too much of the same stories in our lives

Fic: A Cure to Insomnia

withdrawnred — Fri, 27 Sep 2013 06:16:04 GMT

Title: A Cure to Insomnia
Author: withdrawnred
Rating: T
Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger
Word Count: 5,400
Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to Great Ormand Street Hospital, J. K. Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
Summary: They’d all been forced to grow up too fast, too soon. Wartime AU.
Warnings: Minor character death (offscreen), some profanity
Author’s Notes: Written for round 4 of dramione_remix to the prompt of Peter Pan/Wendy. Again and again, I have to thank my betas for their unwavering support. Without callarose, dormiensa, and unseen1969, this story wouldn’t be half of what it is now.

A Cure to Insomnia

one.

Hermione yawns as she pulls spices and sugars from the cupboards. She’s careful not to slam the doors; it’d be no use to get scolded for making a ruckus at half three in the morning. Just because she can’t sleep doesn’t mean the entire house should suffer the same fate.

Earlier that week, she had been on courier duty. It was nothing special, just delivering a package to point A by X time. Generally, she enjoys courier duty. It gets her out of Grimmauld in daylight. Sometimes she needs a reminder of what life will be like when they win. But today was a reminder of what life should have been like — both now and in the handful of years previous. It was just the sight of a group of three young girls. They must have been fifteen years old, and their high-pitched giggles carried several metres. As did their shrieks, as they discussed boys and dresses and formals.

Unexpectedly, Hermione had filled with a substantial amount of jealousy. She was no longer fifteen by any means, but even five years before, she’d never been that carefree. She did have a formal that year, but she’d been slightly more occupied with worrying about her best friend and whether he’d survive fighting a dragon, swimming with merpeople, and that blasted maze. It really did not do to think about the maze. And the following year was the year of the battle in the Department of Mysteries.

Needless to say, she envied those girls their untroubled lives.

Her insomnia has been brutal lately, and her preoccupation with that carefree group of teenaged girls just made it worse. Twice already this week, she’s spent her nights staring at the ceiling of her bedroom, cataloguing the blemishes for future reference. Cabin fever has started to set in, and she’s determined to not spend another sleepless night lying around. She might as well do something with her time.

In this particular instance, that something is baking. The what isn’t important. Baking is familiarity, and she needs the comfort right now.

She can smell her grandfather in the precise mix of cardamom, cloves, and cocoa; she can feel the warm, guiding press of her grandmother’s hands on her own as she kneads the dough. Even as she whisks, her ears are filled with the light songs the three had created to balance the clockwise and counterclockwise turns.

It may surprise some to learn, considering her parents’ shared profession, that her paternal grandparents had a very successful confectionary in London. Her family home had always been something of a candy factory around Christmas.

Baking and making sweetmeats has the double benefit of making herself useful - surely the rest of the house will appreciate fresh sweets - and curing some small bit of her homesickness. That’s the hope, at least.

Though, honestly, it just reminds her of her childhood and how very short it was. They’d all been forced to grow up too fast, too soon.

Around four, she hears padded footsteps approach. She’d figured that someone would eventually be drawn to the smells and sounds emanating from the kitchen, so she can’t say she’s surprised. That doesn’t make her less disappointed that her alone time has been cut short. And she doesn’t know how to feel about the fact that her late-night companion is Malfoy.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, perhaps too sharply.

He seems loath to answer her. If she’s honest with herself, she doesn’t really have a right to grill him.

“I cure my insomnia with tea. Less messy than baking, but just as effective, I’d say.”

Her mouth is set in a straight line. She has no response to that. Especially with the utter lack of malice in his words and current demeanor. There’s nothing she can argue with. She sighs, having no energy to even try to decode anything. “Everyone’s got to have something, I suppose.”

Malfoy grunts in response, moving to continue his insomniac routine - preparing a quick cup of tea for himself. Chamomile, she notices. She wishes that worked for her. Herbal teas don’t do anything for her. Sleeping potions make her feel too foggy. Staring at her ceiling is just unproductive and . . . boring. She’s quite given up on finding a cure.

Bracing her palms on the counter, she stares at this early morning’s creations. This is the part she liked so much about making sweets with her grandparents: she could take the few pieces she wanted for herself and send the rest to the storefront to be sold. Now, she has a large selection of sweets to dispose of, coupled with no desire to eat the entire lot.

Then it hits her.

She turns her head towards Malfoy, who’s observing her array of treats whilst sipping his tea. Her jealousy that chamomile tea is effective with him hasn’t abated, but she moves past it. “You like sweets, right?”

His eyes dart from the sweets on the counter to her own. His eyebrows pull together, and she has a hard time believing he hasn’t put two and two together yet. It’s quite simple. She knows his mother used to send him boxes of incredibly expensive sweets at Hogwarts. She knows she won’t want more than a small handful of the ones on the counter. The obvious avenue for her is to offer them to him.

“Well, help yourself.” He doesn’t look convinced. Or very trusting, for that matter. “Please. I’ll only eat maybe two. I’ll just leave them out for the house anyway.”

His expression just grows more confused. “Then why even bother?”

Not everyone can drink bloody chamomile tea and go directly to sleep again, she thinks bitterly.

“I guess it’s therapeutic,” Hermione says, focusing her gaze on the counter she’s scrubbing clean so she can avoid looking at him. He’d probably think she was being ridiculous. “Besides, my metabolism has never been that great - all that sugar would just weigh me down in the field.”

Because that’s what everything comes down to ultimately. Her responsibility to the rest of them. To the world.

two.

It’s a funny moment - when she realises it’s become a routine, and a joint one at that. He’d come for the continuous and free samples. Eventually, she realizes he stays for the company, too.

The previous night, dawn had arrived before Malfoy had made his way out of the kitchen.

She hasn’t spent a single night staring at her ceiling in at least three months. Every night she can’t sleep is spent in the kitchen, and he always shows up. At first, he’d simply prepare himself his chamomile and then head straight back to bed, swiping a sweet or seven on his way out. Most of the time, he didn’t comment on their imperfections. As the weeks progressed, however, he lingered longer and longer. Suddenly, conversation was part of the routine - and over time both the quantity and quality improved.

Tonight, she’s baking cookies. Someone left chocolate chips in the cupboard, and she’s not about to argue with fate. Merlin only knows when she last had a good chocolate chip cookie.

Well, she would be baking cookies if there’s any batter left by the time the cooker finishes pre-heating. At the rate that Malfoy’s fingers are flying in and out of the batter bowl, there’ll be enough for one. Maybe.

Her nose scrunches when she realizes he’s been dipping fingers wet with his saliva back into her bowl. “That’s disgusting.”

“Hmm?” he grunts. It’s barely a question.

“Don’t you know that there’s tasting courtesy, Malfoy?”

“Not familiar with your strange Muggle customs, Granger.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it a Muggle custom. I’d call it common courtesy. Even you pure-bloods have rules about politeness, don’t you?”

He smirks, and she tries very hard not to mirror it. She fails. “Rules are meant to be bent.”

“Not this rule,” she mumbles, trying in vain to distance him from the bowl — now half-full. “You’re going to get whoever else eats these sick.”

“Oh, please,” he says, his long arms easily reaching to his beloved sweet. “Like anyone else will be eating them.”

“You don’t understand the power of this pastry, my friend.”

“You don’t understand the power of my sweet tooth. If they taste this good uncooked, I will fight to the death.”

A short buzz sounds, and Hermione shoves Malfoy over towards the table, so she can at least get a couple of the bloody things baked before he gets salmonella. She thought about telling him he’s in danger of getting it, but the amount of time she’d have to use to explain the concept of bacteria and the effects of raw eggs aren’t worth it. He’d probably think it was some mysterious hex she’d read up on.

Twenty minutes later, he’s decided that it’s okay to wait to have the dough cooked. But that doesn’t mean he wants to wait to have all the dough cooked. Delayed gratification has never been Draco Malfoy’s forté.

Consuming sweets, though? Definitely his forté.

In all honesty, she‘s happy to have a receptacle for the treats. She doesn’t need the sugar, and so never planned to eat much of what she made. These sweets were a piece of her childhood, resurrected for nostalgic purposes. They remind her of more innocent times, when her family was intact and she had the whole world at her fingertips, when hope sprang eternal. The process is purely cathartic for Hermione. Draco, whose sweet tooth is certainly no secret, happily consumes the confections, considering how seldom he gets any sweets at Grimmauld.

What she hadn’t counted on when she first offered him a bit, four months before, was the relationship that developed between the two of them. Over time, they’d unwillingly accepted that they actually have many things in common. In fact, they turned out to be incredibly compatible partners, something that Moody took joy in. He’d found a partner pairing that maximized both Hermione and Draco’s potential. Draco no longer spent half of his time looking over his shoulder for the Death Eaters out to murder him and the other half at his team, paranoid that the Order volunteers, too, would kill him if ever given the chance. Similarly, when Hermione wasn’t mothering her partner or her team, as she did too often by reflex when Harry or Ron was involved in her mission, her efficiency as a part of the team must have quadrupled.

It didn’t take long for Moody to mandate that they always be partnered together.

The others hadn’t complained - much. The complaints certainly dwindled when it came to light how much more innovative they were together. It’s no secret that they liked to challenge each other. But whereas before their challenges had been to undermine for the most part, Hermione and Draco began to visibly improve in each of their field skills.

Their hexes are stronger and faster. They’re both quicker on the draw. Overall, they are just better. It really boiled down to the joy they each found in a challenge. In fact, much of his free time is spent finding new spells, practising them on some of the Order’s dummies - even sometimes challenging any willing Order member to a short duel. Hermione spends most of her time in the library, researching defensive tactics for Kingsley, but she often finds herself watching Draco while he’s doing any of those things, when he felt challenged. Somehow, despite the obvious concentration on his face each time, the joy is evident in all of his being. It makes her feel alive.

three.

She moves more lethargically tonight, though this is the product of more than her lack of sleep. The day’s events were surprising, unwanted, and exhausting. Her vision is more full of her fallen friends than the stove in front of her. Hermione doesn’t even notice Malfoy’s standing with her in the kitchen until he yanks her hands away from the assault of popping hot oil.

“Are you trying to burn your hands off?” His voice is angry, but she sees none of it reflected in his face. “I’m fairly certain you’ll need those.”

She gasps and yanks her hands out of his grasp. “I don’t see why you’re so concerned.” But he’s right. She shouldn’t even be at the stove now. She’s too frazzled. But she’s in dire need of the familiarity, of the routine. There has to be something in her life remaining constant. At the rate this war has been going, today’s surprise attack is just the beginning.

Just a smirk in return. “Well, who else is going to appease my sugar cravings?”

“Molly,” she offers half-heartedly. Even to her ears, it sounds petulant.

“Don’t make me laugh.” A scowl this time. “I swear that woman’s waiting for her chance to poison me.”

Hermione snorts. Finally, she looks down at the damage the oil did to her hands. Not bad, though they could probably use some of that balm Remus keeps in his trunk. She’ll just deal with it, though. Remus has enough to deal with right now. Her hands would survive a little oil burns the Muggle way. “Molly isn’t going to poison you.” She runs her fingers over the burns gingerly, testing her pain threshold. Three out of ten.

“You don’t know that. I did poison her son, after all. And unfortunately, it seems the whole world knows how fond I am of sugar. It’s the perfect opportunity.”

“Do you forget that you’re not, in fact, dealing with a Slytherin? Maybe she’s actually a kind woman with no intention of poisoning you, despite the fact that you accidentally poisoned her child.”

“Everyone has a dark side, Granger,” he says with a sidelong look at her. “And something tells me one of Molly Weasley’s triggers is her brood.”

Hermione sighs, raking a hand through her hair. She winces as the tangled curls block her fingers’ way. “Nonsense. Even if - and that’s a bloody huge if - she felt the need for revenge for her still-alive-and-well son, she knows not to waste her energy.”

She continues in a whisper, “Or our manpower, for that matter.” For a while, their conversation had distracted her from the day’s events. Her own comment pulls her out of that comfort and straight back into her grief.

The air thickens with tension, as she figured it would. Malfoy’s eyes are boring into her face when she finally looks up, as if he’s searching for the key to a very valuable trunk, deciphering each detail and shelving it away for later analysis.

“She was a good woman,” Malfoy says after clearing his throat. Probably a lump. His voice sounds considerably lower in octave than it had just moments before.

