What The Heart Seeks

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/43847268.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Additional Tags: Quidditch Player Draco Malfoy, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione
Granger, Quidditch World Cup, Journalist Hermione Granger, no beta we
die like men, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Not Epilogue
Compliant, Falmouth Falcons Quidditch Team, Chudley Cannons
Quidditch Team, Holyhead Harpies Quidditch Team, Quidditch Player
Ginny Weasley, Quidditch Player Ron Weasley, Alcohol
Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Destruction, the quidditch dramedy you've been
waiting for, everyone plays quidditch, or writes about quidditch, or
works at quidditch, we all love quidditch, except hermione she hates
quidditch, but she loves quidditch players, i'm learning quidditch rules
for you people please send your condolences, we will be earning the
explicit rating, disgusting smuts worthy of a ddos attack, unintentional
ron bashing
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2022-12-26 Updated: 2024-04-16 Words: 73,484 Chapters:
17/29
 What The Heart Seeks
by reliquaries

Summary

Fired from her job and enjoying the views from rock bottom after a nasty break-up with Ron,
Hermione takes up a job as a journalist for Quidditch Digest. Draco Malfoy, playing for
Falmouth, is the league's star seeker. And getting to know him is the last thing on Hermione's
priority list.
 Chapter 1
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter TW: alcoholism, abortion mention

AUGUST 2004

“I am sorry, Miss Granger, but I’m afraid you’ve given the Department no other choice but to
sever ties with you for now.” Percy Weasley’s face was solemn as he stared at her through
horn-rimmed spectacles, his pointy features remarkably lacking in sympathy for someone
who for many years may as well have been her older brother. No longer—she’d been usurped
in her role of Weasley Adoptee. Something of which Percy was very aware.

And she was fired. She, Hermione Fucking Granger, Golden Girl at Large, was fired.

“I understand,” she grit out, swallowing everything she wanted to say but shouldn’t say if she
had any hope of receiving a clean reference from the Department for the Regulation and
Control of Magical Creatures. “I suppose I’ll be going then.” With that, she swept her
documents into a folder—the documents regarding items of concern in the annual centaur
report she’d expected to bring to Percy’s attention this morning, before he’d sprung this little
meeting on her—and stood, taking no care in the way she shoved her chair back into its
place.

She’d nearly made it to the door, her heels clicking louder than necessary on the marble floor,
before he stopped her. “Miss Granger.”

Forcing herself to unclench her jaw, Hermione cast him the most patronizing look she could
muster. “Yes, Percival?”

She relished in the way he bristled at the use of his given name. She was no longer his
employee, and so department protocol no longer applied to her. “I do hope that after some
time away and self-reflection we may be able to work things out. Please know that you will
always have a home here at the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical
Creatures.”

Hermione had to choke back the laugh that nearly escaped her. “That’s what Molly and
Arthur said, too.”

Percy paled, but Hermione opted not to wait for his response. She swiftly exited his office,
and it wasn’t until she’d stepped into the quiet of the department corridor that she allowed
tears to sting her eyes and hot shame to flush her cheeks. With a flick of her wand she
summoned a cardboard box, and stormed off in the direction of her cubicle to clear her
things, her curls bouncing wildly around her shoulders as she went.

She’d known it was coming. It’d taken a week or so, she thought as she shoved her few
belongings into the box, as she was certain Percy had had bureaucratic steps and approvals to
go through before actually letting her go. He’d probably been building a case for weeks. If
she were being truly honest with herself, she’d been lucky the Department had even bothered
giving her another chance, let alone two after she’d shown up to work visibly drunk, reeking
of firewhisky and slurring her way through several important meetings not once but twice.
Third time’s the charm, she supposed. Even now she could feel her flask practically burning a
hole in her purse. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d left the house without it.

Fuck it, she thought. The damage was done, and there was no rule that she had to stay sober
in dealing with the consequences. Hermione ducked her head down low inside her cubicle,
reached into her purse and tore out the flask, uncapping it and pouring two shots’ worth down
her throat. She savored how it burned her clean.

Well, that was that. She gave one last look at her shitty little cubicle—the cubicle that her
younger self had dreamed of acquiring, that now stood as a testament to both her personal
and professional failures—and left. In doing so she didn’t bother saying goodbye to any of
her colleagues, though she could feel the weight of their eyes on her as she left the floor.

None of them had cared in the beginning, so why should they care in the end?

It’d been six weeks since Hermione had discovered that Ron had been cheating on her with
Lavender Brown. The discovery came in the form of Lavender herself, showing up teary-
eyed on the doorstep of Hermione’s flat where until four weeks ago, Ron had lived as well.
At first, Hermione had thought it very odd how Lavender’s face had paled at the sight of her,
stricken as though she’d seen a ghost. Then the truth had spilled.

“Is Ron here?” Lavender said rather hurriedly.

“He’s at practice. Pre-season begins this week. What in the world is the matter, Lav? Please,
come in,” Hermione said, stepping aside and gesturing for her old schoolmate to enter.

“What are you doing here?” Lavender asked, peering around Hermione into the interior of
the apartment.

Hermione frowned. “What do you mean? This is my flat.”

“He said you were broken up,” Lavender said as she furiously swatted tears away from her
eyes.
Hermione froze. “I’m sorry?”

Lavender remained unmoving on the doorstep. “Ron. He said you broke up in July.”

Something about the desperation in Lavender’s eyes sent a chill down Hermione’s spine,
while an ugly truth began to stir in her gut. “Ron and I are fine,” she said, the words
sounding a little too shaky for her liking. It wasn’t the complete truth—things weren’t fine—
but they were working on it, and that was what mattered. “What’s happened, Lavender?”

Lavender swallowed, and something about her reminded Hermione of a little mouse caught
in a trap. “I’m pregnant,” she finally said.

At that point an odd sort of dizziness began to cloud Hermione’s head. Perhaps she was in
denial, or perhaps it was the English in her, but she pressed on as though all was well.
“Would you like me to accompany you to St. Mungo’s? Is that why you’ve come?” Not all
pregnancies were welcome ones, after all.

All of the color poured back into Lavender’s face, and suddenly the other woman was beet
red. “How dare you speak to me like that,” she whispered. “Just because the circumstances
aren’t favorable to you doesn’t mean you get to dictate what I do with my pregnancy.”

Finally, it clicked. Bile shot up the back of Hermione’s throat, and she had to place a hand on
the doorframe to steady herself. Lavender watched as she gathered herself, and when
Hermione finally spoke it was just one word. “Ron.”

Lavender nodded, her expression an odd mixture of sympathy and anger. “I’m expecting. Ron
doesn’t know yet. We’re going to be parents.”

Hermione didn’t remember much after that. She remembered asking Lavender to leave, and
immediately tearing into Ron’s finest bottle of Ogden’s Special Reserve, nearly downing the
whole thing while she melted into the sitting room floor—and after that it was mostly a blur.
At some point Ron had come home and they’d had it out, but she couldn’t actually recall
what was said.

She just remembered that he’d been shocked. Somehow, his stupid oafish mouth had fallen
open and those watery blue eyes had filled with tears as if all of it wasn’t his literal fault.
She’d seen it written all over his face: he’d thought he’d get away with it. That stupid fucking
prick had lied to her and lied to Lavender and he’d thought he would be able to keep them
both in the dark until he sorted out his little plan—if he’d even had a plan. She probably gave
him too much credit. She always had.

They’d broken up that night. Six years as a couple and everything had disappeared in a blink,
as if deluminated out of existence by some angry karmic god. Why Lavender had deigned to
stay with him after that, Hermione had no idea. Nor did she want to know. She never wanted
to see either of them again—though unless she opted to exile herself to the muggle world, she
knew she wouldn’t be so lucky. She’d been on a downward spiral ever since.
Lavender was some two months along now. The news hadn’t broken officially—she
supposed because most couples waited until some three months had passed to make the
announcement, especially in the magical world, where conception was exceedingly more
difficult. Of course Ron would be the one to accidentally stumble into it. Hermione had
always been the one to cast the contraceptive charms, the task slipping Ron’s mind more
often than not in the heat of the moment. Unfortunately unlike Ron, Hermione had never
really been able to lose herself in desire, the cogs of her brain turning even in the intimate
moments shared between soft sheets. It hadn’t taken long for him to start holding it against
her.

Which made it even more humiliating that she missed him. Six weeks later, she still could
hardly fathom the possibility of a life without him. He’d always been there, and she didn’t
know a wizarding world without him in it. He’d been her protector. Her lionheart. Always.

And now she was alone.

We think it’s best if you and Ron keep your distance for a wee while, sweetheart, Molly
Weasley had said to her over the floo when she’d checked in on her some two weeks into the
breakup. An un-invitation from the Burrow. Ginny had confirmed as much.

Luckily she still had Ginny and Harry’s. The two had moved into Grimmauld Place a year
after the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry was well into his career as a successful Auror, chasing the
last Death Eaters and Voldemort sympathizers to the ends of the earth. Hermione didn’t think
he’d never know how much it meant to her. Everyone wondered when they would begin to
try for children of their own, but Hermione knew Ginny was presently too committed to her
Quidditch career for pregnancy. Good for her.

She chased for the Holyhead Harpies—one of the best in the league. It was nice because
George was actually on her team, flying as a beater. Fred would have been proud he’d gone
pro—but not as proud as Molly. Three professional Quidditch players in one family was quite
the feat. Molly’s father had flown for Puddlemere and she liked to joke she was conceived on
a broomstick—that flying was in the blood. Hermione sometimes wondered how far from the
truth that was.

Hermione kept her head down as she pushed her way through the Ministry entry hall, box
tucked under her arm. Someone called her name—Neville perhaps? She didn’t know or care.
The firewhisky was hitting her now, spreading a delightful numbness over her mind and
body. Her breathing evened out and the tears that had been threatening to fall began to
dissipate. Just keep your eyes on the floor , she told herself as she approached the floo.

Her hand was shaking when she grabbed a handful of floo powder, and she was just about to
toss it into the Ministry fireplace when a figure stepped out of the very fireplace she’d been
about to use, startling her. Her box clattered to the ground, its contents spilling out. A figurine
of a pair of two front teeth from her parents’ dental office rolled across the marble floor—and
stopped when a shiny black dragonleather boot deliberately stepped on top of it.

“Granger.”
 Hermione’s spine stiffened. She knew that voice. It took all of the strength she had in her to
lift her head and meet the mercurial eyes of Draco Malfoy.

“What?” she snapped.

He frowned when he saw her face, and she nearly laughed at the absurdity. Surely he’d made
her cry enough over the years to not be surprised by the sight of it. He was probably just mad
that for once, he wasn’t the source of it.

“This fireplace is for entering. Those designated for exits are over there.” He tilted his head,
with his perfectly combed-over platinum hair, to the right.

Hermione simply stared at him for a moment, taking in his crisply-pressed black suit and
dress shirt, the little silver pin at his collar and scowled. She didn't think it was her first time
crossing paths with him since the war, but then, she couldn't remember a time when actually
had. Certainly not at the Ministry—and she definitely hadn't spoken to him. Somewhere in
her mind she was vaguely aware that he played Quidditch now, as Ron had raged about his
plays from time to time. Still, it was breathtaking how despite over half a decade passing the
urge to punch that self-satisfied look right off his face returned instantly, like muscle memory.
Probably because there was nothing about his posture or present expression to indicate he had
changed at all.

If it had been any other day, she may have let him have it. However, she'd caused enough of a
scene already and wanted nothing more than to simply disappear, so instead she bent down
and snatched the tooth figurine out from under his boot—then stuffed the remaining folders
and picture frames that’d scattered into her box along with it. Standing, she tucked her hair
back behind her ear, box secured under her arm once more. “Fuck off, Malfoy,” she huffed,
before turning on her heel without a backward glance.

When she threw her handful of floo powder into the exit fireplace, it was with such force she
half-expected the grains to crack the stone.

Chapter End Notes

I have been searching and searching for a Quidditch fic that I love and I find Dramione
fandom oddly lacking in Quidditch fics???? So I have no other choice but to write one. I
apologize. You can find me @ rreliquaries on Tumblr. Updates will be on Sundays US
Pacific time for now.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter TW: alcoholism, abortion mention

AUGUST 2004

To Hermione’s relief the Leaky was mostly dead, it being a Monday and all, but she’d still
made sure to grab a table in the far back corner, facing the door so she could glance at
everyone who entered. She didn’t want any colleagues from the department walking in and
catching her off-guard mid-bender to wish her some half-arsed condolences. Not that most of
them would have the spine to actually approach her anyway. Percy ran a department of
cowards unfit to regulate the treatment, or rather, mistreatment of magical creatures in the
wizarding world. He could keep his bloody department.

“I can’t believe he said those things. Percy can be such an arsehole,” Ginny said bitterly over
her pint of knotgrass mead.

“Can you really not? You grew up with him,” Hermione said after a generous sip of her rather
strong gin and tonic. She’d asked the bartender to make it a heavy pour and he’d obliged.

“You’re right, I can. Fucking wanker,” Ginny muttered. Then, raising her glass she said,
“Cheers to found family.”

Clink . Hermione’s glass knocked against Ginny’s.

“Seriously. You and Harry have been a godsend the last few weeks. It’s been invaluable
having somewhere to just be ,” Hermione sighed.

Ginny nodded. “I know Grimmauld’s not the cheeriest of places but you’re always
welcome.”

“Thanks. You know I incendio’ d my sofa last week,” Hermione said blankly.

Ginny choked on a mouthful of mead. “You what? ”

“I couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore. I kept wondering if they…if he ever had her over,
you know,” Hermione muttered. Then she downed the remainder of her drink with a grimace
and set the empty glass on the table with a loud thud .

“Disgusting,” Ginny said with a face.

“Sorry. Anyway, I’ve been meaning to go shopping for a new one but simply haven’t had the
time. In the meantime I’ve transfigured one of my kitchen stools,” Hermione said. Then,
contemplatively she added, “It’s quite pathetic, actually.”

“You’re handling it better than I would have. I would have incendio ’d my whole flat, with
Ronald inside,” Ginny replied.

Hermione snorted. Something told her that was true.

“I mean it. If I ever catch Harry bollocks-deep in some other broad, he’ll be wishing
Voldemort did him in,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’ve been much more gracious than you
ever needed to be.”

Hermione forced a smile. “Thanks, Gin. I wish I didn’t still love him, but I do.” Perhaps it
was the alcohol talking—no, it was definitely the alcohol talking—but she dredged up the
question she’d been dying to ask for weeks. “So how are he and Lavender cracking on?”

Ginny winced. “You sure you want to know?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied without hesitation. “After I get another round. Want another?”

“Coach would want me to say no, but I can’t let you drink alone,” Ginny grinned.

Hermione grabbed both of their empty glasses and made for the bartop, ignoring the little
voice in her head that wanted her to say, don’t worry, I’m plenty used to drinking alone.

“Gin and tonic. Make it a double?” she told Ivan, the barkeep. “And another knotgrass,
please.”

Ivan, the stocky wizard behind the bar nodded with a little grunt and Hermione watched as he
tilted a pint glass against the tap.

“Hey Granger,” came a coy feminine voice from behind her. Hermione nearly jumped out of
her skin. “Rough day?”

It was Pansy Parkinson, looking extremely overdressed for the Diagon Alley pub in a sleek
emerald trouser suit, silver hoop earrings and a red lip. Hermione was certain her cat-eye
makeup could cut glass. Though she’d been around Hermione’s height in school, she now
stood several centimeters taller in massively high heels. She’d seen Pansy around the
Ministry here and there, though if she worked there Hermione couldn’t recall which
department, but they’d hardly interacted since school. The former Slytherins mostly kept to
themselves—and of course her luck would have her running into two of them on one of the
most humiliating days of her life.

“Hi Pansy. Not especially—just blowing off some steam,” Hermione shrugged as Ivan passed
her her drinks. She fished several knuts out of her coin purse and placed them on the bartop,
then turned back to Pansy and sipped her drink—looking at her over the rim as if daring her
to say more.

Pansy doused her in a saccharine smile. “Where’s Weasley?”

“Over there,” Hermione said with a nod in Ginny’s direction. Ginny’s back was to them, but
her long hair was like a bright red beacon in the empty pub.

“No, the other one.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I’m not his keeper. Have a good evening, Pansy.”

“Likewise, Granger,” the witch smirked. “Oh, and if you see him, do tell him I’m very
excited to see what Chudley brings to the table this year. Pre-season is going so well.”

“Sure,” Hermione replied, trying her best not to sound rattled.

Hermione didn’t like it one bit—the way Pansy was acting as if she knew something
Hermione didn’t. It made her skin crawl. Still, she shrugged it off and returned to Ginny.

“Did Ivan ensnare you with his chattiness?” Ginny said sarcastically. It was no secret that this
particular barkeep spoke minimally and kept to himself. It was also well known that he
absolutely hated tourists, and so opted to work the weekday shifts when he was less likely to
have to deal with them.

“Pansy Parkinson’s here,” Hermione said with an eye roll as she took a seat.

“Oh, fuck,” Ginny said, throwing a tepid glance over her shoulder. Pansy had disappeared
into a booth near the front of the pub.

“What?” Hermione said.

“She’s friends with coach. Don’t want her tattling on me for drinking the night before
practice,” Ginny muttered, then shrugged. “I suppose it’s too late now.”

“Does she work at the Ministry?” Hermione asked.

“Department of Magical Games and Sports. She’s a merchandise manager for the league,”
Ginny replied.

“Oh,” Hermione said. Ron had probably mentioned that to her at one point or another. She’d
probably let it in one ear and out the other. It was one of her biggest regrets in their
relationship—that she hadn’t taken an interest in Quidditch. Perhaps the relationship would
have worked out if she had. “You know, I ran into Malfoy earlier today as well. At the
Ministry. Haven’t seen the git in years and then he pops up today of all days. Just what I
needed. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. The Slytherins always did have a gift for showing
up when and where they’re least welcome.”

Ginny shook her head and sighed into her glass. “I could go the rest of my career without
another word about him. He’s all the league’s been talking about ever since he got transferred
to Falmouth. I’m sure all the attention’s done wonders for his ego. Though I have to admit
he’s rather fit,” she added, raising her eyebrows and then taking a rather large swig as though
to cleanse her mouth of the words.

“Ginevra,” Hermione scowled, making a face, but then her thoughts trailed elsewhere.
Malfoy’s stardom. Another thing Ron had probably bemoaned, and another thing she’d
patently ignored.

Hermione had tried. She really did. In the beginning, when he’d first been drafted to Chudley
after the league started back up after the war, she’d gone to all of his games. She’d never
missed a match during that first season—even if admittedly she hadn’t exactly paid attention
, opting to bring a book with her instead. Ron had hated that. He’d especially hated when
she’d missed his game-saving block against the Wasps during the playoffs. That had been
their first real fight as a couple.

How am I supposed to love a witch who doesn’t care about Quidditch? Quidditch is my
fucking life, Hermione. I don’t have brains like yours. I don’t have Harry’s bravery. I don’t
want to chase down bloody Death Eaters. I just want to play Quidditch and live a normal
life! The normal life I was supposed to live—before all this happened!

His words still haunted her. She wished she’d taken them more to heart then.

With each new season, it’d become more difficult to be involved. Hermione had taken a job
at the Ministry, and for the first few years after the war she’d been absolutely buried in work,
helping re-structure wizarding society and the mistreatment of other magical beings that had
occurred under Voldemort. She got home late and left for work early, and Ron had hated that,
too.

“What is it?” Ginny said, looking at her oddly, and Hermione realized she’d drifted off in
thought.

“Oh, it’s just—well how are things cracking on with Lavender?” she replied rather meekly.

Ginny grimaced, then looked down at her pint which she held between both hands. “Well…
rather well, I think. They seem to enjoy each other’s company. Lavender gets on well with
the family. Not as well as you of course, and her wit and charm could never hold a candle to
yours, Hermione, but…they seem happy. It’s just the honeymoon phase I’m sure.”

Hermione blinked. They were simple words, really—it wasn’t as if Ginny had said anything
gratuitous. And yet she felt as though she’d been gutted.

Swallowing, grip tightening around her gin and tonic, Hermione said, “And the baby?”

Ginny’s face told her everything before she spoke. “They’re keeping it.”

Hermione closed her eyes, forcing herself to draw a deep breath in through her nostrils. She’d
known this was coming. It wasn’t news. Still, she sucked down half of her new drink in one
sip and swallowed hard. “I assumed as much,” she managed to say.

“I’m sorry, Hermione. I really am,” Ginny said quietly.

Hermione shrugged, looking briefly away so Ginny wouldn’t see the tears that’d momentarily
wet her eyes. “It’s fine. They deserve each other,” she said, the words coming out more
bitterly than she’d intended.
“Change of subject. What’s next for you? You haven’t been happy at the Ministry for a while.
Is there something else you’ve been considering doing?” Ginny pried, very obviously
injecting false cheer into her voice.

“I haven’t really considered anything,” Hermione told her truthfully.

“ Quidditch Digest is looking for a field journalist,” Ginny said with a thoughtful tilt of her
head.

Hermione snorted into her drink. “Oh really? Tell me more.”

“Just someone to document the season. Basic staffer gig. The job hasn’t been posted yet, I
only know about the opening because Justin Finch-Fletchley told me he put in his notice on
Friday. Something about moving home to look after his sick mother. Hasn’t been right ever
since the Death Eaters got ahold of her,” Ginny explained somberly.

Hermione’s heart fell. “Oh. I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” She’d never had much of a
relationship with the Hufflepuff, but she’d always had an affinity for him given that he was
one of the other muggleborns in their year—not to mention he’d thrown himself in with
Dumbledore’s Army and fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. Her own parents were still
blissfully memory-charmed in Australia, Hermione having yet to accomplish any effective
counter-spell. She could certainly relate to the effects of the war being far from over. “I hope
he’s alright,” she said.

Ginny shrugged. “Yeah. I reckon he’ll be alright. Always was a tough sort of bloke. Anyway,
I’m happy to put a word in for you at the Digest if it’s something you’d be interested in.”

Hermione actually laughed. “Me, a Quidditch writer? Wouldn’t that be ironic. Thank you,
Gin—I’m sure I’ll be able to find something. Don’t really think I’m cut out for athletics.”

“Suit yourself. You always have been a brilliant writer, I’m sure it’d be easy—it’s not like
you have to have brains to follow Quidditch. Quite the opposite, really. Maybe it’d be nice to
have an easy gig that you don’t actually care about for a while. Doubt you’d cross paths with
Ron much either. Nobody wants to read about the Cannons, and with the way pre-season is
going they’re sure to be out in the first round of playoffs,” Ginny said.

“Do you actually think it’s possible for me to do a job and not take it seriously, Gin?”
Hermione deadpanned, though the words rang rather hollow as they left her mouth.

Ginny snorted. “On second thought, no.”

“Thank you though. I’ll be fine.” Hermione smiled, though she knew it didn’t reach her eyes.

“You will,” Ginny said and raised her glass. They clinked their drinks together one more
time, and Hermione downed the rest.
 GOLDEN GIRL OFF HER BROOMSTICK: HERMIONE GRANGER IN
EMOTIONAL NOSEDIVE AFTER BREAK-UP

The Brightest Witch of her Age is making not-so-bright choices! Hermione Granger was
spotted stumbling out of the Leaky Cauldron Monday night after a teary exit from the
Ministry Monday afternoon. Rumor has it she and war hero boyfriend Ron Weasley have
split! Has the Ministry sent her packing as well? You know what they say—the higher they
fly, the harder they fall, and Hermione Granger appears to have fallen all the way down.
Will the Golden Girl recover from this tailspin, or has Ron Weasley dealt her a blow so
damaging even You-Know-Who would be envious? We can only assume it wasn’t mutual.
This story is developing.

The next morning, Hermione found herself gaping at the front page of the Prophet. The piece
was accompanied by a very unflattering photo of her, as Skeeter had written, stumbling out of
the Leaky all eyes glazed over and hair a mess. She hardly remembered the end of the night.
At some point Ginny had left, something about practice in the morning. Hermione had opted
to stay for “one more”—assuring a skeptical-looking Ginny she would get home soon—and
that one more had predictably turned into several more. As if her pounding headache and
desert-dry mouth hadn’t already been the perfect start to her day.

“That wretched fucking bitch,” Hermione said into the solitude of her flat, tossing the paper
into the fireplace and casting a heated incendio. All of wizarding Britain was going to see
this. Ron was going to see this. Her personal life was going to be a dinner table joke for the
common wizard. Red hot anger flushed her cheeks.

That witch was going to pay. She, Hermione Granger, would not provide column fodder for
Rita Fucking Skeeter. Still, Hermione knew it would be tough to get Skeeter off her ass now
that she’d smelled blood in the water. She’d certainly given the “journalist” plenty of reason
to seek vengeance, after all. She knotted her fingers in her hair and pulled, letting out a
frustrated groan.

She’d figure it out. In the meantime, Hermione needed something to occupy her time and
quickly before stumbling out of the Leaky became a nightly occurrence. Before turning up on
the front page of the damned Prophet became a daily occurrence. Damn herself. Hermione
clenched her fists so tight she heard one of her knuckles crack.

Furiously taking a seat at her desk, she ripped her favorite quill out of its inkpot. Perhaps she
would contact Ginny about the staffer position. But first, she had a howler to write.

Chapter End Notes

Updates will normally be on Sundays, but I just wanted to post a day early as a little gift
to any of those feeling lonely or sad this New Years'. Also, fuck it, I wanted to treat
myself because nothing gives me more serotonin than clicking that little publish button.
Wishing you all the best in 2023. Hope you're all enjoying the fic so far! I think it's
going to be a fun one - I usually write such dark stuff it's nice to write something a little
lighter for once. Say hi @rreliquaries on Tumblr.
 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

SEPTEMBER 2004

“I’ll be frank with you, Granger. I haven’t the damndest idea why you of all people would
want this bloody job.”

Oliver Wood slouched back in his seat across from her, arms crossed and legs splayed out as
though he were lounging on his own sofa. For the second time that week Hermione found
herself called into the office of a slightly older former classmate, though Oliver’s office at the
Digest felt considerably warmer and more lived-in than Percy’s. His editor-in-chief
mahogany desk was mottled with scratch marks from quills, with various runs of Quidditch
Digest splayed across it, some of their pages dog-eared or torn. A model snitch sat on the
corner, and there was a vintage-looking trunk on the shelf behind him—along with scores of
books on the game—that looked like it probably housed an old quaffle and set of bludgers. A
very expensive-looking broom hung overhead on the wall, covered in autographs, though
she’d sooner be able to guess how many centaurs it took to chart the universe than the
broom’s make or model.

“No offense of course, I just assumed you’d be well on your way to curing Dragon Pox by
now. We’re not the most renowned outfit either, you know. Make no mistake, I love this
game with all my heart, but—well, not many have a gift like yours, Granger. As I’m sure
you’re well aware,” he continued, quirking a brow at her.

Hermione rather liked his Scottish accent. She’d never really noticed it in school. And his
hair was brown. Not red. She liked that, too.

“Why don’t you play anymore?” she wondered aloud, turning the conversation away from
herself. She didn’t much feel like discussing Being Hermione Granger or her present dearth
of life goals.

“Me?” he laughed, his smile brightening his dimples. “Katie and I just welcomed our first
little one. She’s always been a better chaser than I ever was keeper of course—and believe
me, her contract proves it—so I opted into the stay-at-home-da role. Let her keep chasing for
Montrose in the meantime. She bounced back just in time for season start.” His grin was
mischievous, all lop-sided and charming.

Hermione’s eyes flickered down to his left hand, and indeed there was a thick silver band
around his fourth finger. She assumed he could only mean Katie Bell. Good for them, she
supposed. They always had had a nice chemistry, though she’d never really thought much of
it beyond Gryffindor comradery.
“Congratulations,” she said, forcing a smile. Why did she feel so hollow?

“Thank you. Anyway, back to the matter at hand.” He shuffled forward and steepled his
hands over his desk. “Look, we’d love to have you. I could never say no to Hermione
Granger, and I pity the man that could. I just want to make sure it’s the right fit.”

Hermione swallowed, suddenly nervous. She didn’t really know what to say. Of course
working at a Quidditch publication wasn’t the perfect fit for her, but for once in her life she
wasn’t really concerned with fit. She couldn’t guarantee that she would be happy, or that she
would last longer than a week at the Digest . She couldn’t even guarantee that she wouldn’t
nosedive into another tailspin, or however that wretched bitch Skeeter had put it. Her flask
was still warmly nestled in her purse, after all.

But she could guarantee that she would do her best to learn the game and document the
season to the best of her ability. She knew it was unlikely she and Ron would ever get back
together, with him soon to be a father and all—in fact, she really should strike that notion
from her brain this instant—but still. It could be good to learn Quidditch. Perhaps if she came
to learn this sport more intimately, she could better understand what she had always missed
out on , as Ron had put it—and whether or not it had all been worth it.

At the very least she’d be able to talk to Ginny about her career.

Hermione cleared her throat. “I think it’s exactly what I’m looking for, Oliver.”

Oliver’s face cracked into a devilish smile. He stood, and reached out to shake her hand.
“Really hoped you’d say that, Granger. Welcome to the team.”

That was how, a week later, Hermione found herself meandering into the Holyhead Quidditch
Pitch armed with a thick roll of parchment, her modified Quick Quotes Quill—charmed only
to record, rather than sensationalize—and a library’s worth of Quidditch texts stuffed into her
illegally-extended bag. Oliver had bestowed her with a press badge the day before—a
coveted item that would provide her entry to every game this season—and it was relatively
easy to find the velvet-roped queue that would give her access to the exclusive press box. She
got in line behind a slough of other reporters providing their credentials.

Hermione cupped her badge in one palm, having secured it around her neck with one of her
favorite muggle lanyards—another relic from her parents’ dental office. Her father had given
it to her as a child, for her to keep a copy of their house key. She was sure he hadn’t thought
it would become such a keepsake then. She hadn’t either.

Odd, the way tragedy could imbue menial little things with such significance.

The badge displayed her name in shining gold letters: HERMIONE GRANGER, and beneath
it an italicized Quidditch Digest . Her portrait looked chipper as it waved up at her. When had
she become such a good actor?
The rope attendant checked her badge, and she didn’t miss the way his eyes widened when he
saw her—or how he did a double take of her name, as if to verify that she , Society’s Beloved
War Heroine, was really working for the Quidditch press. Hermione supposed Skeeter hadn’t
gotten ahold of that bit of info just yet, then. Perhaps her Howler had gotten the woman to
back up a bit—though she sincerely doubted it. Probably just sniffing around the wrong
places.

It wouldn’t be long before she corrected course.

“Enter,” the man—or boy, really—said.

Hermione felt like more of an imposter in her own body at that moment than she ever had
walking into Gringotts in Bellatrix Lestrange’s skin. She almost wished her flask was filled
with polyjuice instead of spirits, the way stadium employees and press officials were ogling
her. Well, the firewhisky would just have to do.

Already frazzled, the witch stepped into the loo for a brief moment to pour a bit of the red hot
courage down her throat. It was already warming her by the time she stepped out of the stall
to assess her appearance in the mirror. Merlin , she internally swore at the sight of herself.

Her bedroom lighting was far too flattering, she decided. She’d completely missed the red
spots that’d appeared on her skin around her chin and mouth, the way they tended to when
she wasn’t taking care of herself. Her coloring in general was poor. The dark circles under
her eyes were tinted an ugly shade of green. Worst of all, several frizzy strands of her hair
had fallen out of its knot in her travel. With a few quick flicks of her wand, she glamoured
her face to look presentable, tucked her hair back into place, and though she was wearing a
red jumper she pulled back her right sleeve just to double-check her scar was glamoured as
well.

Satisfied, she left the loo and made her way to the press box.

The press box sat atop one of the towers in the center of the field, providing a clear view of
the entire pitch. According to her research, the sport regulators, producers and league
coordinators sat in the box directly opposite them on the other side of the pitch. Hermione
found a placard with her name sitting atop a purple cushion on a wooden bench and took a
seat, keeping her head down as the rest of the press filtered into the box. She was glad she’d
worn her scarf—the Atlantic breeze coming off the channel was making for a rather nippy
first of September.

It was the last match of the pre-season and the energy was palpable. Most of the stadium had
filled, with the majority of the crowd adorned in the green and gold of the home team, though
a solid twenty percent or so wore Falmouth grey. Hermione pulled out her journal of notes
and double-checked the roster for each team.

She smiled to see Ginny’s name on her sheet. Chaser, of course, and assisted by Heidi
Macavoy and Tamsin Applebee in the position. Anthony Rickett and George were beating.
Somehow, George was team captain. Adam Pickering was keeping, and Lorena Spindlewheel
was seeking. All Hogwarts grads, though she’d never spoken to most of them.
On the other side there was Oliver Rivers, Demelza Robbins and Riley Antwork for chasers.
Adrian Pucey and Jason Samuels were beaters, and Grant Page was their keeper, which left…
Draco Malfoy, seeker and team captain, despite having just been transferred to the team.
Hermione squinted at the letters, as if not quite sure she was reading them right. She hardly
had time to evaluate her eyesight, however, because soon a series of melodious horns blew
announcing the start of the match.

The crowd erupted and jumped to their feet, and Hermione followed suit if only so she could
actually see the tent flap doors on either side of the pitch through which the teams entered.
The players poured into the pitch from either end like a swarm of bees, rocketing around the
arena in streaks of green and grey. A familiar voice warmed Hermione as the announcer
jumped on the magical megaphone—and she looked across the pitch to see a grown Lee
Jordan calling out the names of the individual players. She smiled. Once goofy and boyish,
he now appeared mature, though his bright-eyed grin remained the same. Handsome , came
the voice of her irksome thoughts, and she shook her head. What was with her lately?
Couldn’t stop her mind from wandering to the unprofessional when she was on the job, but
when she was at home in bed she could easier summon the lost Library of Alexandria than an
orgasm—even with the help of her muggle-lauded rabbit vibrator.

“Hermione!” Ginny’s voice snapped her back to the present and she cringed as several of her
press fellows turned to look at her.

Well, her cover was blown—not that she’d really had one in the first place, but did her fellow
Gryffindor really have to give away her position so early in the match? She made a mental
note to kill Ginny later as she waved at her friend, who hovered several meters away from the
edge of the press box. Then a flash of grey and blonde rocketed past, just behind Ginny’s
head, and Hermione gasped as Ginny grappled for her broom handle to regain her balance.

“Fuck you, Malfoy!” Ginny shouted after him. Then with a quick salute to Hermione, she
was off.

Hermione allowed her eyes to trail after the former Slytherin. He was fast —flying faster than
anyone else on the pitch as he circled around the opposite side, hugging the wall. Then he
broke, shooting upwards towards the clouds as if to assess the pitch from a more worthy
position, above everyone else, right where a Malfoy belonged. She couldn’t help the little
sound of disgust that escaped her. Even as a convicted Death Eater, the man managed to stay
full of himself. Surely his Patronus was a peacock—if he could even produce one. A
movement to her right caught her eye and to her horror, her quill was writing all of this down.

“Scratch all of that,” she hissed at it, and it gave a little quiver as if in fear before doing so.

“And it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for, folks,” Lee’s voice boomed over the
stadium. Hermione looked down to see the referee standing in the middle of the center circle,
quaffle tucked under his arm. He catapulted it into the air with both hands and the stadium
erupted with a sound that reminded Hermione of muggle airhorns. “Let the game begin!” Lee
shouted.

Hermione had spent the last week pouring over Quidditch texts, but none of it had prepared
her for how quickly the game moved when every player had an athletic sponsorship and the
newest model of broom. Within thirty seconds of the game’s start, Macavoy scored a goal
against Falmouth with an assist from Ginny—followed by an interception blocked by George
when Ginny threw a bad pass to Applebee and Rivers nearly snatched it away. Instead he was
forced to duck a bludger careening for his head.

Malfoy was a tiny speck against a cloudy sky, seemingly biding his time. Alternatively
Spindlewheel kept a steady watch, circling just above the gameplay with the vigilance of
Filch on patrol. Robbins managed to snag a goal for Falmouth, but then Holyhead scored
three more, and Hermione herself let loose a shout of excitement when Ginny slung the
quaffle through Falmouth’s hoop to bring the match score to 40-10 Holyhead.

Pucey didn’t like that one bit, and he appeared to have said something antagonizing to
George, because George swung his club as though to hit Pucey in the face, bludger or not.
Pucey was quick, however, easily dodging the blow, though Hermione could hear his shout of
frustration halfway across the pitch when the distraction paved the way for Applebee to score
another goal for Holyhead. 50-10.

George got two minutes in the penalty box for slashing—a recent rule apparently inspired by
muggle hockey. The quaffle went back and forth several more times, with Falmouth scoring
two out of five attempts and Holyhead gaining one to bring the total to 60-30.

Then, movement up above. Malfoy had seen something. He tilted his broom downward and
dove, reminiscent of the team’s namesake. Hermione squinted as hard as she could, but saw
no glimmer of gold. Spindlewheel, however, must have because she similarly dove along the
angle of Malfoy’s trajectory—and having hovered lower, she had several paces on him.

For a minute, it seemed like Malfoy was going to catch up. He was just so fast , and
Hermione briefly wondered if a Quidditch player’s speed on a broom correlated to their
magical ability or if it was just pure athletics. She made a note to research that later.

She held her breath. He was gaining on Spindlewheel. Come on, Holyhead, she thought,
knowing she’d have to scratch it from her notes later. As a reporter she was to remain
objective.

And then Malfoy diverted, pulling back on his broom and banking to the left so hard that the
broom spiraled out of control, the spiral fizzling out moments later with Malfoy just barely
hanging on.

No, that wasn’t right.

He was in control, hanging upside down from his broom with just the strength of his thighs to
keep him from plummeting to the ground. He’d anticipated this. He arched his back, reaching
out as far down and to the left of him as he possibly could have been capable of doing with
his left hand—and then his fist closed tight.

He’d caught the snitch. Spindlewheel was still racing downward, unaware.

180-60. Falmouth.
Spindlewheel had been faked out, Hermione realized. He’d toyed with her psychology, giving
her the impression that she had to beat him to the snitch even though she probably hadn’t
even seen it for herself. She’d barreled downwards anyway, counting on it to come into sight.
It had never been in front of her.

The crowd erupted with boos, intermixed with a sprinkling of cheers. The silence in the press
box spoke volumes. Hermione’s mouth fell open.

Lee Jordan’s voice cut over the pitch, sounding stunned. “And that, folks, is the game,” he
said.

Well, judging by the faces of the officials in Lee’s box, she knew who the league officials
favored. Or didn’t favor.

Wood had told her to seek game commentary from the MVP after the match. She supposed
that meant she needed to seek an audience with Malfoy. Fantastic. Hermione waited until
everyone else had left the press box, then took another two swigs of firewhisky for good
measure before following them out.

An uneasy feeling washed over her as she followed the rest of the press to the post-game
conference, where they’d be joined by key players from the game. The room was small and
packed, with a podium at the front and a flag bearing each team’s crest on either side. All
around her people were buzzing, and for once Hermione struggled to keep up with what was
being said.

Then, the buzzing got louder and she tensed, wishing desperately that she could get away
with one last pull from her flask. She couldn’t, however, and so she forced herself to turn—
and just get it over with. Why had she signed up for this again?

After what felt like forever, Malfoy stalked into the room to her right, still wearing his
Quidditch leathers and clutching a broom in his left hand. His hair was darkened by sweat.
Several security wizards made sure the press kept a healthy distance from him as he made his
way to the podium. Hermione was relieved when George swept into the room behind him,
also still clad in his leathers, an encouraging grin plastered to his face despite Holyhead’s
loss.

A witch whom Hermione suspected was some sort of league official cast what she suspected
was an amplifying charm on both of them, and then on herself. “So begins our last
conference of the pre-season. Before we get started, I would like to take a moment to share
some sentiments regarding the upcoming season…” she trailed off, but Hermione wasn’t
really listening.

She was looking at Malfoy. She’d kept rather far back in the crowd in hopes he wouldn’t
notice her outright—had he noticed her in her box? For some reason, the idea filled her with
dread. Already the press was closing in to ask their questions, so she took a moment to
simply observe him.
He certainly looked like a Quidditch player, tall and broad, with lean cords of muscle
apparent under his leathers—so much that it unsettled her. She hadn’t exactly expected him to
continue his career as a Death Eater after his one year stint in Azkaban, but it was odd to see
him wearing something other than black. He'd been wearing all black when she'd run into
him at the Ministry. Not to mention the last time she’d really looked at him, when she’d
spoken at his trial, he’d been much more gaunt.

He looked healthy now. Falmouth grey, with its little accents of slate blue, was eerily similar
to the color of his eyes which were sharp and clear. His platinum hair, cropped closer at the
sides than it was on top, was presently slicked back, though now it appeared so from sweat
rather than by the use of some overpriced hair product. A few strands of it hung in his eyes.

Holding his broom upright in one hand, he was scanning the crowd as if looking for
someone, and Hermione stepped closer to the wizard in front of her as if to better blend in.

Too late.

His eyes landed on her, and stopped. His mouth quirked downward in a scowl, brows knitting
together.

Hermione swallowed, and forced herself to straighten her spine. She had every right to be
here. Still, she tore her eyes away from him and instead gave George a look-over.

He didn’t seem too down about the loss, looking right at home in his leathers though
something in her brain kept saying he should be wearing red instead of green. She’d seen
George plenty at the Burrow before everything had happened with Ron. He’d even
commiserated with her when she’d bumped into him in Diagon Alley a few weeks ago. We
all know Ron’s a right git. You deserve better, ‘Mione, he’d said, pulling her into a bear hug.

It hadn’t really made her feel better, but she’d appreciated the sentiment.

“—we can now open up the floor for some questions,” the moderator was saying.

Fifty wands shot into the air. Hermione belatedly pulled hers out as well, if only so she could
look the part.

“We’ll start with you, Anita, from Witch Weekly ,” she said.

A cheery-eyed witch with dark curly hair spoke. “Draco and George, as spokesmen for your
teams and in some ways the entire league, I must know what the players think of the league’s
new Quidditch kits. We know there was some concern what with the manufacturer change
this summer, but I think I can speak for most witches and wizards when I say you lot look
rather fit in the new get-ups.”

Hermione didn’t miss how Malfoy rolled his eyes. He let George speak, however.

“Oh, we love the new kits, Anita. You’re right, I think they’re just the slightest bit broader in
the shoulders—which is just a boon to us wizards who might be lacking in other areas. Every
bit of confidence on the pitch helps,” he said with a wink. The crowd buzzed.
“Draco?” Anita added, her Quick Quotes Quill hovering nearby.

Malfoy looked like he wanted to Avada himself.

“What Weasley said,” he replied coolly.

The witch next to Hermione erupted in giggles.

“That’s enough of that question,” the moderator said. “Seeker Weekly?”

An older wizard with white hair, dripping in old guard , stepped forward. “Draco and George,
I must ask—what are your personal ambitions for the season? Surely you’ve set some
benchmarks.”

“Australia,” Malfoy said flatly.

Hermione’s eyes widened. What?

The older wizard chuckled, though it sounded rather nervous. “Of course it’s every player’s
dream to make the national team, but some would say putting personal ambitions of attending
the World Cup in Australia over the elevation of the team as a whole is rather selfish.”

Oh. The World Cup was in Australia.

“You’re talking to Draco Malfoy, mate,” George chimed in.

The crowd erupted with laughter.

Malfoy appeared unfazed.

“Though since you asked, I’m making it my personal mission to make sure Holyhead has the
most bludger hits this season. You heard it here first, folks,” George added. “Got a lot of
personal issues to work through now that Witch Weekly has deemed Victor Krum the Sexiest
Quidditch Player Alive for the third year in a row.”

“Ginny Weasley’s got him beat!” a witch wearing a press badge to Hermione’s left shouted
through cupped hands.

“I’ll take your word for it,” George replied wryly.

For a second, it almost looked like the corner of Malfoy’s lips ticked upwards. Almost .

The moderator stepped in. “Next question. You there, with the Prophet .” She pointed to a
tall, skinny wizard in burgundy dress robes, who cleared his throat.

“Draco, what would you say this season’s—”

“Apologies, Mabel, if I may,” Malfoy cut the wizard off, turning to the moderator. “You
always take questions from the Prophet . Perhaps we should give another outfit a chance to
shine.”
“Oh?” she replied.

“In fact, I recognize one of my old classmates,” he said and Hermione’s blood froze as his
gaze landed back on her. “She always did have a passion for asking questions. Granger?”

Her name was a weapon on his tongue.

Hermione’s heart stopped. Everyone in the room turned to look at her. Confused whispers of
her name on strangers’ lips filled her ears. Malfoy leveled her with a self-satisfied look and
she knew he could see her squirming. For once, she didn’t know what she was going to ask
and he knew it. Hermione forced herself to take a breath.

“Malfoy,” she started, hating how his expression turned to mock anticipation. Think, think,
think , she told herself, racking her brain for Ron’s senseless Quidditch jargon, which she’d
long-since buried. Then, something clicked. “You won the game using a classic move—the
Wronski Feint. I would be interested to hear your thoughts on the philosophy of this
manoeuvre, given that it is one inherently rooted in deceit. Do you think the Wronski Feint
qualifies as a true offensive play, given that it relies on psychological manipulation rather
than pure athleticism? Or should plays like the Wronski Feint perhaps be re-classified into
their own category?”

His expression turned wolfish. “It wasn’t a Wronski Feint.”

The room fell dead silent.

Hermione frowned. “You tricked the opposing seeker into diving for a snitch that wasn’t
there. That’s a Wronski Feint.”

“No. The Wronski Feint is defined by the instigating player pulling out of the dive seconds
before colliding with the ground, typically causing the opposing seeker to crash. I was still
several hundred meters above the ground when I caught the snitch. Thus, not a Wronski
Feint. I must confess I never thought I’d see the day the Golden Girl failed to do her
homework,” he replied with a patronizing smirk.

“Oh, fuck off, mate,” George said next to him. “It may as well have been a Wronski Feint.”

Malfoy ignored him.

Hermione would have paid every galleon in her vault to apparate away in that moment. She
couldn’t give Malfoy the satisfaction, however—nor could she embarrass Oliver like that.

“Semantics. The question stands, Malfoy—do you believe deceit qualifies as an actively
offensive move against the opponent? I believe some questions of similar nature may have
arisen at your trial,” she replied. Two could play his game.

Malfoy’s eyes flashed, burning like dry ice, and she swore his whole body tensed. His
knuckles looked white where he gripped the handle of his broom. His jaw flexed before he
spoke.
 “Undoubtedly,” he said, his glare boring into her. “If the manoeuvre results in a gain or
victory for the player’s team. The means of obtaining it are moot.”

Hermione held his eye contact, her expression hardening. She had a feeling they were no
longer talking about Quidditch. Finally, he broke away.

“I’ve had enough for today. The trades should really consider improving on the quality of
their journalists,” he said to the announcer—Mabel—before stalking off the stage, spine
rigid, broom in hand. He never looked back.

Hermione’s cheeks flared with anger.

An unsettling vacuum filled the room in his wake, though it was quickly filled by George’s
name as the press continued to push and shove for the opportunity to ask questions. She had
no desire to linger, however. She needed a drink.

