Chapter Text
Hermione Granger balanced the point of her quill on the tip of her index finger, swaying her wrist back and forth to counterbalance the weight. “Harold, question of the day. If you had to choose one food type to eat for the rest of your life—with no consideration to nutrition, in this hypothetical you remain healthy with vitamins—what food would you pick and why?”
With astounding speed and little consideration, Harold Smith answered, “Sandwiches.”
The quill fell and she pushed the soles of her flats against the floor, spinning the office chair until she faced him. “Sandwiches? Why sandwiches? We have shared lunch upwards of a hundred times and I’ve hardly ever seen you eat them.”
“Because, I can make anything into a sandwich, of course.” The old man grinned cheekily. “Two pizza slices facing inward? Sandwich.”
“That’s a calzone,” she countered.
“Two pieces of rice with fish and veggies in the middle? Sandwich.”
“Sushi.”
“Pastry cut down the middle with a sausage in it? Sandwich.”
“Sausage roll.”
“Lettuce with very large croutons on either end? Sandwich.”
“That’s an abomination. You’re just trying to find a loophole instead of answering the question!” She poked his shoulder and frowned. “I answered your question yesterday about who I would haunt if I could be a time travelling ghost.”
Harold stroked the trimmed patch of hair on his chin thoughtfully like a wise philosopher and not a Ministry guard. “That is true. I, too, was surprised by your answer.”
Hermione’s nostrils flared and she said, “Like I said, James Watson deserves to be haunted. He took Rosalind Franklin’s research on DNA, published it, received a Nobel Prize and did not even mention her in his acceptance speech. Not to mention the fact that he described Rosalind as ‘a belligerent, emotional woman unable to interpret her own data’.”
“I told Della about him over supper. She would like me to tell you that she would join you in the haunting.”
She smiled widely at the mention of Della. “This is precisely why I love your wife. Tonight, you mention this conversation to her and she can be the tiebreaker, but for what it’s worth I don’t think she would accept your sandwich answer either.”
His eyes twinkled as they always did when he was being mischievous. “Why do I feel like you are only objecting to my answer because you didn’t think of it first?”
“Are you going to make me argue the legal definition of a sandwich with you?” She crossed her arms defiantly. “Because I will.”
“The audacity of youth these days.” He shook his head. “You would truly argue with a man old enough to be your grandfather?”
“Absolutely.”
He leaned far back into his chair with his hands on his bald head and his elbows outstretched. “I have nothing but time—at least until five.”
“As do I.”
His salt-and-pepper coloured eyebrows lifted. “Are you sure about that?” he questioned while looking over his spectacles and gesticulating to a pair of Hermione’s coworkers who disappeared into the shared meeting room on the floor. “As much as I enjoy your company, it shouldn’t be at the expense of your comradery with your coworkers.”
“What comradery?” she muttered under her breath. Then she leapt up from her seat, knocked over a turtle bobble in the process and apologised quickly for her clumsiness.
It was unfortunate, but Hermione had little luck when it came to developing friendships at work. The best part of her work day was the time she spent with Harold at the security desk, who refused to disclose his true age but had to be approaching triple digits. He had a slight hunch, veins visible through paper thin skin, but a brilliant mind and rare smile that made her day. He was the type to appear grumpy and unapproachable to those who didn’t know him, but was fiercely protective and kind to those he cared for. Hermione was lucky enough to be in the latter.
Their friendship began in a rather unlikely manner, which was appropriate for the odd duo. Just under a year ago, Harold was the only one at work to notice her distress and heartbreak after the loss of her Nana. He, too, had experienced loss in his life, and they began sharing lunch together to pass the time with silly hypotheticals and crossword puzzles.
The rows of conference rooms were much like the rest of the Ministry, drab shades of grey and eggshell white, polished stone walls, chilled floors, whispers and sidelong looks. Hermione shivered and cast a heating charm to thaw out her frozen toes. Part of the appeal of spending time with Harold was the way his desk was an explosion of colour in sharp contrast to the rest of its surroundings. There was an array of frog figurines, plushies, and bobbles of all shades, paired with bright green lily pads and flowers. His wife of sixty-five years, Della, lovingly crocheted a stack of blankets to keep at his desk; she was Muggleborn as well and preferred blankets to charms.
When Hermione entered her team’s designated conference room, it was already abuzz with the chatter of her coworkers.
“....thought he could create the next Everlasting Elixir, but he’s no Arsenius Jigger.”