She nods. “The best.” The entire house had been covered in a thick layer of solemnity all evening, and into the late hours. Tonks had touched everyone during her short life - even Draco, who tended to distance himself from the rest of the Order. Granted, they were cousins, but Tonks still had made a conscious effort to be friendly with him.

Her vision blurs when she thinks of the poor little boy, now motherless, sleeping upstairs. Tears well, and she tilts her head back, batting her eyelashes feverishly, in an attempt to rein her tear ducts back under control.

“It isn’t fair,” she says when she locks eyes with Malfoy again, gripping the edge of the counter with all of her strength. “Teddy deserves a real childhood. One where he has a whole mother and father, a loving family that’s only really concerned with raising an upstanding citizen. Not this - Christ, this world!”

He smiles, but it’s clearly a pained one. “This bloody world is something else, isn’t it?”

“That goes for us, too, you know.”

“Pardon?”

Hermione takes a step towards him, wringing her hands. “We all deserved a real childhood. And what did we get? A boy saviour, orphaned. Broken families. Dead siblings and aunts, uncles, cousins. Friends.” Her mind immediately goes to Luna, the first friend she had buried, and she struggles to swallow the bitter taste conjured by that memory. “We had to make sacrifices to save our families." He looks sharply at her, but she doesn’t waver. "We got tasked with things no child should experience, even in nightmares. We all had to grow up when we were still children. And chances are, so will Teddy. It isn’t right.”

She stares at her hands then, the words coming out of her mouth too harsh, too pointed. Really, she hopes he doesn’t lash out at her for that last comment. She never has been able to predict what he’ll do, and it unnerves her - a lot.

The sound of his sigh surprises her, but only because it is so much closer to her than she had expected. Sometime during her monologue, he’d closed much of the distance between them.

“Is that not what this is all about?” He gestures towards the very house they are standing in. His voice sounds lower, and she feels her skin grow hot for some reason. “To give them their best chance? The younger generations. You’re right.” Hermione’s eyes widen and snap to his; she’s never heard him utter those words in quite that order, especially directed at her. “We never really had a chance to be young and carefree and make stupid mistakes. When you were caught out after hours, you were saving the world. I spent my Christmases worrying that, at any second, my parents could be killed in their own parlour.”

Hermione starts when she feels his hand wrap around hers, squeezing slightly.

“But does it have to be a black and white thing? We live in a world of grey, and the measure of a childhood is no different.”

“I’m not saying it’s black and—”

“Shut up. Yes, you are.” He sighs, leaning back against the counter. “You’re aching to compartmentalize everything, but this isn’t something you can put into clean boxes.”

She nods quietly, finding it harder to hold back her tears. “It’s just so unfair.” She lets a deep sigh escape her. “I almost think that they’re the lucky ones. Luna’s free now. No responsibilities weighing down what should be an untroubled time. No war, no sacrifice. Maybe that’s it for us now: we’ll get our chance at a proper childhood when we’re six feet under.”

He reaches up, his hand gingerly cradling one side of her face. “Maybe. But it would be as unfair if we were in our thirties when this bloody war started. We have to move forward. Dwelling on the past doesn’t help anything.”

For the first time that night - perhaps in the entirety of their acquaintance - Hermione predicts Malfoy’s next move. She lifts her head as he lowers his own, and warmth unlike anything she’s ever experienced spreads throughout her being when their lips meet.

four.

Hermione pauses at the entry to the kitchen, resting her palm against the door frame. It doesn't calm her heartbeat as she'd hoped it would.

He's there; she can sense it.

A part of her hates that - how in tune with him her body has become. It’s been exactly eight days, two hours, and twelve minutes since she last spoke to him — since they kissed. Hermione spent at least seven of those days avoiding him, because she’s never been good with boys or romance or next steps after kisses. Especially when said kisses were with your dedicated partner and former “enemy”. She didn’t know whether he wanted to ignore the occurrence or if he wanted more or if she wanted more or if he never wanted to see her again. She didn’t even know what she wanted, much less how to read Draco Malfoy.

One of the only good things about today’s battle, other than the fact that they were lauding it as the Battle that Won the War, was how little she cared about the answers to those questions now.

That he's there before her should be a testament to how very late she is - how very off. She had, in all honesty, lain awake the past few hours in her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her mind played memories of that day over and over like a song on repeat. Like a terrible, annoying song that you want to forget, but it’s just played on the radio and stuck like an earworm. Except there isn't much to celebrate in this. It has more than its fair share of darkness and pain and could use quite a bit more happy.

She's had days like this. More and more frequently of late, much to her displeasure. Friends and peers falling, the injured list mounting, and the morale dwindling. But today affected her more than most.

Until today, she hadn’t known just how much she cared for Malfoy. Seeing his body fall in battle quickly informed her. Yaxley had sent a particularly heinous curse his way from behind, and although he had survived, it'd taken their best Healers six hours to perform enough magic that he could be pulled back into consciousness. The sight of him on the ground, limbs akimbo, possibly dead, had pulled more from the depths of her soul than she had been prepared to deal with. Sure, she knew that she cared for him - but not quite to that degree.

She’d spent several hours at his side at St Mungo’s, until he’d began showing some signs of rousing. Remus basically threw her out, sending her home to shower and rest under the pretense of an empty threat. She complied, but both chores amounted to too much time alone with her own thoughts. Her mind drifted back again and again to her imaginings of a world without. Already, she knew a world without so many who’d lit up her life—Luna, Tonks, and Ernie, among others—and she didn’t care to deal with a world without Draco Malfoy.

Hermione heard them when they returned an hour or so before, Malfoy and Remus. She had to gather herself before wandering down. It's all too clear to her: she can't go back to thinking she just cared about him in a general sense. No, it's more like the huge caring, the kind that wrecks you when you lose that person. The kind she's not sure he would approve of within the limits of their relationship - if they could even call it that.

She removes the muffling charm from her feet before breaching the threshold into the kitchen.

If he were any other man, he would've said something to acknowledge it - like You're late, as simple as it is. But he isn't. So he just looks at her like he's going to deduce everything about her - inner turmoil included - without her verbal input.

Sometimes she feels like there's a bit of Luna in him. Not the dreaminess, Merlin forbid. It's the intuition. Luna's had been weird, almost ethereal. Eerie because it was always spot on. Draco is intuitive like she had been, but he doesn't care to package his thoughts up nicely, especially with Hermione. What it really means is that Hermione never even tries to cover up whatever it is she's thinking or feeling. There's no point.

Hermione takes in his appearance, mentally cataloging all the pieces for later analysis. He’s pale, moreso than usual. She doesn’t want to think about the blood loss he’d suffered from Yaxley’s sadist streak. It’s no secret that Malfoy’s always been in more danger than most of them. Being a traitor was up there with being The Boy Who Lived, from the reactions most Death Eaters had to his appearance on the Light side.

His hair is tufted in the back, something she would have found endearing in another time. Preferably a time where the second thing she noticed about him wasn’t the plentiful scratches decorating his arms — and that’s just the exposed areas. Mungo’s must be growing more economical with their resources, if they’d allowed him to leave hospital like that.

Most striking, however, is the lack of a teacup between his hands. Pleased at having found something to do other than stare and catalog him, Hermione quickly starts the kettle. Rather than facing him again whilst the water boils, she tends to the counter, wiping up excess crumbs left by whomever last used Grimmauld’s kitchen. Or maybe not the last person, considering how caked-on the messes are. By the time she’s cleaned a quarter of the counter space, the kettle whistles, and she rushes to remove it from the cooker before the noise wakes up the rest of the house.

Less than thirty seconds later, she’s placing a cup of chamomile tea in front of him. Her own is Earl Grey — caffeinated, but she knows there’s no hope of sleep tonight regardless.

Malfoy just stares at the mug. “What’s this?”

“Chamomile. That’s the last bag,” she informs him, thinking of how annoyed she gets at an empty tea box or tin.

“Why did you make tea for me?”

Her eyebrow rises. “Because I wanted to.”

He glares down at the mug, although she’s not sure what evil he’s wishing on the piece of ceramic.

“Is there a problem?” she asks. “It was that or Earl Grey, and —”

“So you’re making my decisions for me now, is that it?”

Hermione sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose in an attempt to quell a certain headache. “Look, take the bloody Earl Grey if you want it. I’ve only ever seen you drink chamomile at this time of night, so I figured —”

He scoffs, interrupting her once again. “Yes, because you know me so well.”
“Why are you lashing out at me?” she asks, her voice low.
“I’d be careful, Granger. Someone might think you care.”

She blinks, bemused. “Well, it’d be the truth.” Hermione Granger has never been a woman ashamed of caring. The war has made her more likely to admit to caring than she had been before. "Is that such a crime? Caring?"

"The real question is what don't you care about?"

"You're right, I care about a lot of things. I want to do good by this world. But that's not what I meant, and you know it."

His mouth twists into something ugly. "That sounds an awful lot like another word I've heard of."

She rolls her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm not trying to profess my undying love for you through herbal tea, Malfoy."

"Just your undying care, then?"

She looks at him, surprised by how oddly uncomfortable he looks under her gaze. "It's not something you can choose to accept, you know. Whether you like it or not, I care about you. And I wouldn't be able to just continue on with my dailies the day after you died."
The air is tight with the silence that follows her statement. Their eyes are locked, and she refuses to back down. He knows, first hand, what an abysmal liar she is.

She poses her question differently this time. “Why are you angry?”

“Just because I’m in a bad mood doesn’t mean I’m angry,” he bites out.

Hermione shakes her head. “Don’t patronize me. You may not like it, but we’re friends. And you’re more snappish than you’ve been in months.”

“Just leave off, Granger.”

“Are you upset because I care about you?” When he glares at her, she offers a faux gasp. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was that too feminine a word choice for you?”

He glowers, finally taking a sip from the cooling mug.

“What’s wrong?” She could ask him the same question all night. Eventually, she’d find an iteration that he could deign to answer.

“You have enough people to mourn already. You don’t need to add me to the list.”

Hermione reaches across the table and grabs his hand. By now, he should be used to how tactile she is. “That’s the thing about caring. It’s not a voluntary act. I didn’t wake up one day when I was eleven and decide I’d care for a couple of boys who do nothing but attract trouble. I didn’t choose to care for them, and I didn’t choose to care for you. But I’m not about to fight it, either.”

His eyes look haunted, raw. She can’t tell if what she’s saying is inflaming or helping him. With someone as guarded as Draco Malfoy, she can only hope for the better of the two. Hermione rubs his wrist, thankful that he’s allowing her to find comfort in him. She understands this as his acceptance. She won’t read further into it, along the lines of it meaning he also cares. For now, at least. For now, she’s content to have that tactile contact, the feel of human skin on human skin. Though the gray scar marring his otherwise marble skin is a gross indicator of his fragility — something she’d rather not think about.

The two-inch scar is all that remains of his larger injuries from the day's activities. When he first arrived at St Mungo’s that morning, Malfoy had a few broken bones and too many lacerations. The Healers had taken to a new technique: compressing all major injuries to one spot, so that they could treat them all at once. Any recurring pains are thenceforth centralized to one small area, two inches in diameter.

"Are you in pain?" she asks, moving her thumb gingerly around the scar, careful not to touch it directly.

“No, so long as I avoid contact,” he murmurs as she studies the scar closer.

The idea still amazed her — that all serious damage could be reallocated to one location. He still has some scratches, but they’re all too shallow to bother transferring. With luck, he’ll be able to get the tissue healed entirely, but this quick fix was another way to save resources for high-volume times like today. The magic behind the spell is still impressive, though, and Hermione’s sure the skill of those who perform this is paramount. Just thinking about how steadfast, how focused, how powerful a Healer one would have to be to successfully perform such a spell — that astounds her. Even after a decade, Hermione Granger is still as in awe of magic as ever.

Draco looks almost mischievous. His eyes are still sort of haunted; she doubted that gaze would ever leave the faces of the young fighters. But at least now there’s something more than just the hauntedness.

“When I was a boy, my mother would kiss everything better."

Hermione can’t help but smile at the thought. She can just imagine it: a young Draco, reckless one minute and running to his mum for comfort the next. That child is still inside the man she’s looking at, in that his experiences helped form the man.

Her Malfoy-less week had been at least partially spent processing his jab about her compartmentalizing; in the end, he’s right. A person isn’t a black and white combination of experiences that fit together rigidly, like a jigsaw puzzle. No, a person is shades of gray, blending together like watercolours on canvas. Her own experiences as a young girl had influenced her experiences in her early years at Hogwarts, which in turn had influenced her decision and experiences later. The process repeated, and she’s sure it’ll repeat until her dying day.