Chapter End Notes

Mmmmmmmmmmmm Quidditch players. In which neither Draco nor Hermione is

having a Good Time. Come say hi @rreliquaries on Tumblr!
 Chapter 4
Chapter Notes

PLEASE READ: this chapter has been edited for characterization as of 4/29/23. If you
read the earlier version of this chapter, I apologize. I received a series of critical
comments re: Hermione's characterization that I agreed with, and while I know it is
jarring to readers when an author actively revises a WIP, I hope you can trust me that I
believe it is for the best in terms of how this story will ultimately play out. I hope it has
not changed too jarringly, as I tried to keep the edits relatively in line with what I've
already written.

This is something that I will try my best to avoid letting happen again. And just a point
of clarity: I do not feel a pressure to change my story just because someone doesn't like
something. I just found the criticism valid in this case and wanted to improve what I
wrote. That being said, please be gentle, and remember that I don't have a beta reader
(and not because I don't have access to one, just because I do not presently have the time
on my hands to crit partner with people for fanfiction). :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Cw: alcoholism, substance abuse, which has been and will continue to be an ongoing
theme

SEPTEMBER 2004

Hermione received an owl halfway through the third week of September.

We’re all meeting at the Leaky at 7 this Sunday for your birthday. It’s Sunday for Merlin’s
sake, and I’ve owled Oliver to ensure he keeps your duties light this week so don’t bother
making an excuse. I’ll be there early so we can catch up. See you there.

Love,

Gin
She blinked at the parchment and groaned. Her birthday. One more bloody thing on her to-do
list. Godric, it wasn’t even an interesting one, either. Twenty-five, what did that even mean?
That she could finally rent a car if she ever got around to doing that sad, bucket list west
coast MACUSA roadtrip she’d entertained when she was younger and still thought about the
future? That she now had a fully developed brain, for whatever that was worth, capable of
even more over-thinking, more over-analyzing and more senseless, self-imposed masochistic
wallowing than before?

Frankly, there’d been a not insignificantly short period in her life not all that long ago when
she hadn’t even thought she’d make it to twenty-five. But now it was here, and she had no
idea what to do with it beyond her apparent obligation to have butterbeer and cake. Hermione
sighed. Fine. She would go to her sodding birthday party and she would do her best to enjoy
it. It would be nice to see Ginny, anyway. It’d been a rough two and change weeks at the new
office and she could afford to blow off some steam. Hermione poured herself a fresh glass of
chardonnay, took a deep swig and then tore a blank piece of parchment from her roll.

Ginny, she scribbled, rolling the buttery wine over her tongue.

How could I ever deny you, with those gracious manners of yours? You put the Sacred
Twenty-Eight to shame. By the way, I didn’t know you and Oliver were such ready penpals.
He’s still as handsome as ever, by the way. It’s a shame he’s married now or I might’ve had a
go at shagging him. Did you ever manage to? Don’t lie to me.

See you at 6 at the Leaky.

-H

She secured the message to her barn owl, Griffin, and opened the window. When he returned
with a new message roughly an hour later, Ginny’s script was hasty and brief.

Hogsmeade outing 7th year. Do not tell Harry. Ever.

Hermione laughed—a novel feeling—and downed the rest of her wine.

Her birthday was there before she knew it, bringing with it one of the most-loathed, age old
questions: what in the ever loving fuck was she supposed to wear? She stood in front of her
full length, plush white bathrobe wrapped around her form, towel twisted around her head
and a preemptive glass of wine in hand.
On one hand, it was the Leaky, which meant if she wore anything more than the most casual
of wizarding robes or conversely, denims and a tee, she’d stick out like a sore thumb. On the
other hand, she hadn't had an excuse to dress up and attempt feeling good about herself in
months—so she had half a mind to conjure Princess Diana’s revenge dress and send a note to
Skeeter with her plans, should the wretched woman need any filler content for the society
column.

Hermione wasn’t particularly proud of her body and never had been. She’d always been on
the scrawny side—and was certainly less curvy than Lavender Brown, a bit of a sore point
for her if she were being honest with herself, having overheard what could be classified as
locker room talk saying as much from several of the boys in their year at one point or another.
Still, she’d grown into herself—benefits of being 25?—and managed to feel alright splitting
the difference in an emerald satin slip top tucked into a pair of faded wash denims and cognac
kitten heels. She twisted her hair into a loose bun atop her head, several curls falling out to
frame her face, then pulled on her brown corduroy jacket because summer was long gone and
called it a day.

The witch pocketed her wand, threw back the rest of her chardonnay and apparated to
Diagon.

Diagon wasn’t as dead as she’d expected it to be. The sun hovered low on the horizon,
bathing the alley in a golden hour glow while witches and wizards with children too young
for Hogwarts trawled about with ice cream, shopping bags and vexing new knick-knacks
from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes—which George still funded and owned, though he'd taken a
backseat to running the shop. A glimpse of the life she might’ve had if Fate hadn’t thrust her
to the forefront of a war as a mere child. Scowling, Hermione wasted no time huffing her way
over to the Leaky with her head down, both to avoid the stares of onlookers that had yet to
fade and also due to the fact that there was a rather strong breeze barreling between the
buildings.

Ginny was already there, sitting in a corner booth and facing the door. “There she is,” she
grinned as Hermione approached her. Then she twisted in the booth and waved at Fern, the
weekend barkeep, who smirked and quickly mixed something together in her shaker.

She approached them with a pint, which she placed in front of Ginny, and a glittering gold
cocktail which she placed in front of Hermione. It was practically shimmering.

“What’s this?” Hermione said, eyeing it.

“Just a little birthday glow for the lady of the hour,” Fern replied, a hand on her hip. “You
know, you’re quite the intimidating gal these days—but with a little pep in your cup, these
idiots will be lining up to buy you drinks all night.” She gestured to the rest of the bar’s
inhabitants.
“I think I’m alright,” Hermione protested, not wanting to draw any more attention than she
normally received.

“Oh, don’t worry, ‘Mione. It’s nothing serious, just a drop or two to turn a few more heads
than usual. Have a little fun. It’s your birthday, for Merlin’s sake—you deserve to feel
special,” Ginny said with a solemn look.

Ginny had a point. Fuck it, she thought, and took the drink, potion, whatever it was, she
didn’t really give a shit—and poured it down her throat. It left a warm and tingly feeling in
her stomach that spread outward to the tips of her fingertips. Fern walked away with a
satisfied grin.

Already, she noticed the eyes of a man at the bar snag on her for a little longer than usual.
Then she turned her attention back to Ginny, who was looking at her with a curious tilt of her
head.

“You do clean up quite nicely, you know. I’d say we’ve come a long way from Hogwarts,”
Ginny said, looking smug.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh, cram it, Gin. Or is that another secret I should banish to the
Don’t Tell Harry Vault, hmm? Oliver Wood and me?”

Ginny burst out laughing at that, and Hermione took a seat, thankful when Fern brought her a
Dragon Scale draft on the house. The hops was crisp on her tongue. There really was nothing
like a cold beer on a chilly evening.

“What happens in the changing room stays in the changing room,” Ginny shrugged.

“How’s pre-season going anyway?” Hermione asked, eager to shift the conversation away
from herself. “I’ve been following it obviously, but give me the inside scoop. Off the record,
of course,” she added drily.

“How’s it going? ” Ginny asked, incredulous. “Fucking terrible, that’s how. Pickering’s about
as competent in the hoops as sparrow with a cuckoo’s egg and I told George, I told him he
wouldn’t cut it by season start but he’s the owner’s nephew or some other rot and so we really
haven’t got a choice. George is putting him through the ringer these next three weeks, but a
good lot that’ll do when he can’t tell a bludger from his bollocks. I’m hoping he gets injured
and we can bench him,” Ginny muttered the last bit into her beer.

“Ginny!” Hermione exclaimed, though she clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a
laugh.

“I mean it,” Ginny shrugged.

“George is an excellent captain. I’m sure it’ll pan out fine,” Hermione replied, and as she
spoke she suddenly became aware of two of the men across the bar staring at her with
something like wonderment in their eyes. Ginny followed her line of sight and shot them a
menacing glare, after which they turned pointedly away.
“Hope all you want. We play Montrose next week and they’ve a nasty pair of beaters.
Keeping my fingers crossed,” she said darkly.

“Mm, fair. Owler and Dogwood, they put Crabbe and Goyle to shame,” Hermione smirked,
proud of herself for the name drop. It was true—Montrose’s beaters were known for bending
rules.

Fresh rage sparked an amber glint in Ginny’s eyes. “Speaking of Slytherin,” she started,
taking a deep gulp of her beer, “Don’t even get me started on Malfoy. First off, that dive of
his was total centaur shit. Second, the press is already acting like he’s Merlin’s gift to
Quidditch and the season hasn’t even started yet! Which I have my suspicions about,” she
added.

“Oh?” Hermione quirked a brow.

Ginny leaned in. “I think he’s paying them. As if it weren’t suspicious enough the Malfoys
are hosting the season’s annual kick-off gala this year when they’ve never hosted a sporting
event before, suddenly an ex Death Eater is all the press can talk about?”

“Not the Digest,” Hermione said defensively. And what was this about a gala?

“Not yet,” Ginny rolled her eyes. “Only a matter of time before he comes knocking on your
door. We all know what they’re doing.”

“And what’s that?” Hermione frowned, the journalist in her readying her internal scroll.

“Well it’s no secret the league can’t resist a bribe. He couldn’t get hired anywhere else after
his stint in Azkaban, and yet the league welcomed him with open arms? Our stadiums and
staffing were a shitshow after the war. The Ministry diverted all funding away from the
DMGAS during the war, for good reason obviously, but it left us vulnerable to shit like this.
He’s a talented seeker, obviously. Frankly, I’m surprised he can still catch a snitch after a year
locked away let alone play like that . But I just find it all a little bit odd.”

An image of Malfoy on the front page of the Prophet , being escorted from Azkaban by two
aurors flashed in Hermione’s memory. They'd all spoken at his trial, but that seemed like a
lifetime ago now, and just because she didn't believe he deserved to spend the rest of his life
in Azkaban didn't mean she'd ever actually forgiven him.

Hermione cleared her throat, pushing the memory away. “I didn’t realize he’d looked
elsewhere for work. Or that the league was in such disrepair. In retrospect, it obviously makes
sense. I’ll look into it,” she said.

“Please do,” Ginny whispered, just as her attention shifted towards the front door and a grin
broke across her face. Harry had walked in, followed by George, Angelina and Luna.

“Happy birthday, ‘Mione!” Harry said loudly, looking at her in some strange sort of
wonderment, and Hermione mustered the biggest smile she could, sliding from the booth to
hug Harry in a tight embrace.
“Happy birthday,” George parroted, clapping her on the back while she was still in Harry’s
arms before moving to get a drink from the bar.

Angelina gave her a genuine, though somewhat uncertain smile, attention flitting over her
face as though to take her all in. “Happy birthday, Hermione. It’s good to see you.”

“You as well,” Hermione managed after Harry had finished squeezing the life out of her.

“Your aura is much brighter than usual,” Luna said, peering at her with eyes like the moon.
“You haven’t fallen in love recently, have you?”

Hermione flushed. “No, most definitely not. Thank you for coming, Luna,” she said quickly,
pecking the other witch on either cheek. Luna continued to stare at her, but Hermione glanced
away.

“Kick the night off proper, what do you say, Hermione?” George said with a grin like the
devil, returning from the bar with a round of shots.

She’d drunk enough that her stomach no longer churned at the prospect of ingesting liquor,
which she knew logically was a bad sign, but she just couldn’t be bothered to care. The
warmth that had descended over her limbs was too much to deny.

“George,” she said, laughing, there was something oddly charmed about his face when she
said his name. “You didn’t.”

“Actually, I really didn’t,” he replied, deadpan. “That weird bloke over there bought them.
Said he insisted. Who was I to deny him?” George shrugged.

Hermione glanced at the bloke in question, who raised his glass at her in turn. “Happy
birthday, Golden Girl!” he shouted across the bar. Hermione cringed, but it didn’t matter,
because George raised his shot glass.

“That’s right!” George shouted, and then the rest of them were raising their shots too and
before she could stop them they were singing happy birthday.

Once they'd all settled, it was easier than expected to fall into the cadence of mindless chatter.
Harry was bored for once in his life, which was good for him! Most of the escaped Death
Eaters had either been nabbed or chased so far from Britain that the DMLE’s primary concern
these days was more or less petty crimes.

Ginny made some not-so-empty threats about usurping George as team captain, to which
George responded that he was considering retiring and pursuing a slower “sunset” career as a
Quidditch sportscaster next season anyway. Hermione didn’t miss the way his mirthful brown
eyes shifted to Angelina’s, as though they were conspiring about something.

Angelina was an official medi-witch for the league, and she and George had rekindled their
friendship after he’d taken a nasty bludger to the cheek during the postseason last year. She
made some comment about how the preseason injuries were particularly high in numbers this
year, which hinted at a particularly combative season to come.
Meanwhile, Luna just sat there and smiled, looking ever more suspicious as there were quite
a few gals and blokes who took their turns asking the birthday girl what she would like to
drink—and when she just happened to mention what her friends wanted to drink, too, they
didn’t seem particularly inclined to deny her. Fern’s mystery concoction paid for itself many
times over.

They group was just enjoying their second round, and were gossiping about the lives of their
former classmates—Mandy Brocklehurst had apparently moved to Los Angeles and had been
cast in a muggle TV program, something about a bachelor? Hermione never cared for the rot
of reality TV—when a familiar flash of red caught Hermione's eye. Her stomach bottomed
out. It was not a figment of her imagination. Ron was definitely here. And he had Lavender
in tow. They were looking around.

Hermione ducked her head low.

"Ginny," she whispered urgently under her breath. When Ginny didn't hear her, she nudged
her under the table with her foot.

"What?" Ginny frowned.

"Did you invite Ron?" Hermione snapped.

"What? Of course not," she replied, confused.

The conversation at the rest of the table dissipated.

"Well he's here," Hermione hissed, risking a glance at the pair. They hadn't spotted them yet.
They'd stopped to chat with a group of lads, one of which Hermione recognized as Marsh
Fauns, one of Chudley's chasers.

"Are you serious?" Ginny said, inconspicuously turning around. Unfortunately the rest of the
table's eyes had begun to wander as well, and Ron must have sensed their attention because
he turned his head and his attention landed on their table. Apprehension twisted his features,
along with that annoying little half-smile he always had when he knew he was in trouble but
was trying to feign innocence. And yet...there was a notable absence of surprise.

"Fuck," Ginny sighed, leaning forward on her elbows, her fingers at her temples.

"We told him not to come, mate," George said, looking irritated.

Angelina looked awkwardly between George and Ginny. Harry massaged the bridge of his
nose.

Luna was serene, of course.

And Ron was headed this way.

Hermione's fight or flight ignited. She wanted out of this booth. Out of this pub. Fuck, she
would Apparate right there if she could.
George must have sensed this, because he pushed his way out of the booth and caught Ron
when he was midway to the table, whispering something in his ear. Ginny's eyes shifted to
Hermione's, and Hermione considered attempting a wandless disillusionment. Why had she
never become an Animagus? If only she could sprout wings, or even transfiguring into a
worm would do, so long as she could crawl away to some dark corner—

"Oi," Ron said to the table, taking a hesitant step past George. You could have heard a pen
drop. Hermione didn't look at him. She kept her eyes trained on the plate in front of her.
"Evening," he said finally, nervously cheery. "Lav and I were just swinging by Gringotts,
some of the team wanted to chat quick about the game tomorrow. Didn't mean to intrude. Just
thought I might as well say—happy birthday, 'Mione."

She could smell him when he approached, a scent that had once brought her such comfort,
but now merely churned her stomach. The last words hit her so hard, someone may as well
have dropped a bag of bricks on her from the top of Big Ben. She had to be on the verge of
spontaneous combustion.

Still, she was forced to look up.

"Thank you," she ground out, not looking in his eyes, but somewhere over his shoulder. She
could feel his gaze lingering too long on her face. Godric, why hadn't she started with gin and
tonic?

A shape moved in her peripheral. Lavender appearing at his side.

"Hello," she said, her voice as binty and grating as ever. "Happy birthday, Hermione."

Hermione chanced a passing glance over her usurper. No noticeable bump yet. She forced
herself to nod.

"We were just gossiping about old times. Not missing much, mate," Harry said, a hint of
warning in his tone, but it wasn't enough. It was infuriating sometimes—how the boy who'd
killed Voldemort could be such a spineless man.

"Not reading Skeeter's columns, I hope," Lavender said with a forced laugh. A feeble attempt
at a joke thrust upon them, like being force-fed candy-flavoured cough syrup.

"I find Skeeter rather enjoyable. It's fascinating to see what a person will do when they have
no inherent sense of shame," Luna said, not a drop of sarcasm or facetiousness in her tone.

How could they all be so blasé?

Hermione wanted to scream.

"I think I'll just use the loo," she managed to say, her own voice sounding far away.

George and Luna got up and let her out of the booth.

She brushed past Ron and Lavender, not chancing so much as a backward glance as she made
a beeline for the toilet. Nobody immediately followed her, luckily, and after giving them a
moment to re-engross themselves in conversation, she lowered her head and made a quick
line for the front door. It was time for one of her classic moves from across the channel: the
Irish Goodbye.

Her head was swimming with booze—noticeably more so now that she was standing up—but
she couldn't spend another minute in his presence. She knew it was rude and entirely
mannerless to leave without saying goodbye, and really, she didn’t know where she’d picked
up the habit, but she didn't give a fuck right now. If she was to be made a fool of, it would be
by her own design rather than Ronald’s. She’d make it up to her friends later. They’d
understand.

Or at least, she hoped they would. Tears exploded down her cheeks as she stepped into the
chilly evening air. Fuck him. She didn’t want him back, and Lavender was about as menacing
as a toddler with a new toy, but still, it was unstomachable. Merlin, did he have to ruin
everything? Why couldn’t she simply go out for drinks with her friends on her own sodding
birthday without him ruining it?

“Cigarette?” a man standing near the door of the Leaky broke her thoughts. Despite her tears,
he was looking at her with a sort of reverence, the way everyone had all night. She needed to
do something about it. Needed to soil it. There was nothing to be revered here.

“Sure,” she said, taking one when he pulled it from his pack and allowing him to light it for
her. Then she said, “I’ll be going, now,” before Merlin forbid he attempt to start a
conversation.

Hermione’s heels clacked on the ground as she stormed out into the night, across the much
emptier Diagon, cigarette in hand and her corduroy jacket pulled close around herself. She
had nearly reached the Apparition point and was sucking down a particularly large drag when
a familiar low voice and a silvery laugh like a bell caught her attention. The witch’s head
snapped up, smoke curling out of her mouth and she stopped, to see none other than Draco
Malfoy leaving Gorgon Market, a trendy new upscale restaurant serving modern European
fare, with a fawning Astoria Greengrass on his arm.

Malfoy was dressed entirely muggle, in crisp-looking gray slacks, a dark cable knit turtleneck
and a charcoal wool coat that fell to his mid-thigh. His platinum hair was parted on one side
and styled perfectly in place. Astoria, conversely, wore deep indigo dress robes over what
looked like an elegant sapphire gown, based on the bare bit of shoulder Hermione saw
peeking out. Her brunette hair hung loosely and perfectly spiraled to the middle of her back.

Gray eyes snapped to Hermione’s, shining in the glow of the street lamps. Astoria glanced
over her shoulder to follow his gaze. Both of them were looking at her with something like
bewilderment, and Hermione quickly turned her head away to wipe her tears on the arm of
her jacket. Malfoy frowned.

“Granger?” he said.

“What?” she snapped, stopping for a moment. “Whatever. Sod off,” she gave him a half-
arsed wave, cigarette tucked between her index and middle finger, then continued stomping
 her way down the cobblestones and sucked down a deep drag. She wasn’t going to Apparate
with it, so may as well get its worth.

Firm footsteps sounded behind her.

“Granger,” Malfoy said again, insistent this time, and she turned to see him standing behind
her. Astoria still waited on the restaurant landing, staring at her. “Are you drunk?” he said.

Was she drunk? Was the sky blue? What a sorely misshapen turn of events. Godric, she
should have stayed home tonight. She was a circus clown on God’s carousel. A dog to be
kicked while it was down. Hermione nearly burst out laughing at the way he was looking at
her, but managed to swallow it.

His scowl deepened. “Then you shouldn't Apparate. Where's Potter? Or Weasel? Weaselette?
Weren't drinking alone, were you, Granger?"

Hermione scoffed and threw the cigarette butt on the ground at his assertion.

“If only I had been,” she replied. A split second passed—just long enough to see his sharp
features twist into confusion—before she stumbled backwards and Apparated.

What was a little splinching compared to heartbreak, anyway? At least splinching could be
mended with dittany.

Chapter End Notes

Hi all! I'm back. I've been working on some original fiction but I'm taking a break from
it now and hoping to bang out some more of this fic. I have the whole thing plotted, but
I confess I've never had the willpower to write an entire piece before posting it so
updates will probably continue to be sporadic from here on out. Let me know your
thoughts! Hope you're all enjoying.
 Chapter 5
Chapter Notes

PLEASE READ: this chapter has been edited for characterization as of 4/29/23. If you
read the earlier version of this chapter, I apologize. I received a series of critical
comments re: Hermione's characterization that I agreed with, and while I know it is
jarring to readers when an author actively revises a WIP, I hope you can trust me that I
believe it is for the best in terms of how this story will ultimately play out. I hope it has
not changed too jarringly, as I tried to keep the edits relatively in line with what I've
already written.

This is something that I will try my best to avoid letting happen again. And just a point
of clarity: I do not feel a pressure to change my story just because someone doesn't like
something. I just found the criticism valid in this case and wanted to improve what I
wrote. That being said, please be gentle, and remember that I don't have a beta reader
(and not because I don't have access to one, just because I do not presently have the time
on my hands to crit partner with people for fanfiction). :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

SEPTEMBER 2004

Hermione did, in fact, splinch herself. She was lucky in that it was merely a shallow cut
along the backside of her left wrist and hand, her skin frayed-looking as though it’d been
caught in a zipper—but shallow, and mendable with a simple episkey. She’d hardly felt the
pinch, especially given the gaping hole that'd been punched through her chest. Truthfully
she’d suffered worse, and with a little essence of dittany it’d be as though it’d never
happened.

Her heartache, on the other hand, was nearly unmanageable. She'd had to drink two calming
draughts just to get out of bed, and still, her hands started to shake when she recollected the
events from the previous night. How or why he'd turned up, she didn't know. The rest of them
had looked surprised enough to see him, and she didn't think they'd lie to her outright.
Certainly not on his behalf. Right?

They didn't think she was being dramatic, did they? They wouldn't force him on her. Right?

Let alone Lavender.

How absolutely fucking humiliating, to be caught off-guard by her.

Hermione buried her face in a pillow and screamed. Sodding, bleeding arsehole!
She pulled herself together enough to firecall Oliver that no, she would not be making it into
the office today, because she had a migraine, and then promptly climbed back into bed.

At least there was no sign of the debacle in the day's Prophet. Merlin forbid she'd actually
informed Skeeter of the gathering. Hermione groaned, and uncorked her flask, determined to
speak to no one for the remainder of the day.

On the following morning of the Tuesday of the last week of September, her sanity nearly
shattered when she awoke to two owls. The first was a howler, encased in a blood red
envelope which looked ominous against the snowy white feathers of the bird who delivered
it. The second was an elegant-looking navy blue envelope which bore the Malfoy family
crest. They filled her equally with dread.

She took her chances with the howler first. When she tore the seal, the letter jumped from her
hands and snapped into the shape of a cruel, contemptuous mouth.

TO A MISS HERMIONE GRANGER, it spat, and Hermione flinched at the searing pitch
of its masculine voice.

LET THE RECORD STAND—WE IN BALLYCASTLE DON’T CARE WHO YOU

ARE OR WHAT YOUR NAME IS! STALE CELEBRITY MATTERS NOTHING TO
THE EVERYDAY QUIDDITCH LAD! YOU ARE NO GOLDEN GIRL TO ME AND
MINE. NOR DO WE CARE FOR YOUR VAINGLORIOUS SLANDER OF OUR
BALLYCASTLE BATS! HOW PRESUMPTUOUS IT IS, FOR A MUGGLEBORN
SUCH AS YOURSELF WITH NO PERSONAL EXPERIENCE IN THE SPORT TO
BELIEVE SHE QUALIFIES FOR AN ANALYST POSITION WITHIN THE
QUIDDITCH PROFESSION!!! YOUR COVERAGE OF THIS WEEKEND’S MATCH
AGAINST PORTREE WAS LAUGHABLY DAFT AT BEST, AND INTENTIONALLY
LIBELOUS AT WORST!!! EITHER THE GOLDEN GIRL’S GIFTED MIND OR
LION’S HEART IS A FALSEHOOD—AND NO DOUBT THE SEASON’S
UNFOLDING WILL REVEAL WHICH!

IF YOUR NAME WERE ANYTHING OTHER THAN WHAT IT IS, YOUR

APPLICATION FOR THE POSITION AT THE NOW CREDITLESS DIGEST
WOULD HAVE BEEN PERCEIVED AS A BAD JOKE. AS IT STANDS, WE IN
BALLYCASTLE CAN ONLY ASSUME THAT WHEN THE PUBLIC REFERS TO
YOU AS THE GOLDEN GIRL , THEY ARE IN FACT REFERRING TO THE SPOON
IN YOUR MOUTH!!! OR PERHAPS, THE UNDESERVED GALLEONS IN YOUR
VAULT. LET US HOPE IT’S THE LATTER, AS EVENTUALLY HARRY POTTER
WON’T HAVE ANY TABLE SCRAPS LEFT TO FEED YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!

GOOD DAY!
It burst into flames before her eyes, its smoking, ashy remains crumbling to her floor.

Hermione stumbled backwards into her bed, dumbstruck, leaning against the edge of it and
exhaling a slow, shaky breath. Her fingers curled into her duvet. It was just one person, she
told herself. Just one very angry, very loud man. It wasn’t as if she had received a whole
parliament of owls at her window. There were likely others—a handful of others, certainly
not all of Ballycastle—who shared his opinion to an extent, but…her coverage hadn’t been
that awful, had it? Certainly it didn’t warrant whatever the fuck that had been. Her head spun,
unable to fathom having such an outraged response to something as trivial as a sporting event
—not to mention directing such wrath at a complete and total stranger! Merlin, she didn't
need this right now.

“My Ballycastle Bats?” she repeated. The absolute nerve of some men! It was truly
incorrigible.

This was the dark side of celebrity, and she’d been right to fear it. It'd been another one of her
and Ron's fights. People—angry fans, in this case—prescribed whatever morals or beliefs
they pleased to your figure, turning you into a lightning rod for their ire. She’d expected this
in a way, and it was far from the first time she’d experienced public ire, but she had to admit
it’d taken her by surprise in this instance. Perhaps it shouldn’t have. Occurrences like this
were par for the course in the muggle world, after all, so why would it be any different here?
When it came to being reactionary, self-absorbed creatures, she’d long since learned that
wizarding folk and muggles were one in the same.

Still, a darker thought needled her mind. The way the howler had said muggleborn —it’d
been so pointed, like he’d barely kept his tongue from forming another word instead.
Mudblood, however, had overstayed its welcome and if there was anything muggles had
taught her it was that hate always found a way to make itself more palatable. She didn’t feel
particularly bothered by the word itself anymore—as noted, it’d been entirely worn out
during the war—but the assertion that she didn’t belong in the Quidditch world because she
hadn’t grown up there, that was a different story.

…And had her coverage really been so terrible? She was angry that it bothered her so much.
It was Quidditch, for Merlin’s sake. All that really mattered was that her coverage was decent
enough to keep the job.

That was the part that stung the most. The possibility that her research, both by book and in
the field, was not passable. Did Oliver think she was a failure, too, and he was just hiding it
to keep from hurting her feelings? She needed to talk to him. She also had half a mind to turn
what remained of the howler in to Harry so he could trace it, but then a larger voice in her
head scolded her for desiring his interference. She was a grown woman. She could fight her
own battles. She’d fought in the war after all—so why was she letting a poorly written
howler from an unhappy man who was most likely living in his mother’s spare room get to
her?

And the term was silver spoon, not golden spoon. Merlin's bleeding bollocks.
Perhaps she should see a mind healer. She didn't know how much more of this she could take.
How long must she live in the belly of the whale?

The witch took a deep breath. Alright, it was time to address matter number two. Her
attention shifted to the sole eagle still waiting at her window. It was a great Eurasian eagle
owl probably capable of swallowing Crookshanks whole, appearing very well fed and
impeccably groomed. It had most certainly been sent by a Malfoy. She untied the envelope
from its ankle and it jaunted from her window ledge before she could feed it a treat. If a
response was required, it wasn’t urgent. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, not trusting
herself to pen proper words at the moment anyway. She slid her finger along the edge of the
flap, the wax seal breaking open with an ominous pop .

To Ms. Hermione Granger,

The Malfoy Estate is pleased to cordially invite you by way of this writing to attend the 134th
annual Quidditch Charity Gala, taking place next Saturday, October 9th, at eight o’clock in
the evening at Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire. We are delighted by this year’s opportunity to
support the noble cause championed by the society of PPANDAA, while simultaneously
celebrating our unique and spectacular industry. As a vital and contributing professional
within the sphere of the British and Irish Quidditch League, we sincerely hope you will
attend. Please RSVP Yes or No via the enclosed card, no later than Wednesday, October 6th.
We look forward to your response.

Kind regards,

Draco Malfoy

Narcissa Malfoy

Hermione stared at the letter. Such a different tone from the howler, and yet somehow, even
more chilling. Faceless Quidditch fans with a penchant for misogyny, she could handle.
Pureblood socialites were an entirely different beast.

She turned the letter over in her hand and laughed, incredulous. Godric’s hat , a gala at
Malfoy Manor. How had she found herself here? She blinked at the ink. The writing had
Narcissa’s cold finesse all over it. The Malfoy matriarch was most certainly putting in all of
the coordination and effort, with her son merely obliged to perform the great and burdensome
task of lifting his finger to ink a signature as head of the household now that Lucius was
dead. She envisioned it: the quiet but proud woman skirting primly into some dim study room
of the manor with stiff, heavy air, passing the envelopes off to her haughty son while he
lounged in an inherited armchair he would never quite grow into.

She shook her head and shoved the invitation into her bedside table drawer. Truly, attending a
gala at Malfoy Manor was one of the worst possible side tasks she could have envisioned for
this job, and really she should have had better foresight to prevent such a thing. She would
speak with Ginny and Oliver before she made any commitments to attend. She probably
owed them both an apology, anyway—Ginny for ditching her party, if you could call it that,
and Oliver for her apparently piss poor coverage. Hermione dragged herself to her shower
and sighed. It was time to make the rounds.

Also, what the fuck was PPANDAA?

Oliver was wearing spectacles when she approached him in his office later that day, fully
tipsy from a healthy dose of firewhiskey at breakfast. The sting of Sunday night had yet to
dull from an ache into a throb, though it was a wonder she hadn't destroyed her pain receptors
last night from the amount of vodka she'd ingested. Thank Merlin for Pepperup potions.
However, she would take distractions where she could get them and the spectacles looked
surprisingly good on Oliver. Stop checking out your boss! He’s spoken for! She mentally
berated herself as soon as the thought popped into her head. Luckily she was learning that
Oliver was the jocky, sporting sort of man who certainly wasn’t dumb , but he didn’t register
much beyond what was immediately in front of him and he didn’t appear to notice her lack of
professionalism. He was leaning back in his chair, peering at her through his fashionable
round eyewear with his hands steepled against his chest.

“I’ll admit, it wasn’t my favorite piece,” he said.

Hermione’s heart sank. So the howler had merit.

“Lacked a certain inspiration, I’d say. The analysis was clinical. Wasn’t in touch with the
players,” he added, his brow furrowing with thought.

Hermione took issue with that last bit.

“Wasn’t in touch with the players? I’ve memorized their every stat,” she replied.

“I have no doubt about that, but statistics don’t translate to style. What about their heart , you
know? A good sports journalist knows player stats, yes, but there’s a lot more to it than that.
You have to capture how their music fits into the symphony of the game,” he answered.

Hermione blinked, her headache from last night’s chardonnay suddenly growing louder. The
sunlight pouring in through his tall office windows was too bright. “The symphony of the
game?” she managed. “Do you think the average Quidditch lad is thinking about it like
that?” she said, parroting the howler.

Oliver sighed and removed his glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose before sitting up and
scooting forward to the edge of his desk. He replaced his glasses and looked thoughtful for a
moment before speaking. “Do I think they consciously think about that? Likely not. But when
a journalist is emotionally invested, it translates to the writing. That’s what your piece is
missing, Granger. That oomf . Pizzazz. The investment. Ballycastle and Portree have an age
old rivalry, you know. Did you know that? Because the piece hardly took that into account.
Game context is important.”

Hermione groaned, her head falling back.

“Look, I’m not saying the piece was terrible. It was obviously well-informed in terms of
game mechanics. I think you just need to focus a little more on the emotionality of the game
rather than raw numbers,” he concluded.

“Noted,” she muttered. She’d unpack all of that later. There was another matter to address.
“What of the gala at Malfoy Manor?” she asked.

“Our attendance will be expected, of course. If you’re looking to grow your connections and
better familiarize yourself with the field, the gala will provide a bloody fantastic
opportunity,” he replied.

Hermione inhaled sharply through her nostrils, but nodded. Hopefully her extreme reluctance
wasn’t entirely visible to Oliver. It didn’t appear to be.

“Don’t sweat it, Granger. You’ve got this handled,” he added before she left his office.

She hoped he was right.

Later that night, Hermione uncorked another bottle of chardonnay and penned an owl to
Ginny.

Gin, she started, uncertain of how to proceed. On one hand, she felt guilty. On the other, she
sort of wished Ginny had reached out to her. Then again, Hermione had been in the business
of taking space lately, and perhaps Ginny was merely trying to honour that. She continued.

I owe you an apology for Sunday. It was very thoughtful of you to organize a birthday party
for me and I want you to know I really appreciate it. I was unprepared to see Ron and I acted
poorly. At the very least, I should have said goodbye. Apparently I’m to attend the Quidditch
charity gala at Malfoy Manor. I assume you’ll be there? Do you know if Ron will be as well?

Love,

Your Errant Friend Hermione

When she received a response, hours later, it was so late that Hermione was surprised Ginny
was even awake given that she herself should have been in bed hours ago. So it went, these
days. Melting into her transfigured-stool-of-a-sofa with a bottle of wine well into the wee
hours had become her nightly ritual. Like a little death every night, in which she set herself
 free from herself and her life for a while before digging her way out of her grave every
morning. It was with bleary eyes that she thumbed open Ginny’s response.

To My Errant Friend,

I completely understand. You’re forgiven, as these were particularly grim circumstances, but
honestly, Hermione, you do need to be better about saying goodbye. Nobody knew where you
went. We were worried about you. When you didn’t come back to the table after a while, I had
Harry pop over to your place to check on you. You were already asleep. I’m genuinely sorry
for the invasion of privacy, but we needed to know you were safe.

Rest assured, George and I ripped Ron a new arsehole after you left. Even Lavender had
something to say about it. We specifically told him not to come, Gringotts be damned. I really
don't know what he was thinking, but it won't happen again. George promised him a bludger
to the face if it does. I'm sorry your birthday was a disaster.

Yes, I’ll be there. The kick-off gala has always been a grand time. You should try to enjoy
yourself, but come prepared. Ron will be there too, and Lavender. Good thing we had a test
run last weekend, eh? Besides, with several hundred in attendance you should be able to
avoid them as you please.

Love,

Your Admittedly Worried Friend

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was a culmination of all the guilt and shame she’d
been doing a less than stellar job at keeping buried, or just residual aftershocks from Sunday,
but Hermione had to wipe several tears away at Ginny’s admission that she was worried
about her. The confirmation that yes, her friends had noticed. That no, she wasn’t flying
under their radar, as the muggle saying went.

She really should try to get a handle on herself.

But that sounded like a problem for tomorrow. She poured the last glass worth of wine into
her cup and sank back into her sofa.

Chapter End Notes

Wow this fic is darker than I ever intended it to be!! lmao!! I think next chapter is where
it'll start really picking up. Next stop: gala. Anyway please share your thoughts! I love to
hear from you. I know updates have been on Sundays pacific time in the past but I'm
experimenting a little. Also, I'm trying my best right now to get a big queue of chapters
drafted so I can get back on a regular release schedule!

Also, I sincerely apologize for any textual inconsistencies. I'm trying to keep everything
straight but my mind is a mess these days.
 Chapter 6
Chapter Summary

PLEASE READ: this chapter has been edited for characterization as of 4/29/23. If you
read the earlier version of this chapter, I apologize. I received a series of critical
comments re: Hermione's characterization that I agreed with, and while I know it is
jarring to readers when an author actively revises a WIP, I hope you can trust me that I
believe it is for the best in terms of how this story will ultimately play out. I hope it has
not changed too jarringly, as I tried to keep the edits relatively in line with what I've
already written.

This is something that I will try my best to avoid letting happen again. And just a point
of clarity: I do not feel a pressure to change my story just because someone doesn't like
something. I just found the criticism valid in this case and wanted to improve what I
wrote. That being said, please be gentle, and remember that I don't have a beta reader
(and not because I don't have access to one, just because I do not presently have the time
on my hands to crit partner with people for fanfiction). :)

I hope you're still with me and will trust me to deliver!

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

CW: suicide mention, drug addiction

OCTOBER 2004

The remainder of the pre-season passed in a disassociated blur. It wasn’t long after the
Ballycastle howler that she actually did receive an entire parliament of owls bearing red
envelopes at her window, this time on behalf of Tutshill. There had been a controversial call
during the game against Caerphilly, which she apparently had not covered with enough ire ,
and after listening to twenty-and-some-odd folks berate her with magically amplified voices,
she wondered if rather than dress shop for the gala she should in fact spend her morning
throwing herself off the London Bridge.

It was only after a small dose of calming draught that she was able to convince herself
otherwise. First, fuck them all, she told herself. She may be down on her luck but Gryffindors
were nothing if not proud, and she would not give the Marcus Flints of the world the
satisfaction of seeing her out the door. Belatedly she thought there was a small chance the
sentiment was uncharitable to Flint—she hadn’t spoken to him in years, though she suspected
that would change soon as he was team captain and a chaser for Kenmare—but she’d heard
the stories. It was doubtful that a career as a professional Quidditch player had made him any
less of a sexist pig. Hermione was fully convinced that changing rooms did things to a man’s
brain. So no, she would not kowtow to his lot.

Second, she’d already rsvp’d yes to the gala. The last thing her sanity needed was Rita
Skeeter snapping a photo of her empty place setting and spreading rumors like wildfire as she
pleased. That would certainly squash any confidence a future potential employer might have
in hiring her.

Third, if Ginny’s letter was correct this would be Ron and Lavender’s first official evening in
public since Lavender’s pregnancy. No, Hermione could certainly not give Skeeter that sort
of ammunition. She’d sooner teach Fiendfyre to a toddler. Moreover, it wasn’t that she still
cared what Ron thought of her—alright, that was a bit of a lie—but she would not, would
certainly not let Lavender Brown think she’d managed to scare Hermione Granger off.
Lavender had been gunning for Hermione since long before Ron, and if she hadn't given her
the satisfaction of knocking her down then, she certainly wouldn't now.

Even Lavender had something to say about it, Hermione recalled Ginny's owl with a roll of
her eyes. The witch obviously didn't care that much about appropriateness and etiquette, or
else she wouldn't have gone and gotten herself knocked up by someone else's wizard!

Lastly, she had to admit she didn’t want to let Oliver down. He’d criticized her piece, it was
true, but he’d also spoken to her like he believed in her and thought she had the capacity to
do better, though only Merlin knew why. Still, it’d been so long since someone had spoken to
her like that—like they believed in her—and she wasn’t going to let it pass her by.

It was with those thoughts close in mind that after an egregious amount of calming draught
she arrived at the open gates of Malfoy Manor that Saturday evening. She hadn’t deigned to
bring her flask for once, trusting in the Malfoys to throw a proper party with an open and
well-stocked bar—though she didn’t trust them a hair’s breadth beyond that—and admittedly
she found herself wishing for a little extra liquid courage as she landed on the path that led to
the ominous house.

She could do this. She was prepared this time. She was Hermione Granger.

“Welcome, miss,” a house elf in a glittering black formal jacket and slacks greeted her from
the left. Clothing. Of course the house elf was free. The House Elf Liberation Act of 1999
had mandated as much. Still, she couldn’t deny that she’d half-expected the Malfoys to
disregard the law entirely, as laws had never meant much to them in the past. She supposed
Lucius’ life sentence in Azkaban and subsequent death within the prison had probably
recontextualized things.
Another house elf to her right—clothed in an opulent dress—bowed and gestured up the path.
“Enjoy your evening,” the house elf piped.

“I’ll try,” she mumbled, remembering Ginny’s words. She ignored the odd looks the elves
gave her and started towards the manor.

The house loomed like some sinister, Lovecraftian behemoth against the starry night, and it
certainly wasn’t lost on Hermione what’d happened the last time she was there. Even so, her
torture at Malfoy Manor had merely been the first in an onslaught of horrors during the war
and she was more or less numb to it now. Nothing like the pain of fresh wounds to make you
forget old scars.

Admittedly, old scars weren’t entirely forgotten. Though she wore a black wool coat at
present, she’d had to glamour the scarred letters carved into her right forearm as she did any
time she wore something the least bit revealing, like the floor length, spaghetti-strapped,
eggplant-coloured dress she had on now. It went well with her closed-toed silver pumps and
matching sparkly clutch, if she did say so herself. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of the scar
—it was evidence of what she’d endured, of how she’d been broken and put back together
wrong—but rather, that she hated the stares and stutters of conversation it earned her. For the
sake of her mental stamina, it was best kept under wraps.

A few witches and wizards she didn’t recognize bustled past her, garbed in elegant dress. She
was glad she’d gone all out, because apparently everyone else had too, and if there was one
place she would not be caught dead underdressed it was Malfoy Manor. Still, she found
herself hesitating on the landing, her stomach a bubbling cauldron of nettles.

“Hermione Granger, is that you?” came a confident masculine voice, and she turned to see
Cormac McLaggen striding up behind her, alone, with his hands shoved into his pockets.

For some reason, his appearance filled her with relief. A familiar face amongst Devil's Snare,
she supposed.

He was dressed sharply in a deep navy muggle suit, cream dress shirt and elegant navy
wizarding robes. His curly blond hair had been parted to one side and swept back from his
face with product, which gave him a polished, refined air and directed one’s attention to his
charming grin. Even in school he’d been well-built, but since then he’d become increasingly
broad and athletic and there was no denying he was quite handsome. He was a regular
character in the Prophet’s social columns, anyway.

“Allow me the honour of seeing you inside,” he said, all boyishly charming, before placing
his hand just high enough to be acceptable on her back and guiding her through the doors.
Well, he certainly hadn’t lost his arrogance. Odd how comforting it could be, that some things
—even the most annoying of things—never changed.

“Cormac,” she replied, flashing him a saccharine smile. “Careful where you put your hands.
Some of us are still recovering from the last war, you know. Wouldn’t want to invigorate the
fangirl hordes.”
He laughed, helping her, without her permission, out of her coat. She watched, narrow-eyed
as he passed it to the coat check with a nod. “Oh, they’re nothing the Golden Girl couldn’t
handle.”

“Are you certain? I’ve heard Puddlemere’s fanbase is notoriously unhinged. Dumbledore was
a fan, you know,” she replied. He offered her his arm, and curse her, she took it.

“Of course he was. As for the hordes, simply a consequence of having the league’s most
handsome keeper on your roster, I’m afraid,” he said, and she could practically see his chest
puff up. “Though to be fair, any fanbase is rabid compared to Chudley,” he added with a
sidelong smirk, a not-so-subtle dig at Ron as he guided her into the Manor. “Anyway, enough
about things that don’t matter. How have you been? I have to admit I was surprised to hear
you’d taken up writing for the Digest , but then again I can’t blame you for leaving the
Ministry. My family’s been on the Wizengamot for decades, perhaps you’re aware. Let’s just
say it didn’t go over well when I opted for a career in Quidditch instead, and thank Merlin I
did. The Ministry is so dull.”

“Keeping tabs on me, are you?” she asked, just as they followed the stream of people into a
grand, baroque ballroom. An uneasiness prickled at her as they went, as though she were
willingly walking into the belly of a dragon, but she shoved the feeling away into one of her
many compartmentalized boxes.

The walls were adorned with gold and decorated with portraits. Massive curtained windows
spanned the gap between the polished wooden floor and painted ceiling like something out of
a fairytale. Ornate chandeliers which she could only guess were real crystal filled with
hundreds of glittering candles provided the room’s only light. A string quartet played in the
corner—which Hermione realized was made up entirely of ghosts. The instruments must
have been charmed to play themselves, while the ghosts followed along. She had to admit it
was a lovely touch. Everything was absolutely breathtaking, though she’d never admit it
aloud.

“What would you do if I said yes?” Cormac mused, snapping her back down to earth.

“Hex you, promptly,” she replied, though she did a poor job at fighting the little smile that
tugged at the corners of her mouth. Merlin, was she flirting with him? Desperate times,
indeed.

“Perhaps a drink is in order,” he said, dropping her arm. “What would you like?”

“Hmm,” she said, pursuing her lips as she thought about it. “Champagne,” she said after a
moment. When in Rome?

“Cheers,” he replied, disappearing to find the queue for the bar.

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest then, suddenly oddly alone and exposed. Her eyes
scanned the crowd. George and Angelina were on the other side of the room, though she
didn’t feel like approaching them just yet after her birthday. Tamsin Applebee and Lorena
Spindlewheel were hanging off each other’s arms. She hadn’t known they were a couple.
Adrian Pucey was standing not far away with a glass of champagne in his hand, speaking
with Theodore Nott—who was not a Quidditch player, though she’d seen him at several
games already. Roger Davies was strutting around looking as though he didn’t know what to
do with himself, just as he did on the pitch. No sign of Ron, Lavender, Ginny or Harry. Ah,
and there was Alicia Spinnet, chaser for Appleby. Perhaps she should go say hi.

“Hello Granger.”

A chill ran down her spine, raising the exposed flesh of her arms. Slowly, Hermione turned
around to see Malfoy standing there, his cold eyes flickering over her and seemingly missing
nothing. He was wearing a crisp black muggle suit under midnight wizarding robes, his stark
white dress shirt buttoned stiffly to the top button, his collar pressed. Silver, expensive-
looking cufflinks winked from his wrists, and his black oxfords from a high-end muggle
fashion house were pointed and polished. He was Evening personified. Astoria was nowhere
to be seen.

“Malfoy,” she replied with a curt nod. Leave me alone, she thought. She didn’t have the
energy to quarrel over their previous two interactions.

He had one hand shoved in his pocket, oddly casual—a sign of intoxication, coming from
him, perhaps?—and he cupped a rocks glass of whiskey with the other. “I was surprised
when you inclined to be placed on the guest list,” he said, raising his drink to his lips.

“And why’s that?” she frowned, subconsciously standing up straighter so as not to be

intimidated. Despite what his family magic might have to say about it, she deserved to be
here as much as anyone else.

“Your disastrous piece about the Tutshill Caerphilly match, for one. Quite a bit of industry
fuss about that,” he replied with a tsk. “I would’ve found a cozy rock to hide under for at least
several more weeks, had it been my name attached to the piece.”

She glowered at him. “In classic Slytherin fashion,” she amended. His brows raised ever so
slightly, but she kept on. “Anyway, sod the industry fuss. It was an accurate account of
events. If people have a problem with it, perhaps they should look to the league for reform
rather than my writing. I simply recounted the game as decided by the referees.”

