,” Hermione corrected, grinning widely.

 

“No.” Draco shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

 

“I’m with Malfoy,” Harry said. “That is a hard no from me.”

 

“You don’t have to slow dance! Just dance, however you please, within general proximity of each other, with Teddy. It’s really not that complicated.” Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. “Please?” 

 

What followed was a silent battle of wills; Hermione alternated between staring at her boyfriend and friend, her eyes tilting up to look at the taller blonde wizard before dipping down to look into Harry’s bright, green eyes. She didn’t relent, holding her ground, refusing to be the first to back down. 

 

It was Harry who finally sighed, breaking eye contact and nodding reluctantly. “Fine,” he grumbled. “If Malfoy does it then I’ll do it. For Teddy.” 

 

Draco looked at Harry with a betrayed scoff. “Weak, Potter,” he whispered at the wizard before turning to scowl at Hermione. “I’ll bloody do it too, but you owe me one, witch.” The promise in his words and the way that witch fell from his lips sent a wave of heat up the sides of her neck and she swallowed, feeling naked under the intense silver of his eyes. She wet her lips with her tongue, unable to look away from him.

 

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered, breaking the tension that practically vibrated the air around them. “Save it for later, yeah? It’s one thing to know that you’re shagging, but it doesn’t mean that I want to see --” he gestured his hands between them “--whatever that is.” 

 

“Harry James Potter,” Hermione snapped. “After the obscene number of times I have stumbled upon you and Ginny shagging in the public spaces of Grimmauld Place…” Hermione glared at her friend, who at least had the decency to look somewhat guilty. 

 

“Okay, okay,” Harry said with a resigned sigh. He turned to face Draco, forcing a smile that bared his teeth. “I’m going to need a few more shots. What do you say, Malfoy?”

 

“Couldn’t agree more, Potter.”

 

_________________________________

“Can someone please explain what in the bloody fuck those two are doing?” 

 

The heavy weight of Theo’s arm slung around Hermione’s shoulders as he joined her, Pansy, and Luna where they were sipping their drinks and nodding along with the music. Hermione grinned up at the sweaty wizard, who had ditched the suit jacket and rolled the sleeves up on his now-wrinkled shirt. The twinkling lights overhead reflected on his glowing face, and while his hair was terribly unruly, he somehow still wore the wreath of greenery from the ceremony. It was impossible not to return the beaming joy that hadn’t left the wizard’s face for the past few hours. 

 

Hermione followed Theo’s eyes to the dance floor, where Teddy jumped up and down with a smile so bright that it almost rivaled Theo’s. However, it was not the young wizard who was prancing about that drew Theo’s attention. It was the two, fully-grown wizards who were currently hopping in circles around the little boy who were the current source of entertainment. Looking around, it seemed that the whole group had formed a loose circle around the patio, all watching the two men respond to whatever instructions they were receiving from Teddy. 

 

Hermione bit back another laugh as Draco nearly tripped after a particularly high hop. As he tried to regain his balance he stumbled into Harry, who lurched forward, barely catching himself before falling to the ground. Both wizards were flushed, although it was hard to tell if it was the result of very athletic dancing or the four tequila shots they’d downed before inviting the young boy with whom they both shared an important relationship to dance. 

 

When Teddy grabbed one of their hands in each of his, tugging them into a dizzying series of circles, Hermione looked up at Theo, who was still watching the scene with a look of awestruck glee. “Teddy told me that he was sad that his godfather and cousin didn’t get along, and so I gave them tequila and now they’re all dancing.” 

 

Theo raised his brows at her, obviously impressed. “I think you are missing your calling as a diplomat, Granger,” he teased. “Shall we leave them to it or join in?” 

 

When Theo tugged her forward, Hermione followed, turning back only to grab Pansy’s hand and bring her along with them. As they approached the three dancers, Hermione found her eyes drifting predictably to Draco, who, like Theo, had removed his jacket and rolled his sleeves up to reveal his forearms. Looking up at his face, she smiled as realized that he’d given up any pretense of pretending that he wasn’t enjoying himself; she watched with wonder as he and Harry both shook with loud laughter, obviously sharing a joke. 

 

He must have felt her eyes on him, because he glanced over at her with a flushed grin. He looked happy and carefree, and when his silver met her amber he gave her a look that said: Fine, Granger. You win this one. 

 

Hermione bit her lower lip to try to hold back her laughter, but moved toward him as she began to sway and move to the music. He reached for her and she reached for him, and when their fingers brushed he clung to her, claiming her hand in his. With an insistent tug, he pulled her to him, her back coming to rest against his front, the warmth of him bridging any barrier caused by their clothing. His hands dropped to her hips, gripping her just tightly enough that she was still able to move from side to side. Tilting her head back until she felt the firmness of his chest, she reached her hands up and behind her until they found soft blonde hair. 

 

For a moment she was lost in him: his scent, his touch. But a loud laugh broke the reverie, and she opened her eyes that she hadn’t realized she’d shut to see the dance floor now crowded with dancing bodies. Ginny had joined Harry, and she noticed Ron was laughing with Hannah and Lavender on one edge of the group. In the middle of them all, Teddy spun and giggled; Hermione didn’t think she’d ever seen the boy so happy. 

 

She felt the sharp pressure of a chin lower to rest on her shoulder. “Thank you for making me do that,” Draco commented low in her ear. 

 

Hermione smiled, turning her head so that she could plant a soft kiss to his cheek. “Anytime.”

 

_____________________________

“Move your arse, witch,” Draco growled from behind her as they stumbled into the small clearing in the gardens. Not too far removed from the patio, with the music still audible through the thick trees, this was one of the many spaces on the grounds that was designed to be enjoyed: a simple, stone bird bath and fountain was in the center of the clearing, with three stone benches surrounding it. 

 

Hermione approached the fountain, letting her hands trail through the bubbling water. Her senses were slightly dulled from the bellinis she’d been drinking steadily throughout the evening, but she giggled at the tickle of the water against her skin. Behind her, she heard the rustle of paper and cloth. 