At the mention of the famous Potioneer, Hermione’s ears perked up. Inside her bag at this very moment was a heavily annotated biography of Jigger. She looked over to see her coworkers in the corner, conversing over a cup of coffee.
“Actually, that was Libatius Borage, not Arsenius Jigger,” Hermione corrected enthusiastically and served herself a cup of coffee before taking a seat toward the head of the table. “It’s a common mistake, though Jigger’s specialty was Transfiguration, where Borage had a knack for Alchemy.”
The pair shared a glance and turned away to continue their conversation as if she hadn’t said anything at all. Hermione’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment, flustered by their response. She cringed and picked at her nails. Ever since she started as an Unspeakable, her coworkers had all but shunned her, whispering rumours of her shortcomings and calling her underqualified for the position due to her age. More than once, she had overheard another declare that she had only been hired for the optics due to her connections and heroine status from the war.
Hermione turned to the witch seated next to her. “Alice, I’ve been researching new ways to obtain samples of magical signatures. I am on the edge of a breakthrough but would love your perspective. Would you be available to review my findings?”
“Sorry, busy that day,” Alice frowned, her brow furrowing as she scribbled something out on the top of her parchment.
“I never mentioned a date…” Hermione sighed to herself and blew on her coffee, watching small bubbles surround her reflection in an arch.
The meeting began and her team gave updates one by one, circling the table until it wrapped up with the same pomp and circumstance of which it began.
Hermione stayed behind as the team dispersed, finishing her coffee before it cooled. There was a magazine in the centre of the table and she dragged it across the table in front of her when a moving photograph of a familiar face caught her eye.
“The worst part of each day is the moment I wake up,” Pansy Parkinson confided to Witch Weekly, her voice full of heartbreak as she continued, “because for just a brief second, I think my Drakey is still here with me, and then I have to remember that he is gone all over again. I still can’t believe it.”
Pansy Parkinson, beloved fiancée of the late Draco Malfoy, recalls her final moments with the Malfoy heir before his disappearance (presumed deceased) one year ago today.
She provided Witch Weekly an exclusive on their final moments together.
“He told me that he loved me and that he wanted me to achieve my goals. He always knew my dream was to release my own makeup line, and I just know that he would have been so proud of me for following that dream with the launch of Witch Lash, a revolutionary take on modern magical cosmetics which layers lashes for a fresh and volumized look without sacrificing length,” Pansy added, dabbing her eyes gently with a lace handkerchief. “I’m just grateful for our patented formula to prevent smudging during difficult times like this, where other products have failed. In hindsight, he told me everything that I needed to hear. Maybe Drakey knew that our last conversation would be our final one. He was always so intuitive like that.”
Hermione’s cup tilted too far forward and a splash of coffee stained the paper below, smearing a partial moustache on Pansy by accident. She crumpled the magazine page, retching at the display of waterworks that was a thinly-veiled ploy to advertise Pansy’s new makeup line. It was just like Pansy to capitalise on a personal tragedy and use it as a marketing opportunity.
Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Malfoy and his mother had been acquitted for their actions under duress. He was skilled at evading tabloids and reporters, laying low as he slowly rehabilitated his image with charitable donations and imparting a horde of dark magical objects to the Ministry officials. Twelve months ago to the day, Malfoy’s disappearance had been the headline of every major newspaper. At first, Hermione had assumed it was part of a PR stunt to gain sympathy for the disgraced Malfoy family, but one year later, he still hadn’t returned. No one could fake the despair in Narcissa’s countenance as she pleaded for her son’s welfare.
Though they were by no means friends, by the time he disappeared, she hadn’t hated him in years. Just before the Battle of Hogwarts, he had saved the Golden Trio in the manor when they had been caught by Snatchers; to repay the favour, Hermione had submitted a hand-written testimony of the event to the Ministry during his trial. In the end, Malfoy and his mother provided financial reparations for the war and pledged to give back to the community. Lucius Malfoy, however, had not been as fortunate and was serving a life sentence in Azkaban. The records were sealed, but rumours spread like wildfire that Lucius Malfoy had done unspeakable deeds in the name of the Dark Lord.
The clock read 2:34. Hermione was long overdue to stretch her legs and eat a late lunch. Harold would’ve eaten long before now, so she was on her own today. She abandoned the magazine on the table and began to wander down the long hall in the Department of Time. During her breaks, while her fellow Unspeakables typically socialised, she enjoyed exploring the seemingly endless catalogue of magical items. As a novice Unspeakable, Hermione made it a personal goal to use all of her spare time to further her education and learn from the mysteries of the hall.