A lopsided smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Of course. Couldn’t reform the
Ministry, so you’ve set your sights on Britain’s Public Enemy Number Two: the British and
Irish Quidditch League.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. The only agenda I have these days is earning a
paycheck.”

“Granger without an agenda. Forgive me if I find that hard to believe. What is the story
behind your abrupt departure from the Ministry, by the way? Care to indulge an old friend, or
shall I take Skeeter’s word for it?” he asked, facetiousness lacing his tone.

She took the bait anyway, and snorted. “We were never friends, Malfoy, though speaking of
agendas, I do appreciate the invitation to be here tonight. You have a beautiful home and I’m
honoured to be a guest, even if I’m merely here to fill a quota.”
His gray eyes turned flinty, and he took a step closer to her. She didn’t miss how his hand
curled tighter around his glass. “Please enlighten me as to your meaning, Granger.”

“Here you are, Hermione.” Cormac’s voice snapped the tension between them as he returned,
passing her a sparkling flute of champagne, and Hermione breathed a little sigh of relief. She
could tell from the floral notes that hit her nose he’d snagged a gin and tonic for himself. “Oi
Malfoy, the man of the hour. Just one bar tonight, eh? Godric, the queue was maddening.”

“My party not up to your standards, McLaggen?” Malfoy replied stiffly, straightening to his
full height. “Forgive me for never making it up to Gryffindor tower. I don’t know what I’m
missing.”

“Only joking of course. Leave it to the Malfoys to serve century-old vintage champagne at an
open bar,” Cormac replied, clapping Malfoy on the shoulder. “Good match last week, eh?”

Puddlemere had squeaked out a win against Falmouth last week. The game had been neck
and neck until Blythe Parkin had managed to secure the snitch just ahead of Malfoy. She was
presently the incumbent seeker on the English national team, and Hermione was certain it
was a sore spot for him as Malfoy’s ambitions regarding the national team were widely
known.

“Not especially,” Malfoy drawled, his mouth twisting into a scowl as he shrugged Cormac's
hand away. “And the champagne is from a family vineyard, nothing to write home about.
Enjoy your evening. There’s an additional bar in the gardens, if you’re looking for
somewhere a little more private,” he added, casting a pointed look between the two of them.
His insinuation left Hermione burning long after he disappeared into the sea of party guests.
It wasn’t that she was above shagging Cormac. It was that it wasn’t Malfoy’s business to
comment on whether or not she was shagging Cormac. But Malfoy had never excelled at
minding his own.

“Rotten bloke,” Cormac muttered under his breath, and Hermione allowed herself a laugh at
that, letting him lead her back into the party. She kept a wary, watchful eye out for Ron but
didn't see him yet.

PPANDAA, she soon discovered, stood for Pain Potion and Narcotic Drug Abusers
Anonymous. The proceeds of the event would go towards rehabilitation efforts for wizards
and witches who suffered from abuse of said substances, the number of which Hermione
knew had increased substantially since the war. Muggle drugs hadn’t even been an issue in
wizarding society before then, as far as she knew, and now they were a rampant problem. She
wondered who decided the annual charity recipient.

Oliver arrived fashionably late and found her the moment he entered the room, briefly
cornering her to lay out a strategy for the rest of the evening. He would lay some fresh
groundwork with the league administrators while she was to familiarize herself more with the
players. Let them put a face to a name, he said. Oliver, most of them already know my name,
she groaned in reply. Right, well—put a face to their names! He amended before slinking off
with a pint to schmooze the MGAS folks. She was mostly left on her own. She’d lost Cormac
somewhere along the way, and was glad for it. His egotistical prattling had quickly become
exhausting.

“Looking ravishing, Granger,” Pansy Parkinson commented as they brushed each other in
passing.

The former Slytherin was admittedly stunning in an emerald sweetheart trouser dress, the
train of which trailed on the floor behind her. Diamonds hung from her ears and neck.

“Not looking so bad yourself, Pansy,” Hermione replied coolly. She welcomed the change in
temperature from their last interaction.

“Why thank you, Granger,” Pansy said with a coy, face-splitting grin, stopping where she
stood. “You know, these Quidditch birds have taught me a thing or two about pitching and
catching. You look like you could use some fun.” Then she stepped closer, her fingers closing
around Hermione’s upper arm as she leaned in close. So much for a change in temperature.
“Floo me,” she whispered, then stepped away with a smirk, disappearing back into the crowd.

Hermione nearly choked on her champagne, inelegantly wiping some bubbles from the side
of her mouth. In what world Pansy Parkinson thought her attractive, she wasn't sure, but she
supposed she was prone to surprises these days. After recovering, she spent the next half hour
or so making her rounds, saying hello to players she recognized but hadn’t formally met, or
occasionally being stopped by others. By her third glass of champagne, her anxiety had
mostly abated. Traipsing around the ballroom quickly became rather dull, but dull things
numbed her mind, and these days that was a good thing.

Ginny and Harry arrived a bit late, and Hermione greeted each of them with a hug—
muttering a quick apology in Harry’s ear, and thanking him for checking on her after her
birthday. They didn’t seem hung up about what'd happened, and though she got the sense that
Harry was keen to talk about it, she appreciated that he had the decency to keep his mouth
shut. There was enough tension for all when Ron and Lavender arrived.

She had to admit Ron looked nice. He seemed to have the wizarding world fooled with his
hair properly combed for once, dressed fully in traditional wizarding attire—gray formal
wizarding robes, which looked new. He certainly wasn’t hurting for galleons with that team
captain salary. Lavender wore a velvet burgundy gown with long sleeves and a cowl back that
perfectly accentuated a now noticeable bump.

Hermione was standing with Harry and Ginny, Seamus—who was a game commentator these
days, and presently rambling about the technical inefficiencies of some new broom—as well
as Adam Pickering, and Katie Bell when they walked in.

“Oliver could talk the ear off a donkey,” Katie muttered sourly, glowering at where he was
chatting up some suit across the room. Hermione wasn’t really listening. She was watching
Ron and Lavender.

Ginny reached out and softly grabbed her wrist. "You're fine," she whispered in Hermione's
ear. "He's my brother and I don't wish him ill, but what he did is going to get out. You have
the upperhand here."

Ron’s attention fell on her, just as the words left Ginny's mouth. She suddenly didn't feel very
much like she had the upper hand. He was frowning, and she felt like he was seeing right
through her. If only she'd bothered to learn Occlumency.

Then there was an onslaught of camera flashes, breaking the moment, and Hermione let out a
breath. The press crowded around them, abuzz with questions, demands for official
statements, more than likely. This was his new life. Celebrity and parenthood: two things he'd
held against her for not wanting. Hermione tossed back the rest of her champagne in one
gulp, then found a side door and slipped through, the air in the ballroom too thick for her to
breathe.

She welcomed the briskness of outside, taking a few deep, steady breaths to calm herself.
There were a few couples strolling around, as well as a circle of smokers consisting largely of
former Slytherins, Theodore, Pansy, Daphne Greengrass, Blaise Zabini and Tracey Davis.
The latter two were in the league, with Zabini chasing for Montrose alongside Katie Bell and
Tracey Davis beating for Tutshill. Hermione briefly wondered if Davis had been as outraged
as others about her piece. Pansy shot her a wink across the garden, which she rolled her eyes
in response to. Still, it was a welcome gesture of levity.

Thank Merlin there was, in fact, a second bar, tended by a single barkeep. The bartop was
made of marble and it was considerably smaller than the one inside, with just five stools. A
wizard she didn’t recognize sat at the other end sipping a martini.

“Negroni, please,” she told the barkeep, craving something bitter for once. The barkeep
simply nodded without saying anything, mixed the drink and then placed it in front of her in a
crystal rocks glass.

She twirled it between her fingers, then took a sip. Her features scrunched up. Bitter, as
desired, and oh did it hit the spot. She took another drink, then glanced up at the manor
behind her. The place could hardly be called a home. She couldn’t, for the life of her, imagine
growing up in such a place.

What was Lavender's home like? Had they gotten someplace new? Did it have a nursery yet,
or would that come later? She hated herself for wondering.

She'd just waved her wand over her face to clean up the evidence of tears when thud. An
empty glass hit the bartop next to her, making her jump, and her eyes trailed over the pale,
slender fingers that grasped it, across a pale wrist and up a black-clad arm to meet a familiar
pair of grey, scrutinizing eyes—though they were a little less sharp than usual.

“I hope I'm not interrupting your wallowing,” he said, then to the barkeep, “Fucking
maddening in there. Another.”

The barkeep uncorked a half-empty bottle of Ogden’s, and obliged him. Malfoy took the seat
next to her. Hermione resisted the urge to rip her hair out. She did not need this right now.

“Malfoy,” she ground out. “Fancy seeing you here. And I was not wallowing.”
“No? Just opting for a hiding place, after all,” he drawled. His top button was undone now, a
sign of the hours that had passed.

Hermione scowled. “I am not hiding, either. I simply needed a break.”

“Conveniently timed, as Weasel and Brown have just begun their tour de presse. I knew you
were a liar, Granger, but don’t tell me you’re a coward, too,” he replied, though to Hermione
it didn’t sound like there was any real bite in his words. He seemed exhausted.

“Sometimes a witch just wants to have a bloody drink in peace," she muttered.

"It doesn't look especially peaceful, but that's neither here nor there," he shrugged.

"Pot meet kettle. How come you’re not out there enjoying your party?” she scowled at him
over a pointed sip of her negroni. "Shouldn't you be playing host? Or are you leaving the
dirty work for your mother?"

He narrowed his eyes. “I have no interest in making pointless conversation,” he replied,

spinning his half-drank glass on the bartop with his fingers. “If you must know, hosting the
function was my mother’s idea, so save your pity. She hopes it will restore some lost fraction
of honor to the Malfoy name,” he snorted. “I know better, of course. The matches speak for
themselves. The pricks in attendance are perfectly content to chum around my manor and
drink my spirits, all on their best behavior when mummy and daddy are watching,” he said,
and Hermione thought he must be referring to the league commissioners, “But the moment
they’re on a broom they’re suddenly aggrieved by having to share a pitch with a Death
Eater.” His tongue was sharp as he articulated the last two words, and his gaze cut to her, as if
to gauge her reaction. She gave him nothing. “If I lost a galleon for every time a formal
complaint was made about my presence or position in the league, Granger—well, I’d be
forced to live in a Tunnel, or whatever it is the weasel clan calls their den. Of course the
League can’t let go of me without an investigation being opened, as I’m sure you’re well
aware. Something about a violation of the Reintegration Act.”

“The Burrow, Malfoy. Don’t be rude,” she corrected. His throat bobbed as he took a generous
sip of his drink, rolling his eyes.

“Still defending Weasel, then? Can’t understand why. We’ve all seen the papers, though I
admit his imminent fatherhood is news. Didn’t think he had it in him—knocking up another
witch, and Lavender Brown at that,” he said with a sour laugh, tossing back the rest of his
drink.

“I’d be curious to know the blood alcohol content level wherein you suddenly believe that’s
any bit your business, Malfoy,” she warned, though a small, shameful part of her that she
would never let see the light of day secretly rejoiced in the condescending way he said
Lavender’s name.

He swiveled his barstool so he was facing her, and Hermione leaned away from him. “On the
subject of that, is McLaggen going to ensure you make it home in one piece tonight? Or have
you added splinching yourself to your list of naughty habits?”
“I do not splinch myself with any regularity,” Hermione countered, heat rising to her cheeks.

“Liar,” he replied, gaze trailing smugly over her features as though he were skimming an
open book.

“Whatever,” Hermione groaned, downing the rest of her negroni.

Malfoy shook his head and took a swig of his whiskey. “Tsk tsk, Granger. You can’t lie to
me.”

She gestured to the barkeep to fix her another drink, then turned back to him. “Don’t pretend
to know me, Malfoy.”

“Presume to know a witch who can’t keep her personal mishaps and blunderings out of the
papers? I would never. I was simply referring to my proficiency in Legilimency,” he said.

A jolt of fear shot through Hermione, as she instantly tried to recount and examine her most
recent series of thoughts for anything private or humiliating. Mostly clean, aside from a few
passing thoughts about how well Theodore Nott’s muggle suit fit him. It seemed like Malfoy
was just trying to scare her anyway.

“No you’re not,” she replied, frowning at him. And really, she wished he’d get out of her
space. She turned the volume of that thought up in her mind, just in case he was listening.

“Spoils of war, Granger,” he shrugged, leaning away and sitting up straight and away.

“You’d be registered with the Ministry,” she pressed.

“Don’t believe me? Ask Potter. He signed my registration document,” Malfoy countered.
“Anyway, stop fretting. I have no interest in taking a backseat view to your McLaggen
fantasies.”

“I am not having McLaggen fantasies,” she hissed, gripping her drink. “And if I did, they
would be perfectly acceptable—not that who I shag is any of your business, as previously
stated.”

“Where is the git, anyway? Abandoned you, did he? Left you to wilt in the garden alone?”
Malfoy asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Hermione shrugged, taking another large gulp of her negroni. The bitterness warmed her. “I
don't care. Buried in some bint, most likely. They all are.”

Malfoy choked, burying his face momentarily in his shoulder as his shoulders shook. “In my
house?” he said hoarsely.

“Oh, stop fretting, Malfoy,” Hermione said, parroting him from earlier. “It would be far from
the worst thing to happen within these walls.”

The color left his already pallid cheeks, and she was instantly filled with regret. He stared at
her, long and hard, his expression turning icy.
 “You’re correct, as usual,” he said finally, his tone clipped. “If you’ll excuse me.”

With that he stood, draining his glass and pushing it back to the barkeep. He left her without
another word, and did not cast so much as a backward glance as he stalked away. She had
half a mind to follow after him and apologize, but then thought what would an apology
garner her? More public humiliation when he threw it back in her face? It’s not like there was
any friendship between them to salvage anyway, even if she had lashed out a little
unnecessarily, and she’d had enough drama for one evening.

Later, when she was leaving, she unintentionally caught his eyes. He was standing on the
platform at the front of the room. Greengrass’ arm was looped through his, and his mother
was at his side. Narcissa was serving some polite, overly-rehearsed platitude about
PPANDAA that was sure to claw back a few points in Malfoy social standing with the
general public. Grey eyes fell on Hermione as she wove along the back wall, connected
briefly, and then looked away as though whatever he’d observed had been immensely boring
to him. There were none more skilled than he at making another feel like dirt with so much as
a simple look. But what was a little dirt to a mudblood? Or to a witch who'd rolled with a
pig?

Hermione slipped out of the ballroom, and away. It was only an Irish Goodbye if someone
was going to miss you, and it was only really splinching if it hurt.

Chapter End Notes

oooooh updating early because I am but a simple creature in pursuit of seratonin and I
am loving the response to this. Thank you for all of your kind words and comments!
Reading and loving them all!
 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes

PLEASE READ: attention readers! especially if you have been following for a while! I
have made some structural edits to Hermione's characterization and the plot beginning in
chapter four. I received some critical feedback regarding Hermione's characterization,
specifically in terms of her breakup and the fallout with Ron, which I agreed with.
Specifically, I have changed the correspondence between Hermione and Ginny, the
interaction at the pub, as well as the interaction at the gala.

You don't have to read those chapters to understand this one, as Ron is largely absent
from it. However, I recommend re-reading those chapters before proceeding onward
with the fic if you caught the earlier versions of them. I understand this is jarring and I
sincerely apologize, however I think these edits will yield a better finished product in
the end. I will do my best to make sure this does not happen again. As I said I know it is
jarring and I apologize, but also, please be gentle with me. I'm wingin' it here.

I think some of my fault in believability with the characterization lay in the fact that

a) it had been too long since I'd updated last when I posted the most recent chapters, and
I lost sight of some of the set-up
b) I get tired of senseless Ron bashing and thought I wanted to steer away from that,
however I made that aversion at the expense of Hermione's character
c) I was initially taking more of a downtrodden dog angle with Hermione's
characterization based on things that have happened to her, and going for the angle that
her friends walk all over her and take advantage of her. However, I did not build this up
well enough with subtext and it didn't come through clearly.

With all that being said, I hope you're still with me! I've really enjoyed the response to
this fic otherwise and it makes me really happy to see people liking it. THANK YOU
FOR UNDERSTANDING.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

October 2004

ACCIO BABY CARRIAGE! BROOMSTICKS AREN’T THE ONLY THING IN THE

AIR THIS QUIDDITCH SEASON—KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR STORKS, FLYERS!

Ronald Weasley and girlfriend Lavender Brown are expecting! Sources close to the
couple speaking on condition of anonymity claim Brown is five months pregnant, which
brings into question the nature of his break-up with fellow Golden Trio member
Hermione Granger this July. Quite the scandal if our sources are correct, dear witches
and wizards! Was the Weasley war hero dipping his wand in places he shouldn’t have
been? It appears that way! We’re anxious to see this snare unravel!

As previously reported, Katie Bell and Oliver Wood also recently welcomed a little one.
Is something in the water? And if so, who’s next? The Weasleys are nothing if not
fertile, and most would place their bets on none other than Harry Potter and girlfriend,
Ginevra Weasley! Needless to say we at the Prophet are highly anticipating the
glamorous wedding of seeker heartthrob Draco Malfoy and long time girlfriend Astoria
Greengrass next spring, but unfortunately pureblood conceptions can prove quite
difficult unless you’re a Weasley, as previously mentioned.

Speaking of the Malfoys, let it be known, a certain intimacy brewing between the
Golden Girl and star keeper, roguishly handsome Cormac McLaggen at this weekend’s
charity gala was not beyond the notice of our field reporters, but we think it’s a little too
soon. Then again, who knows! The Brightest Witch of Her Age has surprised us with
not-so-bright choices before and rumor has it she may be looking for a career change
soon. Could motherhood be next on her docket? Stay tuned to find out!

Hermione gaped at the article—and then she screamed. She threw the paper on her kitchen
floor, stomping it until she’d all but shredded the paper. There was more coverage—details
about the gala itself—but she couldn’t bear to read another word. It was very possibly the
most audacious article she had ever seen Skeeter write.

Motherhood? With Cormac McLaggen? The laugh that escaped her was deranged. Never in
her life had she ever heard something so absurd. Merlin, where did this bloody woman get
off? She’d of course seen Cormac all over the society pages for years, but never in her
wildest dreams had she ever considered that she might end up tangled in his love life gossip.
Lucky for Skeeter, she had a Quidditch match to attend today, but she would go to the
Ministry first thing tomorrow and demand a recant.

It was the middle of October, and the first official game of the season. Appleby at Montrose,
and another rivalry, though this one not quite so severe as that of Ballycastle and Portree.
More of a friendly competitiveness according to her research. Hopefully nobody bothered her
about that blasted column.

A fresh rage bloomed in Hermione as she stepped into her floo. Skeeter could come for her
love life. There wasn’t much to be done about that. But coming for her livelihood, too? That
was a bridge too far, and she would make sure the bloody witch knew where the line was
drawn. She would have to be on her best game today, what with the wizarding world
watching and waiting for her to pursue a career in furthering the McLaggen line instead.
Bloody horrible witch, Hermione thought as she flooed to Oliver’s office.

She portkeyed from there.

There was always something bittersweet about being back in Scotland. She so seldom visited
that her feelings of the place remained confined to memories of more youthful days, when
she’d had starstruck eyes and a warm, full heart that had yet to be shredded by war. She knew
it was wrong to live in nostalgia, and most days she did an excellent job of keeping those
memories of before tucked away, neat and tidy in a little box in her mind that she rarely ever
touched. However, it was on days like these with a fresh turn of brisk weather, a scarf
wrapped around her neck and an imminent Quidditch match that they tended to seep out.

Thank Merlin she wasn’t covering Chudley. Or any teams that were, so to speak, closer to
home. Really, it was a rather benign match today in terms of personal stakes. She knew very
few of the players personally—though Oliver had sent her with a box of chocolate frogs for
Katie, to reward her after Montrose absolutely slaughtered Appleby, though that was off the
record of course—and Hermione didn’t expect much in the way of conversation or
happenstance meetings. She would go in, perform her job, and leave: a simple, easy
afternoon on a lovely fall day. Perhaps she would even treat herself to a hot chocolate.

In fact, Hermione did just that before heading up to the press box, and she was glad she did,
for it was windier up there—so much that she was forced to set her to-go cup down on an
arm rest as she wrestled several mutinous curls back into her bun. Only, she forgot she had
her Quidditch moleskine tucked beneath one arm and it promptly fell, knocking the cup from
her chair—and splashing her stockings when the lid busted off the cup.

Dammit.

Hermione’s cheeks burned red.

“Need a hand there, Granger?” came an unfamiliar voice. Hermione froze, looking up to see
Theodore Nott tucked into the back corner of the press box. He was wrapped in an expensive-
looking navy muggle peacoat and gray scarf.

“No, I think I’m alright, Theodore,” she said briskly, ripping her wand from her pocket and
muttering a quick scourgify over her legs—while doing her best to ignore the few witches
and wizards she didn’t recognize who were observing the ordeal.

And fuck , there was Padma—one of the Prophet’s field reporters for magical games and
sports. Was that a smirk tugging at her lips? Hermione swore she would Avada herself if
Skeeter heard anything about this.

She bent down to pick her moleskine off the ground, only to see the hot chocolate had soaked
into it as well. Her features twisted into a grimace. Luckily, she always kept a spare. She
reached into her illegally extended bag, and only had to rummage for three seconds or so
before locating it. Then she took a seat in the first row of the box, just in time for the match
to begin.

Lee Jordan’s voice had just barely boomed over the stadium to announce match start when a
shadow passed over Hermione, and a weight plopped into the seat directly next to her. The
press box was hardly empty, but there were plenty of other available seats. Irritated, she
turned her head to see—Theodore Nott, with his mop of dark curls and muggle clothes.
“Call me Theo, please. My father always hated it,” he said with a mirthful smirk.

She stared at him. She remembered the headline—his father had actually Avada’d himself at
the end of the war, rather than be taken into Ministry custody. To turn one’s wand upon
oneself, and cast an unforgivable—to really mean it—it was unthinkable.

Theo, having never taken the mark, had escaped Azkaban with two years of probation, after
which he inherited everything.

“I don’t know fuck all about Quidditch, really, and I intend to keep it that way—but I told
Blaise I’d show up for him,” he said. “Rumor has it you’re not the most well-versed in
Quidditch, either,” he said with a disarming grin. "Thought we might commiserate."

The comment irked her, but her instincts told her he was relatively benign so she opted to
ignore him instead.

"Sure," she said.

Hermione’s attention flickered to the match. Her eyes quickly landed on Zabini, who was
neck and neck with Spinnet—who presently held the quaffle. Blaise was one of the fastest
chasers in the league, but Alicia was just a tiny bit faster. She slammed the quaffle through
the center hoop—right under the nose of Hazel Bottlebrush—and the Montrose crowd
erupted in boos.

Theo didn’t react at all. A thought occurred to Hermione.

“How did you get a press badge?” she frowned, then mentally berated herself for sounding
like a Hogwarts prefect when Merlin, it honestly didn’t fucking matter.

“This?” Theo said, sticking his tongue in his cheek as he hooked a finger through his lanyard.
“This may be the first thing I’ve earned in my entire life. Are you familiar with the muggle
internet?”

Hermione, who was trying and failing to pay attention to the game, couldn’t help but balk at
him. “Yes?”

“I’ve developed a substantial readership on a blogging website known as LiveJournal.

Perhaps you’re familiar? My posts are entirely unrelated to sports, and of course I’m
prohibited from publishing anything regarding the wizarding world, but I propositioned the
DMGAS to consider the inevitable collision of the wizarding world and muggle internet and
they agreed it would be beneficial to keep someone such as myself who has a robust
familiarity with the muggle internet on the bylines. It also helps that I’m rich,” he said,
lighting up a muggle cigarette.

Hermione stared at him.

“Why would you care enough to go through all of that, if you don’t even enjoy Quidditch?”
she said.
“Unfortunately I chose athletic friends, and I’d rather be here with them than dwelling in Nott
manor by myself. The place is cursed, one thousand times over,” he muttered, puffing out a
cloud of smoke. As if on cue, Theo waved to Blaise Zabini who streaked overhead in a blur
of beige and black.

"You could sit in general admission," she said.

"But that wouldn't be exclusive, Granger. Surely you know we purebloods love exclusivity,"
he replied.

Hermione’s brain was struggling to catch up.

“You use the muggle internet?” she repeated.

He shot her a quizzical look, taking a deep drag. “I pity any bloke who doesn’t,” he said, lips
curling around the smoke as he exhaled. “They don’t know what they’re missing.”

She couldn’t possibly fathom what Theo Nott would be doing on the muggle internet—or on
second thought, yes she could, and wished she hadn't.

Was there a wizarding world version of Playboy magazine? She was shocked she'd never
wondered till now.

And MERLIN, where was her mind?!

Hermione blinked several times and shook her head, before forcing herself to return her
attention to the matter at hand. She had a game to focus on. Appleby was in possession again,
and she could see Owler and Dogwood—Montrose’s nasty beaters—gearing up to knock the
daylights out of Mortimer Cribbe. Gregory Cotton, Appleby’s seeker, had disappeared into
the cloud cover long ago and Hermione hadn’t seen him since. Chrysanthe Murray, on the
other hand—granddaughter of Montrose’s famed Eunice Murray, also a seeker—was putzing
around near the floor of the pitch. Hermione found she much preferred a chaser game to a
seeker game.

“Over here, Draco,” Theo said around a mouthful of cigarette, and Hermione’s spine
stiffened.

Her head snapped to the press box entrance—where she saw Malfoy, having emerged and
also wearing muggle clothes. She cursed herself, because his mercury eyes locked on hers the
moment she turned her head and he stopped in his tracks. Then, seemingly resigning himself
to his fate, he trudged towards them.

“Granger,” he nodded as he approached, his tone considerably less warm than when he’d
taken a seat next to her at the garden bartop. His gloved hands were shoved into the pockets
of an elegant, charcoal and buttonless wool coat which fell to his calves. The black turtleneck
which he wore underneath fit him snugly, tucked into a pair of pleated black trousers—
cinched at the waist with a black leather belt—and complemented by a pair of shiny black
loafers.
“Malfoy,” she nodded coolly, then turned her attention back to the game as he took a seat on
the opposite side of Theo. It was 50-30 Appleby, and the crowd was not happy.

“Blaise better pick it up,” Theo commented, either completely ignoring or completely
oblivious to the nascent tension.

“He will,” Malfoy drawled, slouching back in his chair in rather un-pureblood-like fashion.

Hermione redirected her attention straight ahead, grinding her teeth into dust. Spinnet scored
another goal, and the crowd booed again. The wind picked up, and she really wished she
hadn’t spilled her hot chocolate.

“I think I might fetch some mulled wine,” Theo said, as if he’d read her mind. “Would
anyone care for some?”

“Yes,” Hermione said immediately. She ignored the look Malfoy shot her, clearing her throat
and amending, “Thank you, Theo. That would be lovely.”

“Not for me, Theo ,” Malfoy said, as if mocking the way she’d said his friend’s name.
“Training later.”

“No fun,” Theo muttered, and disappeared—leaving a gaping space between them.

He was staring at her. She could feel it. Her grip tightened around her pen, and she
subconsciously pressed the ball of it harder into her notebook—though she struggled to find
any words to pen down.

“Alright there, Granger?” he said, though something between the casual way he leaned back
in his seat and the lazy tone of his voice said he wasn’t genuinely concerned.

“Perfectly,” she replied without looking at him.

“There was a rather unflattering article in the Prophet— ”

“Hang the bloody Prophet, ” she snapped, loud enough for Padma to hear.

“So the accusations are true, then,” he said.

Merlin, she was going to be receiving howlers for her piss poor coverage all week at this rate!

“We’ve been over this. Still don’t see how it’s any of your business,” she shot at him.

“It’s not. However, I can't help noticing that of all people, Weasel, infamous in the league for
his tantrums, hurling insults and barely keeping his fists to himself in the changing room
when he so much as suspected another bloke of glancing your way—was shagging Lavender
Brown all the while. You have to admit it's slightly humorous,” Malfoy mused. She didn’t
dare look at his face, afraid of the glee she’d find there.

"There is nothing humorous about it, I assure—wait, he what? That was his reputation?" she
asked, incredulous as his words registered.
Malfoy scoffed. “Can’t say I’m surprised you never noticed, always sitting in the back of the
pitch with your nose buried so deep in your books one might actually be able to accuse you
of adultery as well.”

Hermione gaped at him. “Excuse me?”

Malfoy raised a daring eyebrow at her.

Theo returned, then, with her wine, and thank Merlin for that. She drank half of it in one sip,
and oh how she loved the spice of it. Truly, mulled wine was one of the best things about fall.
For a moment, she almost forgot her problems.

“What are we blathering on about?” the brunette said, returning to his seat and bringing her
right back to them.

“Nothing,” Malfoy said.

She relaxed a little, silently thankful he wouldn’t be persisting.

“Ran into Goyle downstairs,” Theo said casually, lighting up another cigarette.

She waved his smoke out of her face.

Hermione didn’t know what sort of relationship they did or didn’t maintain with their former
classmate, but from the moment the statement left Theo’s lips she could tell it was a weighty
subject.

“Did you,” Malfoy replied, transparently feigning disinterest, and she saw Theo pass him a
cigarette in her periphery. She kept her eyes on the game, pretending not to be interested in
their conversation.

“I did. Nodded at him,” Theo replied.

“What’s he doing here?” Malfoy drawled.

“Same as you, I expect. Scouting out the competition,” Theo shrugged.

Hermione frowned. Gregory Goyle didn’t play in the British and Irish League as far as she
knew.

Malfoy let out a short, brittle laugh. “Competition? He plays for Lichtenstein.”

“Don’t know, mate,” Theo shrugged.

“Lichtenstein?” Hermione cut in, unable to help herself—though she was unsure when she’d
developed a curiosity about Gregory Goyle. Perhaps the fact that he had not so subtly wanted
her dead at one point not so long ago intrigued her about his whereabouts. “Why there?”

“Our league wouldn’t take him, with his record,” Malfoy replied curtly, without looking at
her. His silver eyes tracked back and forth, following the play of the game.
“Because he was a Death Eater?” she said.

Those silver eyes briefly cut to her, narrow and sharp—before returning to the match.

“Because he’s talentless, Granger,” he said coldly.

Hermione scoffed. “Talentless? How much talent does one really have to have to be a
beater?”

“And you wonder why you receive howlers,” Malfoy muttered.

“Excuse me?” she snapped, more shrill than intended—but oh, she was not in the mood
today.

“Shall I repeat myself?” he inclined, brows raising.

“No, I heard you perfectly clear—I’d just like to hear you explain yourself,” she said.

“Your ignorance of the sport is breathtaking,” he replied.

Hermione’s cheeks grew hot. “I am not ignorant about Quidditch. Perhaps I was before, but
—”

“You know, I meant to say hello to someone downstairs. I’ll be back,” Theo interjected,
standing. He straightened his coat and shot them both a courteous smile steeped in pureblood
etiquette, before making himself scarce.

Hermione watched, in horror, as Theo disappeared through the press box canvas flaps. His
empty chair gaped once more like a chasm between them. An awkward silence ensued. She
looked down into her cup, desperate for somewhere to avert her eyes, and swirled an orange
rind and some cloves around the bottom of it. Godric’s fucking hat, she was nearly out of
wine.

“So here we are again, Granger.” Malfoy was the first to break the silence.

She risked looking up at him. He drummed his long, gloved fingers on the armrest of his seat.

“It’s just like First Year, isn’t it?” he continued, placing his chin in his gloved palm and
casting her a saccharine-sweet smile, though his stormy eyes were utterly lacking in warmth.

Hermione scowled at him. “In what regard?”

“Watching an underwhelming Quidditch match from some shoddy, rotten stands. Your
arrogant disregard for my help. Scottish ambiance,” he added noncommittally.

“You’ve never offered me your help, Malfoy,” Hermione countered. “And you certainly
didn’t just now.”

He regarded her for a moment, before turning his attention back to the match. “I suppose
you’re correct. I only ever offered my help to Potter. You never needed it.”
Hermione’s mouth opened, prepared to fling a retort, but—was that a compliment? She
wasn’t sure. Either way it hadn’t been meant to provoke, because he went quiet after that.

After a good long while of less-than-comfortable-but-not-quite-as-horrible silence, and back

and forth scores from each team’s respective chasers, her attention fell on Dogwood, circling
above the chaser play with his bat slung over his shoulder. He looked as though he were
plotting something—though nothing about him screamed of any particular elegance or
efficiency.

“What makes a talented beater, then?” she said.

Malfoy raised his brows at her. “Careful, Granger—or I might actually think you are asking
for my help.”

“I’m merely asking for your opinion, so I can compare it against my own,” she said flatly.
Didn’t want to give him the wrong impression.

“I see. I wasn’t aware you valued my opinion,” he answered.

Hermione groaned. Truly, she had never witnessed such commitment to being positively
insufferable. She was out of patience, however.

“When it comes to the sport of Quidditch, I will admit that your knowledge is superior, given
that you are a professional player,” she ground out, fingers tightening around her pen. His
eyes flickered to her hand, then back to her face—and was that amusement in them?

“Quite the concession,” he replied.

“Anyway,” she continued, brushing him off and refusing to look him in the eye any longer. “I
suppose it would be precision. Accuracy. The ability to consistently hit your targets. Strength
is important—those bludgers are heavy and travel at incredibly fast speeds. One would need
an abundance of strength to direct them. I would say intimidation plays a factor as well.”

Finally, she risked a glance at him. And cringed. There was no mistaking it—he was amused.
She was making a fool of herself, in front of fucking Malfoy.

“What?” she snapped when he continued not saying anything.

“Well-rehearsed, Granger—but it was a rookie’s answer,” he said, settling back into his chair
and interlocking his fingers in his lap. He crossed one leg over his knee, exposing his
expensive-looking dress socks.

“How?” she pushed.

“In sport, intimidation is an effect, not a cause. I doubt there’s a player in the league who
actually fears getting hit with a bludger—or even a club. You take so many hits over the
years, you grow numb to them,” he said, throwing her a bored glance. “Intimidation is a
byproduct of anticipation. Can the beater see my next shot? Are they going to hit me where it
counts? If I eat a bludger by the hoops, will I lose possession of the quaffle? Do they know
my next pass? Have they seen the snitch before I have? Will they stop me from getting
there?”

He looked at her as if to check that she was listening—and damn herself, she actually was.

“Anticipation makes a talented beater. That’s why Montrose is presently losing, despite
having one of the best offenses in the league. Blaise and Bell are brilliant chasers. Dogwood
and Owler, however—ruthless as they are—have no sense of anticipation. Spinnet is running
circles around them. And a team is only as good as its defense," he said.

Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of actually seeing her take notes, she made a point to
mentally catalog everything he was saying.

“Accuracy, precision and all that rot—it’s not what gives a player the competitive edge.
Bloody everyone is precise and accurate when you're playing at this level. It’s instinct,
Granger. As I said, anticipation.” He caught her eye.

Hermione’s expression went slack. She didn’t think she’d ever heard him elaborate about
anything before—besides perhaps his father in first or second year. Certainly never as an
adult, let alone amicably. She didn’t register a single barb. Even more surprising—something
she could hardly admit to herself, and certainly would never admit to him—was that she
actually found listening to him speak about Quidditch somewhat interesting.

Really, it was actually sort of fascinating when you considered the human element. The
psychology. Not nearly as dry as she’d initially thought.

She was in the midst of staring at him, wondering when Draco Malfoy had become a
Perceptive Human Being—when the crowd erupted in boos.

“Cotton’s caught the snitch!” Jordan’s voice reverberated over the stadium, barely louder than
the jeering and barely-discernible Scottish expletives that erupted around them.

It was a seeker’s game after all.

“Malfoy?” she said, and he turned his head to her.

His expression caught her off-guard. For once, he was completely lacking in contempt—
giving a rare, boyish quality to his features. A lock of platinum hair had fallen across his
forehead, blown out of place by the brutal wind. His pale cheeks had a sting of pink to them,
cold-bitten.

Hermione blinked, her question re-materializing in her mind.

“What makes a talented seeker, then?” she said.

He rolled his eyes. “Come now, Granger. Can’t do all of your homework for you,” he said,
standing.

Looking around them, the rest of the press was beginning to filter their way out of the box.
Hermione shoved her notepad and pen into her bag and followed suit. She walked behind
Malfoy as they headed for the canvas exit, and she wasn’t sure if it was because he was tall
and imposing or because he was a former Death Eater but people moved out of his way.

“Theo missed the game,” she commented, making another mental note to look him up online
later as they descended the staircase to the stadium’s main concourse.

“I’m sure he’ll be devastated,” Malfoy replied over his shoulder.

They’d just stepped out of the stairwell into the concourse crowd—Malfoy’s long stride
putting him several paces ahead of her—and she opened her mouth to ask him another
question, when something smacked into her cheek. Hermione looked down to see a hot dog
on the ground at her feet, a large bite taken out of the bun. Several bodies closed in around
her.

“There she is! England’s most famous shilled-out hack!” someone yelled.

“A right and proper hacket, more like!” someone else chimed in.

“Cormac would never love a slag!” another voice shouted.

“Find someone else to slag around!”

“Ugly bitch! Get bent!”

Dumbstruck, Hermione looked up to see a mass of women and a few men clad in navy and
gold. Puddlemere’s colors, she realized. McLaggen’s jersey. She wiped her cheek with her
sleeve, white hot rage blooming inside her.

“How much did you pay him?” someone jeered, and Hermione ripped out her wand.

“Get the fuck away from me,” she growled, brandishing it at them. “I swear to Merlin you’ll
never find the names of the hexes I’ll hit you with if you don’t get away from me.”

“Did you hex Cormac into being your date at the kick-off gala, too?” a petite blonde witch
with a particularly nasty sneer stepped forward.

“I don’t give a fuck about Cormac!” she nearly screamed.

A firm hand landed on her shoulder—her wand arm—and Hermione violently jerked to the
right, shoving the point of her wand up against—Malfoy’s throat? He dropped his hand,
narrowing his cool, gray eyes at her.

“S–Sorry, I—” she stammered.

He hooked his hand around her upper arm.

“Fuck off,” he spat at several fangirls as he split his way between them, dragging Hermione
along and only letting go when they’d sufficiently escaped the horde.

“Death Eater whore!” someone shouted after them.

“Bushy-haired bint!”

Hermione clenched her jaw so tight she heard a tooth crack. Her grip on her wand was
ironclad. A tall figure stepped between her and the gathering, blocking them from view.

“Relax,” Malfoy’s voice broke her thoughts, and her blood red tunnel vision abated. “It’s not
personal, Granger,” he said. “Perhaps you’re not aware, but they do it to everyone
McLaggen’s seen with.”

Hermione’s vision exploded again. “But I wasn’t even with him, oh I’m going to murder
Skeeter—”

“It’s a problem across the league, but the McLaggen clanwives, as they like to call
themselves, are especially egregious—especially in Scotland, where his following is the
largest,” Malfoy drawled, his upper lip curling in disdain. “Now you’re aware.”

“How fucking preposterous,” Hermione said, her voice turning hoarse, “That a horde of fans
are regularly permitted to accost other match attendees and no one has done anything about
it, I mean I have a press badge for Merlin’s bloody sake and—”

“There you are,” Nott’s voice cut her off, and her eyes flickered to see Theo clapping a hand
on Malfoy’s shoulder. “Montrose lost, you know what that means? Rager in Blaise’s drawing
room tonight—”

“Can’t,” Malfoy interrupted. "I have training later, as mentioned."

"Blaise always starts late," Theo countered.

"I have plans," Malfoy replied.

Theo deflated. It was only then his bright green eyes flickered to Hermione, and he took her
appearance in.

“Pleasure seeing you today, Granger. I look forward to reading your impassioned analysis in
the Digest tomorrow,” he said, an unwelcome note of pity in his voice.

Hermione had to physically bite down on her tongue to keep herself from actually biting his
head off. She did not appreciate the stark reminder that she did not have plans tonight, instead
she would spend her evening drinking alone per usual and scribbling away at an article that
would hopefully but not likely draw less howlers than the last. Not to mention she still had
someone else’s hot dog remnants all over her cheek. It was time to leave.

“Pleasure as well, Theo,” she said curtly. “Well, I’ll be going then. Malfoy,” she said with a
nod.

“Granger,” he replied, indifferent as he accepted the cigarette Theo passed him. She glanced
at it with disdain, then back at his face. She wasn't sure what she was expecting but
something felt off-balance, unsaid between them. Oh well. She didn't care enough to try to
exhume whatever it was.
 “Enjoy your evening,” she huffed, before turning on her heel and stalking off to the
Apparition point. Still, she couldn’t help throwing one backward glance at the pair as she left.

Neither of them were looking at her. Something like loneliness panged her heart.

Chapter End Notes

Little bit of a gap there, sorry folks! It's been a busy week and a half for me but I really
do feel committed to finishing this story with regular updates. I hope most of you are
still with me. I was scared to post this.
 Chapter 8
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

OCTOBER 2004

Despite the host of distractions and frustrating interruptions during the gameplay, Hermione
actually managed to draft and edit her article on the Appleby Montrose match in record time.
She was even finished with enough time to make it to bed at a reasonable hour. It was almost
like she was finally starting to get the hang of this sport. Writing about it had begun to feel a
little bit less like pulling teeth—a feeling she was intimately familiar with, as the child of
dentists.

If only Viktor Krum could see her now. She smiled a little.

Speaking of which, how was Viktor? They’d fallen out of touch these last few years, mostly
because her writing to him always called Ron’s fiercest insecurities to action, but now that
that was a non-issue she made a mental note to check in on her old Bulgarian friend.
Admittedly, she hadn’t been keeping up with the sport much beyond the immediate British
and Irish League, but there was no doubt he was excelling.

She’d write him a letter. Later. She had a busy day ahead of her—one that included barging
into Skeeter’s office about her disastrous gala coverage.

First, she sent her article off to Oliver for review and publishing. Her stomach churned just a
little as she watched her owl disappear against the backdrop of cloudy October sky, but she
was soon diverted from those thoughts by another owl—Ginny’s short-eared owl, Tilly—
landing on her window ledge in place of it. She’d barely swung her window the slightest bit
open again when the bull-headed thing barged its way through the opening, in the fashion of
its keeper.

“What have you got here?” she said, unfurling the note attached to its ankle, and the bird let
out a series of hoots .

Hermione,

Harry here. Forgive the late notice, I’ve been so busy—I meant to invite you over to
Grimmauld for dinner several days ago, but Robards has been down my throat and now
Ginny is holding her wand to my head while I write this. We hope you’ll join us for our little
dinner party this evening. Neville and Luna will be there, along with a few others—sans Ron,
don’t worry.

No need to RSVP. We’ll save a plate for you either way.

7pm, but that’s more of a suggestion than a mandate.

Hope you’re hanging in alright.

Love,

Harry

Hermione laughed at the mental image—leave it to Ginny Weasley to strike fear into the
heart of the Boy Who Lived—and then promptly checked her calendar. Her Friday evening
was free and clear. Oh, and it would be so nice to see Neville and Luna. She was just about to
close her window when a second owl careened through and swooped past her, landing on her
bedpost with a loud hoot .

“Who are you?” she frowned. She’d never seen the bird before in her life.

The owl hooted again, scraping its talons against her bedpost rather onerously.

“Stop that!” she scolded, though her stomach plummeted at the sight of the midnight black
envelope fastened to its leg. It looked elegant. The sort of thing a pureblood might send. She
went to unfasten it.

The owl hissed.

Hermione balked at it, before moving to her desk and fetching it a treat. Only when the treat
had been sufficiently inhaled did the bird extend its leg to her, suddenly the picture of docility
and obedience.

Hermione Granger

Her name glittered back at her in a curved, looping script that shimmered like molten gold.
She swallowed, and tore it open.

Miss Hermione Granger,

I would be thrilled if you would join me for an evening of otherworldly revelry and festivity,
in observance of the age old day of Samhain—or as muggles know it, Halloween! Let this
gathering be known as the first annual Halloween by Parkinson event. Muggle costumes
required. Debauchery encouraged.

DATE: Saturday, October 30th, 8:00PM

PLACE: Parkinson Manor, Somerset

RSVP no later than Friday, October 22nd

Cordially,

Pansy Parkinson

Hermione blinked slowly, then raised two fingers to the pulse point at her throat to verify that
yes, she was alive, no, she was not running a high grade fever, and yes, Pansy Parkinson had
just invited her to a Halloween party?

And leave it to Pansy to possess the most snobbish owl she had ever encountered. The thing
was looking at her with a look of condescension that rivaled Pansy’s, for Merlin’s sake. She
shooed it away before it could ransom another treat out of her, then locked the window
behind it. Merlin, let there be no more owls today.

Hermione spent the remainder of the afternoon perusing muggle London for various wants
and needs—the primary focus of her visit being picking up a handful of sports psychology
texts from her favorite bookstore in muggle London, Daunt Books. Really, she was kicking
herself for not approaching Quidditch from such an angle sooner. Muggles had been doing it
for decades—she’d just never cared enough to pay attention. Her father’s shouts at the
Arsenal matches on the telly growing up had never fostered much of an academic
environment.

Her heart sank a little. She wondered if he’d found a new football club in Australia, or
perhaps he’d been converted to rugby? Hermione nearly grinned at the thought—then shook
her head, and pushed the thought away before it took her down a path she didn’t want to go
down.

Gripping her books in the checkout line, she couldn’t help but flush a little at her recollection
of yesterday’s match. How embarrassing, to be schooled by Malfoy —even if it was over
something as silly as Quidditch. No doubt he’d been waiting his entire academic career for
that. No doubt he’d never let her forget it.
And yet, it hadn’t been all bad. He was rather knowledgeable when you got past the
smugness and condescension—which she seemed to have, for a moment—and his company
wasn’t entirely unpleasant. His humor was actually rather clever and engaging when you
weren’t the target of his witticisms. No, his company hadn’t been entirely unenjoyable.

Hermione shuddered at the thought. When had that changed? She didn’t like it. Didn’t trust it.

Theo was an unseemly character, too. She didn’t have a read on him at all. Not to mention he
was the human personification of a chimney with the rate at which he smoked, and something
told her he was just as dark and polluted inside.

Weren’t they all, though?

At least he’d been kind.

“Miss?”

The bookstore clerk was staring at her from behind a pair of circular glasses that reminded
her of Harry. Harry—that’s right. She had a gathering to attend.

“Apologies,” Hermione replied, frazzled, and tossed a handful of muggle cash on the
countertop. Then she promptly went from the store and disapparated down a nearby alleyway.

“Rats,” Hermione muttered to herself when she got home and looked at the clock. It was too
late to barge in on Skeeter. That would have to wait for tomorrow, but that was fine.

There had hardly been time to prepare something to bring for dinner, so Hermione opted for
the lazy man’s option of bringing a bottle of wine. Or two. Just in case. A rioja and a syrah,
because they were moving into colder months and there was nothing like a glass of red wine
warmed by one’s palm on a crisp autumn evening.

“My errant friend,” Ginny smirked when she opened the door at number 12 Grimmauld
place, and Hermione couldn’t help but smile in return.

“Gin,” she said, allowing herself to be pulled into a hug.

“You’re the first one here. Who could have guessed,” Ginny said with a sardonic glance over
her shoulder as she led Hermione inside. Hermione glanced at the grandfather clock in the
entry as she passed. Seven o’clock sharp.