 

She turned, seeing Draco seated on one of the benches, fumbling through his pockets as he brought out the two cloth bags and delicate paper that he would need to roll a spliff. She simply watched his hands go through the motions that she had witnessed so many times now, still struck by the delicate dance of his fingers, the way they carefully crumbled the dried herb and tobacco into the valley created by the creased paper. 

 

When he brought the tightly rolled paper to his lips, she felt the heat pooling under her skin as his tongue licked a languid line across the edge of the paper. Her breath caught in her throat and -- fuck , he was beautiful. Breathtakingly handsome. An unfair expression of physical perfection. 

 

Hermione moved toward him, hiking up the flowing skirt of her dress and climbing onto his lap. Draco’s arms opened to her, holding her steady as she shifted her hips, settling into a comfortable position on his firm thighs. 

 

The rolled spliff hung out of the corner of his mouth, his soft lips curled up into a quiet smile. “You look beautiful,” he stated, as though it were a matter of fact and not his opinion. 

 

Hermione flushed slightly, but held his gaze as she reached into her pocket for her wand. Lifting it up into the space between them, she barely touched the tip of the wood against the twisted end of his spliff, whispering the spell that she’d heard Draco use so many times. 

 

His eyes stared deeply into hers as he inhaled, the tiny spark of red growing to cast a warm glow onto his striking face. Lowering her wand and sliding it back into her pocket, she reached her hands up to touch the loose strands of his hair. 

 

As he exhaled a careful stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth, Draco’s eyes fluttered shut. “Mmmm,” he hummed, low and graveled in his chest. “That feels nice.”

 

“This?” Her fingers scratched against his scalp. 

 

“Mmhm.” He took another long drag. “It’s really unfair of you to take your perfect hands so far away from me. It’s cruel, really.”

 

Hermione snorted a laugh. “And what would you propose we do to rectify this injustice?” 

 

“It’s quite simple, Granger.” Draco plucked the spliff from his mouth, tiny wisps of smoke escaping as he leaned towards her. “You will just have to stay here with me.” 

 

She could taste the smoke on his breath when their lips met, the sweet smoke intertwining with the distinct flavor that was Draco. His tongue plunged into her mouth, not hesitating or waiting for her invitation, like he was claiming what already belonged to him. 

 

And he wasn’t wrong. Hermione opened to him willingly, fulfilling a sense of rightness that locked into place when they were together. His lips were warm, wet, and soft against hers, and it was easy to sink into him. She lost all sense of the passage of time as their tongues danced at a leisurely pace, like they had all of the time in the world. 

 

“Oopsala!” 

 

Hermione clamored off of Draco’s lap at the sound of the booming, female voice. She shifted to sit on the bench next to him, eyes darting around in an attempt to identify the intruder. 

 

She certainly hadn’t expected to see a red faced Pomona Sprout stumbling out of the bushes, empty wine glass in one hand and pipe in the other. 

 

Their professor offered them an amused grin as she took a series of punctuated puffs on the long-stemmed pipe. “Apologies for the interruption, you two, but I smelled the smoke of the sweet herb and figured that this was a safe place for a quick toke.” 

 

A quick sniff immediately identified that yes, Pomona Sprout was indeed smoking a pipe of marijuana. Hermione glanced over at Draco, who simply lifted his spliff back to his mouth with a look of bemused wonder. 

 

“I have to say,” the woman continued. “Minerva will be absolutely delighted to hear about the two of you. It’s really a story for the ages, isn’t it? Childhood enemies who fought on opposite sides of the war find love and forgiveness in Italian gardens?” She chuckled. “It’s too good!” 

 

Hermione felt her cheeks warm as she looked at Draco again. “Thank you, Professor,” he responded to the woman who continued to merrily puff away at her pipe. 

 

“And lovely work with the flowers, Draco. Some of the happiest I’ve ever seen.” With a cheerful wave and a laugh, Professor Sprout departed, leaving the two of them in a rather confused silence. 

 

“Her pipe,” Hermione started, trying to pluck at a thread in mind that wasn’t quite responding to her demands.

 

“Gandalf,” Draco said definitively.

 

“Oh my gods, Draco, you’re right!” Hermione laughed, delighted. “Yes! That’s what it was. Our professor not only has a Gandalf pipe, but apparently is quite familiar with getting high from it.” 

 

Draco joined in with her laughter. “Just like Gandalf himself.” 

 

“What?” Hermione searched his eyes, shocked at the certainty she saw there. “No, Gandalf wasn’t getting high throughout Lord of the Rings, Draco.”

 

“It’s literally called ‘pipeweed,’ Granger! Don’t tell me that old wizard with all of his chuckling and cryptic statements didn’t remind you of someone who’s just a bit blitzed?” 

 

Hermione scoffed. “No way.” 

 

Draco simply grinned at her. “Want to check the text? I’ve got my copy in my room.”

 

“I don’t need to see the text to know that you’re wrong.” 

 

“Fine,” Draco rose to his feet, his spliff only seconds away from being finished. “In that case I will just have to drag you back to the festivities and spend the rest of my evening enjoying that flicker of doubt that will cross your face every few minutes as you wonder whether or not I could be right.” 

 

“Prat,” she muttered as she took his offered hand. 

 

“Swot,” he replied with a laugh, kissing the crown of her head as they walked back toward music and laughter that filled the night.

 

________________________________

 

One hour and countless drinks later, Hermione sat perched on Draco’s lap as a slow song played from the gramophone. All of her attention was on the slice of pizza that she held carefully in one hand. She had to lift the slice up to take a bite, but the inconvenience was entirely worth it for the indescribable joy of dough, tomato sauce, and melted cheese meeting her drunk taste buds. 

 

The idea to serve pizza at midnight was truly inspired, and a hazy glance around the room revealed that most of those who remained on the patio were very deeply involved in either snogging or consuming the offered food with the undivided attention of a lover. 

 

Many had already gone to bed, leaving only scattered couples on the dance floor or in the chairs that sat along the edge of the patio. Hermione had dragged Draco into one of the offered seats for a “pizza break” after what felt like hours of dancing and too many toasts to the newlyweds. 

 

“You want a bite?” she asked, holding her pizza up and over her head. 