She paused beside a tall shelf and observed a bell jar with a small butterfly inside. The butterfly slowly retreated into a chrysalis, which then unravelled to reveal a caterpillar. The caterpillar looked up at Hermione with a curious expression, just before morphing back into a small white egg.
Continuing her exploration, she rummaged through a stack of old documents from Muggle and Wizard philosophers until a thin sheen of sweat formed on her forehead. From the corner of her eye, something on the top shelf glinted in the light. She straightened the pile of parchments and craned her neck, investigating the source of the light. Each item in the main hall had been neutralised of any harmful magic, unlike the items kept under lock and key in the back rooms, so she had free reign of the whole section.
Deep within her veins, her blood hummed, drawing her closer to the item just out of her line of sight.
She rose up to her tiptoes, extended her arm and—
The pounding in Hermione’s head was so intense that for a brief moment, she thought there might have been an earthquake. She cracked open her eyes, her vision blurred, focusing and unfocusing on the table and magazine in front of her. Her hands braced either side of her head, trying to steady herself.
She sat up quickly, her cheek stuck to the loose page from Witch Weekly . With a grumble, she peeled the waxy paper away and dropped it back onto the table.
With a glance to the clock, she gasped.
4:40
The hand on the clock had jumped and an hour had passed. Somehow, she had slept through her entire break and then some. She dragged her hands down her face, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Hermione could’ve sworn that she had been working in the catalogue section of her department. It wasn’t the first time that she had dreamt she was working—even at Hogwarts she sometimes woke up next to an empty sheet of parchment she had dreamt of finishing.
“Hello?”
A high pitch sound rang in her ears.
“Can anyone hear me?”
The deep voice was hazy and full of static, like the cartoons Hermione used to watch on the black and white telly in her grandparents’ attic.
As if a switch turned on, the sound became clear as day. “Hello?”
Hermione looked wildly around her, searching for the owner of the voice. It didn’t match any of her coworkers; it did sound familiar, though she couldn’t place it.
“Hello?” she asked tentatively, her eyes darting around her. Her hand trembled as she pulled out her wand. “ Homenum Revelio !”
Nothing—and no one—appeared.
“Why can’t I move my body?” the voice asked, sounding disoriented. “Where am I?”
That was exactly what she needed to know. Where was he?
He sounded so close to her. She fell to her knees and crawled under the table, looking for any signs of another person hiding beneath the aged oak.
Maybe he used a voice extender? Or an Invisibility Cloak? He had to have snuck in; the only people allowed on this floor were her immediate team, and one of the team members had to escort the rare visitor through layers of security and protocol.
“Wait—how did you even get in here? There are five levels of clearance just to get through that main door. The Department of Mysteries isn't somewhere you can stumble into by accident.” She felt an overwhelming sense of dread growing inside her.
Was this a prank? Her coworkers didn’t exactly like her but she didn’t think they would go this far.
“I don’t even know where ‘here’ is,” the man rasped.
The inflection in his voice triggered a memory in Hermione and she sat up quickly, slamming her head on the underside of the table. “Shit!” She rubbed her head, trying to lessen the pain.
Sixth year, the Room of Requirement—the first time she had ever heard fear in his voice.
“Malfoy?” She had never wished to be wrong before.
There was a pause. “How do you know my name? Wait… I know your voice. Granger? What are you doing in my home?”
“Your home?” She glanced around her at the sterile room and bare walls. “Er…We’re in the Department of Mysteries—not Malfoy Manor.”
“What? How did I end up here?”
The dark black ink from the Daily Prophet flashed through her memory. Draco Malfoy, pronounced dead at 24. “That’s exactly what I’d like to know.”
“What did you do to me?” His sharp accusation brought on a new wave of panic, causing her brain to go into autopilot.
She waved her wand. “ Silencio! ”
“What the fuck, Granger? You’re trying to silence me when I can’t even move? What’s your plan of action if it worked and I was stuck here, unable to speak, for eternity?”
Hermione stood up on wobbly legs. She held her wand so tightly it was in danger of snapping. “I don’t know, okay!” she exclaimed, the weight on her chest growing heavier until it was difficult to breathe. “I need to think. You’re so loud! I have to report you to my supervisor. You shouldn’t be here.” Because you’re dead, she added silently. “How did you break in?”
“First of all, I didn’t break in. I don’t even know how I’m here. Second, I’m actually offended that you sound surprised,” Malfoy scoffed, his typical arrogance shining through the confusion. “You snuck into this place when we were sixteen. Why is it utterly unimaginable that I could do it at twenty-four?”