The house smelled deliciously of curry, and Hermione briefly wondered if the portrait of
Walburga Black which hung on the wall ever screamed about that, too. It was highly likely.
How Harry hadn’t set her on fire yet, she didn’t know.

The homeowner in question stood in the kitchen wearing an apron which was covered in
smears of various sauces and baking powders.
“Finally got the recipe right?” she said, announcing her entrance.

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose and grinned at her, before wrapping her in a one-armed
hug. He gripped a wooden spoon in his other hand.

“Hermione,” he said. “Not likely. Merlin, cooking is so bloody hard , even with magic,” he
groaned, “But I must keep the breadwinner satisfied, lest she leave me for some overly hunky
Quidditch millionaire,” Harry muttered with a sigh, stirring his simmering pot with a wooden
spoon.

“Breadwinner? Don’t tell me Robards isn’t paying you your worth,” Hermione admonished,
raising a brow.

“You know these Ministry jobs don’t pay shite,” Harry replied, shaking his head. “Especially
not with so many pureblood families either hiding out on the continent or rotting in Azkaban.
The tax pool has shrunk.”

“Careful, Harry, or you might start sounding like a Tory,” Hermione said with a mocking
frown as she uncorked the bottle of rioja.

“Speaking of affairs with millionaire Quidditch players,” Ginny said as she passed Hermione
a wine glass. She watched Hermione pour a glass with hawkish eyes.. “Something to share
with the class, Hermione?”

Harry’s expression shifted into one of dread as he looked at her. Ginny crossed her arms and
leaned against the countertop.

Hermione’s glass froze halfway raised to her lips. “Pardon?”

“Don’t you dare pardon me, missy,” Ginny replied, suddenly looking every bit Molly
Weasley.

Hermione’s heart rate quickened. “I don’t understand. Have I done something?”

“That’s what I’m trying to determine,” Ginny said.

Harry set the wooden spoon down in the pot. Pushing his hair out of his eyes with his
forearm, he said, “Are you having an affair with Malfoy?”

Hermione nearly dropped her wine glass.

Really, it was a wonder it hadn’t exploded into a million shards in her hand.

“ What?”

Ginny took a step closer. “Well? Are you?”

“ NO! Are you joking? What in Merlin’s bleeding bollocks gave you that impression?”
Hermione stammered, taking a seat at the long kitchen table. She downed half her glass in
one gulp.
“Accio Prophet ,” Ginny said with a flick of her wand. The day’s paper soared into her hands,
and she quickly unfurled it and plastered it across the tabletop. “ That , is what gave us that
impression.”

Hermione choked on her soul as it exited her body. There, at the top of the society column,
was a photograph of her and Malfoy at the Appleby Montrose match, from the moment just
after he’d dragged her out of the onslaught of clanwives, as they referred to themselves. But
from the angle the photo was taken, the fangirls were nowhere in sight. The photo was a
loop: she could see his lips form the word relax , slow and deliberate, while his eyes circled
over her face with something like…no, that couldn’t actually be concern . Even worse was
the desperate way she was looking up at him! Merlin, how fucking humiliating! It’d been
desperate rage —certainly not a desperation for Draco sodding Malfoy—but the column
readers would never see that!

STORMY SKIES AHEAD!

Or are those simply our dear Draco’s wandering eyes? The Malfoy heir was recently
seen entangled with freshly-minted Quidditch journalist Hermione Granger at this
week’s match in Montrose, much to the presumed dismay of fiancé Astoria Greengrass
—and word on the floo has it our Granger girl is hungry for a rebound. Torn between
duty and passion, will this flyer be able to steer his way through his turbulent desires?
And is there room on his broom for two? It remains to be seen. One thing’s for certain
—a hungry lioness always gets what she wants—and this one’s got a taste for Quidditch
players. We’re eager to watch this one develop.

Hermione slumped over the table, cheek flush against the wood as she let out a long,
exasperated groan. She closed her eyes. If there had ever been a moment in her life when she
had longed for spontaneous combustion, it was now. She had half a mind to march her way
into the Department of Mysteries and throw herself through the veil. Surely she hadn’t
survived the entire second wizarding war, just to endure…this. Perhaps she should pen a
letter to Kingsley, to discuss the merits of compassion Kissings from Dementors.

“Well?” Ginny hovered over her.

“No,” Hermione croaked.

“No, what?” Ginny remarked.

“No, I’m not having a fucking affair with Draco, fucking, Malfoy,” Hermione ground out,
dragging herself back up to a sitting position. She grabbed the rioja and poured herself
another generous glass of wine.

“I told you,” Harry said, returning to stirring.

“I’m not convinced,” Ginny replied.

“I’m not having an affair with him—have you gone mad? And besides, he’s not even married
yet, so stop calling it an affair,” Hermione implored. “Not that there’s an it to refer to!”

“May as well be. Look, he’s fit and all, Hermione, but he’s an arse, he’s betrothed, not to
mention he’s dangerous and has questionable legal standing, in fact I’m fairly certain
Falmouth and the league overlooked several background criteria when hiring him merely
because they were so desperate for seekers, and frankly you deserve—”

“Ginny!” Hermione snapped, slamming her eyes shut again. “There. Is. Nothing. Going. On.
Between. Me. And. Malfoy. Now that we’ve established Skeeter is a liar who ruins lives for
fun, may we get on with our dinner?”

“Sorry,” Ginny deflated, helping herself to a glass of wine as well. “It’s just, you know—
Skeeter always manages to find a tiny kernel of truth and blow it into a fucking shitebomb. I
had to be sure.”

“Two things,” Hermione sighed. “First, whenever I do ultimately find someone to sink my
‘lioness fangs’ into, you will be the first to know. Second—” she started, and she had to force
her tongue to curl around the words, so absurd they felt in her mouth, “It will not be Draco
Malfoy. And Merlin, I do not have a thing for Quidditch players.”

“You sort of do,” Harry stated, not sparing either of them a glance as he diced some herbs
with his wand.

“Do not! ” Hermione exclaimed.

“Do too,” Ginny affirmed. “Krum, Brother-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and don’t think I

missed you and McLaggen at the gala.”

Hermione buried her face in her hands, because really, she couldn’t argue. Her track record
spoke for itself. It was not about the Quidditch, however. Despite her present employment,
she still held that it was a brutish, primitive sort of sport that generally attracted the dregs.
However, she couldn’t deny that she appreciated a nice build, and years of Quidditch practice
tended to yield such.

She was about to suggest that they discuss something else, when there was a friendly knock
at the door. Ginny disappeared to answer it, and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. Surely
the topic of her love life and whether or not she was having an affair or not affair with Draco
Malfoy was not to be the topic of conversation at tonight’s table.

A door swung open, and then Neville’s deep voice drifted into the house from down the hall.
Not five seconds after, Hermione heard the floo erupt from the room next door and George’s
laughter tumbled out of it, followed by some scolding from a voice that made her spine shoot
straight— Percival .

“You didn’t tell me he was coming,” she hissed at Harry, who dropped the spoon, threw his
hands up and mouthed I didn’t know .
“Ah, Hermione. Just who I was looking to see,” George’s voice forced her to turn around as
he strode into the kitchen, followed by Angelina and…Percy Weasley.

“And why’s that, George?” she replied, smile saccharine as she held her wine glass close to
her chest, deliberately avoiding eye contact with her former boss.

“Damn good coverage in the Digest today. Damn good I’ll say,” he repeated, drawing her
into a one-armed hug. “Looks like we’ll make a Quidditch writer out of you yet, yeah?”

“You’re doing good work, H,” Angelina smiled at her.

Then, ugh , it happened—the unavoidable acknowledgement of each other’s presence.

“Hermione,” he said, looking just as uncomfortable as she felt.

“Percy,” she replied, clipped.

“It’s practically the Gryffindor common room in here,” Neville said as he appeared in the
kitchen doorway, followed by Ginny and Luna, and deflating the tension.

“Slightly less trollwig residue,” Luna remarked, looking around.

“Percy, what are you doing here? I don’t recall inviting you,” Ginny said when she saw her
brother, though there was no real bite in her tone. Once again, Hermione had to blink to
remind herself that no, she was not looking at Molly Weasley.

“I didn’t invite myself, either, thanks,” Percy answered, examining his nails. “Why don’t you
ask George?”

“Mum insisted I start dragging him along to gatherings. Get him out in society a bit. Some
would say otherwise, but Angie and I think twenty-eight’s a perfectly good age for a first
shag,” George said, clapping his older brother on the back.

“Sod off,” Percy snapped, dusting George’s hand from him and straightening his robes.

“Birds love prefects. Blokes, too. That Head Boy badge will take you far, Perc. Isn’t that
right, Harry? That how your dad bagged your mum?” George said.

“Tom Riddle was also Head Boy,” Hermione interjected, before thinking better of it.

For one long, horrible heartbeat, the room went completely still.

But then Harry burst out laughing, and it caught like wildfire, until all of them were
practically wheezing. Hermione chanced a glance at Percy, hoping her insult hadn’t landed
too hard, but he just looked relieved that the attention was no longer on him. She allowed
herself a smile.

“Curry’s done. Let’s eat,” Harry said, directing all of them to take their places around the
rectangular table. Ginny poured goblets of wine for all of them, from several bottles that
looked as though they’d been plucked from the Black collection.
They all took their seats, and Hermione sipped her wine, sandwiched between Luna and
Harry.

“Say Hermione,” George started with a mouthful of rice. “ Prophet today was rubbish, yeah?
Can’t have my newly-minted press connect running around with a Falmouth bias.”

Hermione nearly choked. Then she swallowed, ignoring the way all eyes at the table fell on
her. “Yes, George. All rubbish, I assure you. Thank you for taking such a vested interest in all
of our love lives. You put your mother to shame.”

Angelina snorted.

“She’s right,” Ginny said.

“Don’t read the Prophet much at Hogwarts. What’s he on about?” Neville said with a raised
brow.

Hermione briefly wondered if Harry had his invisibility cloak on him. She no longer wanted
to be perceived.

“Skeeter’s spun up some gossip about Hermione and Malfoy,” Harry replied.

“It’s not true,” Hermione said, cheeks flushing again—whether from the wine hitting her or
embarrassment, she didn’t know. Probably both.

“Skeeter spins up a lot of bullshite,” Neville said, tucking back into his rice.

“Thank you,” Hermione muttered.

“I like Draco,” Luna said, with a voice like a bell that stopped them all in their tracks. Neville
looked up from his plate again, casting his girlfriend a sidelong glance.

“Oh?” Angelina said, the picture of politeness.

“His aura is green. It’s a rare color,” Luna mused.

“He’s a Slytherin, mate,” George said drily.

“Most Slytherins have red auras,” Luna replied.

“Then what about Gryffindors?” Percy said, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed.

“Usually orange. Yours is orange, though it sometimes verges on red. Like the Slytherins,”
Luna answered.

“Which means?” Percy said.

“Do you really want to know?” Neville interjected.

“Speaking of Slytherins, has anyone else received Pansy’s party invitation?” Ginny said,
changing the subject, and Hermione couldn’t believe how easily the party had already slipped
her mind.

Percy cleared his throat. “Yes, I have. I plan on attending.”

“Since when do you attend pureblood parties?” Ginny replied, narrowing her eyes.

“Since mum demanded I expand my horizons,” he replied boredly, examining his nails—and
was that his attempt at a joke?

“Working,” Neville sighed, polishing off his plate. “Have some repotting to do for next term
which works best during Samhain. Nasty stuff,” he added with a shudder.

“I’ve RSVP’d yes. I’ve always wanted to celebrate muggle Halloween,” Luna said dreamily.
“Father and I used to carve Jack-o-Lanterns to keep the erlkings out of the garden, but I’ve
never been to a costume party.”

“Well if there’s one thing Parkinson’s good at, it’s parties,” George surmised.

“And she’s very fashionable,” Percy said a little too casually. Hermione stared at him. Was
that attraction she was detecting? Bile threatened to crawl up the back of her throat.

“Is she now?” George said, fox-like as he licked his spoon. “I hadn’t noticed, Percy.”

“S’ppose we’d like to attend as well,” Harry said, scratching the back of his head.

“Oh, we would?” Ginny replied, turning to him.

“I thought so,” Harry answered with a challenging look. “It would be good for us, and them.
Things are different now.”

“Costume parties are American nonsense, I swear,” Angelina said, shaking her head. “They
can’t really be like what you see in muggle cinema, can they? With the ugly red plastic cups
and all?”

Hermione burst out laughing at that. “Pansy Parkinson, serving drinks in red plastic muggle
cups? She’d sooner surrender her entire fortune to Queen Elizabeth.”

It was like that they passed the remainder of the evening in conversation and good spirits, and
it turned out that yes, Harry had finally perfected his curry recipe, because there was none left
to keep for his lunch tomorrow. Ginny even boosted Hermione’s mood further by confirming
that yes, she had read her article in the Digest , and yes, it had been perfectly competent.

When she made it home later that evening, contently toasty but far from sloshed, it was with
a smile on her face. There was only one wayward thought that stabbed at her consciousness
as she attempted to drift off to sleep: had Malfoy seen the column in the society papers?
Surely he had. Had his evening been similarly full of disappointed accusations and equally
begrudging explanations? Worse, was there a chance that Astoria believed it? Had his hatred
for her been reignited because of it? Their brief rapport bombarda’d ?
 She supposed none of that was really her problem, and if Malfoy suffered a few road bumps
in his personal life because of her, after all of the hell he’d put her through, it was hardly
karmic justice.

Besides, she would be getting her recant from Skeeter tomorrow anyway, and that would be
the end of the matter. With that, Hermione sank into her pillows and drifted off.

Chapter End Notes

Well, I'm going to give up the attempt at having regular update days. Just know that I
love this fic and will continue to write it. I will be overseas for the month of June,
which, if it turns out to be the vacation I am HOPING FOR then I will have time to
write. However, if I end up swept away by travels, updates may be a little slow until
July. Onward we go! Also, thank you sooooooooo much for your comments and kudos. I
love them!
 Chapter 9
Chapter Notes

In which Halloween by Parkinson and general fuckery occurs.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

OCTOBER 2004

Shortly after waking the next morning, Hermione apparated to Diagon with a vengeance.
Witches and wizards scattered out of her path as she stormed her way up the steps of the
Prophet ’s headquarters, the way ants might flee a bolt of lightning. She shoved her way
through the double doors, not bothering with the receptionist as she made her way to the lifts.

“Excuse me—” someone called from behind her.

“If someone has a problem, tell them Hermione Granger has urgent business with Rita
Skeeter,” she said, turning around to levy a hard look at the receptionist before the lift doors
closed in front of her.

She felt a little guilty throwing her name around like that, but only a little. Today, she was not
the Hermione who had sometimes been found crying over spilled milk alone in vacant loos.
Today, she was the Hermione who had trapped Skeeter in a jar, and it appeared the witch was
due for some reminding.

Parenthood with McLaggen. A secret affair with Malfoy. Godric, where did the woman come
up with these things? Had she nothing better to do than terrorize?

Hermione took the lift to the top floor. She’d never been to Skeeter’s office, but as editor-in-
chief of the Prophet , she presumed that’s where her adversary’s office would be. Stepping
out of the lift, she found her assumptions to be correct.

Her upper lip curled at the sight of the overly-fluffy, champagne-colored carpet which
covered the lobby and reception. There was a seating area with a brown coffee table and
green sofa in mid-century modern style, the sort of thing one might pick up at an antique
furniture store somewhere along route 66—or so Hermione thought based on what she’d seen
in films, having never been to MACUSA. The coffee table was tastefully stacked with
vintage editions of the Prophet , probably going back decades. A pair of ominous sleek doors
loomed on the far side of the room.
“Ahem,” someone cleared their throat. “Do you have an appointment?”

Hermione’s gaze shifted to see Millicent Bulstrode sitting in a velvet orange desk chair of the
same style. Her eyes narrowed. So this was where the former Slytherin had ended up. She
hadn’t seen her since Hogwarts, though they’d never spoken much in youth beyond a brief
exchange of potion ingredients during class.

“Hello, Millicent. No, I’m afraid I don’t—but my business is urgent. Will you inform Skeeter
that I’m here to speak with her?” Hermione replied, cordially as she could. Angry as she was,
she knew from years of observing Ron that explosive verbal attacks hardly ever got one out
of a pickle.

“I’m sorry, but she’s presently engaged. If you’d like to leave a message, I’ll be sure to have
her follow up with you,” Millicent replied in a tone that rivaled muggle customer service
hotlines.

“I’ll wait,” Hermione said, taking a seat on the hideous green sofa. She swore Skeeter had a
cardigan that matched this exact color.

“Unfortunately, Ms. Skeeter only takes meetings by appointment,” Millicent said, peering at
Hermione through plain wire spectacles.

Hermione felt her eye twitch. She blinked twice, forcing herself to smile at her old classmate.

“My business is extremely urgent. I’m certain Skeeter won’t be happy with the consequences
of neglecting it,” she replied.

“I assure you, there will be—” Millicent started, but then the double doors swung open.

“Yes, I’m very much looking forward to it. Thank you as always for your generosity and supp
—” Skeeter appeared, then stopped dead in her high-heeled tracks as her gaze fell on
Hermione.

Hermione blanched. Beside Skeeter was none other than Narcissa Malfoy. The latter cut her
with a cool, distant stare, frown lines appearing at the bridge of her nose as her brows knit
together.

“Hermione Granger. Millicent, I don’t recall accepting a meeting with Miss Granger—”
Skeeter started.

“I didn’t have one,” Hermione interjected, standing. “Millicent was just asking me to leave. I
told her I have an urgent matter to discuss with you,” she added primly.

“Is that so?” Skeeter inquired, pursing her lips.

Hermione nodded.

“Rita, if I may be so bold,” Narcissa said, stepping forward and then turning to Hermione.
“Would this perhaps be regarding the Prophet ’s assessment of the nature of your relationship
with my son? If so, I can assure you I’ve already provided Rita with clarification and the
matter has been rectified.”

Whatever mountain Hermione had been standing on promptly crumbled beneath her.

“I—yes,” she stumbled. “The report was entirely falsified,” she added, sounding more
flustered than she ever wanted to sound in front of Narcissa Malfoy.

“Mm. Such is the nature of the business, it seems. The Prophet makes such an earnest effort
to keep our society informed, that sometimes over-eager subordinates can perceive stories
where there are none. Wouldn’t you say so, Rita?” Narcissa said, casting a delicate smile
Skeeter’s way.

“Unfortunately I would have to concur, though of course we do our best to prevent that from
happening,” was the so-called-journalist’s tight-lipped reply.

“Rita has assured me a recant will be released with tomorrow’s issue, Miss Granger. No harm
will come to your reputation,” Narcissa said coolly, her eyes lingering over Hermione for an
uncomfortable, prolonged moment. Then her crystal blue eyes cut back to Skeeter. “I’ll be
going, then. Rita, it was a pleasure as always. Miss Granger, take care.”

Hermione stared after the pale-haired woman as she disappeared into the lift without a
backward glance. Her reputation? Was that comment designed to be some underhanded way
of calling her a slag?

“Well if that’s all, Miss Granger ,” Skeeter interrupted her thoughts, not bothering to hide the
ire from her tone. “I have a busy afternoon.”

“Actually, it wasn’t,” Hermione snapped, her mood instantly souring. “I assume Narcissa
Malfoy didn’t include recanting the bit about my future with Cormac McLaggen in her
bribe?”

For a brief moment, the look in Skeeter’s eyes was so murderous Hermione wouldn’t have
been surprised if she’d managed a non-verbal Avada .

“She did not,” Skeeter finally ground out.

“Make sure it’s included. Bribe money doesn’t go very far when you’re locked in a jar,”
Hermione said, sounding as threatening as she could—and she meant every word. Then,
dropping her voice so only Skeeter could hear, she added, “My friends in the Department of
Mysteries will make sure you’re never found. Being a war hero has its perks, you know. And
wizarding Britain hasn’t forgotten whose side you took.”

Hermione swore she saw the blood drain from Skeeter’s face in real time, and she didn’t even
bother hiding the smug satisfaction that lit her face at the sight of it. Then she strode past
Millicent without another word, leaving Skeeter to simmer in her tacky lobby.
Narcissa Malfoy was good for her word because the recant did in fact come the next morning,
satisfactorily worded as well, though as most things went with Skeeter, the damage had
already been done. Hermione wasn’t sure if it was just her paranoia or if people were actually
whispering about her, but she did her best to ignore it all. She’d make sure to have a strong
word with Padma next time she saw her, however.

The next week was spent in a blur of Quidditch matches and nights hunched over her writing
desk with her quill. Wigtown got slaughtered by Kenmare, Wimbourne scraped out an
underdog victory against Tutshill—which was saying something, given that Tutshill was
nearly at the bottom of the league—and Holyhead gave Caerphilly a royal thrashing.
Miraculously, she only needed one hand to count the number of howlers received.

Somewhere along the way, her friends convinced her to RSVP yes to Halloween by
Parkinson, because the lot of them were going and she admittedly thought it sounded fun.
She’d never been to a Halloween party before, and couldn’t remember the last time she’d
worn a costume—assuming Bellatrix Lestrange’s skin didn’t count.

Saturday evening arrived before she knew it, and exhausted from the week, Hermione
downed a Pepperup potion before she started getting ready. She’d been so busy all week she
hadn’t put any thought into what she would wear. She glanced around her bedroom, finding
nothing suitable in the way of costumes—until a little lightbulb went off in her head at the
sight of Crooks purring peacefully on her duvet.

She would be Crookshanks.

A cat was a classic costume. It was easy. Uncontroversial. Required very little fussing or
time. She transfigured one of her old gryffindor scarves into a pair of tabby ears, found a
simple, body-hugging black dress in the back of her wardrobe which she changed to orange
with a flick of her wand, then transfigured a bit of Crooks’ yarn ball into a tail which she
attached to herself with a sticking charm. She completed the look by using eyeliner to draw a
cat nose and a few whiskers on her face, and then slipped on her white mary-janes.

Standing in her full-length, she thought she looked alright. Passable enough to be granted
admittance to the party, anyway. Perhaps a little too young-looking?

Her eyes flickered between herself and Crookshanks in the reflection.

A flash of copper caught her eye. Her eyes narrowed. A finishing touch, she thought with a
smirk. Hermione removed Crooks’ brown leather collar, then fastened it around her own neck
instead.

There. Now she looked more age appropriate. With that, she snatched a bottle of sangiovese
from her wine rack, stepped into her floo, and called out, “Grimmauld Place!”

She stepped into chaos. The kitchen was full of bodies. George, dressed as a pirate, was
laughing riotously with Lee Jordan who looked like something out of Baywatch. The latter
was shirtlessly and shamelessly “dressed” as a lifeguard, wearing nothing but red swim
trunks and a whistle around his neck. Luna looked marvelous in a Dracula-inspired cloak and
fangs, blood dripping down her chin and all, and it was hard to tell but the person wearing an
American football helmet and getup sounded like Angelina.

“Hermione!” Harry shouted when she emerged, brushing some soot off her orange dress.

Hermione burst out laughing at the sight of him. She almost didn’t recognize him in his
muggle cop costume, complete with hat and 80s mustache. He even had a pair of plastic
handcuffs hanging from one of his belt loops.

“Check it out,” he said, flashing her a green badge pinned to his chest. Only, where she
anticipated the word Sheriff , she found a familiar pair of words winking at her instead.

Potter Stinks

“You kept that?” she said, incredulous.

“It’s a keepsake, Hermione. My first fan merch,” he replied, deadpan.

She wondered if Malfoy would be at the party, and if he would notice the badge, and how he
would feel about Harry referring to it as fan merch .

“Check out the handcuffs, ‘Mione,” George said, appearing at her side. “Nabbed those from a
muggle sex shop. Along with this,” he said, reaching behind him to take an enormous beer
bong—once again, the kind of thing she’d only seen in films—from Lee’s hands.

Only it had…a plastic penis…on the end…where you were supposed to suck the beer out.
She stared at it, a mixture of incredulous and horrified.

“Allow me to present, The Beer Dong,” George said proudly, as though he were announcing
the name of his firstborn.

“Seriously George, it’s a Halloween party, not a stag or hen night,” Ginny entered the kitchen
rolling her eyes, dressed as a boxer, gloves and all. Hermione wondered if they’d end up in
anyone’s face by the end of the evening.

“Aren’t we a little old for those sorts of things, anyway?” Hermione said to George, only
half-teasing.

“Trauma makes children of us all, Hermione. Live a little,” George replied wickedly, lining
the thing up with his mouth to demonstrate. Lee cracked a beer open and poured it into the
funnel. Hermione swore she merely blinked, and the beer was gone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” George said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and then
taking an exaggerated bow with his arms outstretched.

“You’re up, Harry,” Lee said.

“I’m good, thanks. Taking it easy tonight. Gotta be able to take these for a spin later,” he
added, patting the handcuffs at his side.
“HARRY!” Ginny, George and Hermione shouted in unison.

“Absolutely depraved,” Lee remarked.

“I don’t think so. Muggle research has found that exploration of sexual kink in a trusted
environment provides many avenues for emotional healing,” Luna said thoughtfully.

“I’m in need of emotional healing after what I just learned,” George said, a pitiful glint in his
eye. “Angelina? Care to help me out?”

“Oh, shut up,” she replied, though the eye black painted beneath her eyes couldn’t mask their
sparkle.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Ginny muttered, stalking towards the floo. “Shall we crack on with
it, then?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied, moving to her side.

Pansy had apparently opened her floo to the guest list for the evening. They would floo from
Grimmauld. Luna and Angelina crowded into the fireplace next to Hermione and Ginny, and
then Ginny grabbed a handful of powder and said, “Parkinson Manor!”

Hermione was tugged away by the navel.

They stumbled out of a fireplace into a foyer, and Hermione noted how she would never
grow accustomed to the excess of ancestral homes. To think of her parents’ foyer having a
fireplace! It was laughable—and they were dentists!

An usher wearing black wizarding robes and an owl mask checked them in, verifying that
they were all acceptably costumed and that their names were included on the guest list.
Several others stumbled out of the floo behind them, though Hermione didn’t turn to see
who’d arrived. She was taking in the sights of Parkinson Manor, having never been before.

The foyer and entry hall were lined with jack-o-lanterns, whose eyes flickered eerily in the
dimness. Floating candles drifted above their heads. Violins whined from somewhere deeper
in the house, and silky decorative cobwebs that looked all too real shimmered in the
candlelight from where they hung between the sconces.

As far as ancestral homes went, Parkinson Manor was smaller than Malfoy Manor, but she
had to say it was more tastefully decorated. It was certainly warmer, and more cozily
furnished. She noticed a few books strewn out of place as they passed through a study, and a
few armchairs that looked rather worn, giving the impression the place was properly lived in.
She even saw a stain on one of the carpets—though whether it was red wine or blood, she
wasn’t sure. Perhaps fake blood, given the occasion. The Parkinsons had never been formally
accused, let alone convicted of war crimes. As far as Hermione knew, they’d managed to
keep their names mostly out of the mud.

They entered a series of dimly-lit rooms with dark wooden furnishings, where witches and
wizards in costume—some of whom Hermione recognized, others who she didn’t—flitted by
or mingled in corners with drinks in hand.

“Please don’t bust my party, Mr. Officer,” came a voice.

Hermione turned her head to see Pansy Parkinson, dressed in what would probably be
described by its packaging as a Naughty Nun costume. The dress, which was more of a
bodysuit, barely covered the top of her thighs and the bustier top left little to the imagination.
Her white stockings and black mary-janes were straight out of muggle Catholic school, and
her black, angled bob framed her face beneath a classic cornette. A wooden crucifix hanging
from her neck served as the finishing touch.

“I’m off the clock for once, Pansy,” Harry replied.

“Thank Salazar. I’m going to get you properly pissed tonight, Potter. Robards isn’t here to
loom over your shoulder, you know, and I think it would do a lot in the way of notoriety for
my party if the Boy Who Lived got absolutely sloshed,” Pansy winked.

It was an odd exchange to observe, but Hermione supposed they had some sort of rapport
from bumping elbows at the Ministry.

“Hospitable as always, Pansy,” Harry said, accepting the goblet of punch she snatched off a
tray and pushed into his hands.

Percy appeared behind her, then—dressed as a wizard , seriously, had he no imagination?—

and Hermione’s upper lip curled the moment he opened his mouth.

“Percy?” Ginny remarked. Her brother ignored her.

“I can assure you, Pansy, Halloween by Parkinson already has all the markings of a notorious
annual event. You’ve done quite the bang-up job, I must say,” he said, with the tone of a
Hogwarts prefect asking to polish the headmaster’s apple.

“Charmed, Weasley,” Pansy replied without looking at him, taking a little sip of her
champagne. Then addressing them all she said, “Anywho, please don’t be afraid to enjoy
yourselves. The bar is in the conservatory, along with some light fare if you’re hungry.
Costume voting will take place in the parlor throughout the evening, with the winner
announced at midnight. Try not to make fools of yourselves, either. A hard task for you
Gryffindors,” she added, before strolling off.

“Actually, there was one suggestion I might make—” Hermione heard Percy say as he trailed
off after her.

“The git’s got it bad,” George remarked.

“For Pansy Parkinson? Really?” Ginny groaned.

“If anyone could untwist Percy’s knickers, it’s Parkinson,” Lee said.

Hermione couldn’t help the undignified snort that escaped her at that mental image.

“By the way, have you seen the concept for the new Kenmare logo, mate?” Lee added,
tapping Ginny on the arm. “Admittedly the logo needed some work, but really, I can’t
imagine it getting approved. Absolute rubbish if you ask me.”

“Have to ask ol’ Pans about that once she’d had a few,” George nodded. “Agree, mate.
Absolute rubbish.”

It was like that that they entered the party, making straight for the conservatory. An odd,
tingling feeling passed over Hermione as they got in line for drinks, and Hermione couldn’t
help glancing around. She hadn’t seen Malfoy since Skeeter’s article had been printed, and
even though the article was absolute rubbish so to speak, it still left her feeling awkward.
And if she were being honest with herself, it was because she was secretly horrified he’d
think there was some element of truth to it from her end. That photo of her mooning after
him had been rather horrid.

Luckily he was nowhere to be seen, and once Hermione had a Vampire’s Kiss in hand—one
of Halloween by Parkinson’s signature cocktails that was admittedly rather sweet and
delicious—she set off to mull about the party with Ginny at her side.

Hermione had never been to a proper Halloween party, but she had to admit her fellow
witches and wizards had done a fantastic job dressing up. Blaise Zabini looked rather
smashing as a mummy, and she wondered how the rumor mill would feel about his teammate,
Hazel Bottlebrush, sitting in his lap dressed as a sailor on a dark sofa in the corner. Hermione
glanced away when she noticed Zabini’s hand creeping just a little too far up Bottlebrush’s
thigh.

Tracey Davis was actually terrifying as a clown, but the terror quickly passed when Katie
Bell approached them dressed as an exterminator of the ghostbusting sort.

“Fancy seeing you birds here,” she grinned at the two of them.

“Apparently the lot of wizarding Britain is here,” Ginny remarked as Gibbon Buttons,
Shacklebolt’s undersecretary, walked by dressed as a scantily-clad rabbit. “Truly, I wouldn’t
be shocked if McGonagall walked through that door right now.”

Ginny pointed at the parlour entrance.

“What would her costume be?” Katie asked with a wicked smirk.

“Perhaps a referee. She always did have a hankering for Hooch’s job, I swear,” Hermione
remarked, thinking of the day Harry had been recommended for the Gryffindor team.

“You’re right,” Katie replied, nodding and sipping her cocktail which was served in a
hollowed-out apple. “Just needed a whistle ‘round her neck during student duels and she
would’ve been set.”
“I’m not sure even McGonagall could transfigure her hair to match that nest of Hooch’s. I
think doing several laps around the Quidditch pitch on a broom was a prerequisite,” Ginny
said, and Hermione and Katie snickered.

“What are you lot giggling about?” a tall figure asked, covered entirely in a bedsheet save for
the eyes, whose voice Hermione immediately recognized as Neville’s.

She was just about to answer, when a flash of platinum hair caught her attention. He must
have entered through the conservatory door, with a scarecrow Theo Nott on his left side in a
ragged hat and patchwork clothes, and though it was hard to tell from the mask which
covered half his face, she was fairly certain that was Adrian Pucey as the Phantom of the
Opera. Was Malfoy in costume at all? He was wearing a gray muggle blazer and trousers,
and, she nearly gasped, were those white muggle trainers? She didn’t think she’d ever seen
him wear anything so casual.

It wasn’t until he angled his body slightly more in her direction to whisk a champagne flute
off a passing tray that she realized he was in costume. The white tee he wore under the blazer
was stained with fake blood, the origin of which trailed down from either side of his mouth
and pale throat. It was then that she noticed the blazer was torn, the tee shirt in tatters, and
dark circles of black around his silvery eyes gave his face a ghostly appearance.

A zombie. Classic, she supposed. She wondered if he’d chosen it himself.

“Hermione?” Neville’s voice broke her thoughts.

She looked away from Malfoy.

“Hmm?” she said, downing the rest of her Vampire’s Kiss.

“I was just asking how the Digest ’s been treating you,” he said.

Hermione blinked, shrugging off Ginny’s questioning look. “Oh. Rather well, actually. Better
now. The last week or so has been rather alright, actually.”

“Glad to hear it,” Neville said, raising his glass to the little slit in the bedsheet he’d made for
his mouth.

“Cheers!” Katie chimed in, clinking her glass against Neville’s and Ginny’s.

“I’ll be right back, actually,” Hermione said, tucking some of her stray curls behind her ear.
“Best not to cheers with an empty glass,” she added, slinking off to the conservatory for a
refill before anyone could stop her.

Being in the same room with him was making her squirm. She was embarrassed, she
supposed. Embarrassed that his mother had been forced to seek out Skeeter and correct that
dastardly article. Hermione knew it wasn’t her fault, whatever Skeeter chose to spew out of
her arse, but still—the idea that she had brought some tarnishment to their reputation, or that
Astoria had lost sleep over it was rather wretched.
It was preposterous really, that she felt that way. He was the former Death Eater, after all.
Why should she feel ashamed?

Hermione promptly ordered two shots of firewhisky upon arriving at the bartop. The barkeep
gave her an odd look, but she was still rather sober and he didn’t hesitate to pour them. They
burned her throat on the way down, but she felt lighter, more relaxed almost instantly.

She had nothing to be ashamed of. She’d done nothing wrong. He was the one who’d chosen
to stay in that press box and chat her up at any rate, and he hadn’t been forced to drag her
from the horde of clanwives. That’d been his own choice.

“Hermione,” a voice said, and Hermione’s spine immediately stiffened. She turned to see
Cormac several spots in line behind her, dressed as a muggle jogger, sweatband around his
forehead and all.

Oh, someone Avada me now, she thought. She couldn’t bear his flirting, currently. She’d
wanted to order another speciality cocktail, but that would have to wait—she needed to make
her escape.

Her feet carried her back towards the parlour. Her friends were standing there, to the right.
Malfoy was near the back of the room, casting a ballot alongside Theo and Adrian. Right.
The costume contest. She’d forgotten to maintain a roster of best dressed.

She had a choice to make. Them. Or him. And something in her really wanted to break the
ice and get this over with. She needed to know what he thought about the article. If they were
on icy terms now. If the recant had been satisfactory. He was with his friends, after all. It
wasn’t like she’d be cornering him alone—Skeeter couldn’t spin much of a story out of it.

Hermione swallowed, and made her way towards the trio.

“Ah, Granger,” Theo said as she approached, looking her up and down and rolling her name
between his lips as if he were naming off some delectable ingredient in a recipe.

“There she is,” Pucey chimed in. “Purrr.”

Malfoy looked up slower than the other two, and when he locked eyes with her he gave her a
curt nod, not acknowledging her costume at all.

“Granger,” he said.

“Malfoy,” she replied, her eyes lingering on his blood-stained form for a moment. Then,
“Pucey. Nott. I was just curious as to who you’d voted for, if you’d deign to share,” she
added, clearing her throat.

Theo snorted. “Nosey as ever, Granger. Hate to say it, but I’ve voted for Macmillan. Have
you seen the bloke?”

Hermione shook her head. She was fairly certain she hadn’t.
“He’s somewhere around here. Head to toe in muggle astronaut getup. I was fairly certain
he’d robbed MACNASA or whatever their lot call it,” Pucey explained.

“I believe it’s just called NASA,” Hermione corrected, then immediately wanted to smack
herself over the head with her wand. Couldn’t she ever just shut the fuck up?

Malfoy had noticed, apparently.

“Ever the swot,” he remarked.

Hermione froze under his gaze. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was he ridiculing her? It
didn’t seem like it, but—

“I voted for Macmillan as well,” Malfoy added, the tension abating somewhat.

“I voted for Pansy,” Adrian said with a shrug.

“Pansy? She’s not going to win her own costume contest, you dolt,” Theo barbed.

Adrian shrugged. “Who gives a fuck?”

Theo rolled his eyes.

“Right, erm—” Hermione started, suddenly feeling awkward again.

“Fancy a drink, Granger?” Theo cut her off, nodding at her drinkless hands. “I think Adrian
and I fancy a refill.”

“Erm, sure,” she replied, awkwardly fiddling with her hands. “Something sweet. And
different from the Vampire’s Kiss. I’ve already tried it,” she explained.

Theo rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Granger. Come on, Adrian,” he added, and then the
two slipped away, leaving her alone with Malfoy.

She swallowed, glancing once at her feet before finding the courage to look up at him. Her
nervousness had burned the firewhisky away.

He raised a challenging brow when she met his eye.

“I saw your mother. At Skeeter’s office,” Hermione started.

“She told me,” he replied.

Oh.

“I was there to demand a recant myself, just so you know. I wouldn’t have let the story
stand,” she continued.

He regarded her coolly for a moment.

“Of course not,” he said primly with a swig of his drink, his throat bobbing.
What did that mean?

“Are you a zombie?” she asked, in the interest of conversation.

He rolled his eyes. “Pansy chose it for me.”

“You didn’t choose your own costume? I always thought muggle Halloween rather fun.
Choosing your costume is the best part,” she said.

“If you wish to spend your evenings marooning as an animal, Granger, I suggest becoming an
animagus,” he drawled, his assessing gaze trailing over her.

Hermione snorted. “One can’t choose their animagus, you know. I can’t imagine it would be
very enjoyable to spend my evenings marooning as a fly or a cat. Much more fun to be
Crookshanks,” she said.

He frowned. “Crook—what?”

She shot him an innocent look. “Erm, Crookshanks. My cat. Well he’s only half cat, really.
Half kneazle.”

“That orange mop that followed you around Hogwarts?” he said, sipping his champagne.
Hermione couldn’t help noticing how long his pale fingers looked wrapped around the flute.

“The very one,” she replied proudly, looking back up to meet his eye.

“Some lifespan,” he remarked.

“Yes, kneazles can live quite a long time when properly cared for in domesticity,” she said
matter-of-factly.

“Hmm,” was all he said.

Hermione cleared her throat. Perhaps it was the alcohol setting in, or perhaps it was just that
she really needed to know if Skeeter’s meddling had caused problems for them, but she
couldn’t help asking, “Where’s Astoria?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, and Hermione immediately regretted the words.

“Something to discuss with her?” he said.

Hermione shook her head. “No, I—I was just curious. I hadn’t seen her.”

“She’s not here,” he said.

Hermione’s heart sank.

“Oh,” she managed.

He swigged his champagne, eyeing her from the corner of his eye as his blood-stained throat
bobbed. Hermione couldn’t help staring back at him, as she searched for the words she
wished to say. She’d gleaned nothing from this conversation thus far, and even felt slightly
more irritated about the whole ordeal than she had before approaching him.

“Something the matter, Granger?” he insinuated, as if he’d read her mind. She recoiled a bit,
remembering his little Legilimency comment from the gala.

“No. Yes. Well, it’s just—” she started, but her nerves frayed under his stare. Since when had
she become such a blathering fool? She was Hermione Granger, dammit! She squared her
shoulders. “It’s that I know it’s just Skeeter, and she’s obviously horrid, but I’ll have you
know I had no intention of tarnishing your reputation. Or bringing any harm to your
relationship for that matter. I hope you found the recant acceptable.”

He simply stared at her for a long moment.

“My reputation, Granger?” he said when he finally spoke, leaning back against the bookshelf
behind him and crossing his arms over his chest, his champagne flute dangling loosely over
one forearm. “Surely you haven’t forgotten my time in Azkaban. Or did that escape your
notice?”

She scowled. “Of course not. But you’re quite reformed, and I think the public actually rather
likes you these days—at least the Quidditch world does—and I simply wanted to make clear
that I have no desire to damage the rapport you’ve built both with the public and with
Astoria.”

His eyebrows hiked to his hairline, the ghost of a smirk tugging one side of his mouth
upwards—and why did something in her twist at the sight of it?

“Rather likes me, do they?” he said, tilting his head at her.

Hermione did her best to shrug, but inside she was squirming. “From what I can observe.”

He downed the rest of his champagne and set the empty flute on a shelf, which was rather
taller than her head. Because he was. He was rather taller than her head. And she had to admit
he looked rather good in casual muggle clothes, and she had to admit there was something
appealing about a man covered in blood—

Merlin, she’d gone absolutely mad. She shook her head. Still, it was hard to tear her eyes
from where the tears in his shirt around the collar revealed glimpses of a pale, broad seeker
build chest.

Merlin.

“Where are those two?” she muttered, tearing her eyes away and looking around for Theo
and Adrian.

“One other thing, Granger,” Malfoy said slowly, drawing her attention back to him.

“Yes?” she said, her mouth going dry.

 “There is a difference between a betrothal and a relationship. My father would have said
otherwise, but he’s dead now, many of his ideals alongside him—and frankly I don’t care if
he rolls in his grave,” Malfoy said, his jaw flexing and eyes turning hard. Then, he shoved his
hands in his pockets—an oddly muggle gesture—and looked somewhere over her shoulder
when he added, “Astoria, like many things, is not something I would have chosen for
myself.”

Her eyes widened.

“Why are you telling me this?” she said with a frown. She was no confidant, no friend of his.

His eyes snapped back to hers. “It’s no secret, Granger. Astoria herself is well aware. So
spare yourself the senseless worrying for once.”

Hermione was about to respond—with what she didn’t know—when Theo and Adrian
returned.

“There you are, Granger. A Witch’s Brew, just for you,” Theo said, pushing the drink into her
hands. He said something else, but she wasn’t really listening.

Her head was sort of spinning for a variety of reasons.

“Erm, I believe Ginny will be looking for me,” she said after a moment, having missed
everything the pair had said since they’d returned.

“Boo, Granger. We were just getting to the fun part,” Theo chided.

“Enjoy the party,” she said with a forced smile, turning to leave. Malfoy simply looked at her
and said nothing else.

She could feel his eyes on her back as she snaked her way back to her friends.

Chapter End Notes

Wow, long one! The party actually isn't over yet, there'll be a bit more next chapter. If
you saw someone posting this chapter while sitting in a dirty corner on the floor of the
Rome airport that was me. Thank you ALLLLLL for your comments I love them!!!
Maybe I'll tidy this chapter up a bit later but it seems solid for now.
 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

OCTOBER 2004

Hermione rather enjoyed the rest of the party, that was until Ron and Lavender showed up
looking terribly tacky, with Ron dressed as a chef—wooden spoon, hat and all—and
Lavender as a plump looking tomato, the roundness of the costume doing an excellent job of
concealing her bump in its entirety. Still, despite the inevitable dampening effect their
immediate presence had on her mood, Hermione was able to ignore them for the most part,
and when she found herself standing in the same room as the pair she simply flitted to
another—there were plenty of rooms in Parkinson Manor, after all.

She was quite drunk off Witch’s Brews by the time midnight rolled around, and she found
herself back in the parlour, giggling with Ginny over how Seamus had shown up late dressed
as the muggle queen Elizabeth, clothed in a teal skirt suit and hat as she might be seen at
Wimbledon or a horse race. He was presently barking something to Michael Corner—who
had come as a redcoat—about how the Irish were looking too healthy and well-fed these
days, and something must be done about that.

From what she gathered, most people did end up voting for Ernie—and his astronaut costume
was spectacular, really—but Hermione decided to cast her ballot for Parvati in the end. She
thought the witch looked stunning in an elaborate mermaid getup, with a shimmering pink
and green sequin skirt and purple seashell bra which was most definitely homemade. She’d
even charmed her hair a seafoam green.

Nevertheless, Ernie won, much to the crowd’s delight, and after a few more rounds about the
party and a terrible attempt at bobbing for apples which left her dress soaking wet from the
waist up, Hermione decided it was time to call it a night. Ginny very much agreed, because
Harry had, despite all his protests, managed to get right and properly pissed. Ginny and
George practically had to hold him upright as they proceeded to the floo.

“Too many Corpse Revivers,” Harry mumbled as they got ready to leave.

“I’m going to murder Parkinson, to the point of non-revival,” Ginny swore.

“Absinthe’ll do you right in, mate,” George said, comically patting Harry on the back.

“Told you I’d get my way, Potter,” Pansy’s voice came from down the hall, and Hermione
turned to see her slinking towards them with a smug look on her face, flanked by the other
Slytherins—Malfoy, Adrian and Theo. Blaise had joined them as well. “I always do,” she
added.

“Oi, where’s Percy?” George said aloud to the group.

“Is that his name?” Pansy drawled. “I’ve given him a room upstairs for the night. He tried to
join us for a smoke—I don’t think he realized it wasn’t tobacco,” she said, teeth glinting
bright as she smiled wickedly.

“Are you joking?” Ginny groaned, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

Hermione nearly snorted at the image of Percy Weasley knocked on his arse by muggle
weed. How the mighty had fallen, indeed.

“I’m afraid not. Anyway, off you all go, a girl needs her beauty sleep,” Pansy said, turning to
hug her friends goodbye.

Theo gave Pansy a one-armed hug, then turned to Hermione. “After party at Blaise’s, if you
Gryffindors are feeling brave as usual.”

Hermione’s response was delayed as she watched Pansy peck Malfoy on the cheek, as she
might have done in some Hogwarts enclave between classes. It made him look deceivingly
docile.

“I’d better not. It’s late,” she said, turning back to Theo.

“It’s nearly two,” Ginny added.

“Suit yourselves,” he shrugged.

“We’ve got another round or two in us,” George chimed in, nodding at Lee who’d appeared
at his side.

“See you lot there,” Adrian said, stepping into the fireplace. He called out the address of a
London flat, and vanished. Theo, George and Lee followed suit.

“Grimmauld Place,” Ginny called, dragging a stumbling Harry into the fire with her, and then
they, too, were gone.

Pansy started her way back down the entry hall as Malfoy stepped into the fireplace. His
silver eyes found her and his lips parted as if to say something, perhaps to chide her about the
fact that she’d opted for floo travel for once, instead of drunkenly apparating this time—but
he said nothing. He just contemplated her for a lingering moment—and was that a smirk in
his eye?—then he called out for Blaise’s flat, and vanished in a roar of flames.

Hermione felt oddly alone in the foyer as she spoke her flat to the fireplace and stepped into
the floo. Perhaps she should have gone to the after party after all. A ridiculous thought, really,
because she didn’t even have the energy to take off her costume before she collapsed on her
bed and her head hit the pillow, carrying her off to sleep.
NOVEMBER 2004

Tuesday afternoon brought Puddlemere at Wigtown, and it was anticipated to be a big match
because not only was Cormac on track to make his 1000th career save as a keeper, many of
the Wigtown fans were known to view him as a traitor for playing for an English team. He’d
apparently turned down a previous offer from them on account of inadequate pay. There was
bad blood all over it. Not to mention the clanwives would be out in full force given that the
match was in Scotland, Hermione thought with a shudder.