It’s taken until the eve of the final battle, but she has come to accept the cards she was dealt, scars and all. Hermione would never go back on her experiences; that would nullify her friends’ sacrifices, making them meaningless. She refuses to live in a world where such beautiful people died in vain. All she can do is move forward, live a life to proud of, not dwell.

Despite that she knows he’s baited her into it, she bends her lips to his arm and places light kisses along the outer perimeter of his new scar, careful not to place much pressure on the actual scar tissue. From her memories of his injuries, she can only imagine the pain he’d experience with even the slightest touch.

She finds a better use for her lips soon. And later is reminded that Malfoy isn’t one to talk about his feelings; his efforts are much better spent showing it.

Fic: Interrogated

withdrawnred — Thu, 26 Sep 2013 15:15:45 GMT

Title: Interrogated
Author: withdrawnred
Rating: PT
Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger
Word Count: 4,300
Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to Steven Moffat, Tom MacRae, British Broadcasting Company, JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
Summary: Hermione’s friends want to know why she hasn’t told them about her impending date.
Warnings: Profanity, gossip.
Author’s Notes: Written for round 4 of the dramione_remix, with Amy and Rory (Doctor Who) as the prompt. Huge, huge thanks to my betas callarose, dormiensa, and the late breaking unseen1969 for their wonderful feedback and support. Also, if you’re unfamiliar with Doctor Who or Amy and Rory’s storyline within the show, fear not! This remix is based around a quote from their arc.

“Good morning, Mr Potter!”

Harry nods and smiles. “If you say so, Donna.” He’s always been amazed at how Hermione’s secretary could be so … awake at such ungodly hours. It wasn’t even ten yet, and she was as alert and content as if she’d taken a couple vials of Pepper-Up. Knowing her, though, she’d never touched the stuff. That would just be unnatural.

Some people have all the luck.

“Is she in?” he asks, nodding his head towards the door labelled “Hermione Granger, Deputy, Muggle Liaison Office”.

“I’m afraid not. She’s out in Muggle Dublin for most of the day in meetings. Some emergency came up, and I’ve just finished clearing out her calendar.” Donna flips quickly through her timetable. “Yes, quite right. She isn’t due back to the office until tomorrow morning. Is there a message you’d like passed on to her?”

“No, nothing urgent. I just wanted to stop in and see how she’s doing.”

Donna smiles warmly.

“She isn’t working too hard, is she?” Harry asks, unable to keep the concern from his voice.

“You know I count on you to keep an eye out for our girl.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure, such a lovely young woman. Miss Granger’s been working as much as ever, but you know, she seems more energised.”

“More energised?”

“Perhaps happier? I’m not sure. But she’s definitely had a spring in her step the past few weeks.” She peers around, as if watching for eavesdroppers and Extendible Ears. “And well, just between you and me, I think she’s quite excited about Mr Malfoy.”

Harry’s brow furrows in confusion. “What about Malfoy?” Draco Malfoy had become a fixture in Wizarding society after the war, but in a much less formidable sense than his father before him. Having been a key member of the Order during the war, and now a contributing member of the Ministry, there weren’t many in society that felt he should still be ostracized. If Harry were totally honest, he’d admit that Malfoy’s all right. A hard worker, and Harry could hardly call him evil anymore. Yes, he was willing to admit it — mentally, at least. He doesn’t think his stomach could handle those words actually coming out of his mouth, though. All stubbornness aside, their world is probably a better place because of Draco Malfoy.

“Why, he’s asked her to dinner this weekend.”

Harry’s eyes proceed to nearly pop out of his sockets. Well, that is just ridiculous. Hermione and Malfoy — “Like, a date?”

Donna nods, a wide smile on her face. “Oh, yes! He was here just a few days ago, and he — oh, I wasn’t eavesdropping, I promise you. He asked her just within hearing distance. I do give her the privacy she deserves. Frankly, I think they’d be just lovely together. He’s quite charming, and you know how I adore Miss Granger.”

Harry grunts something of a response, his mind still reeling. Sure, Malfoy was a good enough bloke, but the two of them … it’s just — Merlin, he can’t even think about the concept.

Preposterous.

“You mustn’t tell anybody, though, Mr Potter. I find gossiping beneath us both.”

“Yes, of course, Donna.” He struggles, but finally pushes a smile through his shock, and bids her adieu.

Not twenty minutes later, he breaks that promise — something he both is and isn’t ashamed of.

“Gin,” he starts, looking into green flames the shape of his girlfriend’s face, “you’ll never believe what I just heard.”

A short time later, she responds as expected: “You have got to be kidding, Harry Potter.”

***

Friday. It’s Friday, finally. Hermione smiles to herself. She’d thought this week would never end. First there’d been those troves of reports to approve and pass on, and then that ridiculous emergency in Dublin. One day or meetings had turned into nearly three, what with the back-and-forth between departments and no clear, delegated decision-maker. If she never had to interact with another bureaucrat in her life, she’d be the happiest of witches.

But alas, that wasn’t in the cards. Why did she work for the Ministry, again? She had to chant herself to sleep sometimes with “For the greater good. For the greater good.”

Although, with how tired her bones were now, she doubted she’d need any chanting or sheepcounting to fall asleep tonight. This was fall-asleep-on-your-desk tired.

“Hermione.”

She jumps at the sudden noise behind her. Ginny’s just crossed the threshold to her office, and as the girl shuts the door behind her, Hermione notices she is grossly out of breath, and she’s immediately concerned. She also wonders how she hadn’t heard her friend coming at all.

Tired, indeed. She must be getting old.

“Ginny, are you all right?”

Ginny puts a finger up, and rests her hands on her knees, gathering her breath. When Hermione hands her a small glass of water, she nods in thanks. “Why is your office so bloody far from the lift? It must be a kilometre.”

Hermione’s more interested in how Ginny knew she was in anyway. Yes, word travels fast, but she literally just stepped out of the Floo from Dublin. In fact, she still has the telltale dust all over her jumper.

“The better question is why you were in such a hurry. Running isn’t exactly advisable in these corridors, Gin.”

She didn’t really care if she came across as swotty or if she lectured too much. A lovely courier nearly snapped his neck in two the week before. He’d been sprinting down the halls and, in an attempt to avoid an errant incantation, had swerved — right into the open lift. Needless to say, that evening there’d been much grumbling about the slow, and at times inoperable, lift.

Hermione was more than a little tempted to instate some speed-detecting charms.

Ginny waves the comment away with a snap of her wrist. “More important things to discuss.”

Hermione stared back, expectant. “And that would be?” After a moment, her paranoia gets the best of her and she frowns. “Did something happen while I was in Ireland?” That would be just her luck. Three days in the bowels of Dublin’s Ministry, and Harry had fallen off his broom. Or The Burrow had burned down. Or McGonagall had—

“Oh, I don’t know. Your impending date, maybe?”

“Oh!” Hermione shoulders slumped in relief. “That. I thought for a second something serious had happened.”

“It has, Hermione! You’re about to go on a date with Draco Malfoy. What is wrong with you? Are you feeling lonely, is that it?”

“What? No.”

“I just don’t understand — you deserve so much better than that.”

Hermione can’t honestly say that she understands what Ginny means by that, but she doesn’t have the mental energy to dig into the issue. “Sure. Whatever you say, Gin.”

Ginny bristles. Then again, it isn’t like Hermione was trying to disguise her brush-off as anything else. “Be serious, Hermione. It just doesn’t make sense — the two of you together. He’s going to hang you out to dry.”

Hermione shakes her head and smiles at her friend. “Whoever said I wouldn’t hang him out to dry?”

This takes Ginny aback. “What?”

“You’re acting like he’s got me wedded and bedded, Ginny. It’s just a date.”

Ginny glares a little bit, as if her gaze could burn the very word.

“Why are you protesting so much?”

“Because it’s Malfoy.” Ginny slumps down into the couch near the door, her long legs folding haphazardly. “How can you stand him?”

“Draco isn’t so bad, you know,” Hermione says, resting her body against her desk. She can practically see Ginny perk up, and Hermione mentally curses.

“Draco, eh?” Ginny leans forward, resting her elbows on her knee. “Since when is he ‘Draco’?”

Hermione doesn’t honestly want to think about this, and when she rolls her eyes, she isn’t sure if it’s at herself or at the girl sitting on her couch and occupying the little headspace she has on reserve. “I don’t know, Ginny, and I really don’t care, to be honest. I’m dead on my feet right now, so can we continue this some other time?”

Preferably to the tune of ‘never’.

Ginny huffs in frustration, but she removes herself from Hermione’s couch and leads the way down to the Atrium. Their walk down is quiet and veers as far from their previous conversation as possible — for which Hermione is merciful.

***

Hermione stares at her fireplace, jaw wide in shock. Two bodies have just stepped through the Floo into her flat. Two bodies with whom she is all too familiar. The kind of familiar, where she could make their murder look like an accident.

She jerks her dressing gown shut with her free hand, and the sudden movement sloshes her tea over the rim and onto her fingers. Hissing at the burning heat on her skin, she scowls at Harry and Ron. Clearly, she’d forgotten to put her wards back up the night before.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asks, not trying in the slightest to hide her annoyance. It’s early. She’s two sips and one slosh into her morning tea on an empty stomach. She hasn’t even showered yet, and she is dead tired. This is not a good time for surprises.

Harry’s smile is disarming, charming. Or at least designed to be. It may work on her secretary, but Hermione’s seen him direct that one at too many young women and reporters to be affected at all. In fact, she’s a little insulted that he thinks such a look would work on her. Her — his best friend. She decides to just assume it’s the best he’s got, rather than thinking about the ramifications of him thinking such a glance would work on the brightest witch of their age.

Even then, she’s confused.

“Is it that strange that we wanted to spend the morning with you? Maybe have some breakfast, or tea. Whatever.”

“To be honest, I’m a little surprised that you’re even up this early. It is before 11, don’t you realize?” In fact, it’s barely nine. She then gets a good look at Ron — and promptly braces herself. He has the look of someone who’s been restless for two weeks straight. His gaze is flitting around all over her living room, from spot to spot, never focusing on any one thing for longer than three seconds. And his fist keeps clenching and unclenching.

Well, she’d had a suspicion that their visit was more than just that, but Ron’s behaviour certainly affirmed it. Harry clears his throat, almost embarrassed. “I heard through … erm, through the grapevine that you’ve got a date tonight.”

Hermione’s eyes widen. She turns around to rummage through her cupboard.

“With Malfoy,” Harry finishes, and she feels a new knot form in her shoulder almost instantaneously.

Wedged in between various foodstuffs, her fingers wrap around the shorter end of a tin, she yanks it out. Hermione slowly turns around while she pops the lid off the tin. “Biscuit?” she asks, holding the tin out as an offering. Their only response is a collectively expectant look. “Are you serious? I can’t even get to my morning tea without an interrogation?”

“So you don’t deny it?” Ron’s stare is as accusing as ever, arms crossed in a way that he must think looks intimidating.

“I’m not trying to keep anything a secret. I just don’t fancy making a public announcement each time I go on a date.”

"You should have told us," he growls.

Hermione sighs and drops the tin on her counter with a loud clang. “Because I knew this would happen. You would react like this. You’d each try, in your own way, to convince me to not go. But what you don’t realize is this isn’t just some out-of-the-blue date. I’ve gotten to know him over the years, and even better over the past few weeks and months.”

“You may think you know him—”

“What makes you think I don’t?” Hermione winces and clenches her fist. Her voice is growing too loud and high, too quickly.

“Merlin, Hermione. It’s Malfoy, for crying out loud!”

“What makes you think you know him any better than I do? What, do I need to get every relationship — romantic or not — approved by you, Ronald?”

Harry steps forward, almost as if he thinks he’s about to play the peacemaker role in her kitchen. “Of course not, Hermione. You know we’re just worried about you.”

She scoffs. “Nice way of showing it. You may as well be jumping up and down, shouting that I’m not capable of making my own bloody decisions.”

“That isn’t it at all,” Harry protests.

She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the counter. “Well then, what is it?”

“We don’t trust him.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you aren’t the one going on the date, isn’t it?” she snaps.

Ron’s face is as red as she’s ever seen it. “None of us should be going out with that sod!”

