Chapter Text
September 1st
A deep clash of thunder rumbled through Hogsmeade station. Hermione could feel it in her bones – the overwhelming power of nature always made her feel melancholic. Through the rain-battered compartment windows, she watched the squealing students disembark and dash through the downpour with arms above their heads.
Hermione was alone at the back of the Hogwarts Express, checking for lingering students as she made her way to the front.
A letter sat heavy in her pocket:
Ms. Granger, McGonagall had written. An urgent matter has come to my attention: It turns out our potions master needs some convincing to return to the classroom this year. I’m sorry to ask this of you, but I will need you to supervise the students on the train. I do not usually ask this of students, but there is no one else I would entrust with this task.
Everything was last minute, as seemed to be tradition at Hogwarts, and this time Hermione Granger was left to manage the pieces.
Because she was responsible.
The perfect role-model.
Always good.
Two years ago, she would have been bursting with pride to have such a responsibility.
Now? Dread settled in her heart.
She was exhausted.
Hermione reached the first carriage and took a deep steadying breath, opened her umbrella – a pretty watercolour design that reminded her of her mum – and stepped out into the downpour. The rain thudded loudly on her umbrella and drops ricocheted off the ground to splash onto her bare legs.
She looked around. Ginny and Luna had gone ahead as she’d told them to, and the last of the stragglers were stepping up into the carriages. The thestrals stood ready and restless. One at the back of the line snorted and stomped its feet.
She approached and watched the creature. Thestrals were really rather fascinating despite their morbid appearance. She felt comforted, somehow, by looking at them. They were a study in opposites: morbid, spindly, and haunting on the outside but all calm strength and elegance within. Thestrals were the tinge of darkness that appeared in the world after death; not thought about often, but once viewed, they caused a variety of reactions in people: fear, sadness, awe. Death made one see the world differently, for better or for worse.
How many students could see them now?
Hermione sighed and took a steadying breath. She’d been standing there for too long. The carriages at the start of the line were beginning to move.
She stepped into the last carriage and was half-inside when she noticed another figure and froze.
Startled grey eyes met hers.
They stared at each other for a heartbeat before all expression left Malfoy’s face. His mouth set, he sat up straighter, and his eyes hardened.
He was always good at that: keeping all forms of expression off of his face and replacing it with an air of boredom. She’d seen it often enough.
With a creak of a wheel, the carriage jolted, and she lost her footing.
Hermione groaned as her knees hit the floor hard and she caught herself on the padded bench. She winced at the pain in her knees, and it took her a moment to realize – to her utter mortification – that she was grasping onto Malfoy’s thigh as though it was a lifesaver.
She looked up at him in horror and could have laughed at his expression. His hands were up, like he had been about to touch her and thought against it, and brow was creased in displeasure as he looked down on her.
It was such a typical Malfoy look that it brought her a weird sense of relief. At least one thing in the world was the same.
She hauled herself up and slid inelegantly into the bench across from him.
“Sorry,” she offered.
When no scathing insult or witty remark came, she glanced over at him. He wasn’t glaring or smirking or sneering. Instead, he was observing her legs with a little notch between his brows.
Her knees, now mildly stinging, were beginning to look red. She’d have to put a salve on it later.
“What, no witty remark?” She said, unable to take the silence.
He raised an eyebrow.
“No, ‘These robes are vicuna wool, Granger, you owe me 500 galleons for touching them!’?” She said in his posh accent – he always over enunciated the hard consonants.
His lip twitched at that.
After a minute he gave in, “It’s a cashmere blend, Granger, and only worth 100. But that type of insult is reserved for Weasley, not you.”
She pursed her lips, but couldn’t resist asking, a little hesitantly, “And what type of insult do you have reserved for me then?”
His eyes flashed silver, sending a chill down her spine. “None,” he told her.
She raised her eyebrows. “None?”
“I never plan your insults, they come to me spontaneously,” he smirked, and turned to look out the window with a smug expression.
She snorted and did the same.
