Chapter Text
Hermione Granger was a witch.
Or at least, that’s what her father had always told her in the same teasing tone he used for bedtime stories and random scientific hypotheses.
“Magic’s real, poppet,” he’d say, flicking her ear. “You just haven’t learned where to look yet.”
But now he was gone.
Dead.
So it didn’t matter anymore.
Everything about this day made her skin crawl. The chapel was too warm, the air too thick. The black fabric of her dress clung uncomfortably to her knees, and the faint hum of the lights above somehow caused her bones to hurt. Someone behind her coughed too loudly. Someone else sniffled too long. Every sound stacked on top of another until she could barely breathe.
Her mother reached over, squeezing her hand. The gesture was gentle, but it felt staged as if it were a performance for the line of mourners waiting to say how sorry they were.
“Shh,” her mother murmured. “It’s almost over. You can get through this.”
Almost over. Hermione wanted to laugh. As if there were a timer somewhere counting down to when her grief would stop.
She wished she was by herself, anywhere but this overcrowded church, forced to endure whatever the hell kind of funeral this was supposed to be.
Her father would have hated it, too.
“I never liked being the center of attention,” he used to say with a grin. “Your mother’s always been better at that sort of thing.”
She scanned the sea of unfamiliar faces and tightened her grip on her knees. Who were all these people, anyway? It wasn’t as if her father had many friends. He’d always been kind, but he didn’t really get along with others.
“I have my students,” he would tell her. “And I have you. Adults are boring.”
Hernione’s chest ached at the memory, and for the first time all day, she let herself glance toward the casket.
Her mother could have at least picked a different color.
It was an ugly thing, the coffin. Brown. Basic. Something selected to be appropriate. The white flowers on top bled into the equally white walls, so that everything, wood, petals, grief, allblurred into the same unremarkable shade of beige. Boring. Maybe that was the point. Maybe death, in its dullest form, was meant to be subtle and uneventful.
Her mother sat beside her, her back perfectly straight, her posture that of a woman trying not to crumble. Her hand rested atop Hermione’s, cool and soft, and Hermione forced herself not to pull away. The air between them was careful. Everything her mother did was measured these days: every word, every breath, as if the smallest misstep might send them both falling into something neither knew how to climb out of.
“Are you ready?” her mother whispered. “The sermon is over. We should thank everyone for coming. It will mean a lot to them.”
Hermione frowned. “Why would it mean a lot to them?”
Her mother sighed, the kind of sigh that sounded like it came from years of practice. “Because that’s what people do, Mione. It’s called being gracious.”
Hermione nodded, but she didn’t speak. Words never came easily in rooms like this.
But society had rules for this sort of thing. Rules that meant she’d have to stand there for hours, making small talk with people who didn’t know her father, didn’t know her, and probably didn’t really care.
Her jaw tightened. The world expected her to speak, to smile politely, to say thank you for coming.
Ridiculous.
But she stayed.
She stayed for her mother, whose slightly puffy face and streaked mascara were the only outward signs of sadness. Otherwise, she seemed composed, maybe even too composed. Her aura was exceptional, her voice steady when she greeted people. All in all, she seemed to be handling herself rather well, though Hermione knew she wasn’t exactly the best judge when it came to that sort of thing.
Logically, she understood that she hadn’t been standing there that long. But to her, it felt like an eternity, an endless stream of strangers offering condolences that sounded far too rehearsed.
People came and went. Former students. Neighbors. Kids from school who probably hadn’t thought about her father in years. The student body president , Layla, in her inappropriately short dress. The former debate captain , Steven, fiddling with his tie like the formality might choke him.
It made no sense for any of them to be there.
He had been strange, gentle and restless all at once. He was the kind of man who collected historical memorabilia from battlefields he had never visited, and who tinkered in his workshop for hours on end. He had always seemed to know things before they happened, and when she was little, he’d fill her head with stories that felt more like memories than fairy tales.
“Unicorns are real,” he’d say, crouching down until they were eye level. “I’ve seen them in the forest. Long ago when I was your age.”
Her mother would sigh from the doorway. “Don’t fill her head with nonsense, Wendell.”