Her self-control snaps at that comment, and before she knows it, she’s four steps closer to him, her finger poking hard into his sternum. “Who died and made you king? I’m not sure if you remember, but I’m not sixteen years old. And I don’t know where you get off trying to tell me which choices to make, Ronald Weasley.”

“Fine!” he yells, brushing her arm away from him. “Don’t come back crying to me when it all ends in a mess.” She barely has a chance to respond before he’s digging through her container of Floo powder — her empty container of Floo powder. Hermione barely manages to withhold her amusement at the sight of a grown man being prevented from storming off dramatically by a logistical failure. Floo powder has been on her shopping list for at least two weeks.

Ron huffs and waltzes towards her couch, inspecting the various books and knick-knacks set on the side table with a grimace. She turns back around at the sound of Harry’s sigh. He’s leaned against her counter, and Hermione supposes that’s as sure a sign of relaxation as she’ll get this morning.

“So you’re really doing this, are you?” Harry’s voice almost speaks of acceptance. It may not be excitement, but that’s something she’d never expected from this situation.

“Yes, Harry.” She offers him a small smile—her first of the morning—and walks over to lean next to him, their shoulders lightly brushing.

“But that means you’ll have to look at him.” If she’s not mistaken, that was definitely a whinge.

“I mean, he’s really nothing but a pointy … ferret. That can’t be fun to look at.”

It’s a struggle not to laugh, but she manages with a quick pinch to her thigh. Ron makes up for it by contributing a sort of malicious chuckle. “Be serious, Harry.”

He chuckles, and a smile escapes her. “I’m being at least half-serious. Are you telling me you’re actually attracted to that face?”

“Yes,” she says, plain as fact. “Anyway, it’s just a date. You two are acting like I’ve agreed to marry him.”

The blunt response seems to catch Harry by surprise. He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I guess I just don’t see it. But, you know, I’m not into blokes, so I guess…”

Hermione shakes her head. “That’s not it, Harry. You know when sometimes you meet someone so beautiful and then you actually talk to them and five minutes later they're as dull as a brick? Then there's other people … when you meet them you think, ‘Not bad. They're okay.’ And then you get to know them and ... and their face just sort of becomes them. Like their personality's written all over it. And they just turn into something so beautiful. *

“When you look at him, you see everything he was when we were younger. So does Ron. Ginny, too, I’d guess. His face is marked by your experiences with him at Hogwarts. That’s what defines him, in your eyes.”

“And not in yours?” he prompts.

“Not at all,” she says, locking eyes with Harry. “He’s grown up quite a bit since those years. We all have. He’s still a snarky little shite, but I think the world would stop rotating if that was no longer the case. It’s taken a while, but when I look at him I no longer see the twelve-year-old who called me a Mudblood. He’s proven himself to be more than anyone expected of him, and that’s the person I see.”

She starts to get anxious when several seconds pass, and Harry doesn’t respond. (Ron is being a complete child: pretending to retch all over her couch.) Just as she’s about to elbow him, Harry chuckles. “You think Malfoy’s beautiful?”

“Shove it!”

***

Several hours later, Hermione is standing inside Chez Pompadour, far enough away from the maître d’ for the hostess to not pay attention to her. Despite the brave face she’d put on for Harry and Ron earlier, her nerves are completely frayed. Ron had responded as expected. From the second they stepped out of the Floo, she knew he would react poorly. On the positive side, though, Harry seemed to be at least on the road to acceptance. She should count it as a step in the right direction, she supposes.

As she spreads her hand down the skirt of her dress for the seventh time in half as many minutes, she feels hot breath fan across her neck. “Good evening.”

She turns swiftly, hoping that he didn’t notice her shiver in response. “Evening,” she says with a slight nod.

His eyes drift, slowly taking her appearance in. There’s a quick intake of breath before he remarks, “You look … well, stunning, Granger.”

Hermione’s brow rises, just a tad. “A compliment from Draco Malfoy?” She smirks, unable to help herself. “I must be doing something right.”

“Certainly.” He smirks in return, and then turns to ask for their reservation.

The hostess spares more than a cursory glance at him. Elevator eyes, more like. It wouldn’t have irritated Hermione so much if the woman hadn’t followed it with one that shouted of her impression of Hermione and Draco together: somewhere between confusion and pity.

Unfortunately, figuring out a way to spill a glass of merlot on her fine blouse would be overly complicated. She settles for a good, old-fashioned glare.

There’s a flurry of restaurant activity—well wishes, menus, and platitudes exchanges for more platitudes—which leaves Hermione feeling the full weight of the lull that follows. She bends her head, gazing over the very short menu. Well, at least if everything looks good, there are only three options to debate over. A quick glance around the restaurant tells her that their date hasn’t been ambushed — yet. This isn’t exactly the kind of place Harry and Ron would expect to find her, but Ginny’s a bit more resourceful.

“Looking for something?”

Hermione’s head snaps back to Draco at the sudden introduction of conversation. An arched brow is the only quirk in his otherwise neutral face. She can feel her face heat just as she’s scolding her body for betraying her by blush.

“What, do you think your precious henchmen will crash our dinner?” he asks, his voice not hiding any of his amusement.

“I doubt they’d ever think to find me in a place like this.”

“I take it that means they know you’re out with me tonight,” he posits.

She hums in response.

“Donna, then?” he asks, to which she nods. “How did you know Donna’d spill?”

A shrug in response. “She has such a sweet spot for Harry, it’d only be a matter of time.”

He scoffs. “Of course she likes Potter.”

“Don’t be an idiot. You know she likes you as well as Harry.”

“That, my dear, is the result of much planning and work. Potter just waltzes in and she’s besotted with him.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “You are so dramatic.”

“I speak the truth, you know. Potter gets practically everything delivered to him on a silver platter.”

She barely resists the bait. “I’m not having this argument with you again.” She thought they’d put the relative difficulty of Draco’s and Harry’s lives to bed months ago. It’d be too soon if she never heard Draco complain again about how much more he had to work to get approval in society. “New topic.”

“Fine.” He huffs. “Let’s talk about how Tweedledee and Tweedledum reacted, since you seem so fixated on it.”

“What does that make you? The Caterpillar?” He frowns at the volleyed insult. “Nothing unusual to report. Ron was angry. Harry was mostly confused and trying to understand but not quite hitting the mark.”

“Did Weasley storm out?”

A smirk escapes her. “Not for lack of trying. I’m out of Floo powder, so his stomp ended at the fireplace.”

Draco barks in laughter, and she finds her body relaxing in response. All jokes with Harry aside, she does find Draco beautiful, especially when he lets down that wall. This is the first she’s seen of his less-guarded side in public.

“It sounds like everything went as expected, then. I asked you out where Donna could hear. Donna gossiped. Your friends reacted.”

She nods at each of his points.

“Then what’s wrong?”

Not having expected him to pick up on her edginess, Hermione blinks. But then again, at this point he knows her better than most. Possibly even better than the boys do. “Nothing. I just didn’t expect it to drain me. I almost wish we’d kept it under wraps.”

“Colour me surprised. One test run to see how people would react to us, and you’re running back to secret with your tail between your legs. What kind of Gryffindor are you?”

“One who still remembers her hexes — vividly.”

Draco puts his hands up in faux surrender. “I’m just saying. You’re starting to sound like you want to return to keeping each other a secret.”

“No! Not at all,” she says quickly, reaching her hand across the table in supplication. Within seconds, he’s gripping her hand. Hermione still isn’t used to how the feel of his skin on hers calms her. “I mean, it’s done now. It’ll get easier over time, I hope. What about you — did you decide whether to tell your friends?”

“Pansy has known for months now. I’ve never been good at keeping things from her.” That explains some of the looks the brunette has given her over the past weeks and months. “As for the rest, they’ll find out through the tabloids, and I’ll deal with their earful when it comes.”

“I think I like your strategy better than mine.”

Their shared smile is enough to close the topic.

Over the next hour, they each devour their dinners, complete with shared morsels of lamb and duck, and later they sup on the greatest lemon parfait Hermione’s taste buds have experienced.

When they finally leave the restaurant, Hermione feels more content than she has in months.

Oh, the wonder of a good meal and one less secret.

“We’ll have to do this again sometime,” he says, pulling her body closer to his once they emerge onto the pavement.

She smiles, lacing the fingers of her hands through each of his. “That sounds lovely.” Hermione likes the idea of not having to travel to the likes of Paris to go on a date involving public places.

The lines of their bodies press together, and they fall into a familiar pattern. They each turn their heads just so, the perfect angle to press their lips together. Her hands are planted on his slim hips, clenching and unclenching the material of his jacket. She could never help it, and he’d stopped caring about the wrinkles a time ago. Draco’s hands go almost automatically to cradle her neck, and she melts even further into him, groaning deeply.

Before they really get carried away in the middle of Diagon Alley, Hermione pulls apart, after a nip for good measure, and rests her forehead against his chin. Draco exhales in a growl, but instead of the expected (complaining about the interruption), he simply squeezes her upper arms and then begins leading them toward the Apparition Point.

They’re still linked by the laced fingers of one hand each. For a reason she can’t quite pin down, she feels the need to state the obvious. “It’ll probably take a while for Ron to come around.”

“I’m afraid I’m rather drawn to causing Weasley a few sleepless nights,” he says, his finger drawing in her palm. “And a bit disappointed that Potter didn’t make a fuss. Doesn’t he know I’m a dangerous man?”

She blushes hotly when she deduces what his fingers are spelling out, and he grins wolfishly.

One large exhale, and she breathes out her response. “Later.”

* This is a direct quote taken from “The Girl Who Waited” (Doctor Who, 6x10), written

by Tom MacRae.

fic: Nirvana (Seamus/Padma)

withdrawnred — Sat, 15 Dec 2012 23:14:23 GMT

Title: Nirvana
Author/Artist: withdrawnred
Characters: Seamus Finnigan, Padma Patil, Dean Thomas, Anthony Goldstein
Prompt number: 30
Word Count: 3,816
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: n/a
Summary: There’s really something about seeing people you love in this extreme state of happiness. Dare she call it nirvana? For their sake, she truly hopes it is. Merlin knows, they deserve it.
Disclaimer: Anything recognizable isn’t mine. I’m merely borrowing these fascinating characters from the unofficial queen, JK Rowling. No copyright infringement intended. No profits are being or will ever be made of this work.
Author’s Notes: Written for the 2012 round at interhouse_fest. Thanks to school for being such a jerk and getting in the way of writing (not). Thanks to betas inadaze22 and callarose, as well. You helped salvage me when I was drowning in this thing.

“Cheers!” A cacophony of the word rings throughout the dining hall, a collection of identical glasses being raised in salute. Enamoured newlyweds Dean and Amelie Thomas (nee Croix) bear million-Galleon smiles. Padma can’t help but return the smile. There’s really something about seeing people you love in this extreme state of happiness.

Dare she call it nirvana?

For their sake, she truly hopes it is.

Merlin knows, they deserve it.

“All right there?”

Padma doesn’t bother looking up at her date, which was certainly a liberal use of the word. (She and Anthony Goldstein always had been and always will be as far from romantic as possible. She’s highly certain that feeling is reciprocated on his part, and this had made him the ideal wedding date.) Instead, she downs the glass of wine she’d been swivelling and brings the glass down with perhaps too much force.

“Just tell me this.” Padma looks up at the smile in his voice. “Will I or will I not be required to Side-Along you home tonight?”

She answers with a chuckle and a light elbow to his ribs. “Isn’t that the point of a wedding? It is an open bar, after all.”

He laughs, but his expression soon grows serious, and she feels her anxiety flare up. Again. It’s certainly going to be the night for that. “Really, Padma. Are you all right? We can leave anytime you want. Dean and Am would understand.”

She quickly nods and attempts a smile. “I’ll be just fine.” Her eyes drift to the head table, where her old colleague Amelie sits with her new husband. The two are almost literally glowing. And sick-inducing. Although, to be quite honest, Padma doesn’t know if her nausea is due to the couple’s joy or the sight of the best man. They hadn’t seen each other in some time.

That was one benefit of him not living in Britain anymore.

“Don’t restrain yourself on my account,” she says as she stands from her chair, tapping her finger twice on his glass. “I’m going to refill.” Padma smooths her hand over the skirt of her dress. “Can I get you anything from the bar?”

In answer, Anthony downs the last of his wine and returns the glass to the table with a loud clunk. She smirks. “Back soon.”

“One of those nights, is it?” Seamus asks, looking pointedly at the two glasses of red in her hands.