Rita had printed a brief recant of her McLaggen drivel, but Hermione wondered if it would be
worthwhile to use a dash of polyjuice for the event, just to be safe. She had a fantastic
relationship with Winfred Silverberry who ran the new apothecary on Diagon, and she had a
little time this afternoon to snag a bottle and a hair from someone on the muggle side of the
Leaky. The laws around polyjuice were vague, but she didn’t think harmlessly transforming
into an anonymous muggle man or woman nobody would recognize for three hours to attend
a sporting match constituted harm or abuse towards others. She wouldn’t be able to sit in the
press box without her actual identity, but that was fine. She’d just ask Oliver to procure her a
ticket to one of the VIP boxes and that would do. It would be well worth it to avoid being
swarmed by an even larger, more agitated horde of fans.

So Hermione did just that, and it was as a pale, seventy-something salt-and-pepper-haired

woman that she entered the stadium. The noise was uproarious already. Any regrets about her
decision promptly left her head.

She made her way to the VIP box—albeit a less nimbly than usual in her seventy-something
body—and with a cup of hot chocolate nestled between her palms because for once she really
wasn’t in the mood for alcohol, and a scarf wrapped around her neck, she took a seat. The
stadium was humming, and she surprised herself by actually feeling somewhat excited for the
match. It was a rather pleasant atmosphere, actually. Quidditch in the fall, and in Scotland
once more. It did remind her of Hogwarts—just as Malfoy had said.

Hermione watched as Cormac drew Puddlemere into a team huddle, and then Lee’s voice was
echoing over the pitch and the match had begun. Anthony Goldstein and Rowan Orchids,
Puddlemere’s two best chasers, made a quick show of passing the quaffle down the pitch,
missing a shot on Terry Boot—Wigtown’s keeper—within the first moments of gameplay.
Wigtown, conversely, was taking a lackadaisical approach, with Angus Murray, their seeker,
making several lazy laps around the field like a hawk circling for prey. Then the quaffle was
in Wigtown’s hands, and Hermione had to admit the ease with which Cormac dodged a
bludger from Fannie Duncan and then blocked the next shot made it very apparent why he
was a star.

Career save number nine hundred and ninety seven. The stadium erupted in boos .
She jotted down several notes, and the first quarter was just coming to a close when a voice
caught her attention.

“Here, Draco.”

Hermione’s head snapped up to see Astoria Greengrass walking down the box steps, bundled
in a sweater and rain jacket, with Malfoy stalking into the box behind her. Hermione paled,
making herself small and not wanting to stick out despite the polyjuice. Malfoy’s gloved
hand was on Astoria’s lower back, ever the picture of pureblood etiquette, and she watched as
they took a seat on the bench second closest to the box fence. The eyes of other box attendees
followed them as they went—whether because they were in the presence of a Quidditch star,
or a former Death Eater, she still wasn’t quite sure.

“Draco Malfoy’s here scouting,” a wizard to her left and one bench up whispered loudly to
his very posh-looking son.

"Wow," the kid gasped, clearly awed.

These seats cost a pretty galleon. It took a certain sort of wealth to spend that on a child.

She certainly couldn’t imagine her own well-to-do father buying her box tickets at an Arsenal
match as a child. Hermione grinned at the thought.

They were several rows down and a little too far away to analyze, but now that Hermione
knew what Malfoy had told her she could see the signs of distance between the pureblood
pair. There was a slight gap between where they sat. Neither were touching the other. When
they looked at each other to speak they looked friendly enough, but there were no kisses, no
other signs of passion or physical intimacy shared between the two. Then again, perhaps that
was just another shining example of pureblood etiquette. PDA was rather uncouth, she was
told.

Hermione shook her head. What the devil was she doing sitting there, watching them like
that. It wasn’t her business at all. She looked back up at the match, and did her best to pay
attention as the second quarter began.

Cormac made another save—nine hundred and ninety eight—while Blythe Parkin made a
false dive for the snitch, startling Murray. Both Wigtown and Puddlemere’s beaters were on
top of their game, and the chasers for both sides had to stay constantly vigilant. At one point
Myrtle Inkwell, Wigtown’s favourite chaser, wasn’t fast enough to dodge and she took a hit
on her upper arm. She had to step off the field for the remainder of the second quarter for a
medical examination.

Nine hundred and ninety nine. The crowd was furious.

Hermione couldn’t help but glance at Malfoy, who rolled his eyes and shook his head slowly.
Not the biggest fan of McLaggen, she’d gathered. He said something to Astoria that the latter
didn’t acknowledge. Puddlemere scored on Wigtown, and the stadium erupted in the most
riotous boo ing Hermione had ever heard.
She grinned. It was rather interesting, these little rivalries. In fact, she thought she’d begun to
rather like this brave new world of Quidditch. It took her mind off things. Made her feel like
part of a community in a way—something she hadn’t really experienced since Hogwarts—
even if she was still on the outskirts of it. Perhaps she needed a team to root for. Secretly, of
course. She couldn’t have professional biases affecting her work—not when she’d just lately
managed to find her way out of the storm of howlers, for the most part.

Even Oliver seemed pleased with her work recently.

Had Malfoy been reading the Digest , she wondered? Did he approve? Her gaze trailed back
down to the pair below her, and noted that the conversation appeared to have turned serious.
Astoria was saying something with a rather pinched-looking expression, while Malfoy
frowned in return.

She watched him straighten and say something she couldn’t hear, with the sort of expression
he might’ve worn when protesting McGonagall awarding points to Gryffindor. Astoria
stiffened, clearly not liking what she was hearing.

A lover’s quarrel? Hermione wondered. She was sure there were plenty of pureblood things a
betrothed witch and wizard might find to argue about. Such as which garden to host the party
in, or which heirlooms were to be exchanged, at what point it was socially appropriate to
produce an heir versus when it might be considered taboo, or from whose vaults the wedding
vendor fees would be paid from. Their wedding was scheduled for spring, after all. It wasn’t
that far away.

Hermione fidgeted. Malfoy’s face had gone rather white with anger—whiter than usual. It
was rare to see him so perturbed. She had to admit she was quite curious to know why.

Would it be so terrible to listen in? Her curiosity was burning. She’d certainly eavesdropped
on more serious conversations in her life.

Hermione glanced at the pair of girls to her right, both wearing Cormac’s jersey, and decided
she’d rather not be seated next to them when he made his thousandth save anyway. She
scooted off her bench, and then promptly—as promptly as she could, anyway—made her way
down to the first bench of the box.

She didn’t look at Malfoy or Astoria, though she heard a brief pause in the murmur of their
voices as though they’d stopped to consider her intrusion. Then deciding she wasn’t a threat,
they carried on.

“You don’t owe me any favours, Astoria. Stop pretending as if you do,” Malfoy was saying in
a sharp tone.

“But it’s not as if I’d only be helping you. Perhaps I want to experience another side of life,
while I still can,” came Astoria’s soft and demure reply.

Hermione’s eyebrows raised. What was that supposed to mean?

“If that’s your desire, I’m no man to deny your wants, but I want no factor in this. You’ve
done more than enough for me,” Malfoy answered flatly.

“I’m tired, Draco. I feel as if I’ve spent my entire life wilting within the garden walls. I want
to see the sun,” Astoria said sadly.

Hermione had to strain her ears to hear his reply.

“I know,” he said in a low voice.

Then the sweet scent of smoke met her nostrils, and she turned her head ever so slightly to
the left to see he’d lit a cigarette.

“I’d really rather not have this conversation here,” he said matter-of-factly.

“When better to have it? Time slips further every day,” Astoria said.

“Your father won’t go for this, you know,” Malfoy said after a moment.

“And your mother will rue the knowledge that there will be no heir. Not with me, at least,”
Astoria stated.

Hermione kept her eyes trained on the match, doing her best to appear as though she weren’t
listening even though her heart was hammering with the knowledge that she’d just
eavesdropped on something intensely intimate. Feeling suddenly awash with guilt, she tried
to will herself to only hear Lee’s voice, and the sounds of the match. It was too little too late.

“Luckily she likes you. Won’t subject you to the Black family lust for retribution,” Malfoy
remarked, taking a drag of his cigarette.

Astoria laughed, deep and genuine. “She won't be able to, when I'm in my grave. Not to
mention I spent many years winning her over, if you remember,” she replied. “I always knew
befriending that little prat Draco would pay off.”

“Hardly,” he scoffed.

“I mean it. I would have been publicly disgraced without our betrothal. Father was itching to
drop me like a hot stone the moment the curse began to take effect. With you, I was at least
given the illusion of a future. It served its purpose. I suppose it hardly matters anymore,
though,” she said.

“He bargained you off to a Death Eater in order to purify his lineage. Forgive me for not
believing for a moment that you received fair treatment, Astoria,” Malfoy said in response.

“What a romantic couple we would have made. A Death Eater and a dying girl. It has a nice
touch to it, doesn’t it? A shame we never did fall in love.” Astoria said somberly, and
Hermione could practically hear the sad smile in her voice.

“Can’t say I agree,” Malfoy said sourly, stomping out his cigarette.
 “I do hope our bargain paid off for you, though, Draco—aside from the marriage settlement,
which I’m afraid you shall never receive. I never really believed in it all, you know. For what
it’s worth,” she trailed off.

“What are you on about?” he said, his eyeroll audible.

“That nobody else would have chosen you—that no one else would have given you an heir. I
never believed you needed me at your side in order to be welcomed back into wizarding
society. You have plenty to offer on your own—and I believe love will find you, if you let it,”
Hermione heard Astoria say softly.

Hermione couldn’t see his face, but she would guess that Malfoy was scowling.

“You should know better than anyone I’ve never cared about all that rot. Come, I’ve had
enough of this,” he said, standing and offering a black, gloved hand to Astoria.

“At the end of the day, I don’t think Narcissa truly believes it either—for what it’s worth. She
just wants what’s best for you, you know. Salazar, I’m going to miss that woman,” Astoria
murmured, taking Malfoy’s hand and allowing him to pull her to her feet.

They circled around the front of the box, crossing directly in front of Hermione. She dared
not so much as breathe in their direction, lest she be found out. Her back was ramrod straight,
her posture frozen as she watched Malfoy’s back recede in her peripherals, followed by
Astoria’s wisp-like form.

When Cormac made his thousandth career save, she hardly noticed—too stunned by what
she’d overheard.

Chapter End Notes

How bout them apples? If this chapter reads like scrambled eggs for brains, blame the
horribly hot and miserable ryanair flight I wrote this from. Pretty sure my brain is
cooked. To my Italian readers - your country was incredible, and incredible to sit around
and write in (between aperol spritzes).

Feel free to say hi on Tumblr @rreliquaries.

 Chapter 11
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

NOVEMBER 2004

“Oi, Granger.”

It was too early to be at the office, and Hermione had barely swallowed her first sip of coffee
when Oliver poked his head out of his office and summoned her. Merlin, why was he here so
early? Being an overachiever was something Hermione understood well. What she didn’t
understand was how Oliver still had the energy to be one—especially with a little one at
home.

She briefly wondered how Katie was faring these days. She hadn’t escaped the war
unscathed, either. Had Malfoy ever apologized to her for nearly ending her life? Or had he
blown past that apology as well on his way to Quidditch stardom? Perhaps she’d gather the
nerve to ask Oliver.

Hermione couldn’t imagine what warranted a private conversation—she hadn’t received any
howlers yet this week—nor could she discern the nature of his tone, as was par for the course
with her boss. So it was with a stiff spine and raised hackles that she nodded in his direction.
Charming her muggle laptop screen so that her latest article—a shoddy, unenthusiastic
attempt at covering the Puddlemere match and Cormac’s 1000th career save—was illegible to
other eyes, she closed the computer and allowed herself to be summoned.

So much for opting to work from the office today.

“Hi Oliver,” she said, side-stepping into his office and closing the door behind her.

“Morning. Have a seat,” he said, gesturing with one hand to the armchair opposite his desk.

Hermione did. Merlin, it would be nice to have an office with windows , she thought as an
early sunbeam hit her face. Perhaps she should consider charming her cubicle walls in the
style of the Great Hall.

“Right,” Oliver said, snapping her attention back to him.

Hermione blinked. “Yes?”

“I’m sure you know what this is about,” he added as he crossed one shin over his knee, his
ankle lolling and slacks raising to reveal a Thomas the Tank Engine-themed sock which
momentarily snagged Hermione’s attention. Noticing her eyeline he said, “Sporting, I know.
Gift from Katie. Little one can’t get enough of Thomas & Friends,” he said with a wink.
Little one. At present, the idea of being responsible for a nascent human life was beyond
Hermione’s comprehension. How on earth did Ron think he was ready?

Never underestimate the arrogance of man.

“Erm…no, actually. Your summons caught me by surprise,” she supplied, shoving her prior
thoughts back into whatever subconscious boggart drawer from which they’d sprung.

Oliver sat up and scooted his chair forward. He removed a muggle pen from behind his ear
and tapped the blunt end of it against his wooden workspace several times. “Your work,
Granger.”

“My work?” she parroted, feeling the blood trickle out of her face.

He nodded. “Aye, that’s right.”

She swallowed. “What about my work?”

“I won’t lie, Granger. I wagered against myself you’d be gone by now. You’ve proved me
wrong of course, as our little lionheart is wont to do. Not only that, but your work’s much
improved,” he gleamed, clearly knowing he’d had her on edge. “So there you have it.
Congratulations on the brilliant work. Building a respectable reputation for yourself, you are.
As a journalist, that is. Not that you were in need. Keep it up.”

“Oh—thank you. Yes, I’ve also noticed the improvement,” she added, because she’d never
been one to shy away from her accomplishments. “One must not underestimate muggle
sports psychology.”

“Apparently not,” he said with a whistle. “Readership’s increased. I think people like hearing
what the Golden Girl has to say about Quidditch. It’s unexpected.”

“Expectations are exhausting,” Hermione replied, the words coming from some bone-deep,
fatigued part of her. She was so tired of having expectations. And she was certainly tired of
people having them for her.

A crease appeared between Oliver’s brows as he looked at her, perhaps searching for the
Hermione Granger she’d once been—the Hermione who’d loved expectations if only so she
could surpass them. Who’d had loved ones to expect things from. Who’d expected a bright
and brilliant future. The Hermione whose expectations had been shattered by war and a
betrayal of the deepest kind.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have left her flask at home today.

His expression softened. “I s’ppose they are,” he said, taking a deep sip from a teacup she
hadn’t noticed till that moment. “Sod ‘em. Looking forward to that McLaggen article, by the
way,” he added with raised brows.

Oliver was a fan of Cormac. Keepers. Scottish. She supposed it made sense.

“I’ll be done with it shortly,” she replied, setting expectations . “It needs a bit of polishing.”
“Make it sparkle, Granger. A little bird at the Prophet told me Skeeter’s got a bombshell
coming. Don’t want my favourite keeper getting overlooked,” he said. Then conspiratorially
he added, “You didn’t hear the favourite bit.”

“Of course not,” Hermione replied, though she frowned. A bombshell, from Skeeter? Those
were never good.

“I believe that’s all,” Oliver smiled.

“Thank you, Oliver,” Hermione said, standing, turning to leave.

“Right then—oh and Granger, Katie’s rather looking forward to seeing you at the Falmouth
match. Little one’s first game. Gotta start them young,” he winked.

Right. Falmouth versus Ballycastle. This week. Hermione hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“Oh, how lovely. See you both there,” Hermione replied, hesitating in the door. Then,
because curiosity had always gotten the better of her, she said, “Erm, Oliver?”

“Mm?” he answered, his eyes trained on some parchment.

She cleared her throat. “It’s not really my place to ask this, but—did Malfoy ever formally
apologize to Katie?”

Oliver’s eyes shot up, a frown turning his mouth downward. “Several years ago, Granger.
Apologies were part of the Reintegration Act. Why do you ask?”

Hermione blinked. “Curiosity, I suppose. I hope it was well-thought and sincere. It’s the least
Katie deserves,” she answered, turning to leave his office.

“Quite. In fact, Malfoy has been rather supportive of Katie and I in the years since the war.
We consider him a friend, odd as it may sound,” Oliver said.

Hermione’s brows knit together, but she nodded, and left the office.

Anger flared in her as soon as the door clicked shut behind her. Katie had received an
apology, but she hadn’t? The thought rankled her. If apologies were part of the Reintegration
Act, why hadn’t she received one? Was it possible Malfoy still believed she deserved what’d
happened to her on his drawing room floor? Not to mention the years of tearing her self-
esteem into shreds, or catalyzing the Death Eater invasion of Hogwarts, bringing an abrupt
end to her education?

Merlin, she didn’t have time to think about such things, and damn her thoughts for being so
intrusive this early in the day. She had an article to write, but first, she needed a bloody strong
cup of coffee.

Hermione spent the rest of the morning scrubbing and polishing her article on McLaggen and
wishing she’d brought her flask. It was a thin line to walk, discussing a man’s
accomplishments in a way that wasn’t entirely congratulatory to his ego. Luckily she’d had
plenty of practice with Ron, and she was able to submit the article to publishing just before
her deadline later in the morning. Still, she couldn’t help but grimace as she sent it off,
hoping it was adequate. Why had she signed up for this job, again?

Hermione’s sofa was a sight for sore eyes when she stepped through her floo at the end of the
day, and she collapsed into it with a sigh. Crooks hopped up onto a cushion next to her,
licking the back of her hand with a sandpaper tongue. Now she faced the conundrum of
needing a glass of wine, but the wine was all the way across her flat, tucked away in her
muggle refrigerator.

Funny, how quickly one could forget they were a witch.

“ Accio Chardonnay,” she sighed with a flick of her wand, and a split second later she heard
her refrigerator pop open just before the bottle zoomed into her hand.

Half-drank already, she uncorked it, lazily taking a long swig from the bottle rather than risk
the malady that accio wine glass might cause, given that she had a shelf full. She was just
about to take another swig when she heard a tap on her bedroom window. Crookshanks’ ears
perked up, in that excited, predatory way that only meant she had an owl waiting for her.

Hermione sighed and stood, taking the Chardonnay with her. A tawny owl waited for her at
the window. Uneager to deal with whatever news it’d brought, she reluctantly let the little
thing in and gave it a treat before unfurling the parchment attached to its leg.

To Ms. Hermione Granger, it read in a script Hermione didn’t recognize.

It has recently come to my attention by way of our esteemed Herbology professor that you
have recently left your previous role at the Ministry and have taken up writing for Gryffindor
alum Oliver Wood’s Quidditch Digest. While I always find it joyous to see former students
collaborating in their careers, I am writing to inform you of an opportunity that may be more
intellectual in nature.

Unfortunately our dear Professor Dromgoole has accepted an external opportunity, and as
such Hogwarts will be in need of a Professor for Ancient Runes beginning at the start of
Winter Term in January. I recall that you excelled in the subject, and your examination scores
reflect as much—and I have no doubt your teaching skills would be exemplary.

Please consider meeting me for tea at Madame Puddifoot’s in Hogsmeade Village should this
opportunity be of interest to you. I am available this Tuesday, the 9th of November, at noon
sharp.
Regards,

Minerva McGonagall

Headmistress, Hogwarts School

Hermione blinked, staring at the letter, then took another swig of her Chardonnay. A
professorship at Hogwarts? There had been a time when her heart would have sung for the
opportunity, but now she merely felt…nothing.

Ancient Runes was fascinating. She really did enjoy it. But teaching it to an entire generation
of students? Being responsible for their development and learning in regards to the subject,
having that sort of impact? She shuddered. It was a responsibility she didn’t think she was in
any mind to take. Still, she hadn’t completely lost her senses, and thought she should at least
hear the Headmistress out. It was kind, too, that Neville had thought of her. She supposed she
hadn’t convinced him that things were going fine at the Digest.

Which really, they were. They were looking up a bit. She was just starting to get into the
swing of things, and wasn’t sure she could handle another change so soon. Plus, the
mindlessness of it all—being able to direct all of her focus into something that didn’t actually
matter to her, so she didn’t have to think about the things that actually did? These days, that
was more or less invaluable.

Still, she scribbled off a Thank you for reaching out—I’ll see you there , before sending the
owl on its way.

Hermione snatched up the day’s Prophet from the ledge before latching the window closed,
then trudged back to the sofa wondering which local spot she was going to order take-out
from before taking another sip of wine and unfurling it. Bold letters greeted her.

SACRED 28 SHAKEUP: DRACO MALFOY AND ASTORIA GREENGRASS SPLIT!

Hermione spat out her wine. Was this the bombshell Oliver had been referring to? Skeeter
was bloody fast. Casting a quick drying charm where she’d gotten wine on her blouse, she sat
up straight and set her bottle down before proceeding.

No tea leaves could have predicted this catastrophe! Trouble’s been brewing in paradise
for the favoured pureblood couple, and apparently the cauldron has bubbled over!
Though the couple declined to comment officially, trusted sources near to the pair have
confirmed that for reasons unknown to the public, Draco Malfoy and Astoria
Greengrass have agreed to end their engagement.
Our hearts are broken, as we were so looking forward to the breathtaking ceremony—
and undoubtedly gorgeous children. Was the break-up mutual? Could they possibly
make amends? Or is this break-up of the broken and betrayed variety? Surely
pureblood breeding and manners can assure nothing too scandalous is afoot, but then
again, we’ve been shocked before. Rest assured, this publication is determined to dig up
all of the details. You can’t bury everything in the family plot, after all.

In the meantime—as any seeker could tell you—every rain cloud has a silver lining.
Draco Malfoy is on the market for the first time since signing with the British and Irish
League, and the rather reformed, rather fit star seeker is sure to be in high demand. But
get your brooms ready, would-be lovers! The Malfoy heir’s standards are sure to be sky
high. It will take more than a pretty face and loaded vault to woo this bachelor.

How absolutely gauche. The man wasn't even one full day out of calling off an engagement,
and Skeeter was already waxing poetic about his next romantic conquests? Truly, the woman
put ghouls to shame.

The article had made the front page, with a photograph of Malfoy and Astoria walking side
by side through a rainy Diagon front and center. Both looked crisp, with him in a sharp suit
and robes, and her in a high-collared dress and fashionable muggle trench from some Italian
designer house to be sure. He held an umbrella over both their heads, ever the picture of
etiquette, though there were no further signs of intimacy between the two—no interlaced
fingers or hands on lower backs as one might expect from a couple. Malfoy’s distant gaze
was to the right, while Astoria’s was to the left.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, re-reading the block of text once more. But we’ve been shocked
before . It was most certainly a dig at her and Ron. She expected nothing less after her most
recent treatment of Skeeter. However, it appeared she, and perhaps Narcissa Malfoy, had
managed to scare the so-called-reporter enough to keep her relatively in line. Thankfully
there had been no mention of the prior article, or any preposterous implication that she was
somehow involved.

Well, enough of that nonsense. Hermione had plenty of rubbish already clogging up her brain
as it stood. She rolled her eyes and tossed the paper into the fire, taking one last swig of
chardonnay as she watched the flames engulf it.

Thursday evening brought Ballycastle at Falmouth. The November wind was whipping rather
hard when Hermione stepped into the stadium with a grimace on her face. Both teams were
known to have rowdy crowds, and it was apparent that that was true from the onslaught of
noise, banners and drunken fans that accosted her from the moment she entered. Actually, she
was surprised by the amount of red and black livery given Ballycastle was the away team, but
then again judging by the dedication of the howlers she’d received, she supposed the fanbase
was quite committed. Hermione had just gotten in line for a beer when a familiar shock of red
hair twisted into a messy bun caught her eye.

“Ginny!” she called.

The redhead turned, her face brightening as she abandoned the sweets stand she’d been
gawking at and sifted her way through the sea of people to greet Hermione. She was wrapped
in a black and gold Holyhead jumper with a beanie to match.

“Hermione,” she said with a crooked smile. “Didn’t know you’d be here. Should have
assumed.”

“Is Harry here?” Hermione said, glancing around at the crowd to see if she spotted him.

“No, he’s working today. Although—I’m actually here with Ron. He went that way to grab
some bangers,” she said, pointing in the direction from which she’d come. “Lavender’s here
too. Ron bothered Oliver for some press seats. Wants to scope out Ballycastle’s keeper ahead
of their match next week, and I heard Falmouth has a new play.”

“Right,” Hermione said, already bracing herself. Then, turning to the beer vendor she said,
“Make it a large size, please.”

The man obliged.

“By chance, did you see my latest article in the Digest ?” Hermione added, turning back to
Ginny.

Ginny’s eyes widened. “Oh, Merlin, yes! Refreshing, to see McLaggen covered more
objectively for once. Bet you won some new readers with that one. He's very polarizing.”

Hermione’s heart lifted. “Really, you think it was alright?”

She didn't mention how it'd been squeaked out on practically no sleep, with nothing but
shoddy notes to go on.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Oh, definitely. Though I’m not sure how Oliver will feel about you
downplaying his favourite,” she chided, giving Hermione a light punch on the arm. “See you
upstairs?”

Hermione deflated. She took that to mean, I’m going to go find Ron. Nevertheless she
nodded, and made a beeline for the press box in hopes of being seated and very much
immersed in the match before Ron and Lavender entered.

She was just about to flash her badge to the press box attendant when a particularly decorated
group of fans wearing Falmouth jerseys swept past her. They all had the number seven
painted on their cheeks in gray and white, charmed to dance and sparkle. Malfoy’s number.
She glanced down at the signs they were holding: I love you Draco! I want to have your
babies #7! Hit me with your bludgers, Draco! I’m single! I floo’d 500 kilometers to watch
that ar$e! Want to see my tattoos? Let me ride your broom!
One of them was even holding a moving poster of Malfoy in his Quidditch leathers, looking
all-too-charming as he gripped his broom handle upright in one hand and smiled and winked
in a loop.

Hermione nearly gagged and shoved past them. Godric’s sodding hat, could she not enjoy a
full twenty-four hours without hearing about Draco bloody Malfoy, or Cormac, or some other
pompous, navel-gazing Quidditch ‘heartthrob’? Merlin, she couldn’t fathom willingly
making such an arse of herself in public. Luckily the press box would be fangirl free.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she found she’d beat Ron to the seats. Oliver and Katie
were there, however, along with their newborn. Oliver had the droopy-eyed infant draped
over his shoulder, bundled in a tiny knit sweater and cap. He was patting her back while
Katie sipped on what looked like hot chocolate.

“Oliver,” she greeted. “Katie.”

Both of them looked up and smiled.

“Hermione, great to see another gal here. These things are always such a sausage fest,” Katie
said.

Hermione drank deep of her beer, then said, “Believe me, I know. Looks like you’re working
on fixing that, though,” she added with a wink towards their daughter. “What’s her name?”

“Harriet,” Oliver supplied. “And she’s a terror.”

“Doesn’t look so terrible to me,” Hermione said with a smile.

“Well neither do you, Hermione, and look how you turned out,” Oliver teased.

Hermione snorted, and went to take a seat. She sat rather far from her Gryffindor fellows, just
in case Ron and Lavender had it in their minds to stake out real estate near them. Besides, the
closer she sat to the front, the less chance she had of seeing Ron’s face. So for that reason,
she made her claim to the front row.

The pre-game was winding down. Isobel MacDougal and Lambert Gosling, two of
Ballycastle’s chasers, were making slow and lazy circles around the pitch and running
through plays. The other, Foster Filly, was testing shots against their keeper, Avis Goosander.
Lonnie Hawks, Ballycastle’s seeker, was doing what looked like yoga stretches on her broom.

Meanwhile, Falmouth was gathered in a huddle above the pitch. Malfoy was saying
something to the team at large, to which Demelza Robbins responded rather animatedly with
her hands. Beaters Pucey and Samuels were smirking. Across the pitch, Hermione could see
Lee preparing to tell the players to take their marks.

Hermione’s eyes trailed over the crowd, snagging when they landed on a copse of rather
egregious signs in the home team stands. She scowled. Did the players even actually read
those? Did any of them like it? She could make out some rather nasty and suggestive things
written about Adrian Pucey and Grant Page as well, and her upper lip curled.
Oh, who was she to care? She thought with a sigh, taking a long sip of her beer. Just because
her own love life or sex life or whatever the fuck was destitute didn’t mean others couldn’t
have their fun.

“Oliver, mate,” she heard Ron say from behind her, as if on cue.

“Katie,” came Lavender’s voice, which at this point Hermione couldn’t differentiate from
nails on a chalkboard.

She stared straight ahead, determined to not acknowledge them. Ginny was with them, she
was sure, but that was alright. Hermione certainly didn’t expect her friend to choose between
her and her brother.

Her attention re-focused on the match, just as Falmouth broke to take their marks. While the
other players descended towards the field where the majority of gameplay would take place,
Malfoy lagged behind, sitting lazily on his broom with just his thighs keeping him upright in
his seat while he stretched his arms across his chest. His hair looked windswept, his pale
cheeks stung pink by the November chill. If she wasn't mistaken, his eyes looked rather
bruised. More tired than normal.

“On your marks!” Lee’s voice echoed.

The players readied themselves.

Then the quaffle exploded skyward, and the match was on.

Antwork snatched it immediately, known for his speed—and he barreled down the pitch like
a bullet with Eban and Earnest Eaglet, Ballycastle’s beaters, hot on his tail. The crowd
erupted in cheers. They stopped abruptly, however, when Gosling managed to intercept his
pass to Rivers. Pucey nearly got a shot at Gosling, but the chaser had already passed the
quaffle off to Filly before he had to veer off course to dodge the bludger.

It was a fast-paced game.

“Cheap move!” Hermione heard Ron shout behind her.

“Shut up, Ron—that’s rude,” Ginny scolded.

“Well it was,” Ron replied.

Hermione groaned. She probably missed that aspect of their relationship the least.

Dark clouds hung above the pitch, threatening rain, which actually brought a much-needed
smile to Hermione's face. In all honesty, she loved British weather. There was nothing like a
crisp beer on a cold day, and the smell of rain was one of few things that still inspired her.

A flash of platinum against the gray caught her eye, and she glanced up to see Malfoy
hovering not far above the gameplay. She’d come to learn that it was not his usual move: he
typically kept at altitude, flying higher than most seekers dared to until he spotted the snitch.
Something about the altitude helping him focus, he’d apparently said in an interview once.
Still, something needled her as she stared at him, sitting on his broom like he hadn't a care in
the world. He’d apologized to Katie, and not to her. Hermione’s fingers curled tighter around
her beer cup. The notion rankled her so much more than she wanted it to. She’d survived her
entire life thus far without an apology from Malfoy, so why did she need one now? She
didn't.

Perhaps she just craved one because the knowledge that others had received one while she
hadn't needled that sore part of her which he’d cultivated, she realized. The small part of her
that said she was worth less than her peers, and thus less deserving of good things. And salt
in the wound was the fact that they’d developed somewhat of a passive civility. She certainly
wouldn’t call him her friend, nowhere near, but his company during their recent run-ins had
been tolerable at the least, and sometimes even…enjoyable? Had he been faking it the entire
time?

Did he really still think of her as less than? Surely a year in Azkaban had taught him
something about equality.

Hermione scoffed to herself and downed the rest of her beer, save for a few drops. She was a
grown adult now, not a Hogwarts third year. She would get along just fine without.

What she really wanted was another beer, but she also really did not want to make eye
contact with Ron and Lavender. There was one way to solve this conundrum—perhaps a little
illegal, but she was in the press box after all and seated alone, and was the stadium really
going to miss one beer's worth of payment when Falmouth packed it every match? With
subtlety Hermione withdrew her wand from her robes, and muttered a quick replenishing
charm against the droplets of beer, tucking it into her robes to hide it while beer bubbled up
to fill the glass once more.

Satisfied, she slipped her wand back into her robes and tilted the beer cup to her lips—only to
nearly choke when her eyes locked with a pair of steely gray ones belonging to a particular
Falmouth player number seven watching her from across the pitch. Hermione forcibly gulped
her mouthful down, and clapped a hand over her lips where a little beer trickled down the
side of her mouth. The frown he’d been wearing lifted into a smirk as he leaned back on his
broom, readjusting his flying gloves.

Hermione scowled. Why was he looking at her? Bloody Merlin, he had a match to play. She
crossed her arms over her chest and shrank back in her seat, blushing, humiliated even as he
leaned forward, low on his broom and started off towards the other side of the pitch.

“Antwork really is fast,” Ginny remarked behind her.

“Cause he’s so skinny,” Ron countered. “A house elf could thrash him.”

“A house elf could thrash most people,” Ginny replied.

“Ron, did you really need the popcorn, too? It’s churning my stomach,” Lavender
complained. "You know I'm sensitive to smells right now."
"Sorry, Lav," Ron said, and Hermione's toes curled at the sound of a kiss. Then there was a
pause before Ron said, “What’s Malfoy see over there? Coulda swore I saw the snitch go that
way.”

“I think he’s still looking, same as Hawks,” Ginny answered.

The quaffle went back and forth in rapid succession, with each team scoring thirty points.
The energy was palpable, the entire stadium on edge. Goosander made a killer save, and the
crowd erupted in boos—only to cheer when Robbins slammed the quaffle through the center
hoop moments later for another ten points. Forty to thirty, Falmouth.

Hermione sipped her beer and took her notes. At some point Harriet started fussing and she
heard Oliver remove himself from the box.

Enjoy that, Ron , she thought sourly. It’s coming for you.

“Malfoy seems distracted,” Ron’s voice cut into her thoughts once more.

Even this long after Hogwarts, it seemed her ex still had a Malfoy fixation. She supposed he
could join the club. He was in the right place for it.

“He’s looking for the snitch, same as always,” Hermione heard Ginny reply.

“I don’t know about that. He’s usually a little sharper, a little faster. He’s not following the
gameplay like he normally does,” was Ron’s response.

That was interesting. Hermione sought out the Falmouth seeker once more, watching as he
trawled slowly over the gameplay. Meanwhile, Hawks was doing quick laps around the
stadium’s base. Perhaps the blonde did look a little more sullen than usual—and she briefly
wondered if the breakup was on his mind. Suddenly Malfoy rolled from his broom, hanging
on by just his hands as a bludger soared through the spot where he’d been seated. Eban or
Earnest—she couldn’t tell which one—was looking rather satisfied with his club resting on
his shoulder down below.

Malfoy scowled, and swung his legs back over the broom—before rocketing skyward,
straight up. He disappeared into the rain clouds.

“If this is Falmouth’s new play, it’s not going to work against Holyhead,” Ginny said.

Ron was clearly speaking through a mouthful of popcorn when he said, “Yeah, it’s not the
bloody pre-season anymore.”

“Spoken as one who plays for Chudley, Ron. It’s always pre-season over there,” Ginny
snorted.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

Something panged in Hermione’s heart. She didn’t miss Ron. She swore she didn’t. But their
banter—it reminded her of summer nights at the Burrow. Of family. Of friends. Of everything
she lacked these days.
Just then, Malfoy shot out of the clouds, his white hair streaking downwards like a lightning
bolt. All around, Falmouth fans jumped to their feet, a roaring sea of gray and white, moving
in waves.

“Malfoy’s seen the snitch!” she heard someone shout.

He was spinning as he flew, nearly straight down, and just looking at the manoeuvre made
Hermione nauseous. Down through the gameplay he dove, speeding right past a startled
Robbins, and as he neared the ground he took one hand off his broom handle and reached
forward.

A gasp filled the air from around the stadium—just as a bludger collided with the side of his
face and knocked him clean off his broom with a resulting thwack! Hermione watched in
horror, almost slow motion, as he continued to spin through the air, limbs astray, plummeting
towards the ground head-first. Luckily someone managed to cast a featherlight charm—a
medi-witch or wizard?—just before he hit the ground, and he sank the short rest of the way
slowly, landing limp on the field. He didn't move.

Clearly unconscious, his fingers unfurled—and the crowd erupted in rowdy cheers. The
golden snitch fluttered in his palm, pacified. Hermione stared in horror at the way his head
lolled to the side on the turf.

“VICTORY, FALMOUTH!” Lee Jordan cried, much to the crowd’s delight.

For fuck's sake, was that all people cared about? A man had just been knocked unconscious!

“Bout time that git got a good bludgeoning,” Ron shouted from somewhere behind her.

Across the pitch, fans were shrieking—both in joy and distress. Hermione stood. She’d had
enough of this. She started storming up the box stairs, determined not to look at the rest of
them.

“That looked painful,” Lavender said in that dumb voice of hers.

Determination gone.

“Probably because it was, are you daft?” Hermione snapped at her, shooting Lavender a
daggered look before leveling Ron with as much reproach as she could muster.

Katie gaped at her.

She’d square with Ginny and Oliver later.

Now she remembered why she’d always hated Quidditch. It brought out the worst in people,
and turned them into animals.

Not sparing them so much as another glance, Hermione hurried down the press box stairs,
hooking a sharp left when she reached the bottom towards a tunnel she knew would lead out
to the field. She wasn’t exactly sure what she thought she was doing, but her feet carried her
quickly and she was along for the ride.
She had to at least know if he was alright. Godric, arsehole or not, if Malfoy died from a
fucking bludger to the head because he was distracted over another thoughtless Skeeter
article—

Needless to say she would dig Skeeter’s grave herself.

Hermione had just reached the barricade that marked the edge of the field when a wizard in
official match administration robes stepped in her way, wand drawn. “Only match officials
allowed on the field,” he said.

“I’m press,” Hermione replied, in as haughty a tone she could muster.

“I don’t care. Rules are rules,” the man replied.

Hermione tried to crane her neck around the man, but unfortunately she had always been
small in stature, and it gave her no advantages here.

“Is he going to be alright?” she she demanded.

“An official health assessment hasn’t yet been made,” the wizard said.

“Well when will it be? Surely you can tell me if he’s dead or not,” Hermione flung back. The
crowd was uncontrollable around them.

“An official health assessment will be made soon,” the man answered.

Merlin, he was useless. Hermione was just about to push him aside so she could get a better
look when the barricade swung open. The wizard jumped out of the way as four medi-
wizards levitating a stretcher between them came through the gate. Malfoy lay unconscious
on it, and he was in terrible shape.

Blood was streaming from his mouth, covering his pale cheek and throat. His right eye was
swollen shut, already the size of a golf ball, and the entire right side of his face was turning
purple and blue. Damp, pale hair was plastered to his forehead and temples. Hermione
clapped a hand over her mouth, choking back a scream at the sight. Merlin, what barbarism!

Just then, a blinding light flashed in her face and she looked up to see Padma holding a
camera.

“Fuck off,” Hermione hissed in her direction before hurrying after the medi-wizards. She
followed them, alongside several reporters including Padma, to a medical floo that was
attached to St. Mungo’s and used for patients in condition too severe to side-along.

She caught another glimpse of Malfoy, his arm hanging limp off one side of the stretcher
before the medi-wizards were obscuring her vision again. They’d each taken a handle of the
stretcher, and Hermione opened her mouth to say something but her brain couldn’t decide
what , before flames roared to life around them and they disappeared.

Whatever she was going to say died on her tongue, and she was left awash in the crowd.
Chapter End Notes

Ahem. So it's been longer than anticipated. Let me recap my life for the last month:
returned from Europe trip, got laid off, my union went on strike, the person I live with
also lost their job, had my soul crushed by the impending recession and ever-present
weight of capitalism, and between all of that and job hunting I have been trying to finish
manuscript edits for my original novel! If you enjoy sorcerer romances featuring bratty
anti-hero princes and themes of death and paganism vs religion, perhaps watch this
space.

Needless to say I have been busy, but I just spent all Saturday smashing this out cause I
really wanted to get it to you guys.

Anyway, thank you as always for reading, please leave comments, they make my heart
sing, hope you lovely readers are all doing well!!! Tides be a turnin' around these parts. I
guess we're about a third of the way there? Mad respect to the 500k word fanfic author
girlies, but this shall not be one of those.

Feel free to say hi @rreliquaries on tumblr.

 Chapter 12
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

NOVEMBER 2004

Hermione had just finished removing the muck and grime of the match from herself with a
questionably hot shower when she was startled by a quick, insistent tap on her window.
Wrapped only in a towel—with another wrapped around her hair—she went to let the bird in,
and found she didn’t recognize it. It was a plump, speckled thing, and it seemed to preen
when she untied the message from its leg.

“I suppose you want a treat now,” she said drily, and could’ve sworn the thing’s eyes bulged,
its feathers poofing up. She fished a pellet out of her treat box and offered it to the owl, who
swallowed it in one rapid bite while Crooks watched intently from her bed.

Hermione shook her head and took a large sip of the lukewarm tea she’d left on her chest of
drawers, anxiety curling in her gut as she unfurled the message. It was never a pleasant thing
to receive a strange owl after business hours.

Granger, the note began, and she immediately recognized Oliver’s chicken scratch.

I need you to get ahead of the Malfoy story. The other outlets all smell blood in the water now
that Skeeter’s bomb’s gone off, and no doubt they’re going to make a sensation out of today’s
incident. This may be a swell opportunity for the Digest to showcase itself as a respectable,
gossip-free trade.

I’ve spoken with Falmouth leadership and they have granted us an official interview with
Malfoy regarding the incident. He’s been moved to a non-intensive care unit, but will be
required to remain at St. Mungo’s until tomorrow evening. With any luck, you’ll get to him
before the others are able!

St. Mungo’s reception is expecting you first thing in the morning. Please check in with me at
the office afterwards.

Knock ‘em dead,

Oliver

P.S. You’ve now met Katie’s owl, Bean. Cute fellow, but he’ll nip you if you don’t send him off
with an extra treat.
An exclusive interview with Malfoy, about how his recent, highly-publicized break-up with
Astoria Greengrass was irrelevant to him being uncharacteristically socked in the face by a
bludger? Perfect. Exactly how she wanted to spend her morning.

Hermione clenched her teeth. So much for calling it an early night. She’d have to do research
—pull stats on his previous career injuries, past bludger hits, compare it with other seekers,
along with anything else that might help her put things into context. And worse, she’d have to
talk to him about said stats, which he would be much more intimately familiar with. No doubt
he’d use the meeting to his advantage, taking every chance he got to make her look
unqualified.

Which she unfortunately still was. Sort of. There were certainly plenty of Quidditch
journalists who knew the team and player history better than she did.

Tea with McGonagall was sounding better and better. Come to think of it, she’d been
meaning to conduct some research on Hogwarts professorship as well. Not that she wasn’t
already highly familiar with the job terms, salaries, schedule, but, well—just in case there
was something she didn’t know. She raised her hand to shoo the little owl out the window
when it did, in fact, snap her finger in its beak.

“Ow!” she exclaimed, angrily throwing a treat out the window for it to fetch. The bird
eagerly jumped out after it, after which she slammed and locked the window.

She sighed, undressing and changing into some pajamas. Merlin, when did she become so
careless? She couldn’t even recall. Obviously it was going to be a long night. Might as well
make it a little more fun. She went to the kitchen and poured herself some Baileys on ice,
before cracking open the season records Oliver had given her and starting off on her
lamentable task.

The next morning, her wand alarm came like a dagger to the skull. She groaned, spitting
some curls out of her mouth and lifting her head from where she’d fallen asleep with her nose
quite literally in a book. A half-drank glass of Baileys sat on her night table. The smell of it
made her stomach churn.

Dawn was breaking through her bedroom window. She glanced at the clock. Just after seven
in the morning, and she’d been up till four at least. Oh, if only she had the nerves to hex
herself, maybe she’d finally learn. She certainly deserved it.

Her head dropped back onto the page. The last thing she remembered was combing over
Chudley’s seeker history. No wonder she’d fallen asleep.

She felt a soft paw on her head, followed by a strangled meow. Hermione groaned again and
rolled over. Crooks was looming over her, his little amber eyes insistent as if he knew she had
somewhere to be. He meowed again.
“Fine,” she sighed, attempting to blink away the headache that was starting to form. St.
Mungo’s visitation hours started at eight. She supposed she needed to get going.

Hermione dragged herself to her wardrobe where she quickly downed a Pepperup potion,
then followed it with a Sleekeazy—but even that could hardly tame the disaster that always
resulted when she fell asleep with wet curls. She huffed at her reflection in her full length,
casting a series of charms on her hair until finally she was satisfied with a messy sort of up-
do. Pulling a few curls out to hang around her face, she took a closer look at her features—
and cringed.

Merlin, she looked like shit. The bags under her eyes were so bad she may as well have been
punched. Her lips were dry and chapped. She was fairly certain several new fine lines had
formed around her mouth and eyes overnight.

Heaving another sigh, the witch quickly cast another glamour over her face, then examined
herself again. Mostly better. Then, for some reason, she glanced down at her arm—at the
ugly scar marring her tan complexion—and made sure to cast a glamour over that, too.

Now, what to wear? What did one wear to an exclusive interview with one’s bedridden
childhood bully? One who had apparently thought to apologize to others, and not to her. He
was all but guaranteed to think she looked like a drab, sad excuse for a journalist in anything
she wore anyway.

She didn’t know. She’d never tried. Pansy Parkinson would certainly never have this
problem. Hermione didn’t know where the thought came from, but it was true all the same.
Simultaneously brushing her teeth, she flung open her wardrobe and scoured it for anything
the Slytherin witch might consider passable.

She started with a gray button-down dress with long sleeves and a thick collar that she hadn’t
worn in ages. She’d only buttoned it halfway, however, before she promptly flung it away.
Too secretary. It certainly didn’t say esteemed journalist. The next thing she tried—a plaid,
sleeveless, V-neck dress which she pulled over a white Oxford—became the second addition
to her no pile. Too schoolgirl, Merlin, why did she even own it? Then she remembered Ron
had picked it out and promptly vanished it.

She finally settled on tucking a black turtleneck into a camel-colored calf-length skirt.
Simple. Modest. Hang the rest, why did it even matter? The article wasn’t about her
wardrobe, for fuck’s sake. The witch cast one last skeptical glance over herself in the mirror
before shoving her wand into her bun and apparating to St. Mungo’s.

Check-in was an obnoxious process per usual, made even more so by the fact that she had to
force her mouth to form the words, I’m here to see Draco Malfoy. The receptionist at the
visitor’s desk—an older witch with a face immobilized by Botox, and since when had Botox
come to the wizarding world?—gave her a supercilious sort of up-down.
“I’m with Quidditch Digest ,” Hermione clarified, not bothering to keep the irritation out of
her voice. “I was told I was expected.”

“Mm. Through security, then up to the fifth floor. Room 506,” the witch replied.

Eager to be gone from the lobby—which was filled to the brim with pushy, overbearing
parents, as apparently there had been an outbreak of chizpurfle lice at Madame Juneberry’s
Nursery School for Gifted Young Witches and Wizards—Hermione pushed through to
security and handed over her wand. The aurors on duty looked like they’d barely graduated
Hogwarts, and Hermione briefly wondered just how low the DMLE had dropped their bar for
admission since the war, desperate to fill all of the new positions they'd created. Then she
passed through a polyjuice detector and they returned her wand, and she was on her way—
making a quick stop at the self-serve coffee machine before proceeding.

Hermione liked St. Mungo’s. It was one of the few places that still felt like a genuine,
authentic place to her. Healing work was wholesome. Meaningful. It wasn’t riddled with
bureaucracy or publicity or ad campaigns or bribes. Sometimes she wondered if she should
have sought a career in Healing instead of the Ministry, but always circled back to the
conclusion that she didn’t have the patience or tolerance for it. Healing required treating all
people with objective kindness, regardless of their background or beliefs, and that part of her
—if it’d ever existed—had been burned away in the war.