 

“I’ve got my own, but yes,” Draco said from behind her. Her back curved perfectly against his front, and while his legs weren’t the most comfortable seat she’d ever occupied, it was well worth it just to have the grounding of his hand holding her in place and the warm hum she always felt when in his close proximity. 

 

She felt his hand grab hers as he maneuvered the pizza to his waiting mouth. She felt the tug as he took a bite, and then the satisfied hum as he chewed. After a moment, his fingers tightened against the skin of her stomach. “Your turn.”

 

Hermione shifted so that she sat across his lap with her legs dangling off of one side, and looked up at the wizard. There was a smear of sauce in one corner of his mouth, and his eyes held the sultry sleepiness that she’d learned to recognize as a sure sign that her boyfriend was intoxicated. Of course, there was no doubt that she was very much in the same boat, if the happy buzzing in her head or the deep passion she currently felt for pizza were any indication. 

 

“You’re a mess,” she sighed, and in that moment, as she lifted her thumb to wipe the sauce away, she was overwhelmed by her affection, her want, her caring for the man who now glared at her. “What?” she asked. “You had sauce on your mouth.”

 

His cheekbones flushed pink. “You are too good, Hermione. Too good and too beautiful.”

 

“Feed me.” She opened her mouth.

 

Draco complied, bringing his slice to her lips. She bit down, moaning at the absolute perfection that was Italian pizza. 

 

“Is it the mozzarella?” she asked, covering her mouth with her empty hand as she chewed. 

 

Draco’s face took on a thoughtful expression. “Probably,” he agreed. “It’s always the cheese that makes the difference.” 

 

Hermione swallowed the mouthful of pizza. “I don’t know how to tell you how happy I am when I’m with you.”

 

“I’m definitely happier,” Draco replied, now taking a bite of his own slice.

 

“No.” He couldn’t possibly understand. “I am the happiest, the happiest of the happy, Draco. It’s past the point of any happy that you could have possibly ever experienced.” There . There was no arguing with that. 

 

“Witch,” Draco’s voice lowered, and Hermione felt trails of excited chills go up and down her arms. “For someone so smart, you can be very silly sometimes.”

 

She scoffed, offended at his words. “I’m not silly, you’re silly!” 

 

“You’re wrong, but it’s alright. You’re still the most incredible witch in the world according to my very smart eyeballs.” 

 

“I’m not wrong!” Hermione felt a flare of indignant anger in her chest. 

 

Suddenly a half-eaten slice of pizza filled her vision. “Pizza?” she heard Draco ask, but she was already leaning forward to resume eating. 

 

They fell into an easy silence, each of them occupied with finishing their slices of pizza. Hermione’s eyes wandered down to the arm that encircled her waist. The rolled up sleeve revealed the tattoos that covered his skin. Reaching out a tentative finger, Hermione traced the stems and blossoms that were permanently preserved there in ink. They were beautiful, certainly, but there was a strength that they communicated to the world that she admired even beyond the shapes themselves. 

 

A partially formed idea that had been hovering on the periphery of her mind for weeks now clicked into place, and as she swallowed the last bite of crust, she knew, with a beautiful and concrete certainty that she’d spent her whole life chasing, what she wanted to do.

 

“Draco?” Hermione craned her neck to look up at him. 

 

His left eye cracked open and he looked down at her. “Hm?” 

 

“Will you do something with me?” 

 

A low hum vibrated from his chest. “Of course.” His smile faded as a frown played at the corners of his lips. “At this point I should probably ask more questions,” his words were slurred, “but I am having a hard time imagining saying no to you right now.” 

 

Grinning up at her wizard, Hermione pushed away from him, bending down to grab her bag where it sat on the patio beside them. She had to blink to clear the head rush as she stood up before reaching her arm into her bag and pulling out two vials. She tossed one at him, snorting with laughter as he fumbled to catch the small glass bottle. 

 

“Granger, are you trying to poison me?” Draco looked at her, mouth agape. “Evil, evil witch!” 

 

“It’s Sober Up, you dingus,” Hermione retorted, pulling the cork and swallowing the contents of the vial. She watched as Draco did the same, smacking his lips together as he handed her back the empty bottle. 

 

“What in the bloody hell is a dingus?” 

 

“Come on,” she called, already leaving the dim light of the patio and moving toward the path that led around to the front of the Estate. 

 

_________________________________

 

“Ow!” 

 

Draco, leaning forward on the small stool to push a curl out of her face, smirked at her. “I told you it was going to hurt, you beautiful and stubborn woman.” He leaned around her to look at the man who was bent over her other arm. “How’s she doing?” 

 

“Not too twitchy for a firstie,” the man said, giving Draco a grin that revealed at least one golden tooth. 

 

Hermione clenched her teeth against the sharp vibrations that felt like they penetrated her bones. To distract herself, she looked up from what the man was doing and back at her boyfriend, who was watching her carefully. He was looking especially disheveled from the night of dancing and drinking: pieces of hair falling out of the bun on the back of his head, his eyes heavy and soft, almost reminding her of the first moments when he woke up in the morning. The ultimate example of masculine beauty. 

 

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked, the Sober Up bringing back the precision in his words. His hand lingered on her face, softly cupping her cheek. 

 

Trying not to flinch, Hermione leaned into his touch before replying. “I’ve changed so much in the past months,” her voice was quiet, and her words were just for him. “Things that were always just out of reach became attainable, and the pieces of myself that always felt broken or…wrong have been put back together. I just want to remember what I found here, to take those kernels of truth with me wherever life takes me. Does that make sense?” She searched his eyes, hoping to find understanding there. 

 

Draco nodded, an almost sad smile crossing his face. “It makes perfect sense, Granger.” 

 

She leaned back in the cushioned chair, letter her eyes close and shifting her focus to the humming pain that moved across her left forearm, the deep vibrations of the needle bringing a pain of her own choosing to the place where she’d lost all of her power and choice years before, etching a permanent reminder onto her skin that she, Hermione Granger, was capable of both transcending the past and embracing the future, whatever it held.

