Chapter Text
***Hermione***
Her lungs burned with every breath, the internal fire reaching up to scorch the back of her throat. Her heart was hammering, the thrum of her pulse so loud in her ears it was almost enough to drown out the beats emitting from her headphones. Her feet felt like they were weighed down with bricks and it was a testament to her willpower alone that kept her legs pumping, one foot pounding in front of the other while sweat prickled the back of her neck.
Hermione knew what it was like to run for her life, to be chased with the very real possibility that being caught meant death. She is well aware that in such an event adrenaline would course through her veins spurring her on. But she also understands that adrenaline can only do so much.
Pre-war no one would have ever accused Hermione of being even remotely athletic, she preferred to spend her free time in the library with her head buried in a book or getting a jump start on her assignments. However, her experience Horcrux hunting with Harry and Ron the previous year and the final battle at Hogwarts made her understand that her lack of physical fitness was a weakness she simply could not afford. She had always relied heavily on her knowledge and quick whits but she soon learnt that if separated from her wand her best chance would be to evade capture and without any level of fitness she would not get far. Her ability to run at a fast pace for an extended period of time could mean the difference between life and death.
Even now that the war was over and Harry had defeated Voldemort Hermione swore she would never let physical weakness make her vulnerable again. In keeping with her new philosophy, Hermione commits to running ten kilometres a minimum of four times a week and at least two workouts. Now that she is back at Hogwarts for her final year and to sit her N.E.W.T.s she takes advantage of the many paths that litter the school grounds. Her current route is her favourite, a loop that skirts the edges of the forbidden forest and backtracks toward the Castle along the shore of the Great Lake.
The first five kilometres of the run are always the hardest, her desire to stop and walk is powerfully strong but she wills herself to push on, somewhere around that five-kilometre mark a mental wall shatters and she finds exhilaration, relishing in the strength and power of her body. Suddenly the burning in her lungs lessens, her feet lighten and the bunch and stretch of her muscles becomes pleasurable.
Hermione was also pleased to discover that regular physical exercise allowed her the time and space needed to process her thoughts, her runs had become therapeutic. As her feet drummed on the worn path tucked under the canopy of the Forbidden Forest and the Beastie Boys played on her diskman Hermione evaluated her first week back at Hogwarts.
Everything had gone as smoothly as she had hoped. The Castle had been returned to its pre-battle glory with the addition of a few monuments and plaques to honour those who had fallen. On the first night back at the feast McGonagall had made a beautiful speech and everyone had stood to observe a moment of silence. In addition to some of the teaching roles being filled, there was also a mind healer on staff for anyone needing help readjusting post-war. Some of the older students who had participated in the battle were walking around looking a little frayed but the younger students seemed mostly oblivious and went about their first week back with rambunctious enthusiasm, Hermione had been required to issue detentions to a few third-year Gryffindor’s who had charmed a rug to snap out from under your feet when stepped on, tripping students on their way to lunch in the Great Hall.
After the war there had never been a question of Hermione returning to finish her education. Now that the wizarding world had been freed from the clutches of a mad man Hermione could once again focus on her personal goals, to get excellent marks in her N.E.W.T.s, obtain a ministry position after leaving School and eventually work her way up the ministry ranks.
Harry and Ron had taken a little more convincing. They both intended to join the Trainee Auror program and had been invited to do so regardless if they returned to Hogwarts and sat their N.E.W.T.s or not. Hermione, with the help of Ginny, managed to convince them that returning to Hogwarts made the most sense “Seriously you guys,” she pleaded “you have the rest of your lives to work, after everything we have been through don’t you think it would be nice to have one last year living together with all your friends, minimal responsibilities and you know your spots in the program are secured regardless what marks you get in your final exam,” she paused considering, before adding “not that I’m encouraging you to slack off more than you usually would.”
In the end, it was Ginny who really secured the boys return to school “Harry I have no choice but to go back and I really don’t want to spend any more time apart if we don’t have to. Besides, I need you both on the Quidditch team.”
Once Harry had considered the logistics of the better part of a year separated from Ginny he quickly realized that going to classes was a small price to pay to be with her, not to mention the cosy dorms and regular meals that they had missed dreadfully while hunting for shards of Voldemort’s soul. As usual, Ron tagged along with Harry and had agreed to return with them.
Hermione had worried that it might have been a bit awkward returning to school with Ron. After pining for each other for so long she had been horrified to discover that getting physically intimate with him had been hideously underwhelming. They had persevered, graduating from wet messy kisses to a few fumbling rolls in the hay. Hermione could not understand what was missing, she loved Ron, she found him attractive but they had the sexual chemistry of a flobberworm. In hindsight, she thinks perhaps the stress of the war most likely contributed to elevating their friendship to something more. After all, Harry was madly in love with Ginny and who wants to face the end of the world single.