The castle loomed closer, so she hugged her arms and focused on the scenery outside.
The heavy rainfall descended onto the trees of the Forbidden Forest. Dusk was approaching, and the orange lanterns lining the path glowed hazy in the distance.
She breathed in the scent of wet earth and trees.
It smelled like Hogwarts – so different than the faint smogginess of London cars and the scent of hydrangeas growing in front of her parents’ house. Different than the musty smell of Grimmauld Place, or the grassy fields around the Burrow. It smelled like classes and homework and lazy days by the lake. It was the smell of youth - something she’d once thought she’d never smell again.
Lightening flashed in the dark sky above the castle, and a loud crash of thunder reverberated through the carriage.
All at once, images flooded her brain:
The sound of castle walls breaking.
Bright flares of curses.
Terrified faces and shots in the dark.
Flashes of green.
Bodies in the great hall. So many bodies, forever etched in her memory.
And rain.
So much rain.
The day after the battle, it had rained for days. Hermione had stood in the rain under those dark stormy clouds, cried over the idiocy of humankind and wondered why a bunch of teenagers had to fight in wars. She had stood there, rained on by the universe, and had felt so small and insignificant – like a speck of dust, irrelevant in the vastness of space and time.
And when the rain had finally stopped, Ron had taken comfort in his family, Harry was spending his days with Ginny, and Hermione – wrecked with guilt and sadness about her parents – had cried alone.
Hermione blinked and the carriage came back into her vision. She unclenched her hands to find her nails had carved little waves into her palms.
Her throat was thick, and tears welled up, blurring her vision, before tumbling down her cheeks. She tried to wipe away the wetness, but her tear ducts just doubled their efforts, so she pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes and just cried.
The sound of Malfoy clearing his throat prompted her to take a deep breath. She looked over at him, fully aware of how red and puffy her face probably was. There was no hiding it.
All thoughts evaporated when she looked down at his outstretched hand.
Her eyes flickered up to his again. Malfoy didn’t look away, but his jaw twitched, betraying his impassive expression.
As though to lighten the seriousness of the situation, he gave her an exasperated look, rolled his eyes, and said, “Just take it, Granger.”
Hermione did just that.
It was a dark grey handkerchief with an ornate French pattern sewn in shimmery threads and the initials D.L.M. in a fancy cursive script in one corner.
She stared at it, bewildered.
Draco Malfoy wasn’t laughing at her, teasing her, or calling her names.
He was being… considerate?
An irrational feeling bubbled up from her stomach and erupted into a wet laugh.
His expression turned wry. He probably thought she was mental. She certainly felt mental.
It felt great to laugh, she realized. She hadn’t laughed in a long time.
“Something funny?” He asked, eventually.
She couldn’t help the grin that crept onto her face. “Oh, not at all. The fact that you keep an embroidered handkerchief in your pocket is perfectly normal,” she said.
She dabbed her eyes with said handkerchief and more unintentional laughter bubbled out.
“Fuck off, they’re useful,” Malfoy grumbled halfheartedly and turned back to the window.
He was right. It was also clearly imbued with some self-cleansing and self-drying charms. An impressive bit of magic.
Hermione took that moment to look at him properly. She had only seen him twice since sixth year ended, so it took her by surprise that he hadn’t retained the youthful softness of his features or his slim build. His silver hair hung loose over his forehead, impeccably cut, but left unstyled. He looked older, slightly more filled out, and there was a sharpness to his jaw that hadn’t been before.
But the biggest difference was not, in fact, physical: there was an uncharacteristic lack of hostility in his demeaner.
Something deep in her chest twinged, and the strangest thing happened: she had the sudden urge to apologize for teasing and thank him for the handkerchief.
Thankfully, the corner of his lip twitched up and knocked her back to her senses.
She let out a breathy laugh and contemplated the absurd concept of Malfoy being considerate.
No, she thought. That wasn’t absurd. He had friends after all, didn’t he? It wasn’t unthinkable that he was good to his friends. What was absurd was the idea of him being considerate of her.