 

____________________________

“It suits you,” Draco whispered, his fingers delicately touching her tender and reddened skin.

 

They lay together in his bed, the white sheets tangled in their intertwined legs, leaving their upper bodies bare. The windows were all opened, and a warm breeze stirred the air that still was heavy with the smell of sweat and sex. They’d left on a single lamp, which cast a warm glow throughout the room.

 

Draco sat propped up against a pillow, holding Hermione’s newly tattooed forearm on his lap. Hermione lay on her side facing him, watching as he once again traced each of the plants that now surrounded the slur that scarred her skin. 

 

Sure, there were similarities to the tattooed plants that surrounded Draco’s faded Dark Mark, but she’d asked the artist for a different style that would set her apart from her already-tattooed boyfriend. Whereas the plants on Draco’s arms were bold and vivid in their colors, Hermione had asked for more delicate lines and a more muted color palette. She thought it suited her, as much as a tattoo could ever seem at home on Hermione Granger’s skin. 

 

“A rosebud,” Draco said.

 

“Beauty and youth,” she murmured back.

 

“A sprig of fir.”

 

“Time.”

 

“A white chrysanthemum.” His finger tickled as it barely brushed her skin.

 

“Truth.”

 

“And a white violet.”

 

“Take a chance on happiness.” 

 

He scooted down on the bed, turning her arm so that he could plant a feather-light kiss to her bare skin. “It’s perfectly you, Hermione.”

 

When he released her arm, she tugged it back to rest on the empty mattress between them. “I’m not sure I could have done this without you.”

 

He cocked a brow. “The tattoo?”

 

“No,” she huffed a quiet laugh. “But I definitely wouldn’t have dreamt of doing that without you -- even if it was originally Neville’s idea.” She reached to him, her thumb coming to brush the skin of his jaw that was just now beginning to lose the smoothness of the previous morning’s shave. “I’m talking about how I’ve changed, Draco, how I’ve found the little parts of myself that I’d forgotten or hadn’t even gotten to know yet. I don’t know how you did it, but somehow you kept showing up and standing beside me, but you never saved me. You let me do the saving myself, and I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you for that.”

 

Draco’s smile was sleepy. “You’ve done more than a fair share of changing lives too, Hermione. It’s what people do when they care.”

Notes:

One more to go!

Thank you all for the comments and kudos!

Chapter 40: Chapter 40

Her first thought as sleep faded into consciousness was that she was uncharacteristically warm. A halfhearted attempt to roll over proved futile as well; some unknown force held her firmly in place. A few seconds of intentional thinking brought her mind slowly to full wakefulness, and willed her senses to assess her current environment. 

 

The force that had rendered her motionless was definitely the long body of the man whose bed she currently was in; although, after the many nights they’d spent sleeping in the same space, this was the first time they’d woken up this close, with no air between their skin. Draco’s arms encircled her torso, holding her so tightly to his chest that she could feel the barrier of sweat that had formed where their skin met. She could feel the fine, blonde hair where his leg was hiked up over her hip, effectively pinning her lower body in place as well. There was a desperation in the flexing of his hands against her skin and the way his muscles tightened reflexively when she tried to shift her position. 

 

“Draco,” she whispered into the dim light, trying again to wiggle her body. 

 

“No.” His reply was muffled into the pillow.  

 

She tried again, only to feel his grip tighten once again. “Draco,” she grumbled, struggling to pry his fingers off of her stomach.

 

With a series of deliberate movements, Draco easily maneuvered Hermione to lay flat on her back, his body draped over hers. His elbows rested on either side of her head, propping his chest up, and Hermione’s vision was filled with him as he hovered above her. 

 

These were the moments that took her breath away: Draco Malfoy, blonde hair falling around his head, his eyes silver and darkening with promises of pleasure to come, lips soft and inviting, and his undivided attention on her . 

 

“Pardon me for wanting to enjoy every moment in my witch’s company,” he said quietly. He turned away from her for a moment, and Hermione immediately felt the loss of his eyes on her body. He must have been reaching for his wand, because a moment later a breath-freshening charm filled her mouth with the subtle sweetness of spearmint. 

 

Hermione couldn’t help the quiet sigh that fell from her lips. “You are absolute perfection, Draco Malfoy.” 

 

His gaze returned to her, a slow smile spreading on his lips. “I may be a gardener now, Granger, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost all of my manners.” 

 

She huffed a small laugh which quickly faded as she looked up into Draco’s face. His eyes, now fully swirling silver, were fixated on her mouth. Suddenly self conscious, Hermione moistened her lips with her tongue. When his pupils flared in response, she swallowed tightly. 

 

His body shifted above her as his head lowered towards her face. His eyes returned to hers, holding her frozen in place with their intensity, with their need for her to be here, with him, in this moment. 

 

The puff of his minty breath against her lips. 

 

Eyes that darted back and forth between hers, searching for something that she couldn’t name. 

 

Warmth and a sense of rightness that filled her lungs with every stuttering inhale. 

 

Choices that in this moment seemed impossibly easy to make, like they weren’t even choices at all. 

 

Finally, Draco claimed her, drawing her lower lip between his teeth and biting gently at the flesh. Her responding whimper egged him on, as his tongue began to trace languidly along the seam of her lips, waiting for her to open for him. She let him linger there for a moment, basking in the intimate familiarity of him. 

 

But the need that was building under her skin became too much, too impatient for him, and she parted her lips, inviting him in and reciprocating each prodding push and pull of him as the kiss deepened. They were past the point of exploring; their tongues were instead revisiting their favorite dance, one they now knew by heart. 

 

Hermione’s hands began to wander, the aching want that filled her demanding that she touch him, that she feel the perfection of the dips and swells of his body under her palms. She gripped his biceps, tracing her fingers down the wiry muscle of his forearms before reaching around to the broad expanse of his back, trailing her hands down the smooth skin there until she reached the firmness of his arse, digging her hands in and pulling his hips against hers. 

 

Draco’s low moan was swallowed by their kiss as she felt his cock begin to swell against her naked hip. She shifted underneath him, desperate to align their bodies, to feel the sweet relief of his touch between her legs. 