Padma likes standing near the bar at events like this, because it usually has an excellent view of the rest of the room. This bar falls into said category, and she’s beyond grateful. The bar’s position allowed her several seconds to collect herself (as much as possible, at least) while Seamus approached before contact.

“Nice to see you, too,” she says through tight lips. “Sadly, only one of these is for me.”

“Yes, I saw you’re with Golden Boy.”

Padma doesn’t even try to suppress the imminent eye-roll. “Nice to see you’ve come into proper eyesight and maturity with age. What a treat.”

“So,” he says, “are you two . . . ?”

Padma vacillates between being irritated with his ridiculous jealousy and somewhat satisfied at it. His façade of arrogance still has a crack or two in it, at least that she can tell. Perhaps she’s still the only one who can.

“No, Anthony and I aren’t anything that we weren’t the last time you and I spoke. And it wouldn’t kill you to use his proper name for once. Even his surname, for Merlin’s sake.”

The transformation is slight, but she sees it nonetheless. He stands straighter - though only just - and his eyes are brighter, his smile surer.

Seamus Finnigan is nothing if not a bloody peacock.

“Job well done, Pad.” The swift topic change is something she hasn’t had to deal with in a while, and it almost throws her off. Her eyes immediately seek his, searching for the key to that unbelievably cryptic compliment. Well, potential compliment. Seamus is too much of a charmer for her to ever truly trust the words that he spouts at face value. He could be commenting on anything from her hair and general state of dress to the drink in her hand to --

“You know, Dean will never forget you’re the one who set those two up.”

Ah, yes. Job well done on setting up the couple of the day. Hopefully he doesn’t see her relief that his comment isn’t directed at her.

“They’re certainly my greatest success story yet,” she says with a genuine smile. “I’m sure Dean was happy to get you out of Germany for once.”

“I wouldn’t miss my best mate’s big day for anything.” Seamus shrugs. “I don’t know whether I’d be more scared of Dean or Amelie if I’d missed it!”

Padma laughs. “I wouldn’t know. You’re the only one I know who’s experienced both sides of that coin.”

“To be honest,” he says, leaning back against the bar, “she’s probably scarier.”

“You’ll never know now, will you? That’s what you get for being a decent human being,” she says, before politely excusing herself back to her table.

“You know, you’d probably like her.”

“What? Who?” Padma looks up at her dance partner - currently, the groom. She blushes at being caught staring at Seamus and his own dance partner.

“Prue,” Dean says with a nod of his chin towards the woman in question, his new sister-in-law. In Padma’s professional opinion, you could fit approximately three feathers between her and Seamus’ bodies. Not that she’d been analyzing, mind you. “You two’d get along.”

Padma nods. “She seems interesting.” Despite the nondescript nature of the word she chose, Padma knows Dean is probably right. Aside from how well he knows her, it’s Murphy’s Law in full effect. Jealous of a girl your ex or otherwise love interest is interested in? You will, by Murphy’s Law, actually like her, no matter how much you wish otherwise. Mother Nature’s a bitch that way.

Not that Padma’s jealous.

Dean smiles, but there’s something a little too knowing in his glance for Padma’s taste.

Perfect time for a subject change. “So how long are you two going to be on this honeymoon?”

“A couple weeks,” he says. It’s amazing how immediate the change in his face is, and Padma can pinpoint the moment his eyes find Amelie. His eyes light up in pure, unadulterated joy. The kind that is contagious in all the right ways. She can feel his happiness filling her up. “We should get together when Am and I get back, the four of us. How is Barney anyway?”

Padma smiles. “I’d like that very much. And I’m sure he would, too.” She’d had a moment of panic when Dean had said the four of us, and she’s sure he noticed. “Barney’s great. He’s off visiting his family this weekend. We agreed it’s too early to be each other’s plus-ones just yet.”

Dean nods. “Well, it’s good to see he’s family-minded. I know how important that is to you.” He follows her gaze then to Prue and Seamus again, who look to be dancing ever closer, which hadn’t seemed possible before. Funny, the things you associate with certain words -- like family -- as you mature. “You know, Padma, you may not be related by blood to either of us, but Amelie and I want you to know how much you mean to us. You may as well be family.”

“Oh, Dean,” she sighs. “I’m very happy to have the two of you in my life.”

He laughs. “As are we. We have you to thank for being together anyway!”

She grins and gingerly squeezes his shoulder. “I can’t take all the credit, you know! I may have set up the blind date, but you two did the good work.” As the song begins to wind down, she finds more words pouring out - ones she’s thought countless times but never thought she’d actually say out loud. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, Dean,” she says quietly.

“What for?” he asks, perturbed.

“For not taking sides.”

He simply nods and pulls her into a tight hug.

Not an hour later, Padma sits happily outside, perched on a bench in the property’s gazebo. She can only take social interaction for so long before she usually holes herself up in the bathroom for twenty minutes. Thankfully, there’s plenty of open space in which she can do just that. And yet another glass of wine, in which she can also lose herself. She likes having options. The excuse of smoking exempts her from any unwanted scrutiny from her friends and “friends”. It’s funny, she’s always thought, that it’s more societally acceptable to go off for a smoke than it is to just stare out a bloody window when you want a moment to yourself.

With that glass of wine warming her tummy and a freshly lit cig between her fingers, she finally feels relaxed enough to breathe. This is the first moment in hours that she’s had absolutely to herself, without a single person nearby to ask any of a variety of questions. Wasn’t that a darling service? When are you getting married? How’s Parvati doing these days? Isn’t that biological clock ticking? Are you okay seeing . . . him tonight? She’s never much understood why people are so nosy. The world will not fall apart if you don’t know every detail of every person you come into contact with. That’s a guarantee.

And to be honest, the answers to those questions would spark more questions and what’s worse, pity. The repetition of the questions themselves just made it all the worse. Well, yes, that was a darling service. I really don’t know when (or even if) I’m ever getting married. I haven’t spoken to Parvati aside from the typical holiday owl in eight months, at least. As far as I know, she’s alive. But that’s generally the extent of our adult relationship. I would appreciate you to keep your comments away from my biological clock.

And, no. Not even remotely ‘okay’.

Padma’s known that, in all likelihood, today would be a day in which she’d need to see Seamus. For the first time in . . . Merlin, months. The only thing that would’ve exempted his presence is death or loss of all limbs. And as usually accompanies seeing, she’d need to speak to him. Not necessarily at length, but conversation would happen. This is, in fact, something she has some modicum of experience in. They split a couple of years ago, due in part to his career trajectory and in part to her aversion to long distance relationships. Being career-minded herself, she’d rather encouraged him to take off and pursue his potential. Since then, they’d shared each other’s company a handful of times. Padma’s not particularly proud of the choices she’s made in that handful of times; Seamus Finnigan is something of a weakness for her.

She really wishes he wasn’t.

With her back to the house, the only light that casts much of anything on things in her line of sight is the dusty bits of ash flying off of her cigarette. That, coupled with how deep she’s dove into her thoughts, she doesn’t notice anyone next to her until she feels the cigarette being pulled from her fingers. The end of the cigarette is barely light enough for her to see her new companion’s lips, but it’s enough for her to recognize him. She relaxes, her spine no longer resembling one afflicted by Petrificus Totalus.

“I thought you gave up smoking,” Seamus says around the cigarette.

“I did,” she says, snatching her cigarette back. “I only smoke socially now.”

He snorts. “I think for something to be a social habit, you have to do it with people.”

“I smoke on my own so that I can return to being social and not go on a murdering spree. Does that qualify?” It seems only natural that the very reason she needs to decompress should follow her out of the reception.

“Mind if I smoke with you, then? May as well actually socialize if you’re going to call yourself that.”

In answer, she hands him a new cigarette. The silence that follows is positively glorious. Any remaining rigidity in her melts away as the comfortable silence envelopes her. She’d forgotten how it feels to just be next to a person, without feeling the need to fill gaps with inane and pointless conversation. Although Barney is incredibly similar to her and fulfills many of the things she looks for in a partner - intelligence being a huge part of that - there’s still an element of awkwardness to their silences. If that doesn’t go away soon, Padma’s sure it won’t last. She’s long since known that she needs someone who doesn’t feel the need to fill all the gaps in conversation. In fact, she remembers the day she realized that it was possible. She and Seamus had been together nearly a year, and she’d instantly filed that away as a required qualification. There’s just something comforting about being able to sit and be with a person, without needing to fill time with the mundane.

It’s definitely something Padma’s missed since she and Seamus went their separate ways. She’s dated a handful of blokes between him and Barney, and none of them were ever very comfortable with quiet for quiet’s sake. Pity; they all had such potential. Her mother had been particularly cross with her for the last break-up. Padma has never expected her parents, each of whom come from such large, rowdy families, to understand the comfort she finds in silence.

“Shall we toast?” Seamus’ question jerks Padma back to the gazebo.

She looks to her right, her eyes adjusting just enough for the embers from his cigarette to light up his mouth and chin. His mouth is set into a permanent smirk, it seems. He always could find the amusing in anything. Picking up her wine glass, Padma shakes her head slightly. “Sorry, I’ve nothing to toast with.”

Almost as soon as the words come out, she feels her glass becoming heavier with a refill of wine. Padma looks up at Seamus, surprised. In response, he simply sets the bottle onto the floor next to him. “Brought reinforcements.”

A laugh. “Ever the prepared one, Mister Finnigan.” A real laugh.

He returns the laugh, his always real. “So, Miss Patil. A toast.”

“To what, may I ask?”

“Why, your matchmaking skills, of course.”

She laughs again, and soon clinks her glass against his before downing her newly filled glass. Almost immediately, her glass is refilled with the contents of Seamus’ bottle.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Seamus?”

“I’d say you’re already there, Pad.” He has a good point, she almost says aloud.

“If you say so. Another toast?”

He nods, filling his own glass. “Your turn.”

“To Dean.” Glasses raised, they toast. And the cycle continues through a few more. To Amelie. To the patron saint of marriage, whose name eludes Seamus at the time. To England.

“One last toast,” Seamus says. They’ve reached the end of the bottle. After filling each of their glasses - though with the limited remains of the bottle, they’ve each got just half a glass - he raises his own and toasts solemnly, “To love.”

“To love,” she says, clinking her glass with his and throwing it back.

When she sets her hand onto the bench to keep from wobbling (wine’s never really been her friend), she’s surprised to feel the warmth of Seamus’ hand instead of the cold wood of the bench. “Oh! Sorry.” Immediately, she goes to move her hand, but he appears to have other ideas. Her mind is too fogged to figure out when it’d happened, but he’s now holding her hand in place, his thumb running over the back of her hand.

“What’re you doing?” she asks, not bothering to attempt moving her hand again. For what reason, she doesn’t feel like thinking about. Her head doesn’t like thinking right now.

“Toasting love,” he murmurs, his hand moving to instead grasp her wrist. And then, before she can make head or tail of what’s happening, she feels one hand pressed against the exposed back of her dress and the other caressing the nape of her neck, pulling her in. As their lips connect, the familiarity sets in, along with a feeling of such security she’s never experienced elsewhere. She never realizes how much she misses him until moments like these, and then it hits her like a train. Like the stupid Hogwarts Express, where they’d first done this.

Nobody ever tells you what an aphrodisiac familiarity is.

When he pulls away, tucking his face into her neck, against one of those pressure points he knows by heart, realization dawns - like a bucket of ice and water meant to drown her - and her heart plummets. She reluctantly pulls away and puts small distance between their bodies, quickly dissuading him from seeking her mouth again. “I’m seeing someone.”

“Yeah, I heard.” If his face was any indication, this was very low on his list of interesting conversation topics. “Clearly, you’re very happy with your boyfriend if you’re sitting out here kissing me.”

She breaks the silence after a minute or so. Padma hasn’t felt a silence so awkward between them in years, and that feeling is crushing. Every time they’d seen each other since his move, they’d fallen into bed together. She’s detemined to break the cycle. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

“That’s what you say every time, you know.”

Padma winces at the venom in his voice. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have drank so much, especially around you.” She winces again, cursing the alcohol for removing her filter.

“Merlin, I hope you remember all this shite in the morning, Padma.” He’s now sitting facing straight ahead, his head resting in his hands. She has to use all her remaining will power not to run her hand through his hair. “You need to figure out what it is you want.”

Padma scoffs. “And you know exactly what you want, do you?”