But Hermione had loved the nonsense. It made sense to her in a way the real world rarely did.
Smile.
Nod.
Shake hands.
She thought about escaping, about sneaking out into the cool air and walking home alone when she heard the door open.
He shouldn’t have been here.
The thought hit her before she even turned to confirm her suspicions. And that was when she saw him.
Draco Malfoy.
He stood in the doorway, pale hair catching the florescent lights. The black suit he wore looked far too expensive compared to the rest of the seaside town’s inhabitants. He carried himself with that unintentional arrogance he’d had since childhood, though there was a new stillness about him now, like he’d learned to wear silence instead of experiencing it.
He wasn’t supposed to be here, in this room that smelled of lilies and disinfectant. The Malfoys belonged to another world, one of gates and hedgerows and quiet whispers about old money and old blood. Their house sat on the hill above the village, the kind you never got invited into unless you were the help or an exception.
Hermione had never been.
Not much was known about the Malfoys. Their main estate was in Wiltshire but during the summer months they, like so many other wealthy families, graced the village of Lyme Regis with their presence. Mr. Malfoy was incredibly private. Hermione couldn’t remember a time when she had ever seen him. Mrs. Malfoy, however, seemed more personable, inviting some of her favorite local women to brunch and time her husband was away on business.
Hermione’s mother never passed on the chance to mention she had been one of those women.
When they were younger, Draco had shown up at her father’s workshop every summer, all skinny elbows and sharp eyes. He’d hand her tools he didn’t understand and ask questions he wasn’t supposed to ask. He had been unbearable and fascinating, all at once. Although, for the life of her she’d never understood how he didn’t know what a wrench was.
Now, he was taller, older, his face finer but colder, as if he’d lived a thousand lifetimes.
Her mother noticed him first. “Draco,” she breathed, a faint, polite surprise lacing her tone. “How lovely of you to come.”
“Mrs. Granger,” he said softly, bowing his head. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Hermione couldn’t look away. He was so still.
“My mother sends her regards,” he added. “She wanted to come, but…”
“Yes, of course,” her mother said quickly, smoothing her hair though it didn’t need smoothing. “Give her our thanks.”
Draco nodded, then turned to Hermione as her mother left to greet an older couple.
Her breath hitched.
“Hi,” he said.
It was such an ordinary word. She hated that it made her pulse quicken.
“Hi,” she managed. “You’re late. The service is over.”
For a long moment, neither said anything. The noise of the chapel faded around them, muffled by that strange hum again, the one that made her skin feel stretched too thin. When Draco spoke again, his voice had a strange weight to it, lower than she remembered.
“I didn’t know if I should come,” he said. “My mother insisted.”
“You shouldn’t have come,” Hermione said with a pained look. “It’s already crowded enough.”
That earned a ghost of a smile. “You haven’t changed.”
“I’d hope not. I’m only nineteen.”
He tilted his head. “Still short as ever.”
“It’s not my fault you’re the size of a giant,” she countered.
Draco pursed his lips. “That’s not what I meant by short.” There was a hint of a giggle in his words.
He looked towards her father’s coffin then, his expression now unreadable. “He was kind to me,” he said finally. “Kinder than he had to be.”
“He liked you,” Hermione said before she could stop herself. “Said you had the manners of a prince and the curiosity of a fox.”
Draco’s mouth quirked faintly. “I remember him saying that once. After I broke one of his antique clocks.”
“You broke three.”
“I was trying to fix them.”
“You were six. How were you supposed to fix them?”
He laughed quietly, a sound so rare she almost didn’t recognize it. “I guess that’s a good point.”
More silence.
It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t painful either. It was just strange, taut with everything unspoken.
“I remember,” he said finally, “the summer we built that birdhouse. You wanted to paint it green and gold.”
“And you spilled the paint all over my shoes.”
He smiled properly then. “I told you they looked better that way.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. “You did it on purpose.”
“You still think that.”
“I know that.”
For a moment, it was like time leapt backwards. She could hear her father’s laugh echoing in the background, the smell of sawdust, the afternoon light through the garden hedge that separated their stone cottage from the others on their street. Childhood, suddenly alive again, tangled between sadness and something new she couldn’t name.