As had the part of her that expected good things out of life. Hence why she shouldn’t really
be surprised that she was presently standing just out of view beyond the open door of
Malfoy’s hospital room, preparing to interview him about bloody Quidditch of all things. A
paycheck was a paycheck, she tried to remind herself, doing her best to steel her nerves.
Besides, it wasn’t like she’d never spoken to Malfoy before. Still it was odd, and felt
uncomfortably intimate to visit him in this place regardless of the professional circumstances.

She straightened her spine, wrung out her hands and drew a deep breath, wiping her clammy
palms off on her skirt. With any luck his mouth would be swollen shut and she could leave.

It wasn’t.

She rounded the corner to find him sitting upright in bed, wearing an off-white hospital gown
with a book splayed across his lap. He looked up when he heard her enter the room and their
eyes met. He snapped the book shut.

“Granger,” he said coolly.

She had to admit he looked much better than when she’d last seen him. A large blue and
purple bruise still lingered across the right side of his face, stretching from his temple to his
jaw, but the swelling had gone down and his eye looked normal again. If his lip had been
split, it was mended now. His hair was clean, too, and somehow combed away from his face
—no longer stained with blood.

“Malfoy. You look better,” she said, clearing her throat.

“High praise,” he drawled as his mercurial eyes flickered over her. No doubt withholding
some snide remark about her attire.

Feeling awkward standing there, she gestured to the chair near his bedside and said, “May I?”

He rolled his eyes. “By all means.”

Hermione took a seat, scooting the chair back just a bit to maintain a professional distance as
he leaned away from her to place the book on the opposite end table. His hospital gown,
which was tied at the neck and waist but otherwise open in the back, shifted to reveal a
stretch of his bare skin. She looked away, her eyes finding a different spine—that of the book
—instead. The Great Gatsby. That was unexpected.

“Well, Granger. Shall I send for tea?” he said with mock enthusiasm, his gaze returning to
her. He straightened to his full seated height against the headboard of the bed, his long legs
sprawled out in front of him beneath the hospital duvet, and even like this he was quite taller
than her.

“I’m alright, thanks. I prefer coffee,” she said, showing him her cup and then rummaging
through her bag for her notes, some parchment and her modified Quick-Quotes Quill.

“Coffee? You may as well drink Skele-Gro,” he replied in disdain, his features twisting.

She glanced up at him, assessing his face once more, wondering how much Skele-Gro he'd
been forced to down. “Broken jaw?”

“Among other things,” he answered, looking down the point of his nose at her as he crossed
his arms over his broad chest. “Well, let's get Wood’s little report over with.”

So he could send her on her way. Still she nodded, burying the irritating twinge she felt in her
chest with a swallow.

“I didn’t know you read muggle literature,” she interjected, grappling at small pleasantries.
Merlin, this was so awkward.

“What was it you said to me at the charity gala, Granger? Ah yes—don’t pretend to know
me,” he replied.

She looked up at him at that, and though his words were non-committal she found him
looking at her with something vehement in his ice-colored eyes. She blinked, trying to distill
the resultant heat that crept up the back of her neck.

“It belongs to St. Mungo’s’ monumental literary collection, if you must know. Certainly not
my first choice,” he added drolly.

“Well do you like it?” she pressed, taking a sip of her coffee.

He scowled. “Hardly. Like most byproducts of MACUSA, I’ve found it shallow and lacking
in substance thus far.”
Hermione nearly choked on her coffee. She hadn’t expected that .

His scowl deepened, and oh what he must think of her manners. “What?” he said.

Hermione swallowed. Biting back a smirk she replied, “Nothing, it’s just—I quite agree. I
found it rather boring and impossible to connect with the characters on a fundamental level.
There’s just something so unsympathetic about a man who only cares about his wealth, even
if that is sort of the point,” she added, unable to refrain from throwing out a little bit of bait—
wondering if he’d take it.

“His wealth is hardly the most offensive thing about him. It’s the manner in which he
displays it. Tactless new money foolery, as some would say. The author hardly seems critical,
either, though the novel is obviously intended as a critique. Instead it reads like some sort of
bloody wet dream,” Malfoy remarked.

Hermione let out a burst of laughter at that. She couldn’t really disagree. Malfoy was looking
at her quizzically.

“Have I missed something?” he said carefully.

“You’re such a snob,” she replied, unable to keep from smirking despite herself. “Tactless
new money foolery,” she mocked. “Who speaks like that?”

“Yes, water is wet, Granger,” he said slowly, articulately, tongue curling around every
syllable.

“I will say your assessment is fair—though in Fitzgerald’s defence, I do think the book has
some merits,” she added, breezing past his reply.

His brows raised. “Such as?”

“I think its message is valuable. Power corrupts, and obtaining it is meaningless if you lose
the things that really matter to you in the process,” she answered. When he didn’t say
anything to that she added, “Regardless, I would say the U.S. has produced far better books.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said, his gray eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Then he
hesitated for a moment before saying, “Are you wearing glamour, Granger?”

Hermione’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open. Her brain spun through a million things to
say, but it was useless. She glowered at him. His expression turned triumphant.

“What is the Golden Girl hiding now?” he pressed, his voice dropping to a lower pitch that
had the odd effect of making her shiver.

Her smile and mirth died away.

“Don’t call me that. I didn’t sleep well, if you must know,” she finally said, which was true.

“Come now, Granger. I may not have had quite your marks in school but your platitudes
won’t work on me,” Malfoy replied, leveling her with a stern look, his upper lip curling as
though he were disgusted she would even try.

She swallowed, meeting his gaze. She wasn’t sure what sparked the words to come out of her
mouth, but something about him had always provoked her, like a child told not to play with
fire. “If my business is so important to you, why don’t you just have a look yourself,” she
dared him, recalling his comments about being a Legilimens.

He regarded her for a moment before a slow smirk spread across his face. “That would be
poor manners, Granger, and remove the fun of making you cop to whatever naughtiness
you’ve been up to.”

Something curled low in her abdomen at that—at the prospect of being forced to cop to her
naughtiness , whatever that meant—and she couldn’t help the way her gaze flickered to his
lips as he spoke, then back to his eyes.

And fuck . He noticed. She swore he did, because his smirk widened ever so slightly and
something devilish glinted in his eyes. Suddenly her throat felt flushed. Being trapped in his
silver gaze was like being a fly caught in a jar, and she was just as desperate for a way out.

“Right. Shall we be on with this piece, then?” she said, blinking away her discomfort and
clearing her throat.

His expression turned distant and cool. “If you insist.”

“I do. Why don’t you start by telling me about the game prior to the injury,” she said. When
he didn’t begin, she glanced up at him.

He was looking at her with raised brows. “Really, Granger? Is that all you’ve got?”

Hermione let out a groan. “Dammit, I’m trying , Malfoy! Why must you always make
everything so bloody difficult?!”

“That’s not my intention. You’ve simply disregarded all expectations for yourself and find it
jarring when others still maintain them,” he replied.

She was speechless for the second time that morning. “I haven’t—that’s not—”

“You may lie to your friends all you want and they may not notice or care, but I think I’ve
made it patently clear it won’t work on me. Try again,” he said.

Hermione wanted to scream. Merlin, he was the most insufferable man on planet earth,
lounging there in his hospital gown like he hadn’t a care in the world. She huffed out a sigh.

“Fine!” she snapped, her quill scratching out her previous attempt. “Falmouth’s match against
Ballycastle was an intense, fast-moving game from the start. There was less finesse in the
gameplay than usual, from both teams. Did the tense energy have an effect on your mindset
or composure?”

He watched her for a lingering moment, then looked thoughtful. “Hardly. I’ve always
appreciated a fast-paced match. If anything, I thrive on competition. It pushes me to excel.”
She met his eyes for another brief moment, then looked back at her notes. “The weather that
day was one of the gloomiest we’ve seen this season, and we’re of course heading into the
winter months. Is there a chance the weather was a factor, given we're coming off the summer
months?”

“No, Granger. I crave a sunny day as much as the next Englishman, but playing in cloud
cover is advantageous,” he replied.

“Have you noticed any changes in the Eaglet brothers’ beating technique or strategy since
last season which may have contributed to the injury?” she asked.

“I will admit the team appears to be functioning as more of a uniform entity, perhaps as a
result of MacDougal’s promotion to captain. They were able to maintain coverage of my
position throughout the match—something they have previously failed at,” he answered,
though it was becoming obvious he wasn’t interested in discussing this at all.

Hermione glanced back at his face. “Did you know the bludger was coming?”

He stared back at her, unblinking, before saying, “Yes.”

“For how long?” she said.

“I became aware of it several fractions of a second before it hit me,” he answered.

“Yet you didn’t dodge it,” she continued.

“No,” he said.

Hermione pursed her lips and frowned, observing him. “Why?”

“You of all people should know the answer to that, Granger,” he said coolly.

Hermione paused and set her quill down, her frown deepening. “Pardon?”

“Sometimes victory requires throwing oneself in the line of fire,” he shrugged.

Was he speaking of the war? She nearly scoffed at the thought. It was hardly an apt
comparison.

“It’s just a Quidditch match, Malfoy. Victory isn’t worth having your brains smashed in by a
bludger,” she scowled.

“Easy for someone in your position to say,” he replied, the corners of his lips tugging
upwards in a mirthless smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Someone in my position? And what position is that? A matchgoer?” she said with a little
incredulous laugh.

“Someone who was not only welcomed back into wizarding society after the war, but
elevated to the highest ranks of it,” he quipped.
“I—” she started, but he cut her off.

“Allow me to finish. This is all I have, Granger. Just Quidditch. I don’t expect you to have
noticed. Very few have paid attention to the lives of reintegrated Death Eaters and Dark Lord
sympathizers, including those actually responsible for carrying out the terms of the act—and
I don’t blame them for that. In many cases our sentencing and the chance to return to
wizarding society was more than we deserved. But there are other pursuits I would have liked
the chance to follow.”

He was no longer looking directly at her. Perhaps somewhere over her shoulder.

“A potions mastery, for one—but I’ll spare you the details. Quidditch was the only field
which would accept me, and only because they were hurting terribly for players after a
generation was either recruited into other fields to support the war effort or otherwise forced
to let go of silly dreams in such dark times and I happen to be not so bad on a broom. I am
head of house now, heir to all of the Malfoy fortune, but like your Gatsby it hardly matters at
all when my name, my reputation, and anything that might have mattered to me have been
tarnished beyond repair—and deservedly so. Still, Quidditch has afforded me the opportunity
to make a name for myself beyond my father’s shadow—joke as it may be to you—and that
opportunity depends on my performance. My statistics. The number of times I catch the
snitch,” he said spitefully.

Hermione gaped at him. “I never—”

“You’re a very frustrating witch, you know,” he said, his eyes cutting back to hers.

“What does this have to do with me?” she exclaimed, drawing a sharp breath.

“It’s maddening to watch you destroy yourself, Granger—to see you leap off the pedestal
they gave to you. And to watch your so-called friends allow it to happen,” he added
scornfully. “I dare say Weasel even helped push you off of it. What has he contributed since
the war? Nothing. Couldn’t stand being outshined, and exposed for the coat-tailer he is.”

“My relationship with Ron and the reasons for our break-up are none of your fucking
business, Malfoy. How many times do I have to say that?” Hermione hissed.

“No, nor do I care to know them. It seems to be merely a symptom of the problem, anyway. If
I had to guess I would say this downward trajectory began long before Brown’s name ever
appeared in the papers,” he replied, giving her a challenging look.

“You’re one to talk. You have some nerve, criticizing the state of my house when you hardly
have your own in order,” she snapped, standing from her chair and shoving her notes and
parchment into her bag.

He scoffed. “I’ve told you, Granger. My relationship with Astoria was hardly the same.
That’s off the record of course, as these things are larger than me. My official stance is that I
was indeed heartbroken out of my senses, hence the injury. I hope that will suffice.”

She stared down at him, disbelieving, while he glared haughtily back at her.
“And you have the nerve to call me a liar,” she whispered finally, shaking her head.

“I’m not a man of many morals, Granger. I’ve never scorned you for lying. Rather, I think
you should spend some time considering whether the people you’re protecting from the truth
—that you’re suffering—are worth your protection. Or if they would want you to protect
them. Perhaps it’s time for you to lay down your weapons,” he drawled as though they’d
returned to discussing the weather.

She couldn’t believe him. She hoped Oliver would be satisfied with what she’d gotten,
because she wasn’t sticking around for any more of this.

“Enjoy your stay, Malfoy. Hope it’s been worth it,” she spat, turning on her heel to leave the
room. A thought occurred to her as she reached the doorframe and she spun around, finding
him watching her. “If you’re so concerned about your readmittance into society, perhaps you
should consider apologizing to those you’ve wronged. Luckily I'm not holding my breath.”

She would savor the resultant look of incredulity on his face for the rest of the day. Hermione
was so eager to apparate away that she nearly collided with Narcissa Malfoy as she rounded
the corner on her way out. The older woman was wearing an elegant green dress under a
brown wool coat, and was carrying a vase full of marigolds.

“Miss Granger,” she said, clearly startled. Her eyes gave Hermione a once-over.

“Mrs. Malfoy. Apologies, I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll just be on my—”

“Narcissa will do. Were you visiting Draco?” She peered at her.

Merlin, she didn’t need this right now.

“For the Digest , yes. Falmouth agreed to an exclusive,” Hermione replied, hoping she didn’t
sound as strained as she felt. “Those are lovely flowers,” she added as a subject change.

“Thank you. They’re from my garden. How is he?” she said in earnest, tilting her head.

“Better,” she ground out.

“Yes, in fact I’ve just come from visiting Rita. She nearly insisted on publishing a rather
gruesome photo of my son’s injuries, but I convinced her otherwise. I didn’t think it
necessary, as we all have imaginations. Perhaps you recall the moment, as I believe you were
witness to it,” Narcissa replied.

Hermione paled. She recalled Padma snapping a photo in her face as she’d watched Malfoy
carried off the field. She hadn’t had much time to consider how that photo had turned out,
however.

“I don’t recall,” she lied. “It was all a blur.”

Hopefully Narcissa Malfoy was no Legilimens. Hermione had heard such things run in the
family.
 Narcissa gave her a watery smile. “Of course. I won’t hold you any longer, as I’m sure you’re
very busy. I look forward to reading your article.”

Hermione forced a smile of her own. “I will be sure to have Oliver send you the first copy.”

Narcissa nodded. Hermione didn’t linger, making swiftly for the exit before she gave the
other woman another opportunity to see through her.

Chapter End Notes

Whew. I don't know what I'm doing here. I've got this story plotted out but am also just
wINGIN IT. *slaps clown-makeup on face, adjusts clown wig*

Little longer between updates here than I would have liked but as you all saw July was
rough. Luck has turned around a bit! I'm employed again. So is my roommate. Thanks
for all the kind words.

Kudo me. Comment me. Tell me what you like, it makes my day. Support WGA/SAG-
AFTRA if you want creative jobs to exist in the future. That is all.
 Chapter 13
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

NOVEMBER 2004

“This is good, Granger,” Oliver said in his Scottish lilt, holding the unfurled parchment
which contained her draft of the Malfoy editorial out in front of him by either end. Late
morning sunlight filtered in through his office windows, dulled by November clouds. “Very
good. Humanizes the lad without babbling on about his personal life. I like it.”

He cast her a conspiratorial grin. Clutching her fourth cup of coffee, Hermione did her best to
return it, strangling her upper lip into submission where it threatened to curl back.

It hadn’t been her intention to paint Malfoy in any sort of humanizing light. She’d had one
mission in drafting the article: remain as neutral and objective as possible while providing
exclusive details to the best of her ability. Apparently she’d managed.

“Mind if I?” she said, gesturing for the parchment.

“By all means.” He passed it to her.

She wasn’t quite sure why her insides had turned to knots at the thought of publishing the
thing, beyond the fact that she’d had too much caffeine and perhaps a trip to the loo was
imminent. It was just an article. Still, it couldn’t hurt to give it one last glance over before
Oliver sent it off for printing—and so she did.

In the British and Irish Quidditch League, Draco Malfoy is a name synonymous with game-
winning catches and new league records. Just last year the seeker set the current league
record for fastest victory achieved in a match, securing the snitch a shocking five minutes
into gameplay while seeking for his previous team, Montrose. With his trade to Falmouth,
Malfoy’s opportunities have only increased—and one can only imagine, so has the pressure.
However, one could say that in terms of being a Malfoy, pressure comes with the name.

The now head-of-house excelled in Quidditch from a young age, as apparent from his
victories while seeking for Slytherin at Hogwarts during his early years. Whether his pursuit
of the sport initially stemmed from true passion or strong-handed encouragement from his
elders remains unknown, though many have their suspicions. Nevertheless, Malfoy’s talent in
the sport is undeniable, and remarkably the seeker was able to emerge from his Hogwarts
years virtually unscathed in terms of sporting injuries.

Draco Malfoy’s real challenges came later, during the Second Wizarding War and his
resultant time spent in Azkaban. In spite of the turmoil of these years, however, the seeker
was able to retain his athleticism and interest in the sport, with several league teams
competing for his commitment upon the completion of his sentence. The reformed wizard
ultimately re-joined British wizarding society with a Montrose contract in his pocket after a
dramatic pre-season.

Simultaneously, another commitment was announced—his betrothal to Astoria Greengrass,

with whom he attended Hogwarts for some years. It is not news that the Malfoys and
Greengrasses have historically been close, with the former anchored in Wiltshire and the
latter maintaining a residence in the nearby Cotswolds, and it has been said that the pair
have known each other since childhood. What is news, however, is the decision to call off
their engagement as such dealings are typically viewed as gauche and taboo among
pureblood circles. Thankfully times are changing, and one can only hope that soon we will
leave such betrothals and marriage contracts in the past along with other traditional views
that no longer suit wizarding society, with wizards and witches unquestionably able to marry
who they see fit.

Regardless, one question has been at the forefront of fans’ minds since last night’s match: is
the upheaval in Draco Malfoy’s personal life at the root of his unprecedented injury? And can
Falmouth rely on him in the near term? Quidditch Digest was afforded an exclusive interview
with the seeker, and hopes to provide an answer.

“I’m grieving,” Malfoy said when asked about the engagement.

It was not specified whether or not the decision was mutual, but given the seeker’s demeanor
at the time of the interview one could reasonably infer the decision belonged to Miss
Greengrass. Malfoy continued to elaborate that he was not within his senses during the
Ballycastle match due to the rawness of the break-up, and that these circumstances directly
contributed to his injury.

“Of course I’d rather avoid another bludger hit,” he said when pressed about his fitness to
fly in upcoming matches. “There is always a grieving period. However, that period will pass
—and in the meantime, I have a duty to my team.”

He also clarified that he believes the weather had nothing to do with the injury. “Playing in
cloud cover is advantageous,” he stated when asked to comment on the gloom. The seeker
did, however, concede that Ballycastle has tightened their form. “Perhaps as a result of
MacDougal’s promotion to captain, they were able to maintain coverage of my position
throughout the match—something they have previously failed at.”

Such a statement is nearly akin to praise coming from the newest Falcon.

Still, it is apparent that Draco Malfoy does not anticipate a repeat of last night’s match. The
hit was costly, dealing him a broken jaw, fractured orbital bone and several cracked teeth,
according to Healer reports. Nevertheless, the seeker has been released from St. Mungo’s and
anticipates being cleared to fly as early as this evening’s publishing.

“I’m very much looking forward to what the season brings,” he said when asked about the
remaining season—sounding nearly threatening when he expressed as much. “We won, didn’t
we?”

A fair point. Injured, but not inglorious. It seems Falmouth has nothing to worry about for
now.

We at the Digest are also looking forward to the remainder of the season. Stay tuned for more
exclusives and Quidditch news.

Hermione swallowed and rolled up the parchment, passing it back to Oliver. It was as good as
it was going to get. She only hoped Malfoy didn’t have the audacity to take issue with her for
putting words in his mouth. It wasn’t as if he’d given her much to work with, and she rather
thought she’d done him a favor.

When the clock struck five and she was released from her duties, Hermione opted to pop into
Diagon on her way home, the Quidditch drama reminding her that it was long past time to
send Viktor Krum a postcard. However, when she stopped at one of the newsstands selling
postcards with idyllic moving pictures of wizarding London, she couldn’t stop her eyes from
trailing to the other trades to see what they were saying.

She found them utterly idiotic.

Heartbroken Draco Malfoy Throws Himself in Front of Speeding Bludger! , read

Rumours!’ front page.

Distraught Draco: Falmouth Seeker Seen Leaving St. Mungo’s in Tears , said Witch
Weekly’s gossip column.

Many suspect Draco Malfoy deliberately intercepted the bludger with his face, in a last-
ditch effort to show former fiancee Astoria Greengrass that he can’t go on without her. The
pair’s betrothal was practically written in the stars, and sources tell us we have nothing
more than Astoria’s gentle love letters to thank for keeping our beloved seeker’s spirits
intact during his year in Azkaban. How will he go on without her? blathered the Prophet.

The sound that escaped Hermione at the last bit was entirely undignified. Receiving a
reproachful look from the shopkeeper, however, she quickly selected what she thought was
the postcard with the prettiest depiction of wizarding London—Diagon in the fall—and
hurried on to the Apparition point so she could go home to her cat and her wine. The witch
spent plenty of precious hours in the Quidditch world during the workday, and there was no
need to trouble herself with it in her off time, too.
Over the weekend Chudley snuck out a win over Wigtown in which Ronald had perhaps the
best game of his life that Hermione was happy she missed, Portree and Appleby had a rather
dull, drawn-out match in which it took four hours to catch the snitch, and Ginny was over the
moon when Holyhead beat Wimbourne in a blowout. It was a slow weekend otherwise,
although Hermione did manage to owl Viktor, informing him of her new position and
wishing him well, though she was sure he was busy and wouldn’t hold her breath for a
response.

Tuesday arrived, bringing with it her meeting with McGonagall. Knowing Oliver, he
might’ve had a good laugh if he discovered she’d flooed out of the office just before lunch
with the intention of interviewing for another job—with his former head of house,
nonetheless—but she thought it best to keep it to herself. Dressed sensibly in a navy dress,
oxford heels and a brown peacoat, Hermione arrived in Madam Puddifoot’s with clammy
palms and a roiling stomach.

“Miss Granger,” came her former professor’s unmistakable voice. “I thought that might be
you.”

Hermione dusted herself off to see Minerva McGonagall standing near the floo, clad in
burgundy robes over a high-collared black dress, and her hands in a brown fur muff. Her blue
eyes twinkled beneath her pointed, wide-brim hat.

“Headmistress,” Hermione nodded a greeting, her mouth curving up in a close-lipped smile.

“What a pleasure.”

“I thought we might take the corner table,” McGonagall said, angling her body towards said
table and raising a brow at Hermione.

“That sounds lovely,” Hermione replied, following the older woman across the tightly-packed
room. It was crowded in Madam Puddifoot’s—lunch rush, she supposed—and the place was
alive with a cozy, autumn sort of ambiance that reminded the young witch of her school days
in a way that stung slightly. True to its reputation, the majority of the tables were filled with
what appeared to be young love.

“The usual, Regina,” McGonagall said with a smile and lingering look when Madam
Pudifoot wove her way to their table.

“Of course, Minerva—and oh, Miss Granger. What a pleasant surprise,” Madam Pudifoot
said, spotting her.

Hermione flushed. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever actually spoken to the woman. Most
of her memories of the place consisted of Harry’s complaining that it was nightmarish and
Umbridgey . With all of the pink and frills, he certainly had a point.

“It’s very nice to see you again,” she said anyway. “I’ve missed Hogsmeade.”
“Yes, I often miss Hogsmeade when I’m away as well,” Madam Pudifoot sighed. Hermione
didn't miss the way her hand curled briefly around the headmistress's shoulder, then, taking
the hint, she swept off to fetch a pot of tea. McGonagall sat close-lipped until she returned,
allowing the pair of them to bask in the rather ridiculous atmosphere in the interim. “There
you are,” their gracious host said upon returning with a teapot in a paisley cozy, pouring them
each a serving in a pair of lily pad-decorated cups. “Sandwiches and cakes will be out
shortly.”

“Thank you, Regina,” McGonagall replied, stirring a single sugar cube into her tea.

Hermione took hers black.

“Well, Miss Granger. It has certainly been a while,” the headmistress said, drawing a slow
sip.

“Too long. I must admit I was surprised when you contacted me. Happily surprised, of
course,” Hermione added.

McGonagall’s lips curved upwards. “Yes. With the exception of our…unfortunate Defence
Against the Dark Arts professors, it’s not often that Hogwarts staff leave their positions. But
before we begin—I must ask how you are.”

Glittering blue eyes bore into hers. Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her fingertips
pressing into her too-hot teacup.

“I’m well. As mentioned, I no longer work for the Ministry,” Hermione started, briefly
considering providing some half-baked excuse as to why she didn’t, but knowing the older
witch would see right through her she straightened her back and said, “I was fired.”

“I see.” McGonagall took another tip of her tea, then set her cup back on its saucer with a
gentle clip . “What for? I find it rather hard to believe.”

“Well,” Hermione said breathily, folding her hands in her lap. “Perhaps you’ve seen in the
papers that Ron and I had a rather tumultuous split. It impacted my work,” she trailed off.

“Oh dear. I’m very sorry to hear that. I was rather fond of Mr. Weasley during his time at
Hogwarts—of course, those words are for your ears only, my dear. A bit dull, but a lion’s
heart when it mattered. I’m sorry to hear that it didn’t work out,” McGonagall said with a taut
expression that said she wasn't exactly too sorry.

Something twinged in Hermione’s chest. How odd it was, to be here speaking so candidly
with a witch she so revered.

“It’s for the best. And in retrospect, I think it’s best I no longer work for the DRCMC. Percy
and I never got on well,” she replied, clearing her throat.

“Oh yes, Percival. He will do well at the Ministry,” McGonagall said with a weary look.

Hermione snorted. Thankfully it was at that moment that Madam Pudifoot returned with a tea
stand filled with an assortment of sandwiches, scones and cakes. They smelled wonderful,
and with a nod to Madam Pudifoot, McGonagall helped herself to a cucumber sandwich.

“I’ve had my share of failed romances as well, you know,” the older witch said, peering at
her.

Hermione raised her brows. “Oh?”

“In fact, Elphinstone first proposed to me at this very table,” McGonagall answered matter-
of-factly, taking a well-mannered bite of her sandwich.

Hermione’s eyes flitted down to the laced tablecloth, then up to the chaotic wallpaper. She’d
heard that McGonagall was a widow, but knew nothing of the person.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said politely.

McGonagall’s throat bobbed with a sip of tea. Dabbing at her lips with her napkin she said,
“Yes, I miss him dearly. We were married a happy three years. Then his life ended, and mine
kept on. Unfortunate how that happens.”

Hermione swallowed, not sure if she should voice her next question, but doing it anyway.
“May I ask how?”

“He was an auror, Miss Granger. It is a dangerous thing to marry an auror,” McGonagall
replied.

Hermione thought of Harry and Ginny, and the war, and how lucky they all were to have
escaped with their lives. How many had not.

“I don’t think I’ll have to worry about that,” Hermione said. She considered reaching for a
scone, but wasn’t sure her stomach would agree with the sugar.

“There’s plenty of fun to be had without all the trouble of marriage anyway,” the
headmistress replied with a prim sip of her tea. As the words left her mouth, her twinkling
blue gaze shifted to somewhere over Hermione’s shoulder, and the younger witch twisted to
see Madam Pudifoot fussing about the other side of the room. “Nevermind all that, let’s get
down to business, shall we?” McGonagall added, calling Hermione’s attention back.

Hermione nodded. “Yes, I’d love to hear about the position.”

“Allow me to start by saying I believe it was very good of Wood to offer you a position with
his publication. However, I must admit I think it a bit of a shame for someone with your
unparalleled wits to be expending their mental acumen on Quidditch, Miss Granger.” the
headmistress continued. “Surely you are not passionate about the sport?”

Hermione shook her head. There were parts of it that interested her, and sometimes she even
enjoyed the work, but passion? She hardly remembered what that felt like.

McGonagall pursed her lips. “I thought as much. Now, as you likely know Professor
Dromgoole has been our Professor for Ancient runes these last few years following the Battle
of Hogwarts. She has been perfectly adequate, but if I’m being perfectly honest she never
quite filled Professor Babbling’s shoes, and I am eager to find someone who might.”

Hermione blinked. That was a big assertion.

“And you think that person might be me,” she said slowly.

McGonagall shrugged, in that proper, sophisticated way of hers. “Well why not? I have no
doubts regarding your intellect.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind. I did always enjoy Ancient Runes,” she replied with a furrowed
brow and thoughtful purse of her lips.

“May I inquire as to your hesitations?” McGonagall pressed with a raised brow.

Hermione tapped her teacup with her fingertips. “It’s just that—I’m not sure I’m ready to
return here. I do miss it, but in some ways I think I’d like to retain my Hogwarts memories as
they were before the war. They were the happiest years of my life,” she added rather meekly.

“I see. Tread carefully, Miss Granger. That way lay ruin.”

Hermione’s gaze snapped up to the headmistress’s. “Pardon?”

“Things do change, whether you’d like them to or not. And you will not find happiness
gazing upon days no longer here,” McGonagall said.

There was something stern in her expression Hermione didn’t dare challenge.

Hermione nodded slowly. “In addition, I don’t know if I’m ready for professorship. These
days, I worry I might lack the confidence, if I’m being honest.”

The headmistress nodded. “Understandable. But how will you know if you don’t try?”

“You’re right,” Hermione said with another nod, unable to voice what she was really
thinking: which was that she was tired of trying. She didn’t know if she had another try in
her.

Perhaps it’s time for you to lay down your weapons, whispered a treacherous voice in her
head. Her fingers curled into fists in her lap.

“I am extremely confident you would make an excellent professor, Miss Granger. You have
all the makings for it, and invaluable experience to boot. Do not waste yourself,” the
headmistress said with a finality that sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine.

She glanced at the clock. Her lunch break was nearly over.

“I need more time to think about it, if that’s alright,” she said, standing.

“Oh, don’t wait for me—I’ll linger here a while. And of course, think it over, Miss Granger. I
will owl you with compensation details, as well as other terms. Please write to me with your
decision before fall term ends the third week of December,” McGonagall said.

“I will,” Hermione replied. “Thank you again for the tea. It was perfect.”

She’d hardly drunk half her cup.

On her way out, the witch couldn’t help but glance around at the happy couples filling the
shop, romantic enchantment brewing over scones as though it were Amortentia rather than
tea in their cups. A hollowness opened in Hermione’s chest—something not quite envy, and
not quite pity. She’d been single for nearly five months now, and alone for much longer. In
some ways, she craved what they had. The lingering glances, the gentle touches, the
blistering passion and feeling. The notion that someone cared, and you were held, and
everything was going to be alright.

The illusion. Oh what she wouldn’t give for some illusion now—to delude her own brain as
she might have as a child watching muggle magic tricks in a parlour, willing to believe
anything solely due to her own naivety rather than the incantations and twists of someone
else’s wand. But as McGonagall acknowledged, even good things when attained couldn’t last
forever. And in the face of that, she was supposed to try ? It was with a new weight on her
chest that Hermione flooed back to Oliver’s office to finish her workday.

When Hermione returned to her flat that night, exhausted and wrung out, the last thing she
wanted to do was open her window to an owl—but an impatient tap on her window
summoned her to her bedroom. Surely Viktor hadn’t managed to write her back already.

She swung the window open, crisp November air pouring in—and her heart sank. A large
eagle owl. A scroll stamped with the Malfoy family crest. Dread pooled in her gut. Another
invitation? Or was it something more personal this time? Perhaps he had words about her
article, afterall. Carefully she unlatched the message from the bird’s talon—startling as it
leaped off her window sill into the night—and unfurled it. Black ink stared back at her.

Ask Weasley why you never received your apology.

Hermione blanched, flipping the scroll over, but found the back side blank. It was absent a
signature as well, though there was no mistaking who it’d come from. His hand was formal
and elegant as she’d expected, but there was an uncharacteristic boldness to the letters as
though he’d been pushing down rather hard on his quill.
Anger bubbled up from Hermione’s insides, nearly catching her blood on fire. Red flashed in
her vision. Malfoy had no right to toy with her like this, but—why would he go through the
trouble to lie? Would Ron really have kept such a thing from her?

He’d kept bigger things from her . Hermione made a frustrated sound, crumpling the scroll in
one fist and vanishing it in a burst of wandless magic. There was only one way to deal with
this: she’d have to speak with Ron herself and clarify things. It was late, however, and she
was in no place to deal with seeing Lavender, or Ron for that matter after the day she’d had.
It’d have to wait till tomorrow.

Godric help her.

“Accio akvavit,” she grit out, summoning a bottle of spiced vodka from her kitchen that
Charlie had given her for Christmas last year, apparently having picked it up from a dragon
rehabilitation center in northern Sweden. She immediately uncorked it, taking a strong pull
from the bottle and letting the anise-flavored spirit burn her throat. Then she swept into the
bathroom and drew a scalding hot bath.

It was only after she’d undressed and sank into the steaming water, and taken two more pulls
of akvavit, that she could even begin to contemplate what she’d read.

Malfoy had apologized to her. Supposedly. And Ron had supposedly kept it from her.

When?

Several years ago, Granger, Oliver had said. Apologies were part of the Reintegration Act.

She'd been well aware of this fact. She supposed she'd just assumed Malfoy had somehow,
once again, managed to circumvent the rules.

Her fingers tightened around the bottle. What else had Ron kept from her?

Hermione took another swig.

And what had the apology said? If it existed, that was. She hated the way her heart lifted, like
a child trying to discern a wrapped gift at Christmas—as though she had anything to gain
from an apology from that man.

Merlin, when would this end? McGonagall had said not to live in the past, but the past
chased her. Do not waste yourself, McGonagall had also said.

There was nothing left to waste. The world had spent all she had to give at a young age, and
somehow had the gall to ask for more. Hermione sank down into the water, relishing the way
it stung her lips and burned her face. She wished it would burn her all away, along with
everything else that made up Hermione Granger, so that people might stop asking things of
her.

The witch didn’t bother dressing when she finally dragged herself from the bath some time
later, skin red and raw. She merely dried her hair briefly with a towel, too tired to use magic,
lest another thing be pulled from her—and climbed into bed. Burying her face in her pillow,
she released a heavy sigh.

Perhaps it was the liquor, but there was something that felt good for once about lying face
down on her stomach, face hidden from the world, a cool draft kissing her bare legs and back.
Ginny had once mentioned craving sex so good it made you forget your own name, and
Hermione had never experienced such a thing. It sounded amazing. She knew well that there
were some days which just made one crave an obliviate .

Lifting her hips, she slipped a hand under herself and lightly brushed a finger over the bud
between her thighs. Oh, how she simultaneously loathed and longed to be touched. She
shuddered, sighing into the pillow again. Heat pooled low in her abdomen, the contact
tugging at something deep behind her navel. The witch lifted her fingers to her mouth,
sucking them lightly before returning them to her cunt, rubbing a slow circle over her clit
until it was slick with saliva.

Hermione tilted her hips against her hand, groaning at the unintentional way her nipples
brushed her bed linens as she rocked into herself. Dipping a finger into her folds, she found
herself wet already, touch-starved, and dragged the slickness across her center, resuming
those slow, deliberate circles.

She gasped. Whenever the day came that some fool took pity on her and she finally shrugged
off her inhibitions, this was how she wanted it. Slow. Agonizing. Begging for relief.

Hermione couldn’t remember the last time Ron had fucked her. It’d probably been a year.
And properly? Never. Always a poor student, he’d never listened to what she’d liked—and
even if he had, she doubted he would have obliged. This part of her scared him. This part
that’d emerged from some dark, shameful part of her in the days following the war—the part
that wanted to hurt. The part of her that wanted to hurt and scream until she forgot there was
any other pain in the world.

The witch bucked into her hand again, slipping a finger inside herself while simultaneously
thumbing her clit—but it wasn’t enough. She wanted to be filled. Stretched.

A plaything for another.

She imagined firm hands sliding up the backs of her legs to cup her backside, gripping her
flesh with long, slender fingers that were sure to bruise. Angry hands that would press into
her skin the way they pressed into parchment, staining her skin with their touch.

Seeker hands. Dexterous and strong.

In her mind she heard a belt unlatch, a firm hand pressing down into her lower back, fingers
splayed to hold her in place while her partner freed himself from his trousers. Meanwhile she
ached, the rhythm of her fingers intensifying against her clit, but it couldn’t satiate the
emptiness inside of her. She imagined a shifting of weight on her mattress, as her partner
pushed her thighs apart with his knees, positioning himself between them.
“Look at you,” he said in a low voice that she knew well, but dared not name. “You’re so
wet. Top marks, Granger,” he said, and Hermione dragged a finger upwards against her slit,
imagining it was him. She imagined his breath hitching when he found her soaked, knowing
what waited for him.

She was at his whims, face-down, legs spread, nipples hard against her sheets and the ache
inside of her growing desperate. She nearly cried out as she imagined him notching himself
against her entrance, dragging his head between her folds, spreading her slick over his shaft.
He teased her at first, pushing just the tip in and stretching her ever-so-slightly, and Godric it
wasn’t enough.

“Is this all for me?” he said, leaning over her back to whisper against her ear. Gooseflesh
spread down her arms.

“Please,” Hermione gasped against her pillow, her fingers curling in her sheets.

Without another warning he drove into her to the hilt, gripping her arse with both hands, nails
digging into her skin so hard she winced as he pulled out, then drove back in again.

“Yes,” she cried into her pillow, desperate for the ache to be filled. “Harder, please, ” she
begged.

She wanted to hurt. Needed it. For once in her life, she wanted someone to give her what she
needed.

A pale hand curled around her mouth, gripping her jaw on either side, fingertips pressed
against bone as he held her tight.

“What was that?” he snapped in her ear, the back of her head brushing his chest as he fucked
into her once, twice more, his hips snapping against her arse and her wetness apparent from
the sound.

“I need more,” she nearly wept.

“This isn’t for you. This is for me.” His voice was velvet against the shell of her ear.

Fire was burning her up from the inside as the pace increased, and she was certain she was
drenched. She could smell her own arousal in the air, but was too far gone to feel self-
conscious.

“Do you want to come on my cock?” he said, fucking her deep, steady, holding her in place
as though she were merely a thing for him to use. He slowed his pace and Hermione thought
she might actually scream, the friction too much and not enough simultaneously.

“Yes,” she begged again.

A hand fisted in her curls, forcing her head towards him.

“Then be a good girl and ask nicely,” he whispered, his mouth dangerously close to hers, his
breath warm against her lips though she dared not look at him.
 “Please,” she whimpered in reply.

His other hand snaked under her, cupping her cunt in his hand as he thumbed her clit and
fucked into her slowly—and Hermione did actually scream, muffled by the pillow.

“Please what?” he said, a sneer in his voice.

“Please let me come for you,” she begged, spreading her knees further, taking him deeper,
bending her back against his cock and desperate to be filled by him.

“Alright,” he said finally, as though he were discussing the weather, brushing a strong thumb
over her clit once more.

Hermione shattered. Stars exploded in her mind as she came, hips curling around her soaked
hand as her body fell apart, and for a moment, briefly, she might have forgotten herself. The
witch rolled onto her back, her chest heaving and falling, her breath shuddering from the
force of her orgasm. She couldn't remember the last time she'd came like that.

She’d never looked at his face, but she knew exactly who it was that she’d imagined fucking
her.

Chapter End Notes

ahem, well here we are

 Chapter 14
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

NOVEMBER 2004

Crack!

Hermione apparated to Grimmauld the next morning, but not before throwing back a double
shot of espresso, donning a smart trouser suit and casting an extra-tidy glamour on her face to
hide the dark circles beneath her eyes. Nausea twisted behind her navel from where she’d
been pulled through space and time, aided by the lingering poison of vodka in her gut, but
she choked it back as she had many times before. Gritting her teeth, she rang the doorbell and
waited.

Ginny answered, clad in muggle training clothes.

“Hermione?” she said, confused.

“Good morning. I’m so sorry for the confusion, Gin, but I need to make a floo call—to Ron.
It’s important,” Hermione added, clearing her throat.

Ginny frowned. “To Ron? What for?”

“I’ll explain everything later, it’s just—he’s not still staying at the Burrow, is he? I’d floo him
myself but I don’t know where he’s living,” Hermione pressed.

“No, he and Lavender rented a flat in Devon last month. Please, come inside,” she said,
making way for Hermione to enter.

She did.

“I know it’s terribly gauche to show up like this making demands. I really appreciate the
help,” Hermione explained.

“Hermione?” Harry said, appearing in the kitchen doorway with a coffee mug in hand, still
clad in pyjamas. His hair was a mess, and for a moment Hermione felt like she was back in
Gryffindor common room. She blinked twice, and the nostalgia evaporated.

“Hi Harry. I was just telling Ginny I’m terribly sorry about the intrusion, but I need to use
your floo to make a call. To Ron,” she added.

Harry’s brow furrowed, but he nodded. “Oh. Sure. Is everything alright?”

“Relatively,” Hermione replied primly.

Ginny and Harry exchanged a concerned look, which Hermione pointedly ignored.

“Right. Obviously you’re welcome to use our floo. Would you prefer that I prime him for
your call?” Ginny said.

Hermione nodded. That seemed like the best course of action. Ginny threw a pinch of green
powder in the fireplace, called out for Ron’s flat and stuck her head through. Curling a finger
against her thumb, Hermione dug a nail particularly hard into her cuticle as she waited,
tensing.

After what felt like a lifetime, Ginny popped back out. “He says he’s available to speak.”

“Is he alone?” Hermione asked. She wasn’t going to have this conversation in front of
Lavender.

“Let me check,” Ginny replied, sticking her head back through. After another moment, she
returned. “He’s not. Would you like him to be? Lavender could wait here while you two
chat.”

“Yes, do that,” Hermione said, curling her fingers impatiently. “Tell him I have something
personal and urgent to discuss with him—something that concerns others besides myself.
Privacy would be best.”

“Alright,” Ginny nodded, eyeing her warily as if trying to assess the seriousness of the
situation. “Okay I’ll ask him.” Her head disappeared once more. She was gone for several
more impossibly drawn out moments before returning. When she did, Lavender popped out
of the floo behind her amidst a roar of green flames.

Hermione watched as the other witch, clad in muggle joggers and a t-shirt, dusted herself off
—her right hand instinctively landing atop her very round, very noticeable bump. Her gaze
briefly lingered there, before she glanced up and locked eyes with Lavender. A tenseness
passed between them, but Hermione lifted her chin and strode to the floo, clearing her throat.

“Right, then. I’ll be back,” she said, nodding for Ginny to grab a pinch of floo powder and
call out for Ron’s apartment. Grimmauld Place vanished before her eyes, and she instead
stepped into an airy Devon flat with sleek furnishings and tall, modern windows.

Ron stood by the fireplace, waiting for her with a cup of tea in hand. He lifted it to his lips, as
if it might bring back some of the color in his face—his present paleness accentuated by the
starkness of his freckles.

“Hello, Hermione,” he said with a swallow—clad like Ginny in muggle training clothes.
Perhaps they’d been training together.

“Ron,” she said in curt acknowledgement, her fingers curling at her sides. He gestured to the
sofa, offering her a seat but she shook her head. “This won’t take long.”

“What have I done now?” he posited.

Hermione blinked several times, drawing a deep breath. Truly, she should have thought more
about how to phrase this question. About how to articulate why it mattered.

“I’ve come to ask you—have you interfered with any Ministry-mandated apologies intended
for me?” she spluttered. His expression became dumbfounded as she added, “Specifically, an
apology from Malfoy?”

Ron’s face turned incredulous. “ That’s what this is about? A blasted letter from Malfoy?”

“Answer the question, Ronald,” she snapped, searching his face.

His frown deepened—turning thoughtful. “I don’t—well—it was a letter, wasn’t it?”

Hermione wanted to hit him with a bombarda . “How should I know!” she berated, hating
how her voice slipped into that shrill registry he’d often critiqued her for when she was upset.
There was no stopping it, however. “I never received it!”

Ron sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. “I think it was a letter. I think
I know what you’re talking about. Merlin, Hermione, that was years ago! What does it
matter?!”

“What does it matter? ” she scathed, stepping towards him. “It matters , because it was for
me! And you kept it from me! Bloody Godric’s hat, why am I surprised? What else have you
managed to keep from me, Ronald? Hmm? Don’t answer that, I never want to know. I’m sure
it’s more than you’ve let on!”

His face blanched with anger. “That’s not fair and you know it. Merlin, I know I’ve been
awful but I thought we’d moved on.”

“ You have,” she bit out, gesturing around to his and Lavender’s perfect new lovenest.

“Well, I—”

“Oh, sod it all, I’m not here to talk about that,” she cut him off, cringing at herself. “Fuck it,
Ron. I have moved on. But I still have a right to be upset that you kept something important
from me.”

“Important?” Ron’s brows raised. “He’s a Death Eater, Hermione. How important could it
be?”

“He is not a Death Eater, Ron. It matters because it should have been my decision whether or
not to hear him out. And you took that choice from me. Do you think you know better than
the Ministry, then? You’re wiser than the Reintegration Act? I wonder what Harry would
have to say, given that he co-authored it.”

“Look, I—” he started, scratching the back of his head. Sighing, he said, “I didn’t think much
of it at the time, alright? I’m sorry . I should have given it to you. I wasn’t sure what it was,
but I had my suspicions, knowing the Reintegration Act was making its rounds. I thought it
would hurt you, Hermione. Bring up things you didn’t want to hear.”
“What did he say?” Hermione pressed.

“What d’you mean? In the letter? Merlin’s bollocks, I don’t know. I didn’t read it. I just
tossed it,” he shrugged.

“You tossed it?!” she exclaimed, voice going shrill once more.

“Yeah, I fucking tossed it, alright? Because I was trying to protect you, Hermione! Alright? I
was trying to protect you,” he groaned.

Hermione felt as though the air had been sucked from her lungs. “Keeping the truth from me
isn’t protecting me. It’s manipulation,” she said.

Ron sighed. “I blew it, I know. I’m sorry. Okay? I really am. But I thought I was doing right
by you at the time. What could it have even said? I’m sorry I wanted you dead? Sorry about
your blood, please forgive the torture? Merlin’s sake, Hermione, you’re better off without it.
But I’m sorry I made you upset. Again.”

His words were a dagger to the chest—in part because in some ways, he was probably right.
A single tear slid down her cheek. She swatted it away.

“It should have been my choice,” she said quietly, clearing her throat. “Thank you for the
clarity. I suppose that’s all.”

“You sure?” Ron eyed her warily.

“Yes. Take care,” she ground out.

With that, Hermione turned on her heel and grabbed a generous pinch of floo powder, calling
out for Grimmauld Place. She did not look back.

“Thank you, Gin. Harry. I’ll catch up with you two later,” she said when she emerged on the
other side, making a point to ignore her friends’ bewildered stares. She avoided Lavender
entirely. “I must be going now. Have some other business to tend to today,” she added.

“Alright, Hermione. We’ll owl you,” Harry said, scratching the back of his neck.

Hermione nodded primly and disapparated with a crack . When she returned to her flat, her
head was swimming with postulations regarding the apology. What had he written? How long
ago had he sent it? It must have been sometime around the later half of 1999, or in 2000—
after the Ministry had first passed the Reintegration Act.