“Yes!” he says forcefully, turning his head to look at her. But she can’t maintain eye contact with him, his eyes are so intense. “I want you. I want us. I want this, not including whatever idiot you’re seeing now.”

“I thought we agreed -”

“I needed the career boost, and you understood that. You refused to do anything long distance, and I didn’t understand it but I respected it. So I went. And we split.”

“We never would have lasted with the distance, Seamus,” she says evenly, having memorized her side of this argument. “I stand by my decision to stop while we were ahead.”

“You don’t know that, Padma. People survive long-distance relationships. Your decision was to end it before it even had a chance to survive.”

Seamus stands, collecting the now-empty bottle and glass he’d come with. “You know, I’m not just doing grunt work any more. I could get transferred back to England at the drop of a hat. I’ve been toying with the idea for a while now. I just don’t know what I’d be coming back to anymore.”

And then he’s gone, lost in the crowd of the reception.

“I don’t know what to do.” Merlin, those words are difficult to say.

Padma Patil rarely asks anyone for help, more keen on being the independent woman and accomplishing things on her own. One hundred percent self-powered. No thanks, I don’t need help. I can do it. She’s probably phrased it a million different ways in her life. In fact, it’s probably what she says most often. Who knows who she’s even striving to prove herself to anymore. Maybe to herself?

In sum, she hopes the ego sacrifice isn’t lost on Anthony. He knows the whole story, everything. From the beginning to now. In fact, he probably remembers more of the details, simply from her regaling him with them - though he’d probably use a different word, like bombard or harass. She’s filled in the miniscule gaps for him since they left the reception.

After what seems like several minutes, they reach the Apparition Point, he speaks. “Well, what do you want?” It sounds so matter-of-fact coming from him, but in Padma’s mind it’s so much more complicated.

The drink in her responds. “To be happy. What else?”

A smile creeps up his cheeks. “I’m glad you decided to join us plebeians in that effort. Then how are you going to get there? What is the key to happiness for one, Padma Patil?”

She looks up at him, sure her confusion is painted across her face. She can’t force the words out of her mouth again, so she just shrugs.

“You need to figure that out. He basically said he would come back for you. Seamus has made his decision. You are his key - he’s as good as said it and tattooed your name on his bits.”

A snort escapes her, despite her most valiant attempts to subdue it. But Anthony doesn’t falter in his near-diatribe.

“Is your key to happiness being right? If so, by all means, keep away from Finnigan. Keep dating these throwaway blokes, and you’ll rest assured you were right to push Finnigan to take that international job and give him up.

“But if you decide you can’t reason yourself happy with your logic, and you decide that he is your key to happiness, bugger all that. And bugger Barney. Bugger the lot of ‘em. Your key to happiness just fucking put his head on a silver platter for you.”

She’s never allowed herself such a direct comparison between these parts of her lives: Barney - and the other men like him in the past couple years, and Seamus. Sure, she’d compared them a couple of times - but never with such purpose. Before, it’d all been accidental, and she’d just as quickly banished the thought.

When it comes down to it, she realizes at this moment, there’s one thing that truly marks him apart from the other men, as represented by Barney. That when she’s with Seamus, without pretense or anxiety, she experiences a level of contentment that seems to lift her soul to what can only be described as “home.”

Happiness must be that. A contentment so deep-rooted that it transcends.

She’s never thought of their relationship in those terms. In terms of nirvana. And maybe their relationship wasn’t (isn’t? - she doesn’t know how to define it anymore) devoid of desire or suffering, but it’s the closest she’s ever come to transcendence, and so it is - for her - just that.

Nirvana.

She couldn’t turn that down twice.

Prompt: Seamus/Padma with Lady Gaga - You've got a lotta lotta nerve | Coming here when I'm still with him | And I can't have you, it isn't fair | Born march of '86, my birthday's coming | And if I had one wish | Yeah, you'd be it

the day has come

withdrawnred — Thu, 13 Dec 2012 19:50:12 GMT

I just turned in my last assignment of the semester.

Make that the last assignment of my degree! Assuming I didn't have a stroke of complete idiocy, I now have a Masters! Yay.

Now, let's see about that fic.

Posted via LiveJournal app for Android.

Holidays to come!

withdrawnred — Fri, 28 Sep 2012 19:15:59 GMT

Just booked a flight to NYC at the end of next month! Going to visit a friend for college, who's doing graduate work in Women's History at Sarah Lawrence. Honestly, I can't think of that school without also thinking of 10 Things I Hate About You. Associations tend to last a lifetime, don't they?

Anyway, for those of who've been recently, any suggestions? Brunch, breakfast, cupcakes, general food? Bookstores? Anything, really.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPad.

fic: forget me not - part one

withdrawnred — Wed, 04 Jul 2012 01:19:31 GMT

Title: Forget Me Not (2/?)
Author: withdrawnred
Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger, featuring Harry/Luna
Chapter Word Count: 6819
Rating: R
Warnings: Angsty
Summary: Memories are the building blocks of our being, the glue that bonds us together. And we are mere shadows of our selves without them.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize isn't mine, including the lovely characters. Sad, but true.
Betas: callarose, dormiensa, jen3227
Note: The first half (prologue and parts 1 and 2) were written for the first round of dramione_remix, but I unfortunately couldn't finish the story in time. So, here it is -- published outside of the fest.

PART ONE

Year 5, Day 271, Hour 06:45

A ticking next to his head startles Draco from his sleep.

He grunts as his body protests the interruption, although they each know it’s futile at this point. Once he’s awake, he’s awake for good—especially with the sun shining so brightly through the window. Usually he can sleep through the light, and at times through the buzzing alarm set on the wand under his pillow, but that’s contingent upon his face not being exposed to the blaring sun rays. Today is no such day.

He gazes down at his chest, blinking to focus his eyesight, and grabs the arm that’s lying across him. He turns it gingerly, too lazy at this point to engage all his muscles, and takes a moment to read the face of the obnoxiously ticking watch. Barely seven, reads the culprit. Bloody menace, this watch is. Ticking is certainly not his favourite means of being woken.

Even after so many years of getting up at or around this time nearly every day (with the exception of the sacred Sunday), he still has to convince himself to get out of his warm bed each morning. Seven is an unholy time of day, in his humble opinion. The wrist in his grasp, which just so happens to be connected to the body keeping his bed warm, begins to flex and he drops it just as his bedmate draws into a stretch. Ever so cat-like, his Hermione Granger.

“Too early,” he hears mumbled through pillows and covers.

“It’s your own damn fault. If your watch didn’t tick so obnoxiously, I’d still be asleep for,” he grabs her wrist again to read the time, “another fifteen minutes.”

When she begins to burrow back into her covers—a habit he blames on spending entirely too much time at the Weasleys’—he pushes himself up to a sitting position and is about to poke her side, when she smiles.

“Mmm, yes. Perfect. Just stay there, please.”

Draco frowns in confusion, then notices the large expanse of shadow he’s drawing over her face. “What, so you can sleep longer? Fat chance.” He laughs then draws his long legs out from their duvet—not before giving her a solid prod to the flesh lining her ribs as he’d initially planned. She grunts in response—yes, she’s quite eloquent in the mornings—and just as he’s passing through the doorway to the remainder of the flat, he hears small thumps as she walks to the loo.

Year 5, Day 271, Hour 07:15

Her hair finally presentable after a few attempts at drying charms, Hermione runs her hand through her hair to move the wayward mess out of her face. Her hand stops midway, though, accompanied by a yelp as her hand gets tangle in the curls. She winces. “Again?”

After a short time of detangling her fingers and then the ring that’d gotten caught on her curls, Hermione looks down at the piece of silver and diamond in her hand. She pulls a stray hair off the stone, where it’d been caught somewhere in the scuffle between jagged jewelry and hair, and slips the ring back onto his left ring finger. Four months of wearing this thing, and she still hadn’t learned not to run her hand through her bloody hair.

Four months. It’s still surreal to her that she’s engaged. Engaged to be married. To Draco Malfoy. Even more surreal is the thought that in the coming spring she would actually be married to him. Forever. Every time this thought has crossed her mind over the past few months, her reaction has surprised her, and this morning is no different. She feels much more of an excited nervousness than the anxiety attack she’d always expected.

In fact, she probably has that goofy grin Ron has complained about occasionally—in good humour, that is (at least she assumes and hopes so). A glance at the mirror confirms this. She’s sure Ron’s complaints about her happiness are just teasing; he never can keep a straight face throughout any comment. In fact—

She’s jarred from her thoughts by two sharp raps on the door behind her. Hermione quickly grabs her watch—which she’s happy she remembered to remove before getting in the shower this morning—and opens the door to let Draco in. She pauses to attach her watch to her wrist as he saunters in.

With a quick glance at what she’s doing, he mutters, “I really don’t understand why you don’t get one of those other watches—the ones you don’t have to bloody translate?”

Hermione can’t help but chuckle. “I’m going to ignore the fact that you just commended Muggle technology, though only for a moment. First, why are you complaining about my watch? You don’t need to use it.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I do. So, why don’t you? It’s got to be loads easier, right?”

“I’m perfectly content reading my analog watch and not going digital, thank you very much. Especially now that there’s the potential that it’ll keep you from constantly grabbing my wrist to check the time.”

“As if that would work.”

“Get your own bloody watch, Draco.” She struggles not to laugh. That would be tantamount to defeat. It’s always the little battles with them.

He smirks. “And when you get a digibal one, I won’t wake up to ticking watches any more.”

“Digital,” she corrects with a smirk to rival his own. He rolls his eyes. “And you say that as if I’m going to get a digital watch.” He grins. Cheeky bastard. “Which is false.”

He simply chuckles in response, which she knows is (unfortunately) a sign that he thinks she’s the false one. All in all, Hermione doesn’t get his problem with the ticking watch. She likes the sound of it, and she’s certainly never woken to any ticking. It’s hardly the watch’s fault (or hers, for that matter) that he sleeps so lightly.

As she turns to walk through the doorway to the bedroom, Draco steps into the shower. “I’d offer for you to join me, but,” he gestured to her hair with a pause, “I really don’t fancy being drowned by that thing you call hair.”

“Blast!” she says with a grin. “You’ve foiled my master plan.”

Year 5, Day 271, Hour 07:30

“Well, hello, Headmistress. I see you’ve managed to tame the beast.”

She stops mid-sip, and her free hand flies to her hair. Her gaze narrows and then darts over to her fiancé, who’s walking towards her, every strand of hair and fiber of fabric looking immaculate as always. It still boggles her mind daily that Draco can manage to look so perfectly put-together with just a quarter hour, shower included. Hermione’s lucky if she’s presentable within forty-five minutes.

Her fear of rings and hair tangling had pushed her to pull her hair as out of the way as humanly possible. The result was a bun, which she’d fervently hoped looked more stylish and less uptight.

“Are you insinuating what I think you’re insinuating?” she asks slowly, watching him warily.

“I’m not a Seer, Hermione,” he says.

She gapes at his roundabout answer, then closes her eyes in exasperation. Always with the non-answers. Answering with a question or something totally unrelated or something that he thinks trumps whatever she’s said. It isn’t until she opens her eyes and notices him lift a teacup to his lips that she realises he’s taken hers right out of her hands.

“Draco!” she chides, snatching the cup back. “Get your own, you pillock.”

He simply stares ahead and frowns. “That was much too bitter.”

“Perhaps because it’s my bloody tea and I don’t drown it in sugar like some people,” she says before taking her own gratuitous gulp of the liquid. Bloody wanker steals her tea right after insulting her, comparing her to— “McGonagall.”

Draco raises his eyebrow in response.

“McGonagall. You compared me to her.”

He smirks. “Well, you do look a bit matronly. It looks like you’re just asking for a migraine. Not that you need help in that department.”

Hermione’s emotional reaction sways between anger at the offense and dejection. “How do you like having a matronly wife?”

“You’re not my wife.”

“Fine. Matronly fiancée, then.” She pauses. “Unless this is your way of saying you really don’t want a wife.”

His face flashes with a glimpse of something she can’t quite decipher, though just for a moment. It quickly reverts to something indicative of teasing. “You can’t get rid of me that easily. You’re stuck with me.”

She smiles in response, then moves to refill her cup with fresh tea. Just in case he feels like stealing her tea again, she leaves it black. It’s not undrinkable, at least not to her. Draco’s prefer three large scoops of sugar in each small cup of tea if he could get away with it. The trick, his mother’d once told her, is to drop a quiet remark about sugar and his figure every once in a while. Hermione doubted there was a Malfoy in existence who hadn’t been plagued by vanity.