“Listen… if you ever need anything…”
Hermione’s head tilted, pulled from her thoughts by the sound of his voice. She hadn’t realized how close he’d stepped. His words came softly, like he was afraid to disturb the air between them.
“What would I need?”
Draco bit his lip, a faint crease forming between his brows. “I’m not sure. Help around the house, maybe. Or, you know…” He hesitated, glancing toward the casket before looking back at her. “Just someone to talk with.”
She blinked. The offer sat between them like a small, awkward animal neither knew how to handle.
“It’s only my mother and I here for now,” he added, his tone quieter than it had been before. “My father… stayed behind. Anyway, it’ll be easier for me to get away now. My mother’s never been as strict.”
“Aren’t you an adult? Do you need your mother’s permission to leave the house?”
“It’s complicated.”
Hermione’s fingers twisted in the hem of her sleeve. “I have my mum,” she said after a moment, the words sharper than she intended.
Something flickered in his expression, a mixture of hurt and embarrassment. “I know,” he said quickly. “I just thought, with everything going on, it might be nice to catch up.”
“You weren’t here last summer.” Her voice surprised her; it sounded small. “Or the summer before that. Dad was sick and you weren’t here to say goodbye.”
“I know.” Draco’s mouth curved into an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. Things have been a bit… hectic back home. My father got into some legal trouble and I needed to get away for a bit after I graduated.”
“From your fancy boarding school?”
“Yes, from my fancy boarding school.”
He said it with mock gravity, which should have made her laugh. Instead, she just shifted her weight, eyes flicking down to where their shoes almost touched. Had the carpet here always been such an ugly color?
“You must have learned terribly important things there,” Hermione said, tone clipped but not unkind. “Latin. Fencing. Polishing family heirlooms.”
“Mostly how to be insufferable,” Draco replied. “Though I might have come by that naturally.”
A pale pink blush rose to her cheeks. She hated that he could still make her do that.
Neither spoke for what felt like ages. He stared at the far window where setting sun filtered through stained glass, painting his pale hair in faint streaks of gold.
She realized too late that she was staring. He caught her, of course. He always did.
“What?” he asked, smirking just a little.
“Nothing.”
He tilted his head, pretending not to be amused. “You’re lying.”
“I’m thinking,” she said quickly. “It’s different.”
His grin softened. “It’s nice to see you thinking again. You used to go quiet like that when we were little. I miss that.”
“I’m not the one who quit being friends with you.”
Draco’s eyes softened. “I know,” he whispered. “I take full responsibility for us losing touch. Like I said things were complicated. I’d like to make it up to you. Are you busy on…”
“Mione.”
Her mother’s voice rose from somewhere distant behind them. She exhaled. “I should…”
“Go,” he said, stepping back, that half-smile returning. “Before your mum thinks I’ve corrupted you.”
“You know she likes you.”
He chuckled, low and genuine. “Good. I’d hate to disappoint. I’ll see you around Granger.”
Hermione turned away before he could say anything else. Her mother eyed her suspiciously, grabbing her hand and rubbing it gently the moment she was within reach.
“How are you holding up, sweetheart?” she whispered, her voice tight with that practiced tone people used when they didn’t want to cry in public.
“I’m fine,” Hermione said automatically.
“You don’t look fine.”
“Neither do you.”
Her mother blinked at that, but didn’t argue. The tiniest smile crept over her mouth before she smoothed it away. “You always did get your bluntness from your father. He would’ve liked this,” she said quietly. “It’s simple. Peaceful.”
Hermione couldn’t help but snort. “It’s brown.”
“Well, yes, but not everyone’s a fan of periwinkle and gold, dear.” Her mother’s hand drifted toward her cheek, brushing away a strand of hair that had fallen loose. “You’ve handled this all so well,” she murmured. “Better than I expected.”
Hermione flinched slightly at the touch. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not saying it for you,” her mother said. “I’m saying it for me.”
“Aunt Monica, can I steal Hermione for a bit? I think I’m ready to head back.”