After perhaps the fourth or fifth attempt at shagging that had left them both unsatisfied and embarrassed Hermione had finally addressed the Hippogriff in the room and cautiously suggested to Ron that perhaps they were better off as just friends. The look of pure relief that flashed in the eyes of the familiar freckled face when she voiced her suggestion cemented Hermione’s decision to revert back to friends. Of course, they continued to interact socially after the ‘break up’, it would have been impossible not to, however, they remained politely on eggshells around each other as only those who have seen each other naked understand.
It had now been three months since Ron and Hermione had agreed that they were better off as friends and Hermione was pleased to say that it felt like their dynamic was beginning to return to normal, and while it was not quite there, she was confident time would repair whatever damage they had done. It also helped that since returning to Hogwarts Hermione had been made Head Girl which meant she now resided in a private room and did not have to uncomfortably orbit Ron in the Gryffindor common room.
What stood out most in the first week back was seeing the return of the eighth year Slytherins. Hermione had not been surprised to see them back, she had attended some of the trials with the Wizengamot and she knew that it was a condition of their probation that they return to Hogwarts. That still had not dampened her shock when she cast her eyes across the Great Hall the first night back and saw the signature white-blond hair.
Malfoy sat at the Slytherin table, as always, he was impeccably put together and even wearing the uniform he still managed to look expensive. Gone was the snarky boy, in his place was a serious-looking young man, he sat ramrod straight giving McGonagall’s speech his full attention. Hermione could not help but notice that he sat unnaturally still, the other Slytherins around him slouched and fidgeted, their discomfort at being back at Hogwarts leeching out of them in their mannerisms, a stark contrast to his stillness. Were it not for the fact that she could see him blinking and his chest subtly expanding and contracting with each breath she would think that it was a statue of Malfoy.
He looked healthier than when she had seen him at his trial, he had been sallow and dejected with lifeless eyes slumped over on his stool. It was hard to imagine that it was the same person, in the space of a few months his face had filled out, his eyes and cheeks no longer looked sunken and his pallor no longer a deathly grey. His hair had been beautifully cut, shorter at the back and sides with still a bit of length on top that effortlessly swept back, it was a softer look than the harsh slicked back style he sported in his younger years.
Seconds or minutes might have passed while Hermione was scrutinizing Malfoy when as if he felt her gaze his head snapped to her and his steely eyes locked onto hers. Hermione knew that the appropriate response would be to jerk her attention away and fake interest in absolutely anything else but in that moment her social compass abandoned her completely and she maintained the intense eye contact. After what felt like 45 minutes, but in all reality was likely only seconds, Draco Malfoy raised a patrician eyebrow in question and as if hit with stinging jinx Hermione’s social decorum returned and she abruptly broke away while simultaneously hoping the embarrassed flush creeping up her neck at being caught staring was not visible across the hall.
Even now five days later she cringes inwardly as she recalls the exchange. Approaching the ancient oak tree that signalled the last strip of the forest before her path took her back toward the castle along the bank of the lake, she chastises herself for letting the memory vex her. She can’t understand why she had been so fixated on him at that moment, she supposed that objectively speaking Malfoy was aesthetically pleasing, puberty had broadened his once pointy features and the years of quidditch evident in the way his clothing fit. He had also shot up in the last couple of years, his height accentuated by his aristocratic posture. Nevertheless, his physical appeal did not change the fact that Malfoy had been a proper little shit and an outright bully for the majority of his youth not to mention he was a branded Death Eater.
In all fairness, since his trial, Hermione was less judgemental about the fact that he had been a Death Eater. Through the use of veritaserum and open pensive, it was discovered that his involvement in the Death Eater regime had been completely involuntary. His cooperation had been ensured through the use of cruciatus and threat of death, not only to himself but to his mother also. When combined with the fact that he was only 16 years old when he had been manipulated into taking the Dark Mark and instructed to assonate Dumbledor, a task which he had failed, Draco had managed to escape a prison sentence. But willing death eater or not, Hermione considered, he was still a prick and she would do well to remember it.
As she pushes around the oak tree, she keeps her eyes on the path to avoid the rocks and branches that often litter this section of her run, Intergalactic is pounding out of her headphones and Hermione’s eyes flick up a fraction of a second before her forward momentum is abruptly halted as she bodily collides with something very solid and very blond.