She would never know. Ron had tossed it, and it wasn’t as if Malfoy was going to grace her
with a do-over for something he’d been forced to degrade himself to do in the first place.
Curiosity be damned, it would serve her best to just let it go.
DECEMBER 2004

November disappeared in a dream of gloom and gold, filled with rainy days by the window
watching raindrops batter colorful autumn boughs. Quidditch season was in full swing, and
Hermione was happy to lose herself in a daze of drafting, churning out articles for Oliver as
though she’d been born with a quill in hand. McGonagall’s offer was a long-simmering stew
in the back of her mind, but for once she allowed herself to procrastinate, feeling no closer to
deciding the appropriate future for herself than she did to curing Dragon Pox.

Before she knew it the first morning of December had arrived, bringing a rather drenched-
looking owl to her window ledge. Setting her first hot cocoa of the season aside, she let it in.
A square, cream envelope was fastened to its leg.

Hermione Granger , was all it said in an efficient, if not especially tidy font. Giving the bird
an extra treat for its trouble, Hermione tore it open.

Dear Hermione,

Very nice to hear from you. It turns out I will have business in London next week. I will watch
Chudley play Puddlemere. Would you like to join me? Maybe you would like a beer after.

Hope you are well,

Viktor

A grin split Hermione’s face. So he’d gotten her postcard after all. She hadn’t seen Viktor
since the early days after the war, when he’d been in London to provide testimonies regarding
the events of the Triwizard Tournament per the Ministry’s investigation into the events
leading up to Voldemort’s return. Back then he’d indicated his romantic interest in her with
an offer to take her out, not realizing she was with Ron—Merlin bless the man, he never
looked at newspapers—and she’d politely declined though of course, she’d always found him
attractive. He’d taken it in stride.

Perhaps the interest was still there. And if it was, Hermione didn’t really see a reason to
oppose. How unfair for her, that without her knowing he’d set the bar so high when he’d
taken her virginity during Fourth Year. It’d never been as good since.

Now without the confines of a relationship, she was free to do all the exploring she pleased.
Though her face fell as she re-read his note. Puddlemere was playing Chudley . She hadn’t
seen Ron since she’d confronted him, and wasn’t particularly eager to see him again anytime
soon. If anyone could untwist her knickers about Ron, however, it was Viktor. He’d done it
before.

A second tap on her window startled her, and she pushed it open once more to permit a
second owl—this one bearing the Daily Prophet . Sighing, Hermione took the roll and
unfurled it.

WORKFORCE WOES: GRINGOTTS WORKERS EYE STRIKE AS TALKS BREAK

DOWN AFTER THIRD DAY OF NEGOTIATIONS

Hermione narrowed her eyes, scanning the page. Somehow, she’d had her head so buried in
her parchment she’d missed that the goblins had unionized. Good for them.

Taking a sip of her lukewarm hot chocolate, she couldn’t help but oblige the little tug in her
gut that told her to check the society pages. She thumbed through the paper, her eyes quickly
landing on a photo of a rather stunning-looking Astoria Greengrass standing outside of a
muggle cinema, clad in muggle evening wear. Beside her was a man she didn’t recognize.

Newly single Astoria Greengrass on date with muggle , the caption read. Interesting. She
hardly looked ill, and Hermione briefly wondered if glamour could transcend wizarding
photographs. It was hard to believe the young, gorgeous socialite was dying, and something
ached deep in Hermione’s chest at the thought. Too often she’d been confronted with the
possibility of dying young, and it was a fate she wished on no one.

Swallowing, she promptly screwed the lid of those thoughts on tight and shoved them away.
That way lay ruin.

Gaze wandering further, something seemed amiss—so she flipped to the sports pages, fully
aware she’d be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t looking for someone in particular. Lying
to other people, she could manage, but to herself? She hadn’t quite mastered that technique.

She found him, thighs clenched around a broom in his Quidditch leathers, wind whipping
through his platinum hair as he glanced over his shoulder—a look of determination on his
face. Hermione’s stomach somersaulted. Her memories of that vodka-drenched night several
weeks ago were fuzzy, but they were there, and there was no denying what she’d done the
last time she’d allowed herself to think of Malfoy.

Falmouth fumbles against Portree, the caption read.

Her brows lifted. She’d missed yesterday’s match. Well, Portree had been picking up. Their
standings were nearly as good as Puddlemere’s.

Her focus drifted back to the photo of the league’s star seeker, and she let her eyes linger just
a moment too long on the cords of muscle apparent in his thighs despite his leathers, the
breadth of his padded shoulders, the sturdiness of his gloved hands wrapped firmly around
his broom. Hermione promptly slammed the newspaper shut and rolled it up, fervently
chucking it in the bin.
Viktor’s timing couldn’t have been better. Clearly she was in desperate need of a shag if even
Malfoy had become sexually appealing. Next she’d be lusting after Goyle.

No, that was unfair , she conceded. It wasn’t beyond Hermione to acknowledge that Malfoy
was objectively decent-looking, and had been ever since he’d stopped looking like the human
personification of a sewing needle sometime around Third or Fourth Year. Sixth and Seventh
Year had steeped him in a gaunt, sickly effect of course, and from the one photo she’d seen of
him after his year in Azkaban he’d been downright skeletal. Really, it was remarkable how
well he’d bounced back.

These days he was, undeniably, quite handsome. But having good looks didn’t make one
attractive. A mince pie could be rather nice to look at, that didn’t mean she wanted to shag
one.

But you don’t wank off to images of a mince pie rawing you from behind, said a traitorous
voice in her head.

Hermione slammed her cocoa down on her desk and took out a parchment and quill,
scribbling a quick note.

Viktor,

Perfect timing! I’ll be covering the match for Quidditch Digest. Meet me at the base of the
press box before the match. Best seats in the house.

And a pint sounds lovely!

See you soon,

Hermione

Then she fastened the note to Viktor’s owl’s leg, and shooed it off.

That was how Hermione found herself, bundled in a wool coat and scarf, waiting for Viktor
at the base of the press box. It was a match on Puddlemere’s home turf, and the Clanwives
were out in full force. Torn between attempting to look like someone shaggable to a wealthy
Quidditch celebrity and wanting to remain inconspicuous, she’d settled for wrangling her hair
into a braid which she draped over her shoulder, and hiking her scarf up high over her face.
She’d considered bringing her flask in case she got nervous, but had ultimately thought better
of it.
Despite the match taking place on Puddlemere’s turf, there were plenty of Chudley jerseys. It
was always odd to see others wearing Ron’s number—turning up to support him with
unquestionable loyalty, something she’d hardly managed even as his long term partner. Gone
were the days of her falling asleep in a jersey shirt with his name lettered across the back, and
she did not miss them, but still, seeing Weasley splayed across the shoulders of strangers
made something sorrowful prickle inside her.

Hermione shook her head. Like Dementors driven off by a Patronus, those thoughts quickly
vanished at the sight of her old friend arriving.

There was no mistaking Viktor when he approached in a fashionable, if a bit garish, red,
thigh-length puffer coat with a fur hood. His combat boots looked properly coated in mud,
and every bit capable of crushing beater skulls. Thick hide gloves covered his large hands.
Eyes landing on her immediately, a close-lipped smile lit his face beneath a pair of bushy
brows.

“Hello Hermione,” he said with a grunt as she threw her arms around him, any anxiety she’d
had melting away. They’d always had an unspoken sort of kinship. “It’s very good to see
you,” he added.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Viktor,” she mused, releasing him to look him over. “You look
great.”

“Not bad yourself, Hermione,” he replied, his dark eyes briefly sweeping over her. “Are you
well?”

“I am,” she replied, and in that moment it didn’t feel like a lie.

“Good. Me too. Should we watch some Quidditch?” he said as ever the gentleman, he offered
her his arm.

“Absolutely, though I’m not sure how much of a match it will be,” she said slyly. Puddlemere
was sure to put Chudley through the ringer.

He snorted, and she took his arm.

The pair settled into the press box, taking their seats near the back amidst the slough of other
reporters. Hermione saw Padma seated up near the front, though she didn’t think the other
witch had spotted her. On the other hand, Theo was nowhere to be seen, thankfully. The last
thing she needed was the eccentric former Slytherin chattering in her ear while she was trying
to have a conversation with Viktor. They’d certainly caught some stares upon entering, as
Viktor was one of the most recognizable names and faces in the Quidditch world, but luckily
everyone in the box seemed professional enough and nobody bothered them. Satisfied with
her surroundings, she glanced out at the pitch.

Sun had broken through the gray to illuminate a head of red hair at the far end of the stadium.
Ron was stretching on his broom in front of the center hoop, leaned over to one side with his
arms above his head. She hoped he wouldn’t notice she was there. Cormac, conversely, was
huddled with Orchids and Goldstein near his own hoops while their third chaser, Willow
Ganders, seemed to be already arguing with the referee—as she apparently had a reputation
of doing.

Turning to Viktor she said, “So what brings you to England? You must tell me how you’ve
been.”

“Things have been going well. I have been invited to, erm, what’s the word—collaborate? On
a new broom with Nimbus. They want me to meet with them starting tomorrow,” he replied,
and though his expression was rather stoic, Hermione could see a glint of pride twinkling in
his eye.

“What! That’s amazing! Congratulations. I haven’t much kept up with the other European
leagues, but you must be doing well,” Hermione said.

“Yes. It will be my own broom line.” He flashed her a rare, toothy smile.

“That’s incredible . Not many players can say they’ve collaborated with a legacy broom
supplier.” Hermione raised her brows at him.

“No, it’s true. What about you? You are not wearing Ron Weasley’s jersey,” he remarked,
giving her a dark, pointed look.

Hermione blushed. Just because her awful break-up had been blasted all over the newspapers
in Britain didn’t mean the news had made it all the way to Bulgaria. To think so would be
vain.

“Erm, yes, well—Ron and I broke up. Back in July,” she returned with a tight-lipped smile
that hopefully said please don’t pry. All that mattered was that he knew she was single. Not
how she’d come by being so.

“I am sorry to hear it. But I never liked him after he made you cry at Yule Ball. Hermione
Granger deserves better,” he smirked.

Hermione felt the heat of her blush spread down to her throat. Well, this was going better
than expected already.

“Thank you. I like to think so, too. And what about you, Viktor? Any thorns in your heart?”
she replied coyly—or as coyly as Golden Girl Hermione Granger could manage to be.

Viktor laughed. “Well, yes. Her name is Anastasiya Markov. Maybe you know her? She was
a cover girl for Witch Weekly Ukraine.”

Whatever broom Hermione had been flying high on quickly nose-dove towards the ground.

She tried not to look javelined through the heart as she managed to croak out, “Oh, no. I don’t
know of her. I was never great at keeping up with Witch Weekly .”

Another one of her shortcomings as a witch.

Viktor waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Fashion stuff. Although she insists I do more
to groom myself. She chose this coat for me,” he added with a raised brow.

“It’s a nice coat,” Hermione managed.

Score, Puddlemere.

Viktor shrugged. “It’s good for me, to have someone who is not intimidated by my Quidditch
reputation. She is not afraid to boss me around. And I know she could have any man she
chooses. I am lucky it’s me. I hope you can meet her sometime. You would get along.”

“I’d love to.” Hermione’s smile did not meet her eyes, though it wasn’t entirely for lack of
warmth. She was genuinely happy for Viktor, that he’d managed to find someone who
seemingly wasn’t just with him for the wealth and fame. She just wished she hadn’t allowed
herself to get her foolish, girlish hopes up.

The referee blew the whistle, and then the match began with a ruckus of cheers, leaving little
room for thoughts of self-pity in Hermione’s mind.

From the start it was apparent that Puddlemere had a much stronger chaser team than
Chudley. Hermione had no idea how Fauns, Toads and Kulkarni thought they were going to
get past McLaggen. Really, their best bet was that their seeker, Samuel Ogbu, was having one
of his on-games. He was actually rather fast, if inconsistent.Still, what Chudley lacked in
chasers, Ron made up for as a keeper. He knocked three shots off course within the first five
minutes of gameplay.

“Weasley has gotten better,” Viktor remarked.

“He has,” Hermione replied. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d really watched one of
his matches, but she didn’t remember him being so agile.

“I wanted to see McLaggen play. There is talk of him making it to the World Cup,” Viktor
added, his heavy-browed gaze sliding to the other end of the pitch.

As he spoke, Puddlemere scored their second goal on Chudley—Ron’s newfound athleticism

coming up short.

Sometimes Viktor reminded Hermione of a hawk—perceptive and unintimidated. Like a bird

who knew their place in the food chain. He’d always been on top, and he knew it, but there
was something endearing about the way he let his accomplishments show. Not necessarily
humility, but a lack of entitlement. Like he knew his worth because he’d earned it through
blood and sweat.

He shook his head as one of Chudley’s beaters made a poor shot which narrowly missed
Toads. “ Tsk, ” he said. “They will never make the playoffs with those idiots shooting off
friendly fire. Rookie mistakes.”

Another goal, Puddlemere.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. It was rather ridiculous. When Ron called for a timeout,
Viktor stood.

“I think I would like a beer now. Would you care for one?” he asked.

“That sounds lovely,” Hermione replied. She was thankful that having a pint as a press
attendee during a Quidditch match didn’t carry the same stigma it may have in the muggle
world. She’d never admit it, but in some ways she found the wizarding world’s lack of
regulation relieving.

“You and Krum?” a young photographer, whom she recognized as Lena Fiddlewood,
whispered from her right. She’d met the witch on a few occasions now—primarily because
she kept insisting on introducing herself to Hermione. She worked for Griffin Images—
wizarding Britain’s premiere supplier of stock photos.

Hermione shook her head. “No, we’re just friends.”

The witch looked like she didn’t believe her, not that it was any of her business. Hermione
pulled her scarf up a little higher, and looked out across the pitch—indicating she wasn’t
interested in carrying on the conversation. Her gaze landed on a pale, familiar face, his
athletic figure clad in a sharp-looking black coat, his silvery hair muted by the overcast sky
though as always, it was still nearly impossible to miss.

She wasn’t sure how she had. Too wrapped up in her ambitions with Viktor, she supposed. He
sat nearly directly across the pitch from her in the VIP box. That had to be Blaise Zabini at
his side. He was looking her way, though from this distance it was impossible to tell whether
he’d actually seen her. Surely not. Surely he was just watching the match.

Hermione couldn’t believe she hadn’t considered the possibility that he might be here till
now. At least this time he was sitting far away. She didn’t know what to say to him—not after
knowing that he had, in fact, written her an apology. Not after discovering that some of her
anger towards him had been misplaced. Merlin, she didn’t even know what he’d thought of
her injury article.

“Cheers.” Viktor had returned, snapping Hermione’s attention away as he passed her a crisp
pilsner. Hermione took a deep swig that made him laugh.

“Cheers,” she replied. The match had resumed—whatever strategy Ron had decided to
employ underway—and with no sign of the snitch and a thirty to zero score, things were
beginning to look a little grim for Chudley.

Still, her eyes couldn’t help finding that black and silver shape across the field. Zabini had
leaned over to whisper something in his ear, and even from where she sat she could see his
brows knitted together in a scowl. His arms were crossed over his chest, his shoulder angled
towards her—and despite the quickening gameplay, she couldn’t shake her suspicion that he
was not actually paying attention to it.

“Hermione?” Viktor said, calling her back to the present once more.
“Yes?” she replied a little too breathily.

“I said how did you find yourself writing for a Quidditch paper? It seems odd,” he said with a
frown.

So Hermione launched into the story of how, in fact, she’d come to work for Oliver—leaving
out the goriest details, of course—and trying to ignore the pull she felt towards a pair of
stormy gray eyes across the stadium.

Chudley did, in fact, get thrashed. They’d hardly managed to squeak out a single goal before
Parkin caught the snitch, further boosting Puddlemere’s standings in the league. Ginny would
no doubt have heaps of foul-mouthed things to say about it.

Making a swift exit from the press box as soon as the match ended, she and Viktor had
mostly snaked their way out of the stadium before the flood gates of matchgoers truly opened
—though she did overhear a few gaggles of fans raving about Cormac’s heroism. Rolling her
eyes, she had just opened her mouth to suggest finding a nearby pub to continue catching up
when—

“Draco Malfoy is here,” Viktor Krum noted as he stopped them both.

Hermione’s stomach churned as she forced herself to look in the direction of the man in
question, pretending as if she hadn’t already seen him.

“Oh. Yes, I suppose that’s him,” she said weakly.

She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised Viktor would be interested in seeing him. They’d
gotten along exceptionally well at Hogwarts—not to mention Malfoy had supported Viktor in
the Triwizard Tournament—and Malfoy was one of few seekers who could give Viktor a run
for his money. They had plenty to catch up about, no doubt.

“Let’s see if he would like to join us,” Viktor said.

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“Malfoy!” Viktor called out to the blonde in his deep voice.

Hermione blanched. Malfoy nearly faltered in his long-legged stride, his head snapping up
from where he’d been staring rather intently at the ground in front of him as he walked. Then
he was the picture of aloofness, gloved hands deep in his trouser pockets—hands she’d
imagined touching her!—and a gray scarf bound neatly around his neck.

A grin spread across Zabini’s face. The pair altered their course slightly to bridge the
distance, though Hermione could see the resignation riddling Malfoy’s posture.
“What a pleasant surprise,” Viktor grinned, reaching his hand out to shake Malfoy’s. Malfoy
returned it with perfect pureblood cordiality and absolutely zero warmth.

Odd. Hadn’t he practically idolized Viktor in school?

“And Blaise Zabini of course. I don’t think we spoke much during my time at your Hogwarts,
but it is a pleasure to see you again,” Viktor added.

“No, we didn’t. What on earth brings you to Britain?” Zabini smirked.

“Work. Forgive me, I am being rude. You of course both know my dear friend Hermione
Granger,” he said, gesturing in her direction. In that moment, Hermione would have rather
pulled her own underage name from the Goblet of Fire in front of the entire school than feel
the weight of Malfoy and Zabini’s attention as she was now.

Why was she so flustered? She had nothing to be ashamed of.

“Yes. Hello,” she managed, meeting Zabini’s eyes, then forcing herself to meet Malfoy’s. She
tried desperately not to recall what she’d done the last time she’d really thought of him—he
wouldn’t look inside her traitorous mind, right?—but a blush crept up her cheeks anyway.
His gaze lingered on it for an extra heartbeat.

His expression was cool, but there was something very much burning behind it. She couldn’t
blame him if he’d discovered a newfound resentment for her following the way she’d spoken
to him at St. Mungo’s.

“Granger,” was all he said.

She looked away.

“Hermione and I were just going to catch up over some beers. Would you two like to join?”
Viktor offered, though his offer was more clearly directed at Malfoy specifically.

Glancing between the men, Hermione noted that Malfoy was taller than Viktor. However,
while Malfoy was built like a panther—slender and subtly threatening—Viktor was built like
a lion—all bulk and hard muscle.

Zabini’s eyes brightened, and he turned to Malfoy as if to say something, but the latter cut
him off.

“No, I’m afraid we have other plans this evening,” he answered.

Viktor was cordial as ever as he said, “A shame. I will be in London until Saturday. Please
owl me if you have some free time. I am sure there would be much to catch up on.”

“I’m sure,” was Malfoy’s clipped reply.

Viktor nodded a goodbye to the pair. Hermione shot a polite smile at Zabini, then once again
forced herself to meet Malfoy’s gaze. Somehow, it felt as though he were looking right
through her.
 “Goodbye,” she managed.

He said nothing.

As she and Viktor strode away to discover some nameless pub, she couldn’t help stealing one
fleeting glance over her shoulder—only to find Malfoy still watching her. She swore she saw
his jaw clench.

Chapter End Notes

Not me posting this with like two seconds remaining before I have to fly out the door to
go to work.

THANK YOU for all of your comments and support!! Especially those who have been
with me since the beginning or leave their thoughts on every chapter. I see you!!

Also, not me ruminating on all the other Dramione fics I could write. Vampire Draco?
Werewolf Draco???? IDK!! I should prolly just focus on this one.

BTW sorry I don't have a consistent posting schedule. For those of you asking, I try very
hard to at least get one chapter up a month, and hopefully more, but this is a passion
project amongst other busy projects and I don't always have the time. Stay tuned for next
time!! Fun things coming up.
 Chapter 15
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

DECEMBER 2004

“What bee’s gotten into your bonnet, mate?” Blaise said leisurely, looking far too fucking
pleased with himself where he sat with one leg crossed over the other on Pansy’s chaise. “Or
shall I take a guess?”

“Piss off,” Draco snapped, attempting to ignore the way his nerves were fraying under his
skin. Another firewhiskey should do the trick. He didn’t dare meet Blaise’s scrutinizing eye,
instead contemplating the brandy presently in his hand with a rather foul expression.

Reprehensible stuff. Why he always permitted Pansy to talk him into seasonal fun was
beyond him—he’d hated Christmas for some time now, something he’d ensured Pansy was
most certainly aware of—but if there was one thing he was absolutely incapable of, it was
letting his oldest friend down, and so it was for this reason he’d forced himself to accept a
snifter of the 40-year-aged Armenian paragon.

He drew the line at eggnog, however—a vice Pansy had acquired after a Fifth Avenue
Christmastime shopping trip she’d taken to New York some years ago.

“Always so moody,” the eggnog purveyor in question chided from where she stood by the
crackling hearth, warming her hands. She’d always run cold.

Beyond the window panes, the night had turned stormy—a mirror of Draco’s souring
disposition.

“Perhaps it has to do with the inadequacies of your spirits selection, Pansy,” he retorted,
meeting her gaze with a raised brow and languidly resting his free arm along the back of the
sofa.

“You didn’t find anything wrong with my spirits selection when you came over and got
properly pissed after losing to Portree last week,” Pansy quipped.

Draco raised a brow. “Those were extenuating circumstances, Parkinson.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “And crushing on Potter’s swot isn’t an extenuating circumstance?”

Blaise choked on his drink.

Draco’s ghost of a smirk dissipated entirely. He set his snifter down on the nearby end table
with a rather hard clunk .
“I am not— crushing , as you put it—on Granger,” he said deliberately, casting them both a
reproachful look. “I merely find Viktor Krum’s celebrity insufferable.”

“Ooh, that’s news. Let’s hear it,” Pansy replied, sauntering over to sit next to him on the sofa.
“And if you don’t drink your brandy, I will.”

“I have nothing to say that I haven’t said before,” Draco said resolutely, handing it to her.
Raising her brows, she accepted it and took a swig.

“And you’ve coincidentally chosen tonight of all nights to stew over our league and industry
providing opportunities for a player in direct competition with our own?” Pansy asked.

“Yes,” Draco said simply.

“I did hear about the Nimbus collaboration,” she said thoughtfully.

Draco nearly bit through his cheek, the fingers of his right hand curling into a fist. “What
Nimbus collaboration?”

“Oops. It’s not public yet. My lips are sealed,” Pansy answered coyly, occupying her mouth
with another sip of brandy. Draco’s stomach roiled at the sight of it.

“Fuck’s sake,” he grit out in a way rather unbecoming of a Malfoy head of house. “Of course
he’s got a Nimbus collab.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t already,” was Pansy’s matter-of-fact response.

“A hypothetical for you, mate,” Blaise interjected.

“No,” Draco replied, solely based on the look in Blaise’s eye.

“Let’s say Viktor Krum was presently on a date with a witch whose name didn’t rhyme with
ranger,” Blaise continued anyway. “You would of course be equally pressed over the Nimbus
collaboration.”

“Guaranteed,” Draco asserted.

“Uh-huh,” Blaise mused, looking like he didn’t buy it.

Draco scoffed and plucked his brandy back from Pansy, shifting his rueful gaze towards the
crackling hearth. “You’re one to talk, by the way, Pans. I hear your gallivants into
Weaselbee’s knickers are making the gossip rounds. In fact my mother questioned me about
it.”

“Narcissa still inquires after me? Of course, I am the one that got away,” Pansy smirked.

Draco rolled his eyes.

“There’s just something so delightful about unbuttoning someone so determined to be

buttoned up,” Pansy said with an indulgent sigh.
Blaise made a retching sound.

“Spare us the details, Pans,” Theo admonished.

“Surely you can relate, Draco. I know a witch with a similar appeal,” Pansy added, raising
her brows at him again.

Draco threw back the rest of his brandy, and certainly it was the alcohol making heat creep up
the side of his neck? A brief image of his pale fingers encircling the collar of a perfectly-
fitted muggle blouse flashed in his mind.

That was it. Standing and placing his empty glass on an end table with a thud he said, “I’d
prefer to never hear another word about the process of unbuttoning the middle Weasel,
Parkinson. I’ve lost enough years off my life as is.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it. You don’t know what you’re missing, Draco,” Pansy shrugged
as she kicked her legs up on the sofa.

“I think he knows exactly what he’s missing,” Blaise grinned from his chaise.

Draco had had enough. Casting them all a murderous look, he stalked to the floo.

“Like a blushing schoolboy,” Theo snickered.

“On the contrary, he’s a grown man. And a rather fit one at that,” Pansy countered. Then,
leveling Draco with one of her all-knowing stares, she added, “So act like one, Draco. Grow
a pair and ask her out. Or go home and have a good wank and get over it.”

“Fuck off. You’re all insufferable,” he ground out, fisting a handful of floo powder. Then he
called out for Malfoy Manor and was enveloped in a blaze of green.

Winter had fallen over Wiltshire, and it was under a flurry of snowfall that Draco made his
way to the broomshed the next afternoon, dressed in his flying leathers. He already had a
broom in hand—the newly-released Reaper from Swedish manufacturer Åska—but he’d
asked Topsy to clear the Nimbus collection out of the shed earlier that morning and wanted to
ensure the task had been handled. She’d given him quite the odd look, along with a protest of,
But Master Draco loves those brooms!

Times have changed, little elf. Krum collaboration aside, their technology had fallen behind
over the last few years and he was sure the junior league would welcome the donation.
Moreover, he wasn’t especially eager to retain anything that brought to memory his days at
Hogwarts, and there was one memory in particular tied to his first Nimbus broom.

At least no one on the Gryffindor had to buy their way in. They got in on pure talent .

Draco promptly locked that memory back in its box.

An improvement, he thought upon seeing the shed’s diminished inventory, though he still
retained close to forty brooms. Roughly ten were collector’s pieces, of course. And there was
not a speck of dust on them. Really, he was quite glad Topsy had opted to stay on with
Malfoy Manor when they’d freed the elves at the end of the war. She was extremely efficient.
Closing and locking the shed door with a flick of his wand, he slung one leg over his Reaper,
pulled his goggles over his face and kicked off the ground.

Draco made three quick laps of the grounds, staying below the cloud ceiling while
simultaneously leaning low over his Reaper and pushing it as hard as he could while he
tested its limits. Salazar, it was fast, with an expert turning radius, too. Holyhead would be
properly fucked next week. Spindlewheel wouldn’t stand a chance.

Circling around the manor, he took stock of its dark windows and cold facade. Torches and
candles flickered in only a few windows—those of his mother’s wing. The one she’d moved
into after his father had passed in Azkaban, no longer able to find comfort in their shared
chambers. Somehow, the house looked even colder now than it had in years before.

He still hadn’t quite grown accustomed to being master of these grounds, though to Pansy’s
point last night he was a grown man now—and the wards recognized him as head of house.

And the last one he would be.

With Astoria out of the question, he was more than certain there was not a self-respecting
witch left in Britain who would consider him in any serious capacity—nevermind whatever
rubbish Skeeter or Witch Weekly had to say. He knew as well as any that there was a stark
difference in the standards one held for a casual shag versus a spouse, and while he may have
galleons (of the wrong sort) and fame (also of the wrong sort) in abundance, perhaps even
good looks, the name Malfoy remained a stain.

Try as his mother might with her parties and teas and charities, there would be no undoing the
damage he and his father had done to their name. Wizarding Britain may enjoy dancing in his
opulent ballroom and drinking his fine wines and getting rich from betting on his games, but
Draco was no simpleton. He saw through them, and knew exactly how quickly he and his
mother would be shunned should someone in society find reason to turn on them.

This passable life he’d crafted for himself and his mother was fragile, and he would not give
another the opportunity to shatter it. Besides, he was not so easily impressed by a witch.
There were very few people in general whose presence he could tolerate in any regular
capacity, let alone in a romantic one.

And the only witch of his acquaintance who could possibly fit the bill had made it clear what
she thought of him. She didn't think of him at all.

Pansy was right, though he’d never admit it to his friends. It was nothing more than an
irksome crush lingering from his boyhood, and he needed to let it go. The Golden Girl was
destined for far greater things than him.

If only she’d stop being her own greatest obstacle.

But that was of no business to him. The only business he had with Hermione Granger was in
ensuring his own name was cleared, and that she was made aware that he had in fact formally
apologized, in accordance with the Ministry. That was where it started and that was where it
ended, and he would do well to keep that in mind.

With that, Draco unfurled a snitch from where he’d tucked it into his leathers and activated it,
letting it whirl away amidst the fog and snowflakes. He gave chase, allowing the winter
whiteout to similarly wipe away his thoughts, like an effortless bout of Occlumency.

His mother corralled him the moment he stepped back inside, damp leathers clinging to him
and his hair windswept.

“Draco, darling. I thought you might join me for dinner,” she said, conversely the picture of
elegance with her hands folded in front of her. Raising a brow at him in question she added,
“It’s been some weeks.”

It had, in fact, been some weeks since they’d dined together. Ever since the bludger hit she’d
been badgering him about his plans for the future, and how he should really consider turning
his hobby for potions into a career instead—if he insisted on having a career at all.

He had a feeling he wouldn’t particularly enjoy whatever it was she wished to converse with
him about, but he could never deny her, and so he simply said, “Of course, mother.”

She nodded, an enigmatic gleam in her eye. “Go and clean up.”

His mother cast him one rueful glance-over—she’d never much approved of Quidditch, even
before his injury—then swept over the hall, leaving Draco feeling resigned. Merlin, he swore
he could handle whatever it was so long as she wasn’t trying to push potential suitors on him.
That would not go over well, and besides, he’d only recently ended his engagement.
However, if one thing was certain it would be Christmas soon, and Christmas brought her
annual ball. Something told Draco he wouldn’t escape it unscathed.

“Topsy, fetch us a nice bottle of Bordeaux. Draco needs to warm up,” his mother said when
he took a seat at the table, showered and clad in a tailored black suit with a black turtleneck
underneath. His Malfoy signet ring glinted on his finger.

He sat in the seat he always had, across from his mother. His father's seat at the head of the
table remained empty, though his presence filled it all the same.

The house elf disappeared for a beat, then reappeared with a bottle of red, just as the first
course appeared on the table—leek and potato soup. Despite flying all day—his cheeks still
stung from the wind—he found he didn’t have much of an appetite. He did, however, easily
accept a glass of red wine.

“This winter seems as though it will be a cold one,” his mother started, buttering a slice of
bread.

Draco hummed in response, attempting to sip his too-hot soup.

“Rather picturesque for the ball, don’t you think? If the snow sticks,” she pressed.

Draco grimaced inwardly. They were jumping right into it, then.

“I suppose so,” he replied coolly.

She took a sip of wine, rolling it between her lips. “Have you given any thought to the guest
list?”

Draco lifted his gaze to hers. “No, mother. I assumed you would prefer if I left its curation to
you.”

Something like disappointment flashed across her features, making his heart twinge.

“There is no one whose invitation you’d like me to prioritize?” She tilted her head.

Draco shook his. “No one comes to mind."

“Very well,” she answered, drawing another spoonful of soup. “Astoria seems to be enjoying
herself as well as she can. According to the Prophet, she’s dating a muggle.”

Draco set his spoon down and pushed his soup to the side, instead reaching for his wine.
“Yes, mother. It appears so.”

He’d seen as much in the papers and wouldn’t pretend that he hadn’t—not that he’d been
intentionally following along. He had no interest in how Astoria spent her remaining days,
beyond hoping that she was as happy as she could be.

His mother must have sensed his irritation, because she leveled him with a scrutinizing look
as she raised her glass to her lips once more. “I merely say so because I wish her well. Not
because I take any qualm with one courting a muggle, or muggleborn for that matter.”

She’d added the last bit rather pointedly. Draco went still.

Setting his glass down, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Am I
meant to interpret something by that, mother?”

“Of course not, I merely mean to state it as plain truth,” she replied.

Perhaps her feigned innocence may have worked on him as a boy, but he was a boy no
longer.
“Of course,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “And what more would you like to state as plain
truth?”

“Nothing, darling. I merely thought given your recent encounters with the Granger girl—”

“I knew it,” Draco snapped, promptly removing his napkin from his lap, tossing it on the
table and standing.

“Sit. Back. Down,” his mother ground out in a way that Draco was not especially eager to
disobey. Though it pained him to comply, as the second mention of the golden witch in
regards to himself within twenty four hours had him feeling like peeling off his skin, he did
as his mother asked.

Sitting up straight in his chair and giving her a pointed look he said, “What is it you wish to
say to me then? Speak freely, please.”

“Well I found it quite endearing that she visited you in St. Mungo’s,” his mother said.

Draco scoffed. “She was there on business.”

“The interview could have waited,” his mother replied.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Granger could have any wizard she desires at her whims. She
certainly has no interest in me.”

“How can you be sure? Have you asked her? You know, I saw quite the photograph in Rita’s
office from the day of your injury. By looking at it, one would be inclined to think she cares
—”

“Of course I haven’t asked her,” he snapped, cutting her off. “You’re being ridiculous.”

He took a big swig of his wine. Somewhere in the interim, Topsy cleared away the first
course and replaced it with roast duck and carrots—which Draco had no interest in touching.

“But you would like to,” his mother answered with an all-knowing gleam to her expression.

“No,” Draco said flatly.

Yes , said a traitorous voice in his head. He ignored it, clenching his jaw tight.

“Alright, Draco. If you insist. Regardless, I intend to invite Miss Granger to the Christmas
Ball. I myself should like to get to know her better, and I believe there are many a witch
among our circles who might benefit from her acquaintance.” She didn’t look at him as she
spoke, focused instead on sawing off a morsel of duck thigh.

Draco let loose a mirthless laugh. “Mother, Granger is not a pawn to be played for your
societal maneuverings. She will see right through you. But do as you wish. I won’t be the one
to stop you.”
“I wish you would give yourself more credit, Draco. You’re very charming,” his mother said
matter-of-factly.

“Granger has never been one to be fooled by charms. And I’m not interested. In anyone,” he
said flatly.

“Perhaps the Ball will change that. I’m only trying to help you, my son. One day I won’t be
here, and you know as well as I the war took so much of our family. Family is everything,”
she said.

“Yes, family has done so very much for me,” he said sourly without looking at her, taking a
stab at a carrot. When she didn’t reply he looked up, to find tears welling in her eyes. “Oh,
mother,” he said, standing and crossing to her. “I didn’t mean to cause harm, but surely you
can understand my frustrations.”

Resting one hand on the back of her chair, he bent to peck her on the cheek.

"Forgive me," he added.

“And surely you can understand mine,” she sniffed, looking away. She’d never been one to
let him see her cry. Even when his father had passed.

How easily he caved when it came to her.

“Invite whomever you please. I’ll meet them all,” he conceded.

She turned to look at him, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. “Will you?”

“For your sake, mother,” he replied, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “I'll retire for the evening
now. Goodnight.”

With that, he left her at the dining table and retired to his rooms, no longer possessing the will
to argue that that ship had sailed with Astoria.

Taking a seat at his desk, Draco thought that if one thing was clear, it was that he needed to
be done with this Granger business before either he or someone else made a fool of him. His
own childish desires aside, it was true that they had developed an odd entanglement over the
past few weeks. One that needed to be unworked. Since she’d begun working in the
Quidditch industry, really. How irksome it was that he’d thought his boyhood crush long
dissolved, until she’d begun making regular appearances in his life once more—and just as
swotty and barmy as ever.

And somehow, he still found it enchanting.

And what was a crush , really? He couldn’t deny she’d grown into an attractive witch—
beautiful, even—but beautiful women were a sickle a dozen in his circles, and most of them
didn’t have an ornery, know-it-all, insufferable personality.

Not to mention her current trajectory. He’d never pegged Granger for the self-loathing,
destructive type, but war made monsters of all, he supposed. War, or adulterous weasel-
shaped partners. He couldn’t deny that he found it intriguing. And infuriating.

Mostly infuriating, watching her burn herself away as she currently was. On behalf of such a
daft, worthless prick nonetheless.

But that was Potter’s problem. Or Weaselette’s. Or even Krum’s, for that matter. Draco had
never been one to save people, despite whatever rubbish they’d spewed at his trial. What
Granger did with her life was none of his business.

He had a life and career of his own to fuss over.

What he wouldn’t stand for, however, would be allowing Weasel to seize the narrative,
making it appear as though he’d not only disobeyed Ministry orders, but also avoided the
bare minimum in making reprimands. He didn’t expect Granger to ever forgive him, let alone
tolerate his company, but he simply could not stomach the thought of her continuing to
believe that his views hadn’t changed. That after watching muggles devoured on his
Christmas dining table, seeing their classmates murdered by a sociopath in cold blood,
powerless but to observe as both his family and wizarding Britain at large fell to ruin, all in
the name of such prejudices which had ultimately landed him a year in Azkaban—that he
could remain the same person.

Over his dead body.

Draco unfurled a roll of fresh parchment, dipping a quill in his inkpot as he ruminated on
what he’d said in his previous letter to Granger. A winter storm was brewing beyond his
window, the gentle flurries of the afternoon now whirling through the air and coming down in
droves. He ignited his hearth with a wordless incantation as he began to write.

Granger— , he started.

And set his quill down. It wouldn’t suffice to merely transcribe what he’d said in the past.
Years had gone by. He’d grown. Perhaps there was more to say that—things he’d overlooked
before.

And maybe none of it fucking mattered. Perhaps she’d be better off if he simply kept his fat
mouth shut.

Perhaps Pansy was right. Perhaps all he needed was one solid, self-indulgent wank to get
over it and move on. She had never been and never would be his, nor did he want her to be.
What did it matter what she thought of him?

He pictured brown eyes, blinking slowly up at him through long, thick lashes, the way she
had at Pansy’s party.

Where’s Astoria?
What had it mattered to her? And what a little minx she’d looked like in that snug orange
dress, complete with tail and ears. The oldest trick in the muggle Halloween book , Pansy had
said, and yet he’d fallen for it all the same.

Conversely, she’d shown up at St. Mungo’s looking like a nun and while he still maintained
that it had probably been the pain potions, that had fucked with his brain as well. How he’d
wished to taunt her into climbing into his hospital bed, even if it’d merely been to pin him
down with her legs and punch him in the face as she had in third year. He would have taken
anything. Salazar knew he deserved it.

Draco’s trousers were suddenly tight against his left thigh, and he slouched back in his chair
to unbutton them, closing his eyes and pushing them and his boxer briefs slightly down his
legs as he fisted his cock. A groan escaped him as his thumb circled the head, already leaking
pre-come which he smoothed down his shaft.

How easy it was to imagine her in that turtleneck and skirt, one leg on either side of his hips
and only his hospital gown between them. How he would have loved to let her think she was
in charge for a while—bossy fucking swot—taking what she wanted, grinding herself against
his hard length as she slid her shirt over her head to reveal a pair of perfect tits. Gripping
himself harder and pumping his fist up and down, he imagined reaching for those tits,
cupping them entirely with his too-large hands, sliding his finger and thumb down to pinch a
nipple and making her gasp.

Horror would flash across her face for a moment, when she realized just who it was she was
allowing to touch her, but then he would sit up and catch a nipple in his mouth, grinding up
hard against her center and in the end she wouldn’t deny herself.

Because he would worship her. Holy fuck, he would make it clear from the beginning just
how he would worship her, and somehow Draco doubted that Granger had ever been
worshipped the way she deserved.

Gods, he was so fucking hard. Still so fucking hard for her.

How satisfying it would be to wrap an arm around that slender waist, flipping her onto her
back, her riotous curls spilling out over his pillow as he sucked and kissed at her collarbone,
coaxing little moans and whimpers from her gorgeous mouth. He’d chase her blush up her
throat, down her jaw, capturing her lips with his and tasting her tongue as he simultaneously
jerked her skirt down over her knees, his fingers brushing along her hot inner thigh.

Her cheeks would flush pink as she bore herself to him, clad in just her knickers, one of his
fingers sliding up her slit over soaking wet cotton. Against all her better judgment, soaking
wet for him. He’d press kisses down the column of her throat, nipping at her skin to make
sure she knew her place, swirling his tongue over her hardened nipples once more before
trailing kisses further down her beautiful stomach.

Perhaps she would even squirm her hips at first, when the knowledge struck of what exactly
he intended to do, but he would hold her in place, forcing her to look him in the eye—a silent
question.
 “ Yes, ” he imagined her saying breathily, pumping his hand faster, his own breathing turning
ragged.

Lower he would sink, pushing her knees apart, one hand splaying across her stomach to hold
her in place while he fisted his cock with the other. He would tease himself at first, running
his nose over her knickers, lapping at the edges of the seams with his tongue to savor the
moment while whimpers slipped out from between her lips.

She would be clutching at his hair, begging him by the time he finally pushed her knickers
aside, dragging his tongue up the slit of her cunt, drowning in her taste. Slowly he’d wrap his
lips around her swollen bud, sucking and caressing with his tongue, a moan tearing from her
throat as he continued to lap at her folds. He would bury his face in her while he fucked his
hand, waiting for the moment she finally fell apart on his tongue. Only when she was
trembling and soaking would he slide forward on his knees, pressing his hips against hers as
he notched himself at her entrance.

Draco only imagined it for a moment—her dripping wet folds sliding apart for him as he
pushed inside, her perfect cunt enveloping him—before he shattered in his hand with a stifled
groan. Thick white ropes of come landed on his thighs and stomach, coating his hand while
white stars smarted behind his vision. Boneless, his head knocked back against his chair and
finally after taking a moment to catch his breath he opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling.

Draco caught his forehead in his palm. He’d soiled himself like a fucking idiot. Like a
fucking schoolboy wanking off to some teenage crush.

Casting a shameful scourgify, he forced himself to sit up, button his trousers and scoot his
chair forward, sitting up straight as if it hadn't happened at all.

Yes, he needed to be done with this Granger business before he embarrassed himself any
further. So he set to work writing his letter, and soon he would be done with it for good.

Chapter End Notes

oop, surprise

just a little peek?

as a treat

P.S. Your comments give me LIFE!!! THANK YOU ALL so much for your kind,
hilarious, thoughtful words I am so happy to write for you.
 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

DECEMBER 2004

Tell me you shagged him . ( Again.)

-G

Hermione groaned, unfurling the Prophet snippet which Ginny had so kindly, so thoughtfully
attached to the owl. Her upper lip curled upon finding the headline.

REKINDLED FLAME SPARKS BLAZE AMONGST FANS - BELOVED COUPLE

UNDER THREAT?

Does our Golden Girl’s blaze of glory know no bounds? Hermione Granger was spotted
leaving a pub in muggle London this past week with long-time Quidditch darling Viktor
Krum. While the pair famously made public their trysts of the past during the ill-fated
Triwizard Tournament, any romance between the two has been long-thought over.
Needless to say, dear readers, we have questions! Is it a rebound? Or has the flame been
burning steady since? Fans are outraged on behalf of Anastasiya Markov—modern
dress robe model and favorite of Witch Weekly Ukraine —as she and Krum made their
relationship official just last year. Hermione Granger could not be reached for
comment.

“You never asked for a comment, damned woman!” Hermione shouted, promptly incendio’
ing the bleeding snippet. She really wished Ginny wouldn’t send her such rubbish. At this
point her friend’s curiosity, while sweetly intended, just felt like salt in the wound.

She was a grown woman for Godric’s sake. Perfectly capable of getting shagged on her own.
Not some charity case. She didn’t need her hand held. It wasn’t as though she were some
blushing virgin.

Nor was she the Whore of Babylon! It appeared whatever immunity she’d bartered from
threatening Skeeter had worn off. That would have to be rectified. And she’d apparently
offended a new battalion of fangirls. Perfect. Her new career was going absolutely
swimmingly.
Merlin, she hadn’t even shagged him. It’d been nothing more than a few drinks between
friends, because despite her earlier intentions, and despite what Skeeter thought, she
respected Viktor and his pursuits. And if she had shagged him, it certainly wouldn’t have
been worth whatever blazing heap of a rubbish fire Skeeter had just ignited—no matter how
many times he would have made her come with that pouty, Bulgarian mouth of his.

“Christ,” she muttered, sounding painfully like her mother as she dragged a hand through her
hair and chanced a glance at the full length which hung from her bedroom door. Well, she’d
certainly never find a proper, within-bounds, above-board shag if she didn’t make a point to
replenish her supply of Sleekeazy’s, and soon. She sighed again, her shoulders slumping.
Normally she had it delivered, but she knew that if she lingered around her flat a moment
longer, the calls from her spirits cabinet would become too great to ignore.

Fine. Diagon it was.

The witch quickly threw on a pair of denims and a fisherman jumper, along with her rain
boots as it was rather wet outside. Then she twisted her hair into a sad excuse for a bun,
wrapped herself in her raincoat and stormed out the door. Apparating would be easier, but she
was in the mood to blow off some steam. And there was something so masochistically
satisfying about the cool kiss of raindrops when one was boiling inside.

Hermione was thoroughly soaked by the time she stepped through the wall of the Leaky,
casting a quick drying charm over herself so as not to look entirely like the trainwreck
Wizarding London undoubtedly thought her to be by now. Luckily it was a week day, and
terribly dreary, which meant the number of stuffy witches and wizards mulling about to cast
her distasteful looks was at a minimum. She set her sights on Madame Primpernelle’s.

“I thought I might be seeing you soon,” the famously glowing, immaculate shopkeeper in
question said when she glanced up from behind the counter.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. What was that supposed to mean?

“Oh?” was all she managed to say.

“Had a rather promising reading from my tea leaves while looking through this morning’s
paper,” the other witch said with a wink. “Venus is in Sagittarius, you know.”

Hermione swore she didn’t mean to roll her eyes, but it was reflexive. Ever since the muggle
Internet had exploded, all the Trelawney-types had taken to trawling astrology forums as it
was much less tedious than star charting. As if they needed anything else to lose their heads
over.

“I thought I might pick up my Sleekeazy’s subscription early this month,” Hermione replied
with a grin-and-bear smile.
“Certainly,” Madame Primpernelle replied. She flicked her wand and a rather large potion
bottle in a velvet satchel came soaring into her hands from somewhere amongst the shelves
and cabinetry behind her. “Oh, and don’t forget this,” she added, handing Hermione a small
phial as she placed several coins on the counter.

Hermione looked at her dumbly.

“A sample of our nargle repellent. For the mistletoes,” she added when Hermione still looked
confused. “Just a smattering or two in your hair should do the trick.”

Hermione stared at the shopkeeper like she was speaking goblin until her brain caught up and
she remembered that yes, it was in fact Christmastime, and that nargles did in fact have a
penchant for mistletoe—at least according to Luna. She blinked and shook her head twice,
plastering her grin-and-bear smile to her face once more.

“Thank you,” she answered, before turning on her heel and promptly leaving the shop.

Christmas. As if she didn’t have enough rubbish on her plate already. Frankly, she was in no
mood for Christmas. Let alone mistletoe. Mistletoe required looking into someone’s eyes.
Letting them see you. Kissing .