Hermione’s eyebrow arched as her cousin’s voice rippled through the air. Alice always had a way of appearing at exactly the right moment, like she could sense Hermione’s thoughts from across the room.
She looked annoyingly modelesque, of course. Her dark hair fell in loose, effortless curls, her skin sun-warmed and glowing even under the dull chapel light. There was something about Alice that drew people in, a kind of careless grace Hermione could never imitate no matter how hard she tried. Alice laughed easily, spoke easily, lived easily. Even mourning looked gentler on her.
Still, Hermione had never been so glad to see her.
Her mother’s face lit up, the faint exhaustion that had settled in her features briefly replaced with pride. “Well, I was actually going to introduce her to a few…”
“Mum, I’m really tired,” Hermione interrupted, the words tumbling out faster than expected. “We’ve been here for hours. I’ll just go with Alice.”
Her mother’s lips parted in surprise, her expression softening into something faintly wounded. She looked as though she wanted to argue but after a moment she gave in.”
“Alright, darling. Don’t stay out too late.”
Alice smiled sweetly, looping her arm through Hermione’s before anyone had time to change their mind. “We won’t. I’ll get her home.”
As they stepped out into the late afternoon air, Hermione let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The heavy scent of stale coffee and annoyingly fragrant flowers gave way to the salt-stung breeze drifting up from the coast, sharp and cold against her face.
“Thought you might need rescuing,” Alice said lightly, her voice melodic and effortless.
Hermione glanced at her cousin, the corners of her mouth twitching despite herself. “You have impeccable timing.”
“I try. Your mum looked ready to launch into a whole speech about emotional growth. Again.”
“She does that,” Hermione muttered.
Alice bumped her shoulder playfully. “She means well, you know.”
“I know.” Hermione’s voice was quiet. “It’s just…” She hesitated, staring out at the parking lot where gulls picked through discarded flowers. “Sometimes it feels like she wants me to be grateful all the time. Like the world will stop spinning if I stop smiling.”
Alice didn’t answer right away. When she did, her tone was calm. “You don’t have to smile for anyone, you know. Least of all me.”
Hermione turned her head, surprised. Alice met her gaze with that same easy steadiness, the kind that made Hermione feel both seen and small at once.
It occurred to her then that Alice understood more than she let on. That maybe she hadn’t swooped in just to save Hermione from her mother’s fussing, but from the heavy ache of being watched and expected to hold herself together.
“Thanks,” Hermione said finally.
Alice shrugged, giving her a little grin. “What are cousins for? Although, as payment, I demand you tell me who your handsome friend was.”
Hermione froze mid-step, a small hitch in her breathing betraying her before she could even think to hide it. “It’s nothing.”
Alice’s laugh rang out across the churchyard, light and easy, like wind catching glass. “It didn’t look like nothing,” she teased, her boots crunching rhythmically on the gravel path. “But I’ll back off. For now. Although, if you’re not interested I will gladly take him off your hands.”
She skipped ahead a few paces, the hem of her dark dress fluttering around her knees. A gust of wind swept through the coastal air, stirring the scent of seaweed and distant rain. Hermione tugged her cardigan tighter around her shoulders, the wool rough against her fingers.
“Come on,” Alice called over her shoulder, glancing back with a grin. “I’ll walk you home.”
Hermione hesitated only a second before following. The path wound away from the chapel and down toward the narrow lane that led through the village. The late afternoon sun sat low and pale above the horizon, casting long shadows across the uneven stones of the churchyard wall.
She hadn’t responded to Alice’s teasing, but she could still feel the heat rising faintly in her cheeks, the way Draco’s voice had lingered in her head long after he’d gone. The way he’d looked at her. Careful, searching, almost guilty.
Alice, of course, didn’t notice. She never did. Or maybe she noticed everything and just pretended she didn’t, the way kind people do when they know someone needs space.
As they reached the end of the path, Hermione exhaled, slow and shaky, her breath misting faintly in the cooling air. For the first time all day, the weight pressing at her chest began to ease.
The chapel bells tolled once more behind them, low and distant, fading into the rhythm of their footsteps and for a fleeting, precious moment, Hermione felt like she could breathe again.