 

His mouth wrenched away from hers, his breath hot and labored against her lips. Reaching down between them, he perfectly aligned himself so that his hard length rested against her center. A cry escaped from her lips when his hips gave an experimental thrust, perfectly nudging his cock against her covered clit as it slid along the cleft between her lower lips. At her response, the motion repeated, and Hermione felt the curling arousal begin to concentrate in her lower belly. 

 

She craned her neck up toward him to resume their kiss, but Draco retreated from her. When she whined as she tried again, Draco’s hands came up to cradle the sides of her face. 

 

“Please,” he panted, a quiet desperation in his voice as he looked at her. “Please just let me watch you, I…fuck, Hermione, seeing you like this…” 

 

And so her head dropped back to the mattress, her breathing growing more labored as the heat continued to build. Each pass of his cock moved with greater ease as it grew wet with the moisture between her legs, slipping perfectly against her. She couldn’t control the whines and mewls that fell from her mouth as he continued to wind her tighter and tighter, bringing her closer to the release that she knew, that she trusted , he would deliver. 

 

Draco watched her, his eyes darting across her face like he was afraid to miss a single expression or moment. Like he was sustained by her pleasure. 

 

Words fell from his lips as he looked down at her, words that began quiet and controlled, but as his movements grew more frenzied, a string of nonsense filled the air around them, a chorus of “Stunning; Hermione; Mine.” His voice washed over her, fueling her ascent and setting fire to her skin. 

 

“Fuck,” she cried, hands clinging to his shoulders. “I’m so close…so…so…fucking…close.”

 

Draco growled low in his chest, maintaining his rhythmic thrusts and lowering his mouth to her ear. 

 

“Are you going to come for me, witch?” he breathed against her skin. 

 

She opened her mouth to reply that yes, she was going to come for him now , but her body beat her to the finish line. Her spine arched off of the bed as her orgasm swept through her body, wave upon wave of bliss that left her sweating and shaking in the aftermath. And the whole time, hovering above her, he watched, entranced, as she rode the pleasure that he had wrung from her body. 

 

An exhale shuddered from her chest, and she brought her hands to his cheeks. “Draco,” she breathed, his name enough to say all that she needed to in that moment. 

 

Draco’s eyes never left hers as he shifted his hips once again, aligning his hard, slickened cock with her entrance. For a moment he waited there, suspended, staring down at her. His face was flushed and sweat already beaded along his upper lip. 

 

Hermione lifted her hips, her body ready for him, but Draco held her in place. “Don’t rush me, Hermione,” he warned. 

 

She stilled, waiting, the anticipation reigniting the hum under her skin. Her breath, still struggling to recover in the wake of her orgasm, stirred the long strands of hair that hung down between them. 

 

When he finally entered her, it wasn’t a claiming thrust that took her breath away. No, Draco pushed inside of her with an unexpected gentleness, the deliberate slowness of someone who is savoring their favorite meal. It took seconds for him to be fully sheathed inside of her, until his pelvis met hers and he released a shaking exhale as his body stilled above hers. After a few more breaths, he began to move: withdrawing himself until only the head of his cock hovered inside of her, before filling her again in a measured, unhurried thrust. 

 

Hermione was overwhelmed with the sensation of him, the painfully slow rhythm he maintained between her legs making her aware of every place where their skin met, every ridge on his cock that caught on the sensitive flesh inside her. 

 

“Look at me, Hermione.”

 

She hadn’t realized that her eyes had fallen shut, but she obediently opened them, looking up to see Draco staring down at her. His irises had been completely overpowered by his dark pupils, and his mouth hung open in unconcealed pleasure. His body moved patiently above her, continuing the steady rhythm of his cock dragging in and out of her. 

 

“Don’t,” It sounded like Draco forced the word out through clenched teeth. “Don’t ever…fuck, Hermione… I can’t…I…” His movements stuttered to a stop.

 

“Draco,” she pleaded, the sudden absence of friction pulling a frustrated whine from her. “Don’t stop.”

 

Draco resumed, his thrusts now harder, deeper, more urgent. “I can’t fucking say no to you,” he growled against the skin of her neck. Hermione met his movements, rolling her hips and flexing her inner muscles around him. 

 

Words were no longer necessary as they surrendered to their bodies. Hermione was aware of nothing beyond what was building between them, the crescendo that sang through her blood as Draco fucked her into his white sheets. He seemed equally lost, the masculine grunts that grew less controlled as each minute passed filling her body with such vicious want that Hermione felt herself grow frantic beneath him. Her fingernails clawed at his back, her teeth and tongue tasting the skin at the base of his long neck, while he returned the onslaught as one hand plucked and pinched at her nipples while his mouth kissed and bit at her jaw. They fed off of each other, Hermione driving Draco and Draco driving Hermione higher and higher until she actually imagined that it could last forever. 

 

When the ending came, when every nerve exploded in a tsunami of pleasure, and Hermione’s body shook and jerked below him, Draco followed with a guttural roar that held nothing back, his hips slowing as he came deep within her. And in that moment, under the comforting weight of his body with the harsh puffs of his breath against her neck, Hermione made a choice. 

 

_________________________________

Hermione could practically hear her heart pounding in her chest. She reached for the plain, white mug that sat in front of her, finding just enough enjoyment out of it to justify continuing to drink it rather than pouring it out. It just wasn’t the same as his coffee. 

 

She sat at the table with Harry, Ginny, and Ron in a configuration that was achingly familiar after many years of a shared life. They were alone, sitting at a simple, metal table that sat on a little stone patio nestled in the middle of the gardens. They all sipped at cups of coffee and ignored the tray of scones that Ron had pilfered from the breakfast buffet. Her friends watched her, careful expressions on their faces. They were obviously waiting for her to say something. 

 

She needed to say something. She should say something. But it was all so much, and she felt like she was barely clinging to the illusion of control as it was. Eager for a distraction, she took a long drink of the disappointing coffee. Not his.

 

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” Of course it was Ron who broke the silence, unable to wait a moment longer. “You know that I support you, ‘Mione, but this is crazy. It’s completely mad.” 