“Twenty-five,” she instinctively corrected under her breath, “we’re twenty-five. And they gutted the old system and replaced it after the war. It’s more guarded than Gringotts up here—which, to be fair, I also broke into.”
“What are you blathering on about? We’re twenty-four.”
Back at Hogwarts, Hermione memorised a spell intended to be used as a census during sporting events. Ron and Harry had teased her endlessly for learning it, saying it was useless to know. If she wasn’t presently dead and in hell, she would make sure to inform them that they were wrong.
She cast the charm and stared in horror at the glowing number one in front of her. “You’re…not here?”
“Of course I’m here,” he said, with an edge of nervousness to his tone. “Just what do you think I am?”
She threw her hands out in front of herself. “Oh, I don’t know! A brain Boggart but instead of what I fear the most it takes the form of what annoys me the most.”
“That’s not a thing, Granger.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head once, muttering under her breath, “Why am I even bothering to argue with you? It’s not as if you’re real.”
“Why has everything gone dark?” A flicker of fear betrayed his otherwise cool facade. “What do you mean I’m not real?”
Gone dark?
Hermione’s eyes shot open.
It was getting harder to ignore the obvious. The feeling was reminiscent of the Devil’s Snare winding tightly around her, squeezing from every direction and making her dizzy. “Where do you think you are?” she whispered.
“I can’t control anything, but I can see myself moving. I can hear your voice like you’re beside me but I can’t see you. The world looks different than before.” He sighed, speaking her fears out loud. “I think I’m inside your head.”
“This can’t be happening. You’re dead! I can’t have a dead person in my mind.” She began to pace, desperately hoping her coworkers wouldn’t return to see her mid-breakdown.
“I’m not dead,” Malfoy grumbled, sounding more inconvenienced than anything. It certainly wasn’t the reaction that she expected. Perhaps he was in shock? “How could I be here if I were dead? If I were a ghost, you would be able to see me.”
“You could be an echo of Malfoy, like a portrait but just the voice,” she reasoned, considering her options. She stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh my god, you aren’t a Horcrux, are you?”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
Her heart resumed. A Horcrux would be self-aware, right?
Then again, Harry hadn’t been.
“So, Granger, we’ve established that I didn’t bring myself here. Why exactly are you in the Department of Mysteries?”
“I work here. I’m an Unspeakable.”
She heard his disbelief clear as day. “You talk far too much to be an Unspeakable.”
Hermione glared at the empty space in front of her. “You’ve been dead for a whole year, Malfoy. I wouldn’t test my patience if I were you.”
The sudden silence was deafening. “A year?” he croaked, as if hearing her for the first time. A flicker of guilt passed through her. She could have more tact when delivering bad news. “You’re just lying because you hate me.”
“Tempus,” she muttered, and a flashing date appeared in the air before her. “See?”
He was silent for several beats, absorbing the news. “It felt like the blink of an eye from my manor to here. How is my mother?”
“Wouldn’t you know, we just had brunch together last weekend.”
“You did?”
She snorted. “No.” She looked down at her forearm and began pinching her way up towards her elbow, wincing at the pain.
“What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m still asleep,” she muttered, wondering why she was bothering to reply to a mere auditory hallucination. “It wouldn’t be the oddest dream I’ve had. Once, I fell asleep after watching a documentary and dreamt I was an ambassador of a dinosaur colony. My first act was to hold peace negotiations between the triceratops and brachiosaurus—the brachiosauruses were complaining that the triceratops were eating all of the cycads and leaving none for the others.”
“What are you on about? Are you going to say you rode them around for transportation next?”
“Of course not, don’t be absurd. I would’ve had a hell of a time fitting that harness. It was a complex negotiation. I had to remain impartial and prevent any bloodshed between the herbivores. Just because they eat plants doesn’t mean they can’t commit murder.”
“Are you mental? Murder? For what motive?”
“They—as most politicians have historically been—are highly susceptible to corruption.”
His voice grew small, with a twinge of panic in it. “I can’t believe I’m trapped in the brain of a mad woman.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, Dream Malfoy, in case you were curious, they came to an amicable distribution in the end with both parties satisfied. Dinosaur politics are more complicated than you’d expect because they have very sensitive temperaments and egos like you wouldn’t believe.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“That’s nothing compared to the time I dreamt I had a dance battle with McGonagall to get the Sorcerer’s Stone. My brain will dream of a zombie apocalypse and other times the check out at a grocery store where everyone behind me is waiting on me to fill out a check and I can’t figure it out and somehow my brain thinks these are two equally stressful situations. My dreams are always gibberish and vaguely based on that day. That is what you are.”