“But really, why do you always wear your hair up these days? I seem to remember you leaving the beast down every once in a while.”

She holds up her left hand in response. “I have a habit of running my hands through my hair, and the ring gets caught. It’s quite painful.”

“So, why don’t you stop?” he asks, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He would, with his short, silky, not-curly hair.

She narrows her eyes. “I can’t. It’s not as easy as saying, oh, I’m just not going to do this anymore.”

“Sure it is.”

“Oh, really?”

He nods slowly, though she notes his gaze grows more calculating as she smirks. “Though I suppose you’ll learn your lesson eventually.”

“You’re not one to talk,” she says. “You still crack your joints as much as you did when we were in school.”

“Perhaps,” he says. He pulls his left hand into a fist, and she imagines the very mention of the word crack makes him want to pop his knuckles. “But your habit does two things mine does not.” He holds up a forefinger, and her eyebrows raise in question. “It causes you pain.” She frowns, about to say that it wasn’t her fingers but his ring that causes the pain, and that it’s not serious pain by any means. His second finger joins the forefinger of his left hand. “And it causes you to change bits about yourself.”

Her mouth falls open, and she’s not sure what to say to him, but only because so many things are flying through her head.

“Do I get a touché?” he asks with a glint in his eye. One she’d dearly love to remove forcibly.

Her eyes narrow again then. “Only you would make a big deal out of hair. It was one of two options. This, or not wearing the ring. Which would you prefer?”

He frowns again, drawing closer. She almost flinches when he reaches near her neck, but he just maneuvers his fingers so that the bun her hair is pulled into loosens. “Now you make me less inclined to shove a headache tonic down your throat.”

Hermione’s gaze travels to his face, her eyebrows drawn. “Should I be thanking you?”

Draco doesn’t answer. He simply smiles and then kisses her. Her smile and fluttering stomach are almost immediate responses. Sometimes she worries about how easily she responds to him. It’s unlike anything she’s ever experienced. But she’s gotten past the point of no return; she can’t imagine living in a world where the two of them were apart.

Year 5, Day 280, Hour 16:50

Hermione turns the last page over slowly, the fact that the report is finished hitting her like a splash of water. Her heart speeds up when the page settles, finding itself perfectly in line with the stack of hundreds of pages upon which it has fallen. These hundreds of pages, as well as thousands of others that had gone the way that drafts usually do, are everything she has worked on the past several years.

Five years, she thinks. It’s still disconcerting to think so much time has passed since the beginning of the trial—to think of how much has happened in that time. She still cannot believe the impact her research has had on the Wizarding world at large to date, and she can only imagine what it will accomplish in the future. Surely, this is what it means to feel successful.

A knock on her doorframe—she’d apparently forgotten to close her door since her lunch break—jolts her out of her musings. At the sight of Miri’s beaming face, Hermione can’t help but to mirror it. The girl’s joy was contagious on the most morose of days; on days like this her enthusiasm would catch like wildfire.

“You ‘bout ready, then?”

With a small smile, she nods. “Yeah, of course. I just finished the last revision.” She quickly binds the report and gathers her effects.

“Fantastic,” Miri exclaims, and Hermione can’t help but wince, the near-shout sending a jolt to her temple. For such a small person, Miri has a surprising ability to speak up both in volume and pitch, sometimes at the same time. Mostly when she’s very excited. And it’s those times when Hermione doesn’t have the heart to admonish her for her enthusiasm. (In truth, Cameron generally took it upon himself to do it anyway.)

Their walk to the conference room is very relaxed, with Miri’s energy and excitement mounting steadily. She’s practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, and not for the first time, Hermione is reminded of Tonks. Much like her, Miri is passionate to a tee, and nobody could contest her work ethics and ability, but there’s always a childlike wonder and excited energy about her. It’s something Hermione often wishes were instilled in more people.

“Have you two love-birds selected a date yet?”

Hermione nods with a grin.

"And?"

Her grin widens. "The invitations'll be out soon. Have some patience, Miri!"

“Fine, don't tell me." Miri huffs. "Oh, are you two still coming out with us tonight?”

Hermione nods quickly. “Yeah, I believe so. Don’t see why not!”

Miri beams. “Excellent! Just like old times.” She pauses. “You know, it’s strange.”

“What’s strange?”

“This project’s officially over. Not that it won’t continue on for years, but the team’s ... you know, we’re splitting up. Five years of working together and it feels like when the Weird Sisters called it quits.”

Hermione grips her hand and squeezes. “We’ll still see each other plenty.” With a wink, she says, “You can’t get rid of me that easily! MI is just expanding, and all three of you really deserve a bit of a promotion after all the work you’ve put in. I’m more than happy that the trial’s going into a further stage of development. Give you lot a chance to spread your wings.”

Miri smiles, returning the squeeze. “Yeah, of course. It just feels like the end of an era or something.”

And what an era it has been, Hermione thinks. She feels like the past five years have contained ten years’ worth of work--not because she feels overworked, but rather because the progress of Project Moneta has been that fulfilling for her, made her feel that accomplished--but at the same time, she feels like it’s passed in the blink of an eye. The end has come quickly. And Miri’s right. This era is ending, and the only thing Hermione can really count on in the near future is a lot of change.

When she and Miri arrive at the conference room, Cameron and Moira are sitting. Moira has the fingers on one hand fanned out to cover as much of her--very red--face as possible, and Cameron has the largest possible smirk gracing his face.

Miri pokes his shoulder hard. “Oy, Cam, what’d we tell you about telling poor Moira there dirty jokes?”

Cameron’s mouth hangs open in what must be mock shock. “What? Me, tell dirty jokes? I am offended.” He rubs his shoulder. “And blimey, that smarts. Watch where you put that thing, Mir. And I will have you know that I did not tell Moira anything dirty. It was specifically a non-dirty joke.”

Moira, who appears significantly less red, nods.

Hermione can’t help but chuckle. “Let’s hear it, then. What’s your hilarious joke, Cameron?”

“Oh, no,” he says, leaning back in his chair a bit.

“Stingy,” Hermione chides.

He grins. “So, tell me: why’s this got to be so formal? You’re just handing reports off to the three of us. Reports that we helped write, might I add.”

“How is this formal?” Hermione asked.

“It’s so ... official,” Cameron says, his voice teetering on the edge of a whinge.

“Ministry policy. I’ve got to do the hand-over in the presence of—” The familiar sound of a throat clearing shortly interrupts her train of thought. “In the presence some official representative or another.” She could just hear Draco: Wouldn’t be surprised if you knocked someone’s eye out. “We had to have official details booked, since our lawyer seems to have gone and got busy on us.” Hermione turned her head to quirk an eyebrow at their most recent arrival. “So glad you could grace us with your presence.”

He simply smirks and crosses the remaining distance between the door and their small table. “I’m sure.”

Hermione doesn’t know whether it should bother her that her immediate reaction to that smirk is still, even after all this time, a faster heartbeat.

Year 5, Day 280, Hour 17:30

“So,” Cameron exclaims as he stands abruptly, “time for dinner, yes?”

“Sure, let me just hand these copies off to the Head,” Hermione says, holding up a stack of reports meant for the Head of MLE and Kingsley. “We should be there in fifteen minutes.”

Cameron smirks. “Give or take three minutes, eh?” he says with a snigger. At the perplexed looks from the women surrounding him, his brow furrows. “You know, it only takes—you don’t know? They say it only takes three minu—”

“I suggest you not finish that sentence, Spencer,” Draco drawls, and Hermione presses her lips together in an effort not to smile or laugh ... or make any sort of fool of herself. It’s only a partial success; she can feel the sides of her mouth turned up, no matter how much she tries to resist.

Cameron opens his mouth as if to retort, but Miri beats him to it. “Now it’s not so surprising how few women you bring around, Cam.” Cameron turns his glare to her, but she just laughs. “Three minutes, ha!”

Hermione bites her lip in attempt to hide her chuckle. “See you lot in a bit!” she says, backing towards the door as Cameron rounds on Miri.

Once they’re in the lift, she looks up at Draco. His mouth is quite tense, as if he’s afraid of losing control of the muscles surrounding it. “You can smile, you know. It won’t hurt, I promise.”

He glances down at her and shakes his head, still trying not to smile. “That cheeky little--”

“I have a small feeling that wasn’t a dig at your manhood, Draco.”

“Any more talk about my manhood, and I can guarantee you won’t make it to dinner, Hermione,” he mutters low enough for her to hear. Even lower, he mumbles with a curse, “Three minutes.”

“If you say so,” she sings quietly.

He hums. “Is that a challenge?”

Her gaze darts up to meet his, where she finds a question. Ah, that question. She breaks her gaze from his and purses her lips while shaking her head.

“That’s what I thought.” Merlin, she can just hear the triumphant smirk. So typical.

“I just really want to go to that dinner.” Hermione takes a small step back so she can stand behind him, then leans up to whisper in his ear. “But it might be a challenge later.” She feels his head snap to look at her just as the doors open to Level One, and without another glance at him, she darts outside the small cabin, though she doesn’t miss his grumble of “Tease.”

The second she turns out of the small foyer at the entrance to the lift, she stops short, bracing herself on the doorframe between the foyer and the rest of Level One. She feels heavy pressure closing in on both sides of her head, and she’s so dizzy that she swears if she weren’t holding onto the frame for dear life, she’d go spinning off into the universe. Headaches aren’t unfamiliar to her, and neither are migraines like this. In fact, she’s taken at least half of her sick days for migraines alone this year. Never mind that she hasn’t taken any other sick days. She’d never thought she would need to take more than one or two a year. And yet here she stands, clutching onto a doorframe for dear life yards away from the bloody Minister of Magic’s office.

Her hand moves up to massage her temple in an attempt to relieve the great pressure, but she may as well have been trying to massage a wall. She feels Draco come up behind her slowly, and she knows he’s trying to assess the amount of pain she’s in. They almost have it down to a system now. If they could make it down to the Atrium, a jump in the Floo network would be the only thing standing between her and a combination of one of Mungo’s tonics and her bed--although the trip through the Floo would make that two of Mungo’s tonics.

“Home?” Draco’s whisper was barely audibly, even with his mouth mere centimetres from her ear. Hermione nods once, knowing that each movement between here, this beloved doorframe, and home will be brutal. He hums under his breath, slowly tugging her back towards the lift.

Year 5, Day 280, Hour 23:00

Her eyes peel open slowly and with resistance. After a second, she jolts up into a sitting position. Shit, she’d completely missed that dinner. She immediately regrets how fast she’d sat up, though her head is nowhere near as pained as it had been earlier that evening. At least, she assumes it’s still the same day. If she slept through to 23:00 on what should be ‘tomorrow’, she doesn’t know what she’d do with herself.

“You should go back to sleep.”

She starts at the sound of his voice, soft as it is. “Sorry about tonight.” Her voice is rough, her throat dry.

He shrugs. “Moira says they’ll try to reschedule dinner sometime next week or something.”

She nods and bites her lip. This was becoming way too routine-like for her tastes. She absolutely hates the migraines, not just because of the pain, but because of how little she can do about it or to clean up after it. It bothered her that, when they do strike, she can’t even send her ill notice to a secretary or a quick owl to friends she’s meant to meet for dinner.

“Told Shacklebolt’s secretary you’d set up a meeting tomorrow about the report,” Draco continues as he lies down next to her.

She nods again.

“You feeling better?”

Hermione smiles. “Loads. It doesn’t hurt to think.”

He chuckles. “Maybe it’d be better if you didn’t think so hard all the time.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’ll definitely start on that tomorrow,” she says, eliciting a laugh from him. She leans over with a smile and claims his lips with a lazy kiss. “Good night, love.”

Year 5, Day x, Hour 18

Of all the reasons to get Draco around her friends, Hermione’s favourite is seeing his interaction with the Potter children. As Luna and Harry’s twins had grown older, she’s watched him grow more used to their presence (which could be because of him being more comfortable with older children and him), though she still gets a kick out of how tense he gets.

“Lyra Jacqueline Potter, don’t you dare.”

Luna beckons them into the flat just as Harry’s voice booms, accompanied by what sounds like Ron trying – and failing – not to laugh, from near the kitchen. With wide eyes, she smiles at Luna.

“Welcome to the chaos,” Luna says cheerily. “You two know to make yourselves at home. I’d better go intervene.”

In the kitchen, they find Ron, a glass in his hand and a mouth full of what they can only assume is pumpkin juice.