 

Hermione let his words sink in for a moment before glancing over at Harry and Ginny. Harry, predictably, wore a carefully guarded expression that betrayed none of his thoughts. Ginny’s face was more readable: slightly pained, apologetic. 

 

“Are you sure?” The red-headed witch looked at Hermione as if trying to see through her skin and bones to find some inner truth. 

 

“Am I sure?” A frustrated laugh came bubbling unbidden from her chest. “Of course I’m not fucking sure! I’m a control freak who is crippled by making decisions and terrified of disappointing others.” She took a steadying breath out through her nose. “And now I’ve gone and set myself up to have to make a choice that will impact the rest of my life!” 

 

“Hermione,” Ginny started.

 

“No, I don’t think any of you can possibly understand the hours that have gone into this choice, the constant fear that I’m making a mistake, that I’m abandoning the people who have given me so much!” Hermione’s chest was heaving with the myriad of emotions that swirled through her. 

 

“If that’s how you feel,” Ron began, his voice rough. “Then shouldn’t you make a different choice? Aren’t choices supposed to be easy when you’re making the right one?”

 

Hermione turned to glare at him. “I don’t know if this is the right thing, Ron. I don’t know if I’ll ever know if this choice is the right one. But for now, at this moment in my life, I can’t imagine making another.” 

 

Harry cleared his throat, drawing their attention to him. “What did Kingsley have to say?”

 

“He was unsurprised and supportive of whatever my choice was. I told him that I’d send him an owl this afternoon when I’d made my final decision.”

 

“Are you sure,” Harry continued, a careful edge to his voice that he typically reserved for professional settings. “That this choice is for you, Hermione, and not for him?”

 

She sighed. Him . She shouldn’t be surprised at the question. It was a valid one. “I won’t sit here and pretend that he is irrelevant, that he doesn’t matter to me and to this choice. But you have to see that it’s about more than that. It’s about me finally choosing myself after all of these years of giving and giving and asking for nothing in return.” 

 

Ron snorted a harsh laugh. “You make out your life in England like it’s some terrible burden, ‘Mione. Is it really so bad, living with your best friends, surrounded by people who love and care about you?” He shook his head, a rueful frown on his lips. “He’s changed you. I don’t care what you say, but this crush has somehow gotten you to --”

 

“Damnit Ronald, I’m not quitting my job and leaving England because of some crush on Draco Malfoy!” Hermione shouted, her words hanging suspended in the air around them. 

 

At that moment she saw a flash of blonde, and watched as her wizard passed them by, seemingly oblivious to their presence. Her heart constricted as she watched him walk away, and felt a thousand tiny truths click into place in her mind. 

 

She turned back to her friends, but her glare was focused on Ron, the man who had held her heart for so many years, who had treasured it in his own way, who had never quite fit. “That man, who you are so quick to brush off as some passing joke, has overcome more than any of us could ever imagine. He has been surrounded by darkness, by cruelty, and yet he has found his way to forgiveness and somehow still has the most kind and caring heart that I have ever known. He is good, so good, and he stood by me as I found the good and the happiness within myself that I thought I’d lost.” She looked over at Harry and Ginny, who were still watching her with guarded expressions. “You all are my family. That is the simple truth. The three of you found a way to help me survive for all of those years when I wasn’t sure how to get through the day. I would never blame you for my own struggles, and I love you all, so much.” She felt a burning in the corners of her eyes, and reached a hand up to wipe at the unshed tears that gathered in her lashes. “But Draco helped me remember how to live, and held my hand while I healed. He helped me find the tools to save myself, and once the pieces were starting to come back together, I finally looked up and saw him . He’s… well, he’s everything, and I can’t pretend that I don’t love him fiercely and unapologetically.” 

 

Silence followed in the wake of her confession. She looked between the faces of her friends: Ginny’s eyes glistened with tears but a genuine smile curved her lips, while Harry, his face still impassive, nodded slowly. Ron was obviously trying to conceal his true feelings under the veil of a frown, but Hermione couldn’t miss the shadow of hurt in his eyes. 

 

She exhaled. “I’m going to owl my official resignation to Kingsley. I’ll find you all later to say goodbye, alright? And, I’m not really leaving you. I don’t think I could ever do that. I’ll just be one quick Portkey away.” She gave her friends a strained smile before turning and walking into the gardens and back toward the cottage. 

 

Her footsteps were quick, driven by clarity and purpose. She didn’t waste a second smelling the fragrant blooms that dipped into the path or picking a ripe strawberry from the patch beside the largest plum tree. No, she had a clear list that she was following: 

 

Owl Kingsley. 

 

Find Draco. 

 

Tell Draco. 

 

When she reached the cottage, she ran up the steps, nudging off her sandals and hurrying up the stairs. Without thinking twice, she went to Draco’s room, not bothering to sit as she penned the quick missive to the Minister for Magic with the quill and parchment that Draco kept neatly on his desk. Folding up the parchment and stashing it in the pocket of her cut off denim shorts, she quickly replaced the items on his desk before hurrying back the way she came. 

 

This time she ran, ignoring the pieces of gravel that got stuck in her sandals as her feet pounded along the winding paths. Her breaths were heavy but there was a lightness that filled her body, a visceral relief at having made a choice. More than that it was that she’d finally made this choice, the one that had been looming over her for weeks now. 

 

At the flash of blonde, Hermione skidded to a stop. He was moving away from her, his head ducking to walk under low branches on a path that branched away from hers. She rerouted, walking quickly toward him, unable to stop her smile at the sight of him. 

 

“Draco!” she called as she approached. He was wearing the same white t-shirt she’d watched him put on that morning while she lounged in his bed, and his hair was pulled up off of his neck into a low bun, revealing the almost-bronze skin of someone who worked in the sun. 

 

He glanced back over his shoulder at her, wearing an impassive expression. “Hey.” 

 

“I want to tell you something,” she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I --”

 

“I know.” He sounded resigned, and his eyes didn’t look up from the ground as he turned to face her. 

 

Hermione furrowed her brow as she looked up at him. “You know? How…but…” Suddenly, uncertainty flared within her. She’d assumed that she knew what he wanted, that she’d read his words correctly that he… “I thought you’d be happy,” she confessed, ashamed at how small her voice sounded in her own ears. 