“You’re talking nonsense. Why are you rambling about dreams right now?”
“No, I’m the only logical one here. You’re the dream.”
Malfoy took a very long pause before finally asking, “Your logic is inherently flawed. Why would you ever dream about me?”
“That answer is simple. I almost always dream about something that happened during my day. Today, I was reading an anniversary article about your disappearance, subsequently thinking about you, and then I fell asleep. You’re a figment of my subconscious.”
“An article about me?” He sounded equal parts befuddled and pleased. “What did they say? I hope they used a photograph of my good side.” Pausing, he chuckled. “Who am I kidding? All my sides are good.”
Hermione froze, feeling anxiety claw its way up her throat as reality set in. “The pinches hurt.”
“No shit. They don’t call you the Brightest Witch of her Age for nothing, now do they?”
His snarky quip was lost on her, her mind already spinning to retrace her steps.
The hair on the nape of her neck rose as a sudden chill filled the air.
“I’m going to be put in St Mungos,” she bemoaned. “They’re going to dissect my brain and write articles about my madness post-war.”
“Granger.”
“Oh my god. If I was compromised by an object, I’ll be blacklisted from the Ministry for life. I’m the least senior member of the team—I’m going to be sacked! I can say goodbye to my career before it ever really starts.”
Malfoy snorted. “Why are you more worried about being sacked than the brain dissection?”
His amusement just fuelled her fear. “You even sound like him! Why do you sound so much like him?”
“That would be because I am him.”
Her breaths grew short and shallow, and she bent over at the waist to brace herself on her knees. Could she transfigure a paper bag out of the magazine?
“Stop whatever you’re doing, you’re making me dizzy.” He was rude and demanding, even now.
“Dizzy?” Curiosity momentarily halted her panic. “What do you mean by that?”
Impatience laced his voice. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said mockingly, giving her an eerie reminder of their school days. “I see what you see. How am I figuring all this out before you?”
“Then what do you supposedly see right now?” she questioned sceptically, looking down at herself.
“An ill-fitting, frumpy outfit, three seasons out of style.”
Well, if it was really Malfoy, he was still an arsehole.
“You don’t see anything because you aren’t actually you,” she huffed. “You’re not doing a good job of convincing me of your identity. Anyone can be an prat and call themselves Malfoy.”
The Malfoy hallucination was growing more irritated by the minute. “You’re the one who knew it was me from my voice. You’re just in denial. What do I have to do to prove my identity when you cannot even see me?”
She scrunched her nose, tapping her chin with her finger as she pondered his question. “I can’t ask you something only you would know, because it isn’t verifiable unless I also know it, and if I also know it, then you could just be a brain parasite leeching off my own memories.”
He made a sound similar to an exhale, though she wasn’t sure how he could breathe from inside her head. “A brain parasite? That’s ridiculous. Of course I’m not a brain parasite. A Malfoy is above parasitic qualities.”
“That sounds exactly like something a brain parasite would say. In fact, I’d wager that to be in the top five responses for a brain parasite.”
“Fine. I can give you directions to a key that opens my spare Gringotts vault. Only one other person knows about it. I’ll tell you how to get in.” After a beat, he added smugly, “Would a brain parasite know that?”
Hermione pursed her lips and looked once more at the clock. Surely her coworkers wouldn’t notice if she slipped out a little earlier than normal—right? For once, it worked in her favour that they actively avoided her presence.
“Alright, ‘Malfoy’, I’ll bite. Tell me where to go.”
“If the Aurors are called on me for trying to break into a vault, I’m never telling anyone you’re in my head so you’ll have to suffer the consequences with me,” Hermione hissed, clutching the large gold key in her fist as she walked through the arched entryway to Gringotts. “I’m still holding out on this just being one long, extensive nightmare.”
Malfoy groaned in exasperation. “Would you relax already? This isn’t an elaborate ruse to frame you. I’m simply trying to prove my status as a nonparasite. If you weren’t so damn difficult all the time, we could’ve started working on getting me out of wherever this is.”
Hermione tried to pace herself to walk at a casual rate, feeling hyper aware of every small movement she made. The last time she had felt this terrified in Gringotts, she had taken Polyjuice and broken into Bellatrix’s vault in search of the Sword of Gryffindor. She felt even more self-conscious now than she had then.