That was decidedly not the sort of shag she was after.

With all of her article deadlines met and no matches to attend until tomorrow, Hermione
thought it sounded rather nice to lose herself in a book for the remainder of the dreadful
afternoon. Perhaps one she hadn’t read before. Her staff writer wages didn’t leave much room
for frivolous expenditure these days, but, well, Flourish and Blott’s was right here.

Her feet carried her inside of her own accord. She sighed, drinking in her first moment of
contentment all day as the smell of books accosted her. Where to start? Fiction? Non-fiction?
Perhaps a pulpy romance would do her some good. If she could learn to glean all her
satisfaction from fictional men, perhaps all of her problems would go away. Chancing a
glance or over her shoulder to ensure she wasn’t being watched, let alone about to be
solicited with divinations by irksome shopkeepers, Hermione allowed herself to drift to a
section of the bookstore she’d never perused before.

The selection was larger than anticipated. Really, how many different ways could a witch or
wizard fall in love with a vampire? And could vampires really love? She liked to think they
could, as most magical creatures were far more similar to wizarding folk than wizarding folk
liked to think, but still, it begged the question—how was intercourse achieved without blood
flow?

She dragged a spine from the shelf with her finger, flipping it open to see if it provided any
insights.

“Miss Granger.”

Hermione snapped the book shut, a chill shooting down her spine. Speaking of vampires.
Narcissa Malfoy stood at the other end of the bookshelf, garbed in elegant black robes.
“Ms. Malfoy,” she replied with a swallow.

“Narcissa,” the older woman answered, her lips ticking upward slightly.

Hermione could hardly imagine Narcissa Malfoy deigning to indulge in the filthy interspecies
adult publications between them, but she supposed she’d seen stranger things.

“Let me just get out of your way.” Hermione turned, doing her best to hurriedly shelve the
book without allowing Narcissa a look at the scandalous cover.

“I think our meeting fortunate.” Narcissa took several perfectly-postured steps towards her,
preventing her from leaving. “I haven’t thanked you for the advanced print of Draco’s
interview. I thought it well written.”

“Oh,” Hermione stammered, heat spreading across her cheeks. She was unsure as to whether
or not the woman was mocking her. There had been at least a sentence or two where she
hadn’t exactly been charitable to pureblood customs.

“The bit regarding some traditions being better left in the past was particularly necessary and
poignant,” Narcissa continued, her blue eyes perceiving and sharp.

Was she a Legilimens, too? Hermione swallowed. Never in a million years would she have
pictured Narcissa Malfoy claiming to have found her criticisms of pureblood traditions as
necessary and poignant . Then again, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility to think having
one’s husband die in Azkaban and one’s only son serve a stint as a result of said traditions
might have an effect on a person.

Hermione cleared her throat.

“Oh,” she said again, straightening. “Well thank you. I do take care with my writing.”

“So I hear. Draco tells me you’re an avid reader as well,” Narcissa replied.

Hermione’s mouth opened, then closed. Was Malfoy speaking about her to his mother?
Surely not, unless it was to whinge about her purportedly poor Quidditch coverage. No doubt
there had also been some instance during their shared tenure at Hogwarts where her avid
reading had offended him. She did recall them sharing an affinity for the same table in the
library, which had resulted in numerous spats about study real estate over the years.

It wasn’t as though her penchant for academics was exactly secret, either. The real secret was
that the Hermione who loved academics and found value in learning hardly existed anymore.
Knowledge had become more of a dagger in her side than a light in her life since the war.

She shoved those thoughts away.

“I have been, yes. A little less so lately. The Digest keeps me busy,” she replied as politely as
she could. It probably wasn’t appropriate to inform Narcissa that most of her admirable
pastimes had been subsumed by her copious drinking habits. Purebloods didn’t like when
things were said honestly.
“Ah yes, Quidditch,” Narcissa said coolly, her lip curling with characteristic disgust which
had till now been missing. “I’ve never enjoyed it.”

Hermione practically snorted—a reflexive, undignified sound that resulted in Narcissa raising
a brow. Perhaps things really had changed.

“Me neither, honestly. Though I am enjoying it more now than I thought I would,” she
confessed. “Well, I’ll just be going now.”

“Do you have a lunch appointment, Miss Granger? If not, I thought you might join me for tea
at the manor.”

Hermione did a double take of the woman. Certainly she hadn’t heard her correctly.

“Tea?” she echoed.

Narcissa nodded as though yes, obviously, of course she’d suggested tea. As though it were
something within the range of normal to suggest.

“It sounds lovely, but I—”

“Have a lunch appointment?” Narcissa tilted her head.

“Well, I—” Hermione started, her brain rolling through a series of unworthy excuses. “Not
exactly, but there’s no need for me to impose on—”

“Impose? Do be serious, Miss Granger. As things currently stand, there is nothing you could
do which would be an imposition on me,” the other woman replied, a solemnity to her
expression that Hermione hadn’t expected. “Please, I insist. Your article was quite charitable
to Draco and I’d like to express my gratitude. Wouldn’t you like to explore the manor
library? You may borrow any book you like.”

Hermione stared at her, dumbfounded. She didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t that she was
afraid of Malfoy Manor. Or Narcissa Malfoy, for that matter. But nothing about tea at Malfoy
Manor seemed particularly pleasant, books be damned. Though she really had heard
extraordinary things about that library. Even now that many of its darker editions had been
confiscated and removed, she was certain it contained heaps of rare titles, first editions, the
sort of texts she used to dream about getting her hands on.

Maybe even something about memory charms.

Narcissa was looking at her expectantly. And while she didn’t owe the woman anything, she
also had never been especially good at slamming doors in the faces of people who were
attempting to show her kindness. Even if that kindness was likely undermined by some
ulterior motive.

Perhaps she should take a page out of Malfoy’s book.

Which begged another question.

“I’d rather not intrude on anyone—” Hermione pressed, but Narcissa cut her off with a wave
of her hand.

“Draco is away for a match. Really, I could use the company.”

Right. Falmouth was scheduled to play at Wigtown tomorrow afternoon. And Narcissa
seemingly wasn’t taking no for an answer. Hermione supposed one cuppa couldn’t be so
terrible.

If only she’d had some gin for breakfast, she might have had the gall to say no.

“Tea sounds lovely,” she forced out.

Triumph sparkled in Narcissa’s eyes.

“Wonderful,” she said quickly. “Was there something you needed here?”

To Hermione’s horror, her gaze trailed over the spines between them, something almost like
humor tugging at her lips.

“No,” Hermione chirped.

That was how Hermione found herself stepping through a floo into the chill of Malfoy Manor
—which was draped in an elaborate display of Christmas decor. From the moment Hermione
stepped out of the hearth, she nearly collided with a tree that was at least three times her
height, dressed in silver ornaments and tinsel. Garlands lined the mantle and walls of the
foyer and several poinsettias flanked either side of the fireplace.

“Minny, will you please light the hearth? It’s rather cold,” Narcissa said with a shudder.

Please . Hermione could hardly believe the word out of the Malfoy matriarch’s mouth.

A house elf appeared, garbed in a seasonal red velvet dress. She wore a white bow between
her ears. Hermione had to admit it was rather cute.

“With pleasure, Miss,” the elf replied, and with a snap of her fingers the great hearth roared
to life.

“Miss Granger and I will take afternoon tea in the parlor. But first, please show her to the
library.” Narcissa paused, turning her attention to Hermione. “As mentioned, borrow any
book you’d like. Minny will show you to the parlor when you’ve finished.”

She smiled, all propriety and very little warmth. Hermione wondered if Narcissa Malfoy was
capable of warmth. If the war had chased it out of her. If she’d ever had any to begin with. If
she’d always been so cold.
Perhaps trauma was like frostbite, rotting you from the inside out and leaving you a little bit
less even when you found warmth again.

Nodding uncertainly, Hermione allowed the house elf to lead her down a corridor as Narcissa
disappeared—glancing up and reflexively lifting a hand to her hair when they passed beneath
a cluster of mistletoe. The last thing she needed was nargles.

Silver-eyed portraits of Malfoys past watched her as she followed Minny up a grand, garland-
adorned staircase onto a landing with enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. They provided a
view of what Hermione knew to be a lovely garden during the warmer months, and looking
through them she spotted the exact place where the outdoor bar had been during the Malfoy
charity gala. Where she’d sat and had an oddly-cathartic, half-intoxicated banter with the
Malfoy heir before she’d gone and offended him—the one thing she’d been reliably good at
throughout the course of their acquaintanceship.

Hard to believe several months had passed since then already. The ballroom must be
somewhere below them.

“This way, miss.”

The house elf was waiting for her at the mouth of another long hall. Hermione hadn’t realized
she’d been lingering.

The house was too big. Too lonely. She could almost see the ghosts of memories in shadowed
corners, nearly feel their touch like dementor’s breath against her skin. Remnants of days
bygone and a place that might have once felt like a home. But death left a footprint where it
walked, and there were footprints all over this house.

Malfoy would likely be furious to know she was here. In the past, that might have served as a
motivator, but now she just felt like an intruder. Like she was walking over someone’s grave.
Still, she was morbidly curious, and the possibility that the Malfoy library might contain
some stone left unturned in regards to her parents was simply too much to deny.

They arrived at a pair of grand, oak doors with brass ring handles. Minny pushed them open.
Hermione held her breath.

And gasped.

It was more than she could have ever imagined.

Soft light trickled in through enormous arched windows, illuminating dust motes which hung
in the still, quiet air. The room smelled of old books and ink, and maybe a little bit like
smoke. There was a hearth in the corner, flanked by two winged chairs and a sofa. The
shelves were as high as the vaulted ceiling. Some of them lined the walls. A giant Christmas
tree stood in the corner near the windows, tinsel and garlands of holly draped from the
chandeliers.

It nearly put the Hogwarts library to shame. No doubt there were much rarer texts within
these walls.
“The catalogue is here, miss,” Minny said, her tiny steps echoing off the marble floors as she
strode to a giant book which lay open on a desk at the forefront of the library. “But Minny
knows all the books. Please let Minny know if the miss needs help finding a book.”

The elf bowed, gesturing with a hand that Hermione should explore as she saw fit.

She didn’t know where to start. Her hand lingered over the catalogue, then paused.

“All books is safe for the miss to touch. Master Draco made sure,” Minny said rather proudly.

Hermione looked at the elf, raising a brow. Did he now?

Not for her specifically, of course. The Ministry would have mandated all dark magic and
artefacts were disposed of and removed from the manor. Still, she wouldn’t have put it past
him to sneak something under their noses. It wasn’t as though it were hard to do.

She would know.

Hesitantly, Hermione placed a hand at the edge of the catalogue and began to thumb through
the pages.

They made the most lovely sound.

Thankfully the catalogue was well-organized, though somewhat difficult to read in places as
it was handwritten and no doubt centuries old. It didn’t take Hermione long to locate the
section she was looking for, and she drifted off amongst the shelves, such a rare feeling of
novelty overcoming her that it was almost like being a First Year at Hogwarts again. Merlin,
she’d forgotten what it felt like to be awed.

Climbing a ladder to access the third shelf, she dragged a finger through the dust along
several spines. Sable Slumber’s Guide to Addling the Inaddleable. Vaguely illegal-sounding.
On Memory: A Beginner’s Guide to Obliviate. Not advanced enough. Time and Being: On the
Making of a Memory. She dragged that one into her arms, along with another simply titled
Unobliviate. Then a third spine caught her eye: Woven Lattices: On the Intricacies of Memory
Work . She grabbed that one too, for good measure. Tucking all three under one arm, she
carefully descended the ladder.

She supposed she should grab a few Quidditch books while she was here. Perhaps there was
something to learn which wouldn’t be accessible elsewhere. It wasn’t as though she’d be
back. She could owl the books when it was time to return them. Hermione deposited the
memory texts on the catalogue desk while she made one last sweep of the gorgeous library.

“Minny is happy to carry some books, miss,” the little elf said as Hermione pushed open the
library door with her foot, arms full with a stack of seven books.

“That’s quite alright, Minny,” she replied, tepidly walking forward though she could hardly
see.

Though she could conditionally accept the Malfoys having salaried house elves, she wasn’t
ready to go about delegating tasks to them. Nor did she feel comfortable depositing the books
in her extended bag. It felt like stealing. She thought Narcissa should see what she was
taking.

Hermione grimaced. Narcissa. Time for tea, she supposed.

Haphazardly, she started down the hall.

Skipping ahead of her as if to safeguard her from stumbling, the little elf said, “Really, miss!
Minny is very strong, stronger than she looks. Minny thinks the miss should—”

“I’ve got it,” Hermione ground out. She was no stranger to carrying stacks of books after all.

She couldn’t see Minny’s expression, but she imagined the elf giving her something of a
reproachful look as they left the hall and rounded the landing towards the grand staircase.
Hermione could practically hear the gears of the elf’s mind turning, preparing to say
something else, when she heard quick footsteps approaching from downstairs.

“Master Draco!” The elf said cheerily.

Hermione faltered, several books tumbling out of her arms and cascading down the staircase.

The footsteps stopped.

The witch’s heart rioted against her ribcage.

“Oh! Let me get those, miss!” Minny exclaimed.

Horrified, Hermione set the remainder of the books down. And forced herself to look up.

A pale, blonde wizard stared back at her from the bottom of the staircase—his expression a
mix of disbelief and fury. Dressed in his Quidditch leathers and looking disheveled and
windswept with a gray Falmouth robe around his shoulders, his mouth opened, then closed,
then opened again before he spoke.

“What the fuck is this?”

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face.

“I—” she started.

“The miss is Mistress Narcissa’s guest for tea, Master Draco,” Minny supplied adamantly.

The corner of his mouth twitched as he looked from the elf, then accusingly to her.

“Tea,” he parroted.

“Yes, Master Draco. The miss is going there now,” Minny replied.

“I didn’t mean to intrude. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. She said you were away,”
Hermione breathed, her cheeks flushing miserably.
His gaze raked over her from head to toe, lingering a moment on the stack of books at her
feet—then he turned and strode off in the direction from which he’d come, gray robe
fluttering at his ankles.

The elf gave Hermione a somber look.

“Minny thinks we’d better follow, miss,” she said.

Dread pooled in Hermione’s gut. This was her nightmare scenario. Exactly what she hadn’t
wanted to happen.

Godric.

And she’d left her Gryffindor courage somewhere in the war.

Minny levitated the books with a snap of her fingers, and with a flick of her thumb they
soared down the staircase and out of sight. She looked expectantly at Hermione to follow.
Hermione did.

“I will take tea with whomever I please,” she heard Narcissa saying through an open door as
they approached the parlor.

“Oh, do spare me the charade, mother,” Malfoy replied caustically.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

“Draco! Language!” Narcissa hissed just as Minny cleared her throat and pushed open the
door.

“I just wanted to say thank you for tea,” Hermione said hurriedly. “I’ll go now.”

“Absolutely not,” Narcissa protested.

“Mother,” Malfoy snapped.

“Be quiet, Draco. Miss Granger, I insist. One cup.”

Hermione looked from Narcissa’s insistent expression to Malfoy’s—which was incensed.

Simultaneously daring her to accept, and threatening violence if she did.

She just wanted to go home. Fuck the books. She’d get her hands on them some other way.

“Sit, Miss Granger,” Narcissa repeated.

“You heard—”

Narcissa shushed him.

Hermione watched his jaw close tight. Gray eyes shifted to her, unreadable.
And then, it was as though she remembered—she wasn’t scared of him. She’d never been
afraid of him. And she was here by invitation, whether he liked it or not.

The witch crossed to the chair near Narcissa, and sat.

His expression was indignant. But he didn’t say anything.

“Draco, you too. Sit,” Narcissa ordered.

Apparently resigning himself to her demands, Hermione watched as he sank gracefully into
the armchair across from her, though there was nothing relaxed about his posture. One gloved
hand curled over his thigh, while he used the other to twist his chin and crack his neck.
Narcissa cast him a reproachful look as the sound ricocheted through the silent parlor.

Hermione tore her eyes away from how well his leathers flattered his thighs.

“Minny, we’re ready for tea,” Narcissa said.

Instantly, an elegant three-tiered tower of sandwiches and scones appeared, along with two
steaming teapots and three cups. The beautiful paintings of country roses on the china
reminded Hermione of her grandmother’s garden. Narcissa gestured for Hermione to pour
herself a cup. She did, ignoring the blistering gaze of the wizard across from her which she
was certain was burning a hole in her temple. She added a dash of cream and two scoops of
honey, making a point to stir slowly as though she had not a care in the world.

He wasn’t going to rattle her like this.

“Draco, take your gloves off before you lift your saucer,” Narcissa scolded. He did so with a
scowl, and Hermione caught a glimpse of pale, slender fingers. Then continuing, the Malfoy
matriarch said, “Tell me, Miss Granger. Did you find anything of interest in the library?”

“I did, actually. Several fascinating Quidditch titles, as well as a few books on charms,”
Hermione replied.

“What sort of charms?” Malfoy said callously.

Hermione allowed her gaze to flicker to him.

“Oh. Memory,” she said as casually as possible. “For defensive purposes, of course.
Something I’ve never been much good at. I’d like to improve.”

He watched her for a long moment.

“I’m sure,” he said finally, in a way that told her he didn’t believe her at all. “And the
Quidditch? Some light reading before bed? Don’t tell me you’re aiming for dear Ollie’s job,”
he added with a tsk .

Hermione snorted, ignoring the way that tsk made something tug behind her navel. “Of
course not. I’d sooner aim for Filch’s.”
Which reminded her—she needed to reply to McGonagall soon.

“Oh?” Narcissa said with a raised brow. “You don’t think you’ll remain in the field, Miss
Granger?”

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it. That wasn’t exactly what she’d meant. Still, it
wasn’t exactly untrue.

“Erm, well. It works for now, I suppose,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t mind it.”

Whatever future she’d thought she’d had had long-since slipped through her fingers. Sand
through a sieve. Dust on the breeze.

Chancing a glance at Malfoy, Hermione found him watching her with an unnervingly
perceiving stare. She looked away.

“Well, as previously mentioned I thought you did an excellent job covering Draco’s injury.
And his dissolution of engagement,” Narcissa said pointedly, stirring her cup.

“Mother,” Malfoy ground out.

He hadn’t touched his tea.

“Other writers would have seized the opportunity to portray our family in a much more
uncharitable light. We are thankful that you chose not to. It's not often traditional families
such as ours break off engagements,” Narcissa concluded.

“Oh.” Hermione glanced down at her tea. “Yes, well—life’s too short to be cruel, I suppose.”

The words felt stilted on her tongue. It was the sort of thing the old Hermione would have
said. The Hermione who hadn’t witnessed how irredeemably cruel men could be to even the
shortest, most innocent of lives. She blinked, and for a breath she was outside of her body—
looking in on a face and body she knew to be her own, but which no longer matched who she
was beneath her skin.

Another blink, and the feeling was gone.

Like a string pulled taut, something drew her gaze to Malfoy’s once more. He was still
watching her. Something hard in his expression. Had she given too much away—that she
knew about Astoria?

“But the engagement is broken, and I would say the dust has finally settled, thanks to you,
Miss Granger," Narcissa said.

Malfoy looked like he wanted to crawl out of his skin.

"On another note, I would like to invite you to our annual Christmas ball, Miss Granger.”

Hermione’s attention snapped back to Narcissa. She frowned. Was she hearing things, too?
“I’m sorry?” was all she managed.

“Our annual Christmas Ball. Surely you’ve heard of it,” Narcissa said primly, taking a dainty
sip.

Hermione supposed she had. It had never been anywhere near her radar, however—being
several societal tiers, and probably several blood types above her own.

“M—Narcissa,” she said, catching herself, “I’m extremely flattered but you don’t owe me
anything. Letting me borrow your books is a kind enough gesture.”

“The books are a gesture, Miss Granger. The ball is simply an invitation. I would rather enjoy
having you there.”

Hermione bit down on the inside of her cheek. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come. Perhaps this
was all a ploy for Narcissa Malfoy to incorporate her into some publicity stunt, manipulating
her into helping rehabilitate the Malfoy image with her presence. As if her presence meant
anything these days. Still, it didn’t make sense.

Either way, she wanted to get going.

“That is very kind. Well, I’m afraid I must head home. I’ve stayed too long already for a
work day,” she said.

“So soon?” Narcissa tilted her head. “But you haven’t finished your tea.”

“Nor have I finished my article,” Hermione sighed. It was a lie. Sort of. Her desk was clear at
the moment, but one of Oliver’s owls was likely waiting for her at home.

“Alright, if you must. Take the books. Return them whenever you’d like, and you’re welcome
to borrow more, of course. Draco, show Miss Granger to the floo,” Narcissa added.

Malfoy visibly stiffened. Hermione swallowed, awkwardly rising from her chair. She allowed
Minny to deposit the books into her bag.

“Draco. Must I ask you twice?” Narcissa said with a tight-lipped smile.

“Of course not,” he answered acerbically, standing—pulling his gloves back on.

“Really, it’s not necessary, I remember where—” Hermione started.

“Do you insist on insulting my mother’s good nature with every breath you take, Granger?”
Malfoy said, and Hermione’s eyes widened, briefly horrified before she looked at him and
found he was smirking.

She scowled. “I’m not insulting anyone. I’m merely trying to avoid being a burden.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, crossing the room to the parlor door and holding it open with a
gesture that she lead the way. “What is it muggles say, Granger? That ship has sailed?”
“Draco, you will not call a woman by her informal family name in my—”

Malfoy shut the door behind them before Narcissa could finish. Hermione looked at him
aghast.

“You’re the one that’s insulting,” she admonished him.

“So I’ve been told,” he replied, stalking ahead of her down the hall. He smelled of sweat and
leather as he passed.

Merlin, she had to fast-walk to keep up with him. And she nearly forgot he was two heads
taller than her until she was standing next to him—or chasing after him, rather. Not that she
needed to. She remembered perfectly well where the floo was.

When they arrived at the foyer hearth, Malfoy stopped and turned to face her, crossing his
arms over his chest—and Hermione hated how broad his shoulders looked in his kit. How
well the colors flattered his eyes. How his arm flexed with the drum of his fingers against his
bicep.

“Well I hope you’ve enjoyed your afternoon nosing around my manor, Granger. Do let me
know if the obliviation books help you pass your OWLS,” he drawled, looking down at her.

“It wasn’t exactly my idea—”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.”

“I told you, I—wait, what?”

“Never mind.” He rolled his eyes.

“Narcissa said you were away at Wigtown,” Hermione said.

“‘Narcissa’, is it? And I will be. Tomorrow. When the match is,” he replied.

“Right.” Hermione swallowed.

He regarded her for a moment, tilting his head before he said, “Will you?”

Hermione frowned. “Will I what?”

“Will Krum’s charming fanclub be in uproar over your presence at Wigtown tomorrow, or
will I be able to play my match in peace?” he said deliberately.

“If you think you’re the first clever git to throw Skeeter’s rubbish in my face today, I’ll have
you know you’re wrong. So step down from your ivory tower, Malfoy. And no, I won’t be at
Wigtown. It’ll hardly be a contest.”

“And what do you mean by that, Granger?” he challenged, leaning forward slightly, his hands
in his pockets.
 “After your recent performance against Portree, I hardly think Falmouth is in a position to
beat Wigtown.” Hermione shrugged.

He narrowed his eyes.

“Such a dauntless little witch, aren’t you?” he said after a moment.

Something about his proximity made her breath catch—and her eyes briefly flitted over his
form of their own accord. If he noticed, he didn’t acknowledge it. Merlin, she needed to find
a shag. Promptly.

“Right, then. I’ll just be going,” she said, grabbing a handful of floo powder.

“Granger.”

She turned back to him with a frown, finding him looking at her with a solemn, resigned
expression. Then with a roll of his hand and a bit of wandless magic, he conjured an envelope
between his fingers. He offered it to her.

She stared at it.

“What’s this?” she whispered.

She had a feeling she knew, but she wanted to hear him say it.

“Something you’re owed,” was all he said.

She took it, hesitantly—her fingertips just brushing his gloved ones as she did.

Then to her shock, he snatched a handful of floo powder and pushed her into the hearth with
a firm press to her shoulder.

“The Leaky Cauldron,” he drawled, just as green flames whisked her away.

Chapter End Notes

I'M BACK WITH A VENGEANCE. I hope this satiated your appetites dear readers,
I've left you waiting too long. Let me tell you. Not for lack of want. But holy fuck doing
a final edit pass on my original novel before sending to crit partners destroyed me.
Consumed me. I was a shell of a human. But now it's other peoples' problem :') for now.
Whoever said writing a book was a good idea was wrong.

ANYWAY, all of your wonderful comments wishing me well and craving more were so
sweet and I'm sorry to have kept you waiting but also thank you for your patience and
just really appreciate your interest in this story. Also, thanks to those who have rec'd to
others. Really makes me smile.
As always, this is a labor of love and not the next hugo award winner so if I've made
some inconsistencies after being away from the story for five months I hope you'll let
me live and I will correct as needed.

Hope you enjoyed!

**Addendum*** chapter count has actually been revised down, but may continue to
fluctuate as I solidify the second half of this fic.
 Chapter 17
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

DECEMBER 2004

Hermione stumbled into the Leaky Cauldron, clutching the letter tight—the phantom
sensation of his fingertips burning holes in her shoulder.

“Oi, is that you, Hermione?” she heard someone say—perhaps it was the barkeep—but she
shoved her way through the crowd and out the door into Diagon Alley without a backward
glance. She reached the apparition point in moments, promptly landing in her flat in a daze.

The witch wasted no time accio’ing her latest half-drank bottle of chardonnay from her
muggle refrigerator, uncorking it and pouring half its contents into a wine glass. She was
going to need it.

He hadn’t said what the letter was, but she knew. As if tea—or whatever that had been—with
Narcissa wasn’t surreal enough. It had been her plan to spend the rest of the afternoon
reading the charm books she’d borrowed from the Malfoy library, but clearly that plan was
getting derailed.

She hadn’t expected to see him there. If she had known, she wouldn’t have gone. Her cheeks
flushed with humiliation.

Swallowing a large gulp of chardonnay, Hermione took a seat on her sofa, the letter burning
between her fingertips. Best to just get it over with. She tore it open.

His succinct, elegant script greeted her, bold against the crisp, weighted parchment.

Granger, it began.

She took another large swig.

No doubt you are aware that several weeks have passed since our marvelous revelation that
my prior writing was never received by you. It is not for lack of attention to the matter. I will
have you know it has not been so easy as recalling words previously written. Several years
have passed, during which I reasonably assumed you had received my prior writing and had
merely chosen not to acknowledge it—which I accepted and believed to be within your rights.
Given your continued lack of response, however, I will move forward under the assumption
that Weasley has not, in fact, supplied my prior letter.
He’d thought she was ignoring him this whole time. Merlin, it was a miracle she hadn’t
hexed Ronald’s bollocks off by now.

I will also have you know that as was the case with my prior correspondence, I have not
chosen to transcribe the thoughts contained in this writing solely in response to the Ministry’s
mandate and conditional probation for my crimes during the Second Wizarding War.
Contrary to what you might presume, as you’ve so generously indicated, it is my honest and
firm belief that the crimes which were perpetrated against muggleborns in both the First and
Second Wizarding Wars were nothing less than the height of barbarism. This includes crimes
that I know to have been perpetrated and aided by individuals once within my circles, as well
as my own family, and of course, myself.

“Godric help me,” Hermione muttered as she downed another gulp of wine.

Her gaze lingered briefly on the word muggleborn . As if trying to determine if it had pained
him to write it.

She kept on.

In regards to the crimes for which I was formally charged and convicted—conspiracy to
commit murder, use of an Unforgivable curse, three counts of attempted murder, accessory to
murder, injury resulting from illegal use of cursed objects, treason, magical extortion and
fighting as an enemy combatant— Hermione downed the rest of her wine, Merlin it was
mind-boggling to see them all laid out like that— I find myself in agreement with those who
found my sentencing too lenient. However, I believe I have atoned to the best of my ability, in
a general sense, within the parameters of my sentencing. I have served my prescribed year in
Azkaban, fulfilled my required community hours, exceeded my required reading of muggle
literature and studies, and have made amends to the best of my ability with the wizards and
witches who I know to have been harmed by my actions, both directly and indirectly.

With the exception of you. Of course, my cruel behavior towards you did not begin with war
crimes.

Hermione’s pulse thundered in her ears.

I am well aware that I treated you wickedly from the moment we first became acquainted at
Hogwarts. I do not think it particularly helpful to recount each individual barbarous
comment or incantation I made towards you in our younger years, though if you would prefer
that path, I will certainly oblige. However, I think it is more helpful to articulate that as a
whole, of all of my shameful behavior during our Hogwarts years—which is excessive in
quantity—it is my behavior towards you which I find the most despicable. I wish I could say it
was the result of youthful naivety and my upbringing, but I will not insult my own intellect in
such a manner. It is perhaps the only thing of which I can still be proud.

Despite my father’s influence and my pureblood upbringing, I like to think that I was capable
of critical thought from a young age. Never as bright as you, except perhaps when it came to
potions—another point of resentment and loathing—but capable enough to discern that it
was unacceptable to treat others as I did. That muggleborns, and yourself specifically, did
not deserve my malice. Perhaps as a boy I had not yet come to these realizations, however
subconscious, but I certainly had by the time I was mature enough to witness the Dark Lord’s
toll on my family and the general cost of war.

Hermione flushed. Had he really just complimented her intelligence? She kept on.

In many ways, that makes my behavior even more damning. That somewhere within my
conscience I was aware of my errors, and yet I perpetuated them anyway in hopes that the
consequences would simply never catch up with me. That in helping to bring about a world in
which such atrocity was not only accepted but encouraged, I, or more importantly, my family,
would never have to atone for such barbarous actions. I was content to condemn
muggleborns such as yourself to social ostracization at best, and death or other horrors at
worst, so long as it meant reaffirming my own comfort and the supremacy of the status quo.

No doubt this has been the greatest failing of my life—the consequences of which will be felt
for generations. Suffice to say, the Malfoy name has become a societal blight and deservedly
so. Unfortunately, I lack the remaining years necessary to adequately atone for all of the
suffering and misery I have caused. I believe it would take several lifetimes.

Hermione’s fingers shook where she gripped the parchment. Her heart thundered against her
ribcage. She took a deep breath before she continued.

An apology is the least of what you’re owed, but regardless it must be formally said. I am
sorry for my behavior towards you at Hogwarts—in its entirety. I am sorry for my harmful
comments regarding your intelligence and appearance, which I realize in retrospect were
nothing more than unsuccessful attempts to convince myself that I was better than you. That I
claimed you did not deserve the praise and recognition you received for your resourcefulness
and magical talent, which, to this day, I have not seen equated. That there were other
explanations besides my own shortcomings and inadequacy that allowed for you to best me
year after year in our studies—a fact to which my father did not take kindly.

I am sorry for my greater actions, primarily in allowing Death Eaters into the school and for
assisting in Dumbledore’s murder—two deeds which put you directly in harm’s way—and all
other ways in which I put your life directly at risk. I am sorry for claiming to wish you harm,
or worse, and for aiding in harming your friends, your peers, and your education as a whole.
I am sorry for standing by, failing to so much as move my mouth in objection as you were
tortured on the floor of my ancestral home. I am sorry for all of the ways in which I have
made the wizarding world feel unwelcome, both to you, and muggleborns as a whole.

I am sorry for all of the ways I have brought misery upon you, Granger, when you’ve shown
nothing but undeserved kindness and loyalty to our world.

I regret it more than I can express with words, but for now, I hope these will suffice.

-DM
A tear fell from her face, splattering across the ink to stain the page. Hermione set the letter
down, swatting at her cheeks with the back of her hands. Her shoulders trembled as if a dam
had broken inside her, a river of feeling tearing its way through her veins as it sought a way
out.

An ugly gasp escaped her, mangled with a cry, like she’d been suckerpunched—but in a good
way. As if she’d suddenly remembered she had a body that could hurt. That sometimes,
feeling pain was a blessing, because it was better than feeling nothing.

The witch curled in on herself, biting down hard on her knuckles as the sofa shook with her
sobs. All of the ways she’d been wounded came flooding back to her, and for the first time in
a long time, she knew she hadn’t deserved it.

When she’d finally woken from her night of crying, drinking, and re-reading Malfoy’s letter
until she felt her thumbs might wear a hole through the parchment, Hermione managed to pen
a response. Barely.

Thank you , was all she wrote .

She didn’t have the constitution to say more. Not in a letter, at least. So she fastened the
parchment to Griffin’s leg and sent him off.

Besides, an apology really was the minimum—he’d said it himself. He could afford to stew a
little. Especially after the tone with which he’d first greeted her at Malfoy Manor.

And yet, his apology had been far more genuine and articulate than she had ever expected.

Moreover, she believed him.

Hermione didn’t know when she’d stopped thinking so ill of him. She’d known for a long
while he no longer believed in blood purity, even if he hadn’t explicitly said it. One could
only hope Azkaban would inspire such a change in a person, and of course she didn’t think
her friends, the league, would tolerate him so well— fawn over him, even—if that were the
case. Even Oliver considered Malfoy a good friend, and Ginny told her Oliver had once
smashed Kenmare’s seeker upside the head with his broom upon hearing him throw the word
mudblood around on the pitch.

She herself had even called him quite redeemed or something to that idiotic extent in her
drunkenness at Pansy’s party. Hermione grimaced at the memory.

And yet, in a way she supposed she still expected the worst from him. It really wasn’t fair on
her part, but in a way it was a Pavlovian response. He’d conditioned her to be wary of him.

Sometimes merely being in his presence was like walking on needles.

Which could be thrilling, too. She’d come to enjoy their little bants. There was history
between them, sure, and he was most certainly still prickly, but barbed? Not really. She’d
been on the receiving end of many of his barbs, and while he was still sullen, he was no
longer an outright arsehole.

Sometimes it even seemed as though he were looking out for her. Admonishing her for who
she considered friends and berating her for apparating home drunk, as though it were any of
his personal business. Guilt did strange things to people. Made them overcorrect.

She couldn’t say it was unappreciated.

A small smile upturned the corners of Hermione’s lips, and she could only compare the
feeling that overcame her as similar to cracking open a new book. One she hadn’t read yet.
The scrape of crisp paper as she turned the first page.

Hermione couldn’t deny she was intrigued by him. By what had caused the change, and how
long he’d been keeping such sentiments to himself. Or conversely, how long Ron had kept his
sentiments from her.

And he called you bright, a small voice said in her head. He said he was wrong to insult your
appearance.

“Of course he was wrong,” Hermione muttered aloud, shaking her head with a frown. Just
because he admitted to being an arse about her hair and teeth didn’t mean he found them
pretty . Found her pretty.

Despite what he’d apparently said to Astoria, Hermione was certain he could have nearly any
witch he desired. She scoffed at the thought. Only Draco Malfoy could become a convicted
war criminal, spend a year in Azkaban, and come out on the other side even more desirable
than before. It was quite infuriating.

But that was neither here nor there. She had another letter to write—she’d kept McGonagall
waiting long enough—and a holiday party to shop for.

Perhaps she’d finally get that shag.

DECEMBER 2004

The Digest ’s holiday party arrived two Thursdays before Christmas, bringing with it other
seasonal tidings. Hermione glowered down at the morning’s Prophet , a photo of Ron in his
keeper kit, his arm around a very pregnant Lavender who stood on her tip-toes to kiss his
cheek plastered front and center.

FINDERS KEEPERS , the headline read, as if Skeeter existed only to humiliate her.
They were engaged. Ron had proposed in front of the entire stadium after a game-winning
save against Tutshill. His fanclub was in a tizzy in the background, some of them in tears.
Lavender had said yes. Not only yes, but a thousand times, yes. As if she'd been watching too
many muggle romcoms. They did seem to be all the rage these days.

“For the love of Godric,” Hermione muttered, chucking the paper in the bin.

She’d known it was coming. Had been bracing for it. And yet its impact was far less
devastating than she’d anticipated. Really, the most bothersome thing about it was Skeeter.

Still, she was sure they’d be insufferable. Lavender seemed like the sort to crave cringey
engagement photos, the kind where Ron would stand behind her, too-large hands roped
around her belly while his face was buried in her hair. Hermione thought she might be sick.

No doubt, she would rather face down a horde of Death Eaters than suffer a public proposal.
Of course it had been Ron’s style. Merlin, to think she’d once envisioned a life like that. With
him. That this could have easily been her.

Those sort of moments were supposed to be intimate. Personal. But like always, everything
was about fanfare for him. An odd sort of relief washed over her. It almost felt like dodging a
curse—especially after now knowing the catharsis he’d kept from her all these years.

Hermione had experienced more pain turning McGonagall’s offer down. When she sent the
letter off, the dread which filled her was far worse than that of any exam, including her
O.W.L.s. She hated to think of letting her former professor down.

And yet, she knew it was the right choice. Teaching required a certain selflessness. Focus. A
responsibility she wasn’t ready for. She needed to get her own ducks in a row before she
attempted ordering about someone else’s. Besides, she didn’t think she was ready to see
Hogwarts on anything more than a brief, infrequent basis yet. There were too many ghosts
there.

The Quidditch world was not without its pitfalls of course, but it’d become routine.
Manageable. There was a certain comfort in working a job with low stakes. One that didn’t
require your heart and soul. Her heart had bled enough for now.

It was with these thoughts in mind and a small smile on her face that she anticipated the
evening, finding it nice to have something to look forward to for once. It’d been so long since
she’d been toasty with friends.

The evening would be nothing fancy, however. Oliver had booked the Leaky for the private
gathering after all, making an eyeroll of a comment about how the Prophet and Seeker
Weekly would be having their parties at Aster and Elm’s and Le Lien respectively. Much too
snobby for their modest operation.
If there was one thing Hermione was certainly still good at, it was dressing sensibly. She
threw on a plum jumper, her favorite faded denims and a pair of brown ankle boots, then
twisted her hair into a bun and knotted it in place with her wand. A pair of gold ornament
earrings added a nice holiday touch, and she threw on a red lip and a bit of glittery
eyeshadow just for fun.

Then she grabbed her leather satchel and coat and apparated away.

It was cold in Diagon, but luckily not raining. Still, Hermione could see her breath over her
scarf.

“Thank Merlin you’re here,” Ginny gripped her by the shoulders nearly the moment she
walked through the door. “Anthony showed up pissed and has been torturing us with carols
for the last half hour. Bloody hell, I think he’s starting again. I can’t stand it.”

Ginny took a fat gulp of her beer, glancing over her shoulder.

Indeed, Goldstein was kneeling on a stool at the bartop, wand in hand as he prepared to cast
what looked like a Sonorus charm. Then he shoved his wand in his coat pocket, picked up his
pint, and began the most grating version of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen Hermione had ever
heard. And she liked the song!

“Fuck me,” Ginny shouted over the din.

"Where's Harry?" Hermione asked.

"Robards is keeping him late. I swear he does it on purpose. Should be by later."

“Let’s find somewhere quieter to catch up.” Hermione pointed to the back of the tavern,
which had been haphazardly decorated with garlands, ribbons, ornaments, and—fuck.
Mistletoe. “Shit,” Hermione muttered, nervously patting at her bun.

“Nargle repellant?” Came a dreamy voice from her right. “I have some.”

Luna.

“That’s exactly it,” Hermione sighed in relief, accepting a splash and spritzing her hair with
it. Then she took the blonde in a hug. “So good to see you.”

Hermione grabbed a beer, and together the three made their way to the back of the pub. She
had to hand it to Oliver, he knew how to throw a party and everyone knew it, too. Quite a
good turnout for a weekday evening. The pub was filled with Digest staffers and their dates,
some Quidditch players, mostly of the formerly Gryffindor or Hufflepuff sort, as well as
some league adjacent individuals Hermione recognized from matches—healers,
merchandisers and the like.
Oliver and Katie sat tucked into a booth near the front, listening to George who was clearly
on a tirade about something. Probably Holyhead’s embarrassing loss to Ballycastle the night
prior, if she had to guess. Alicia Spinnet was there too, along with Adam Pickering, Zacharias
Smith and Malcom Preece. Tamsin Applebee appeared to have been cornered by McLaggen
near the loo, judging by the way she was shifting her feet and anxiously fiddling with her
zipper, meanwhile Lonie Toads, Marsh Fauns and Rajesh Kulkarni were taking shots of
firewhisky near the bartop.

Ron was nowhere in sight. Hopefully he’d had the good graces to stay away from her holiday
party, though the idea of seeing him here as she had on her birthday didn’t fill her with utter
dread the way it once had.

“Well, you two obviously need to start by telling me how you’ve been,” Hermione started.

“Oh, fucking peachy. I’m sure you saw Spindlewheel caught a bad updraft yesterday and
took a nasty fall. She’ll be out for a week at least, and our reserve can’t seek for shite,” Ginny
answered.

Hermione had scribbled a passage about it in that morning’s Digest .

“On top of that, the ghoul’s been in a fit since last Tuesday. Mum’s been in a tizzy trying to
calm him down. Something about a toothache, prolly cause the pipes have frozen over and he
won’t stop fucking gnawing on them. Mum asked if Kreacher would be up for looking after
him a while. Kreacher! Can you imagine? We never see the arsehole except to pay him his
salary, and mum thinks he’s up for nannying? Merlin.”

“I’ve been gardening,” Luna smiled.

“You too, hmm? Have you two got a greenhouse now?” Hermione asked, glancing over her
shoulder to verify Neville was nowhere in sight. Professors didn’t typically leave Hogwarts
on weekdays.

“Oh yes, but it’s the frostwise that’s my favorite. It only blossoms in the snow,” Luna replied.

“What about you, Hermione? How are you?” Ginny pressed, giving her that Molly-esque, I-
See-Right-Through-You look.

“I’m alright,” Hermione replied honestly with a tilted nod. “Things have been a bit better.”

I had tea with Narcissa Malfoy, how odd is that! She thought in her head, but didn’t dare
share. That can of flobberworms was more trouble than it was worth. Not to mention
Malfoy’s extensive apology. She hadn’t heard any more from him. She had half a mind to ask
Ginny if she'd been invited to Narcissa's Christmas ball, which would be taking place in two
days, but again, the flobberworms were more trouble than they were worth.

She still hadn't RSVP'd. Should she? Now wasn't the time to think about it. Hermione
slammed those thoughts back in their box.
“I saw the Prophet today,” something compelled her to add. Addressing the elephant in the
room, she supposed. At some point, she needed to signal that Ron’s name was no longer
synonymous with Voldemort.

“Oh, Ron and Lav. Yeah. Yeah they’re excited.”

Ginny looked unsure of whether or not she should say more.

“They look happy. I’m happy for them. Not my problem anymore, really,” Hermione replied
with a weak smile and a shrug. “The proposal was a bit tacky, have to say. Though I suppose
tackiness is one of Ron’s endearing qualities.”

“Oh Merlin, it was the worst. I was there. I wanted to incendio myself on Lavender’s behalf
when it happened,” Ginny groaned.

“Don’t worry, she didn’t notice. Her aura was bright blue,” Luna supplied. “Speaking of
auras, yours is calmer, Hermione. Seems like you really are doing better.”

A lump suddenly formed in Hermione’s throat, and for a second she thought she might start
crying. Not from Luna’s bluntness, but rather, the affirmation. That maybe things were
improving a bit. That maybe there was a way out of the mess she’d made of herself, and she
was starting to find the thread.

And maybe, for once, she owed her friends a little vulnerability.

“It’s, erm. It’s been very hard, obviously. Just because I’m starting to move on doesn’t mean
I’ve forgiven him,” she started. She was nowhere near that. “But it’s honestly refreshing in a
way, I’ve realized. Being apart from him. Letting go of it all. Like the calluses have fallen off
and I can finally start to see who I am again.

Hermione blinked several times, her eyes actually stinging now. She wiped them away,
forcing a smile.

“I mean, I’ve still no idea who I am, what I’m doing or what the fuck I want. But I’m at least
beginning to see that there’s a person here, under it all. And I think I haven’t felt that way in a
very long time,” she concluded.

“Oh, love.” Ginny reached across the table to squeeze her hand.

“You’re no longer standing in anyone’s shadow. Which means you can finally feel the sun,”
Luna supplied.

Hermione swallowed, a brittle laugh escaping her. Again with the bluntness, but it was true.
When was the last time she’d felt like her own woman? Certainly not in her girlhood,
keeping those two gits alive. And certainly not with Ron after the war. She’d been the Golden
Girl, a war prize, the natural happy ending to his hero’s journey.

Never her own woman.

Now she would be. And even if she was covered in scars, they were her own. She was done
tending to others’ wounds. It was time to tend to her own.

“Ron never did tell me what the whole floo visit was about,” Ginny said tepidly.

Hermione was about to reply, when George’s voice interrupted.

“Oi Perce, never took you for a loo shagger!” the redhead cackled from across the pub.

She followed his eyeline to see a very disheveled-looking Percy emerge from around the
corner, with none other than Pansy Parkinson on his arm. Her red velvet dress looked
designer, far too elegant for the Leaky, but that was to be expected.

Ginny spit out a mouthful of beer. Anthony’s tune shifted from Last Christmas to an equally
terrible version of Baby, It’s Cold Outside. Merlin, someone needed to invent a wizarding
version of karaoke and fast. Hermione made a mental note to put that bug in George’s ear.

“What are you gawking at, Granger?” Pansy said as they passed, Percy looking beet red as he
straightened his bowtie. “Never had the insatiable urge to shag in a public loo before? You
look like it’d do you some good.”

“Can’t say that I have, Pansy,” Hermione choked out, and if she looked scandalized it was
merely on Percy’s behalf.

“Get me another martini, love,” she heard Pansy say in his ear—and was that her tongue
darting out to lick his neck?

Oliver whooped and hollered. Katie and Alicia joined in.

“You birds fancy a drinking game?” Lee interjected, approaching their table with Seamus. It
was almost like being in the Gryffindor common room again.

“Don’t tell coach,” Ginny grinned.

“Are you sure we won’t have to levitate you home like last time?” Luna said sweetly with a
tilt of her head. Seamus snickered.

“You have snacks?” Ginny blurted, her eyes falling to the small plate in Seamus’ hands.

“Oh yeah. Whole lot of sweets and hors d'oeuvres over there, though I’d mind the cauldron
cakes. Lee swears George baked ‘em with gnome yeast. You’ll be lettin’ ‘em rip all night.”
Seamus pointed to a table over his shoulder, laid with a full spread of seasonal delights.

“Let me grab a plate and another pint and I’m game.” Ginny slid out of the booth.

“Grab me one,” Hermione called after her, and for once, it didn’t feel like drowning herself.
She just wanted to be tipsy with her friends.

It was like that they spent the rest of the night, drinking each other under the table, cramming
their mouths with sweets, and for the first time in as long as Hermione could remember, the
 war felt like it was behind her. She was just a girl in a pub, surrounded by friends.

Later, when Cormac kissed her beneath a bit of mistletoe, Hermione only found herself
laughing and kissing him back until he had her pinned against a doorframe, snogging her
properly senseless.

And she wasn't worried about nargles at all.

Chapter End Notes

Alrighty alrighty we're making our way through! Little self bump here, I was super
naughty and started ANOTHER FIC, On the Nature of Nightblooms. Go check it out if
you like penpals/anonymous letters/epistolary but angsty gory wartime AU and death
eater draco. I am incapable of writing things that aren't grim.

And as always, please leave comments and kudos they make my heart light SIIIIIING
like inebriated anthony goldstein. Feel free to say hi on tumblr @rreliquaries.
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!