 

Now Draco’s face mirrored her confusion. “Happy? You’re kidding me, right?” 

 

What is happening, Hermione thought frantically, her mind whirring, trying to catch up with whatever shift or change she had missed, trying to track down the clues and pieces that could make it all make sense. 

 

Draco began to pace in front of her, anguish clear on his face. “The bloody joke of it all,” he continued, “is that I can’t even be angry that you’re brushing this off as a crush because I’m so fucking livid that after everything, after every conversation we’ve had and how much you’ve changed and grown, you’re still going to keep doing that job that is destroying you!” 

 

A piece clicked into place. “Wait, Draco,” she tried to interject.

 

“This world keeps taking from you, Hermione, and you just let them! You have given them enough, and unless all of this is a lie, you are happy here. Bloody hell, I’m probably wrong, but you seem like you are at peace here. Even if I’m not a part of the picture, haven’t you learned to choose yourself? I know that it isn’t the career or the meaning in life that you are used to, that you seem to need, but could this be enough for you? Could your contentment be enough?”

 

“I --”

 

A dark, rueful chuckle fell from his pursed lips. “And here I was, thinking that we’d agreed, that we would tell each other the moment our feelings changed. I’m the one who assumed from the beginning that it was all real and moving toward something, but I guess I’m the fool who fell for the Golden Girl when it was just a crush.”

 

“Shut up, you stubborn idiot!” Hermione couldn’t contain the outburst any longer, striding up to the wizard who looked like his world had just come crashing down around him. “Of course you overheard my sarcastic quip about not leaving my career for something as juvenile as a crush, while missing the next bit where I very loudly informed my friends that you are quite possibly the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and that without you I never would have found the strength to walk away from something that I’ve been told all my life that I’m supposed to want, when in reality all that I could think about when I was back there was finishing the research I’d started with the man that I love!”

 

Draco’s chin jerked up, gray eyes sharp as he stared at her. 

 

“I talked to Kingsley before I left. I told him that I needed to think, that I wasn’t sure if I was going to come back. And look!” Hermione pulled the folded letter from her pocket, waving it in the air between them. “I’m doing what I’ve always been too afraid to do! I’m picking the unpredictable outcome, the unknown that simultaneously fills me with terror and excitement.”

 

Still he stared, his body frozen as if he’d forgotten how to move. 

 

“I’m staying, Draco.” She softened her voice as her eyes searched his for any sign that her words were being heard. “I’m stopping the endless race of chasing what comes next and slowing down to embrace what I’ve found here. I don’t know if this is where I’ll be forever, but for now, it feels like I’m supposed to be here, with you and the others. I want to finish the research, to finish what we started.”

 

Draco took a step back from her, his boot-clad feet stumbling slightly. His eyes were wide and bright, and he reached up a hand to cover his open mouth as he shook his head. “You’re fucking with me.”

 

She took a tentative step closer to him, close enough that she could smell the cedar that always clung to his skin. “I’m not,” she articulated carefully. “I promise.”

 

“Hermione, if you’re not, I swear to --”

 

“Draco. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

 

A choked sound wrenched from his throat as Draco buried his face in his hands. Hermione closed the final distance between them, wrapping her arms around his body as he leaned heavily into her shoulder. She held him tightly, hoping to provide a fraction of the comfort that she’d found in his arms as she felt the moisture of hesitant tears soaking her shirt, his strong back shaking with silent sobs. 

 

They stayed like that, and Hermione had no greater sense of the passing of seconds or minutes, content to simply be in the moment with him. His breathing evened, slowed, until the rise and fall of his shoulders mirrored her own steady breath. 

 

When Draco took a step away from her, she felt his absence acutely. But she gave him space, watching his masculine hands wipe away the lingering tears that clung to his flushed cheeks. He looked up to meet her eyes as he cleared his throat. “Fuck you, Granger,” he grumbled, his voice ragged. 

 

Hermione huffed out a quiet laugh. “You don’t mean that, Malfoy.”

 

He chuckled. “No, I absolutely bloody don’t.” His arms opened to her -- an invitation -- and she took the few steps into his all-consuming embrace. Now his arms encircled her, tugging her tightly against his chest as his hands traced softly up and down her spine. “You said something,” he began, speaking against the crown of her head. 

 

Tilting her chin up, she was barely able to see his face, much less make out his expression. “I said lots of things,” she replied carefully. 

 

“Yes,” he agreed. “But you said something that we should talk about.”

 

She smiled into his t-shirt. “And what was that?”

 

“You’re enjoying this,” he accused, and she felt his hands tighten against her back.

 

With a gentle push against his claiming hold, Hermione created just enough distance between them so that she could look up and see his face. He looked down at her, his expression guarded, although his eyes still held the bright clarity left in the wake of recently-shed tears. 

 

She reached her hands up to tangle in his hair, uncaring that she was messing up the bun that currently held his hair out of his face. With a gentle pull, his face lowered until it was merely inches from hers. 

 

“I love you,” she finally whispered, watching the moment the words touched him. Draco’s eyes fluttered shut and he let out a slow exhale as his lips curved up into a smile. 

 

“I love you too, witch,” he replied, his eyes opening to meet hers. 

 

They looked at each other, smiles growing wider as each second ticked by, eyes alight with all of the little truths that they shared in that moment. 

 

“I hope you know that I’m never going to forgive you for making me fucking cry, Granger.”

 

Hermione’s wide smile naturally morphed into a loud laugh as Draco scowled down at her, doing a terrible job of concealing the genuine mirth in his eyes. “You do realize that witches are terribly attracted to emotional sensitivity, don’t you?”

 

Draco’s undignified grunt as he tucked her against her side only made her laugh more, and she was nearly doubled over with giggles as he steered them in the direction of the main Estate building. “Come on, Granger,” he said with a reluctant laugh. “Let’s go find you an owl.”