Somehow this felt worse, because she didn’t have Harry and Ron with her.
She wanted to turn back.
She wanted to wake up.
After what felt like an excruciatingly long walk through the lobby, she approached Snaglok slowly, the key digging into her palm. The pain helped keep her grounded.
“Hello, I’d like to access vault 835.”
Inside her head, Malfoy choked on laughter. “Is this really what the world looks like from your height? How do you see anything from down here? Even the goblins appear normal size compared to you.”
“Stop being an arse,” she muttered, giving a half-hearted smile to the goblin. She passed him the vault key and felt her chest constricting. This was the moment of truth—was the key legitimate?
She held her breath.
Snaglok stared at her just long enough to make her sweat, and then inspected the key with an unreadable expression. Just when she had an excuse on the tip of her tongue, ready to run out of the bank, he escorted her back to the vault in question.
“Just to temper your expectations, this isn’t the vault that holds my gold,” Malfoy said. “I’m not thick enough to trust you with that. You’d probably donate it all to a charity that knits sweaters and matching hats for outdoor cats during winter.”
Hermione bit her tongue to stop herself from retorting. The last thing she needed was to put the goblin on high alert. It was bad enough that she showed up to the bank with the vault key of a dead man.
That wasn’t the least bit suspicious.
The vault door swung open, the hinges creaking under the weight of both metal and magic.
“I’d like a moment of privacy,” Hermione told Snaglok, entering the vault by herself.
Off to the side of the vault, there was a small stack of envelopes and a box filled with miscellaneous items. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but it wasn’t this.
“See?” Malfoy declared in triumph. “I told you that I am me, and this key proves it. Now, get the fuck out of my vault and don’t touch anything. It may not hold my gold, but that doesn’t mean you can touch my possessions.”
“Not so fast,” she said, making her way over to the peculiar contents of the vault. “Technically, as I have the key, I can touch your possessions. It’s not as if you can stop me.”
“Granger,” he said, his voice holding a warning.
“Now, why would this be locked away in a secure vault?” she wondered aloud, circling a rather plain-looking box.
The box held a few framed photographs of varying people, Malfoy and Theodore Nott, a few candid photographs of Narcissa Malfoy that were nearly unrecognisable due to her youthful smile and light in her eyes, a stuffie of an owl that was worn at the centre from years of being held tightly, a ring, a long thin box, and a handful of knick-knacks that could’ve been purchased in Diagon Alley.
He hadn’t lied—nothing in the entire vault was valuable, except maybe his signet ring but only for its weight in gold.
“Malfoy, what is the purpose of this vault?” Hermione asked quietly, bending over to pick up the neat pile of envelopes meticulously placed in front of the box.
His voice came through tight and tense as if he were speaking through a clenched jaw. “Don’t you dare read those.”
As she flipped through the envelopes, she couldn’t help but laugh at his empty threat. “Or what? You can’t exactly retaliate from inside my head. What will you do? Give me the silent treatment? The horror.”
The top envelope had ‘Theo’ scrawled on it in a handwriting that Hermione recognised from her time at Hogwarts. For six years, she and Malfoy battled for top marks in their shared classes. It had become something of a habit to look for his name and handwriting in the collected stacks.
“Your Slytherin scarf isn’t exactly proof that this is your vault,” she added, as if trying to justify her invasive search to herself. “I should at least open a letter to make sure that it is from you and that I should trust you. What if you have malintent and I’m just blindly aiding you?”
Over the sound of his protest, she slipped the letter out and began to read.
Mother,
I’m writing this letter that I hope you will never have to read. First, I need to tell you that I’m sorry for breaking your heart, when it has already suffered through so much in this life. Don’t blame yourself, you’ve done more than enough to try and protect me. I promised you that I’d come back from this war, and if you’re reading this, then I’ve failed to fulfil my promise to you.
If I could turn back time, I’d want to be a better son for you. I couldn’t protect you when you needed me the most and for that, I’ll always have regret.
When I was a child, nothing comforted me more in this world than you. On the worst days of my life, your smile made me feel as though everything would be okay. I know it will be difficult, but I wish for nothing more than you to find reasons to smile.
Though I failed to tell you this often when I was alive, I’d like to immortalise the words in this letter so you can read it again and again when I’m gone.
I was proud to be your son.
Please take care of—
Tears blurred the words on the page, and Hermione suddenly felt the weight of her intrusion. She hadn’t expected the letter to be so intimate, so exposed. She hadn’t known that he was even capable of human emotions like grief and sacrifice. Her conscience didn’t allow her to continue reading.