“I’ll have you know, handkerchiefs have been around for millennia. They have significance beyond their perceived use,” Malfoy said suddenly.
“Hm?” Hermione looked up at him in interest as he started speaking.
He seemed to take that as a good sign and continued:
“In the sixteenth century they came into vogue amongst wizarding kind and were both functional and symbolic. The different fabrics represented one’s status in the social hierarchy and the colours carried some significance. Silk was favoured amongst the rich, while cotton was rampant amongst commoners. Their uses and meanings have varied over the centuries, so you’d have to know the context at certain points in history to conduct a meaningful analysis of them.”
As he spoke, the most pleasurable sensation spread its way from the crown of her head and down her body. It was a combination of everything: the scent of Hogwarts, the smooth, even tones of his voice, the sound of the rain. The peaceful sensation flowed through her veins and steamrolled the stress right out of her.
She could have groaned except that it was a sensation she secretly enjoyed way too much. And one that she had to work hard to hide over the years. She sank into her seat and rested her head back while keeping her eyes on him.
“In the early twentieth century, there was a pandemic throughout Europe,” he continued, watching her with keen eyes.
“The influenza,” she said.
“Right in one, Granger. Wizardkind don’t usually suffer common muggle diseases, as you know, but the influenza pandemic was everywhere, especially in Europe. It just presented with different symptoms for us: it was considerably less lethal, but fever and delusions were common. The influenza spread fast, and people started condemning traditional handkerchiefs for retaining germs. Muggles at the time were producing single-use tissues, and they became the preferred option for obvious sanitary reasons.”
“That makes sense,” she said, cursing at how breathy she sounded. The relaxing sensations coursing through her body slowly converged between her legs as they always did when a good story was being told. It usually took quite a bit longer, but she suspected that both his attention on her and the relaxing quality of his voice had something to do with just how good it felt.
She had to keep telling herself that it was Malfoy talking, but for whatever reason, that seemed to make it worse. She pressed her legs together, both compounding and constraining the feeling.
“Handkerchiefs eventually became obsolete in the muggle world,” Malfoy said. “To some effect, this change also bled into wizarding populations. They became démodé amongst the general populace but remained à la mode in high society.”
He said démodé and à la mode with a perfect French accent, and she felt a prickle in her neck.
Trying to get her reactions under control, she sat up a little straighter and pushed her hair behind her ears. She cleared her throat.
“Let me guess, the Malfoys have always had them?”
He shrugged. “As any proper wizarding family would.”
She fingered the silk between her fingers. “And what does this one signify? The grey silk?”
Malfoy’s expression changed. He looked down at the handkerchief in her hands with an indescribable emotion.
“I’m sure you can put together a hypothesis,” he said eventually, with devious smirk.
A challenge.
He was giving her a puzzle.
She bit back a smile when she said, “Don’t think I won’t.”
The rickety wheels halted with a sudden jolt, causing the pleasure between her legs to flare. She bit her lip and quickly composed herself.
What was it was about him that made her physical reactions so strong? And over a conversation about handkerchiefs, of all things.
For the second time that day, she wondered about her sanity.
But now was not the time for that.
They were at the castle.
“Here,” Hermione said, holding out the now-crumpled handkerchief.
Malfoy looked at it with some measure of amusement.
“Keep it,” he said with a knowing smirk, “for your research.”
He disembarked.
After a moment, Hermione put the handkerchief in her pocket and followed.
She’d been wrong: Malfoy wasn’t the same. They’d had a civil conversation. No insults, no animosity, no anger. Maybe he was as exhausted with the past as she was.
For months, she had been able to suppress that rush of pleasure that she sometimes got when people spoke about subjects that fascinated her, but in a single ten-minute carriage ride, Malfoy had stoked that fire once again.
This was going to be an interesting year.
On the way to the feast, Hermione made a stop in one of the hidden alcoves to relieve herself of the pleasurable ache between her legs.
She showed up to the great hall ten minutes late with a distinct flush on her cheeks.