_________________________________

In the overwhelming heat of the early afternoon sun, everyone gathered on the front drive of the Casa de redenzione to say final goodbyes. Unlike the day before, there was no breeze to offer any relief from the Italian summer, and, in spite of attempted cooling charms, everyone was sweating profusely through their already-minimal clothing. 

 

Hermione stood off to one side with Harry, Ron, and Ginny. 

 

“You know that we’ll love and support you no matter what, right?” Harry asked, looking intently at Hermione through his slightly fogged glasses. 

 

She offered him a smile. “I know, Harry.” 

 

“And you have to write,” Ginny added, her furiously blinking eyes poorly  disguising the tears that had gathered in the corners. 

 

“Of course I’ll write,” Hermione reassured the younger witch as she gave her a fierce, but quick hug. “And you have to come visit.” 

 

“Twist my bloody arm!” Ginny grinned at her. “I think I can convince my coach to fund me spending the off-season in Italy if I tell her about the carbo-loading potential of the Italian diet.” 

 

They all laughed at that. Hermione looked over at Ron, who still wore a soft frown. “Goodbye, Ron,” she finally offered. 

 

He gave her a pained smile as he pushed his hair back off of his forehead. “Goodbye, ‘Mione.”

 

An alarm from someone’s wand sounded, alerting the group to the fact that it was time to depart. Hermione gave her three friends one last wave as they joined the rest of the group who had traveled from England in the short trek to the Portkey point. 

 

Each step that they took away from her, each step that she could have been taking alongside them, felt like the clock chimes marking the final seconds of a life, or the hinges creaking as a door closed. Her choice was made: she’d sent her letter to Kingsley, and she’d spoken to Andromeda, who had enthusiastically confirmed that Hermione was still welcome to reside with them for as long as she continued to contribute. 

 

Their figures grew smaller as they approached the wards at the edge of the property. Hermione felt a heavy hand on her shoulder, and without looking back, she leaned into the comfort that she knew, she trusted, would be there. 

 

“You alright?” he asked, whispering the words against her ear. 

 

Turning her back on the now distant group, Hermione smiled up at Draco, at his gray eyes and arched brow and regal nose and soft lips that looked down at her with uninhibited affection. 

 

“Oh, hello Hermione!” Luna’s voice chimed from behind Draco. She stood at the base of the stone steps with Pansy, Theo, Neville and Blaise, who all turned to look at her. 

 

“Well fuck me bloody sideways,” Pansy called as Hermione, followed closely by Draco, walked over to join the group. “Glad to see you got some sense knocked into you, Hermione.” 

 

“Blaise, you owe me a bottle of the 2014 Giacomo Conterno,” Theo said, grinning at Hermione as Blaise groaned into his hands. “It’s very, very expensive and very, very delicious.”

 

“Ignore them,” Neville said, pulling her into a sweaty hug. “I’m so proud of you.” The words were quiet, just for the two of them. Hermione felt her chest swell with pride, aware that from anyone else she would have found the words patronizing. But from Neville, from her dear friend who had always seen her, those words meant the world. 

 

As a unit, the group began to move toward the gardens, following the path that would lead them back to the cottage. Draco walked by her side, his hand occasionally brushing against hers, as they listened to the familiar music of Pansy and Theo bickering about dinner.

 

“Cheese toasties are not a complete meal, Theo!” Pansy admonished. “You’re not a bloody child!”

 

“But it’s my wedding weekend and cheese toasties are delicious!” 

 

“Your wedding is over and you’re a married man! Neville, control your husband, please!”

 

“You seem like you have it perfectly under control, Parkinson.”

 

“Children, all of you!”

_______________________________

They sat side by side on the picnic table, dappled moonlight filtering through the sweeping willow branches that surrounded them. The heat from the day had barely faded with the darkness, and there was still a sticky heaviness in the air. Even the smoke from his spliff seemed to move sluggishly, hanging in a low cloud above them. 

 

Hermione’s bare leg brushed against his denim-covered thigh. Her attention was currently on her tattooed forearm, which had begun to itch almost violently in the past hour. She gave in, scratching lightly against her skin. 

 

“How does it feel?” Draco asked. 

 

“Itchy, but like it’s supposed to be there.” 

 

There was a crackling hiss as he took a long inhale from his spliff. “I still can’t believe that you did that.” One of his hands circled around her waist, his thumb snagging into one of her belt loops. 

 

“What can I say,” Hermione said with a smile. “I occasionally dabble in doing unpredictable things.”

 

She felt the soft exhale of Draco’s laugh against her skin as he pressed his lips deliberately to her temple. She leaned into the touch, content and at peace.

 

“So what do we do now?”

 

Her question was met with momentary silence. Glancing up at Draco, she caught the end of his shrug. 

 

“Now we live.”

Notes:

And so it comes to an end...

I will never be able to put into words the amount of joy and meaning writing this story has brought to my life for the past twelve months. And the warm reception from readers, especially those of you who were with me along the way -- your comments and encouragement inspired so much of this story. Thank you for going on this journey with me!

When I found out that I was pregnant in May, I set the goal of finishing this story before our baby came. AND WE DID IT! 6 days from my due date, I am uploading the final chapter.

It feels silly to write acknowledgments, but in all honesty there are three women who, in various capacities along the way, made this story what it was.

Lauraloveschristmas: Your editing and love of the gnomes made the story better, and your willingness to tell me when something truly wasn't working drove me to be a better writer. And your friendship? That is a priceless thing that I will value forever.

Miiisterbear: The fact that someone I've known since we were 5 years old was able to be a part of this journey still blows my mind. Your words of affirmation and encouragement, especially at the end, were a huge part of what inspired me to just keep writing. Even with having a baby in the middle of this whole thing, you have continued to show up for me in the most sincere and beautiful ways.

Bookishteddy: I don't think I would be writing if it wasn't for you. From the beginning of our friendship, your enthusiasm for creating and building worlds has pushed me as a writer. I will always think fondly of the early days of us beta-ing A&W and S&F together. That was the spark that brought this story into being. You have become someone important and dear in my life, and I can never thank you enough for all of the time you have devoted to supporting me through this process.

And readers, thank you THANK YOU THANK YOU for everything. You will forever have my gratitude and love.