“You’re really here?” she finally asked. “It’s really you?”
Part of her hadn’t wanted it to be true. A brain parasite would’ve been less nuanced inside her mind.
“Yes,” he replied stiffly, clearly still upset with her.
“You asked about your mum earlier but I didn’t take your question seriously. She lost her only son, and her husband is in Azkaban. Predictably, she looks sombre these days, and tired. She was a recluse at first, but recently she has spent a lot of time working on charities and even co-founded an orphanage. I’ve seen her out with the children before and they seem to adore her as an adopted mum. She’s been in the social section of the papers because of the events that she hosts at the manor. She looks to be doing well, all things considered.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice raw.
In all their years of knowing each other, she couldn’t remember a time he had shown anyone genuine gratitude.
That was new.
“So, what is this?” she asked, tapping the box with the toe of her shoe. “A will?”
“In a way,” he said. “Theo was supposed to distribute it on my behalf if I passed during my task or the war. I just assumed that he would’ve cleared it out by now, but maybe he thought I emptied it after school ended.”
“He’s probably holding out hope that you’re going to come back. I would if it were my best friend. Coming here probably felt too final.”
Malfoy’s sigh was so quiet—so defeated—that she almost missed it. “You said it’s been a whole year?”
“Yes.”
“That’s nearly five percent of my life.” He sounded softer, farther away than before. “I was gone, but the world kept turning without me.”
Even after all he did to her and her friends at Hogwarts, she still couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. She hated how her conscience wouldn’t allow her to ignore him when he sounded so pitiful.
She absentmindedly began to flip through the remaining envelopes, reading the names addressed on each to sate her curiosity.
“Granger, stop. You can’t read more,” he blurted out frantically, which only made her more curious. “Stop it, or I’ll make you regret it.”
“Or else what?” She chuckled. “You have nothing but empty threats.”
The names were all written in the same neat script.
Mother.
Theo.
Blaise.
—“CAN YOU DANCE LIKE A HIPPOGRIFF? NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA!” Malfoy screeched in her ear, so loudly that she dropped the letters and futilely clasped her hands over her ears. It did nothing to help her, as the sound was coming from inside her head. “DOUBLE DOUBLE TOIL AND TROUBLE FIRE BURN AND CAULDRON BUBBLE!”
“Oh my god, stop it!” Hermione screamed, her eyes watering. The volume was overwhelming all her senses and there was no way to muffle the intrusion. “I won’t read the damn letters, I swear!”
“We could’ve done this the easy way,” he muttered, finally giving her relief.
Hermione snarled, “I think you burst my eardrum and ruined my shower playlist at the same time.”
“We confirmed that it’s really me. It’s time to leave my vault.” He sounded anything but amused by her antics. “Get the fuck out.”
“So touchy.” She dropped the letters back into the box before exiting the nearly empty vault.
Nothing ever seemed to go to plan for Hermione.
When she was a child, she wanted to be a teacher. She loved to read, do homework, and boss people around. Naturally, she thought that a career in teaching would be ideal as it was a combination of all her favourite interests. Her parents had pushed her to consider dentistry and eventually take over their practice. That dream died the day she received her letter.
‘Witch’ had never been a consideration.
When she found out that magic was not only real, but inside her waiting to be harnessed, was the best day of her life.
When she found out that Malfoy was not only alive, but inside her—well, this would make at least the top three worst days of her life.
Where should they go from here? To the hospital? To the Aurors? She pondered the question as she commuted back to her flat from Gringotts.
As if he read her mind, Malfoy interrupted her thoughts. “We can’t go to the healers or St Mungos. They’re mandatory reporters to the Ministry and once the Aurors know, we’re fucked.”
As if he read her mind.
Icy fear gripped her heart, and she froze in her tracks.
During our second year, I walked in on Lockhart snogging a mirror—with tongue.
Malfoy didn’t respond.
She thought as loudly as she could, projecting her thoughts to him.
Ron has a tattoo on his arse of a Veela he fell in love with during a Bulgarian Quidditch match.
Still nothing.
Before she could feel satisfied, she tried one last time.
I walked in on you naked in the Prefects’ bathroom in our fifth year and—
“Hello?” He sounded irritated. “Why aren’t you responding? Don’t tell me you went deaf. I can’t handle the responsibility of hearing for the both of us.”
Relief was too mild of a word to describe how she felt in that moment. At least her thoughts were still private, even if he saw and heard everything that she did. There is no way that Malfoy could’ve heard that and not responded, he was utterly incapable of that magnitude of self-restraint.
“Sorry. Lot on my mind,” she said. “What if the healers can help us?”
“Well, for one, it would get out to the press and can you imagine them treating you worse than they already do? Second, I’m on thin ice and probation with an unforgiving Ministry, and without a way of us knowing how we ended up like this, they’ll assume the worst and charge me with the use of some nefarious dark magic.”
She opened her mouth to respond but he kept going.
“Third, aren’t you an Unspeakable who is now compromised? For all we know, you broke the rules in a forbidden part of the department and are under the influence of a dark object—”
“—I’m not!” she protested.
“And how exactly do we prove that?” he asked slowly, as if speaking to a child.
“Fine. We’ll figure it out together,” she begrudgingly conceded, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “We were the top two of our class, and this is just a problem to solve.”
She continued down the pavement that led to her flat, clutching the strap of her purse nervously.
“So what have I missed in the last year?” he asked, filling the uncomfortable silence.
“Bulgaria is set to play Norway in the Quidditch World Cup.” She recalled the dozens of conversations that Ron and Harry had had about the subject over dinner. “Vulchanov was injured during the last game but should be healed in time to play.”
Malfoy let out a half-laugh, half-exhale. “Never thought I’d hear you talk Quidditch. Humour me for a minute and tell me about my death. No body was found but the world still immediately declared me dead? No proof needed?”
“Not immediately,” she corrected, turning a corner and spotting her building in the distance. “It wasn’t until half a year had passed that anyone took it seriously, and some still think you’re just hiding out somewhere. There have been loads of rumours and theories on your whereabouts. One paper declared that you had fled to America to sell illegal potions on the black market. Another said you’re in hiding, manipulating the price of gold with the Goblins of Gringotts for personal gain—”
“—I would never, greedy bastards.”
“Oh, and one circulating rumour is that you became a panda breeder.”
“What the fuck?”
Hermione smiled for the first time since this waking nightmare began. She crossed over the ward set in her doorway. “Ron started that one.”
Malfoy groaned. “I should’ve known it would be Weasley. That isn’t even an interesting lie.”
“They are a dwindling population. It would be a noble cause. He could have made up something much worse.” As Hermione crossed the threshold into her flat, a blur of energy and fur zoomed right through the living room and over to the front door.
“What the bloody hell is that thing?”
She bent down to pet the creature in question, giggling as he laid sloppy kisses on her cheek. “There is a lethal concentration of cuteness in this flat! How will we ever survive?”
Clearly unamused, Malfoy asked once again, “What is it?”
“This is Pickles.”
“You named your dog Pickles?”
She began to massage his ears and dropped a kiss on his head. “Pickles Alan Granger is his government name, but he goes by Pickles for short and Smickles on days he looks extra cute.”
It was difficult to describe the garbled sound that came out of Malfoy in her head. “Why would you give him a perfectly normal middle name when his first is Pickles?”
“Because Alan Pickles sounds absurd,” she replied simply.
“Well, does it hunt?”
“No.” Hermione rolled her eyes at his tone. “Pickles’ contribution to this household is the daily dose of serotonin that he gives me. Which, if you haven’t noticed, I am in dire need of after today. It’s something that no other substance or potion could replicate.”
The Pickles in question wagged his tail and cocked his head at her, as if he could tell something was off with his distressed human.
“He’s a genius,” she declared, just as Pickles leaned down to clean himself. “Isn’t he?”
“I can see that. Gods, of all the heads I could’ve ended up in, why did it have to be yours?” he lamented miserably.
A manic laugh burst out of her. “You think my head wanted someone like you in it?”
He sniffed. “I’m not going to be disparaged by someone who doesn’t even have crown moulding in their home.”
She shook her head and hung up her purse on the coat rack beside the door. “I’m not exactly thrilled about this development either.”
The initial shock was wearing off and the reality of their situation was settling in. Malfoy was effectively in her flat, somewhere she had never wanted him to be. His presence felt invasive, as if she were stripped bare in front of him with no way to hide.
“I must have residual bad karma from a past life to have to deal with you.” She flopped backward on her sofa and sunk into the cushions. “Fuck.”
“Fuck,” he echoed in agreement.
That night, for the first time in many years, she dreamt of him. Between the gaps of library books on the shelf, she saw a glimpse of platinum blond hair and startling grey eyes looking back at her.