“Hello, Hermione.” He smiles, but the smile fades once his eyes absorb Draco’s attire. “You and your Harpies, Malfoy.” Ron sniffs.

“Sorry, Weasley. I don’t support orange. It clashes with my complexion.”

“At least you’ll have Gin to cheer with you. Wouldn’t want you to be all alone with that.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “There’ll be three of us cheering on ol’ Holyhead.” Ron looks shocked, his eyes darting to Hermione and then narrowing. Draco continues with a smirk, “Notice Hermione’s colour of choice tonight. Yes, that is green and not orange.”

After quickly elbowing Draco, she holds up her hands as if in surrender. “It’s only fair, Ron.”

“That’s no excuse!”

“Sure it is,” Hermione protests. “You, Harry, and Luna’ll be cheering on the Cannons. That makes three. Draco and I will cheer the Harpies with Ginny. Three. Equal and fair.”

Ron simply rolls his eyes. She’s surprised he doesn’t make some quip about how she’s ‘too logical’ or something.

“Besides, it’s because of the Harpies that we even have these tickets,” she says with a small smile. “It was sweet of Ginny to invite us to share the box with her.” The youngest Weasley had just been promoted, from Quidditch columnist to editor of the entire sports section of the Daily Prophet. Not that the sports section contains much of anything but Quidditch, but she’s nonetheless now in charge of everything related that goes to print. The hours are perfect for her too, as Hermione’s heard. Ginny’s always been something of a night owl.

Ron nods slowly. “Yeah, yeah. I appreciate her new perks more than any of the lot of you. Doesn’t mean I need to cheer them—Oh, hell. What is that?”

Luna and Harry are emerging from the fireplace, having just delivered their two to Xenophilius for the evening. Luna’s head is adorned with a large orange-and-black hat—complete with the Chudley Cannons’ logo—that stands several inches above her head.

Luna had been tempted to bring out her old lion hat from Hogwarts – “It’s orange!” – but the kids had commandeered it sometime throughout the day. As she notices Harry’s light blush, Hermione thinks it wasn’t entirely an accident that the lion is currently in the possession of young James at his grandpa’s.

“It doesn’t … shoot off anything does it?” Ron asks, not in the least put off by Harry’s glare. “What? She always said she meant for that lion to … roar or something. It’s a matter of personal safety.”

Harry continues glaring.

“I made it from Lavender’s bridesmaid’s dress,” Luna says, and Hermione finally notices the very light, paisley design all around it. “Of course, I had to spell it orange, but that’s just a quick charm. Hopefully it doesn’t wear off before the game ends.”

“So! Speaking of weddings … ” Ron trails off.

“Way to be subtle, Weasley.”

Harry sniggers. “You two can’t honestly not have chosen a date yet. You’ve been together long enough.”

“Just because we didn’t get married within a year, Harry,” Hermione says, on the verge of scolding.

She ignores Harry’s muttered “Yeah, but five?”

“We’re not in a rush.” She clears her throat. “But as it happens, we’re sending invitations out in a couple weeks. For April.”

Luna breaks out into a grin. “How wonderful! Perfect time for a wedding. Oh, I hope it rains.”

Hermione glances at Draco, who looks beyond confused – and a little perturbed. “I’ve heard … erm, that rain on your wedding day is good luck.”

“Where do you learn all this stuff?” Ron asks with a grimace.

“Some people can fit more than a couple of paragraphs’ worth of information at once,” Draco quips.

“No, don’t you all remember? Slughorn talked about the magical properties of rain for almost a full class period. He paid particular attention to special events like weddings and naming ceremonies, I think.” Hermione looks around for affirmation. She doesn’t expect anything from Luna, as the Ravenclaw hadn’t been in their sixth-year Advanced Potions course, but surely the other three remember that discussion. It had been so fascinating, the idea of rain’s magical properties. Harry and Ron both shrug, not seeming troubled that Hermione remembers something that they don’t; after all, they haven’t been in a classroom with Horace Slughorn in almost ten years. Some things get lost in time. However, Draco, having shaken his head in denial, is looking at her through the side of his eye. She knows he hates forgetting things as much as she does, so she can only imagine how strange it is to him.

“Are you sure it wasn’t one of your other classes, Hermione?” Harry asks. “I mean, it was hard keeping track of which classes you were or weren’t it with that Time Turner.”

As Draco’s hand curls around hers, Hermione clamps her mouth shut on the half-formed retort that had been resting on her tongue. Yes, perhaps this is a fight for another day. She’d have to remind herself to ask Draco in more depth later about whether he recalled that lecture. She can’t be the only student who’d found it interesting.

“If you want to be really lucky, make it a Wednesday,” Luna says, eyes bright. “Saturdays are said to be the unluckiest.” Hermione has to stop herself from saying they don’t believe in luck. Draco’s grip on her hand helps. It grounds her, something she needs more often than not when around Luna. Hermione Granger is no free spirit, as Luna is; it seems only natural that their opinions should differ on a large scale.

“So that’s why you refused to have it on a Saturday?” Harry asks with not a little incredulity. Theirs had been on a Tuesday. If Hermione remembers correctly, that’s the day associated with health.

“I knew—”

“Would you look at that?” Ron asks with fake shock, having grabbed Hermione’s wrist to read the time on her watch. “It’s time to go!”

“Piss off, Ron.”

Hermione glances down at her watch. “Oh! No, Harry, it really is time to go. The match is starting very soon.”

Year 5, Day 297, Hour 13

Hermione sits on a small bed, surrounded by thin curtains, in the diagnostic sector of St. Mungo’s. Her right knee seems to be bouncing at a million kilometres per minute, also causing a bit of a ruckus. She doesn’t understand why the beds in hospital could be so squeaky. Moving her knee around, something her mother had always termed her “Nervous Leg Syndrome”, has always been a nervous tic of hers. She’s never been able to kick it, but she figures she deserves this one thing. Ron eats. Harry scratches his scar. Draco pops his knuckles. Her knee bounces.

Nervous tics are totally normal.

“Good afternoon, Miss Granger.” The Healer strolls into her makeshift treatment-area, the thin curtain flaring behind him. He wastes nary a breath. “Do the migraines coincide with your monthlies?”

She has to stifle the small part of her that’s put off by a man asking about that part of her. “Not at all. They’re random at best.” Indeed, random. She’s not been able to identify anything that links her headaches together. Not a single thing. And she’s fairly certain if Draco’d come up with some link, he’d have told her. After all, she doesn’t imagine he relishes taking care of her as often as the pain makes necessary any more than she does—which is to say, not at all.

The Healer hmms, which is quite possibly the most annoying thing a Healer could do in this situation. He continues through a series of questions, as if her yes-or-no answers to the little questionnaire in his hands will solve the very problem. If that were the case, she’d have diagnosed herself. Or treated herself, which is essentially the reason she’s here. The headaches aren’t life-threatening, so Hermione would prefer to simply treat them. No use in worrying over an over-arching diagnosis to further pigeon-hole herself in this society. No, just treatment. That’s all she wants. If she were in a Muggle hospital, they’d simply have written a quick prescription and she’d have been off.

It still strikes her on occasion the differences between her two worlds.

After describing the array of spells he’s about to cast, the Healer hovers his wand over her body, watching as first red, then purple, green, yellow lights appear in various places.

“Your body is in perfect condition, Miss Granger,” he says with a step back, allowing her to manoeuvre herself into a sitting position. “However, although your brain is functioning at a healthy level, it is less healthy than it should be. In all honesty, my guess is that it’s being overworked.”

Hermione blinks. Overworked has never been a word she’d use to describe herself. She’s always thought she leads a life with a healthy mix of everything necessary to feel any sort of fulfilment: work, loved ones, learning, fun. “But I’m really not overworked.”

“Your brain says otherwise.” Hermione sighs. “I’m going to ask that you take it easy for a week or so, maybe take a day or two off and just relax. We’ll schedule a follow-up appointment for next week to check on any changes.”

Hermione nods. “So there aren’t any tonics or potions you’d suggest if I do get a migraine between now and then?”

“A simple relaxation tonic should work just fine. I whole-heartedly believe that your mind just needs a bit of rest. Try to relax and let your brain recover.”

“Yes, of course,” she says with a half-hearted smile. None of what he had said makes sense to her.

Year 5, Day 315, Hour 10

“Tell me, how is … that job of yours going?”

It had taken his mother almost a year to stop dropping blatant disapproving comments about Project Moneta. Slowly, throughout the past few years and with the help of her son’s persuasive talents, she’d come to the point of inconspicuous unease. Or at least, that’s what she affected. It’s still understood that she does not approve – and ignored.

“Hermione’s taken a few days off this week, Mum.” The three are taking tea around Draco and Hermione’s small dining table. The conversation mainly consists of Draco stirring various combinations of sugar and cream into his tea whilst his mother and fiancée chat about whatever strikes their fancy. He likes to pipe up every once in while, mainly as a reminder that he’s there and listening. In an ideal world, that’d be a way to prevent the two from talking about him.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Even without looking up from his tea, Draco can hear the excitement in his mother’s voice. “You really should do that more often.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with myself, honestly.” Hermione laughs.

“Nonsense. When did you last go on an actual holiday?”

Hermione pauses. “Wasn’t it a couple years ago that we went to Athens?” she asks Draco.

Draco’s head snaps up from his tea, an eyebrow raised. That must be a joke. He’s been to Athens, yes, but not with Hermione and certainly not recently. The last time he’d been has to have been before the war. His eyes narrow as his thoughts grow more and more worrisome. When his eyes catch his mother’s, he sees something similar in her face. Her unease has grown significantly – and just with a single sentence.

He clears his throat once he notices how long it’s taken him to answer her question. “Erm, no. We last went to Cork last spring.” Hermione frowns. “We haven’t been to Athens together.”

Her frown deepens. “That’s strange. I specifically remember being there within the last couple of years.”

Draco looks at his mother again. Her eyes are wide with several emotions he hasn’t seen reflected there in years – in his opinion, not long enough. The worst of it is the fear that he feels reflected deep within his own soul.

He shrugs and turns his attention back to Hermione. “Who knows? Maybe you went with Potter or the Weasleys.” She still looks confused, her brow as furrowed as he’s ever seen it, but she nods quickly, as if that must be it.

Though Draco can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that it isn’t.

Year 5, Day 318, Hour 20

“Hermione.” Miri sighs, her voice soft. The usual good humour, which is rarely absent from her voice, is non-existent and nothing but concern is in its place. “Why are you still here?”

She looks up from her desk, her back still angle awkwardly over the mounds of papers surrounding her, and then focusses once again on the work in front of her. “Just catching up.”

Miri sighs again and shakes her head. “Wasn’t the point of your holiday to de-stress? That doesn’t mean hold off on the stress and then overload once you return.”

Hermione simply waves her comment off. “I’m not overloading myself. I’ve always worked this much.” She glances up at Miri for the second time, looking at her for the first. “You look nice.” The blush that burst on the young girl’s cheeks is not lost on Hermione. “Going somewhere fancy?”

The girl lifts her head such that her nose is pointed up a bit, and Hermione can’t help but see herself in how Miri’s holding herself. She knows she does the exact same thing when she’s on the verge of embarrassment. Hold your nose high, and nobody will know. They’ll think you’re as confident as the Queen of bloody Sheba, and everything will be all right.

Miri’s arms fall from where they’d been crossed at her chest, and she says – with no small amount of exasperation – “Well, of course I’m going somewhere fancy! When was the last time you saw me in something like this?”

Hermione sniggers. “What, you mean a dress?” Miri’s glare just elicits more laughs from Hermione. Taking a second to compose herself, she strides over to her young colleague. “Now, the question is … why are you checking in on my office at eight o’clock when you obviously have a date?” Miri presses her lips together, causing Hermione some suspicion. Her hands go, almost of their own accord, to her hips. “Come on, out with it.”

“Well, you see … I promised Draco I’d keep an eye on you.”

“I see.” Her brow furrows and she bristles instinctually. “Interesting.” Well, that is certainly surprising.

“I-I’m sorry, Hermione, really. It’s just, he’s really worried about you.” Before Hermione can interrupt with his incredulity, Miri continues, “I know. I was so shocked… I don’t think I even hesitated to say I would.”

Hermione just nods, her brow still furrowed and her thoughts racing a mile a minute. “Look, Miri, I appreciate you dropping in, but I’m fine. Really. I just really need to catch up on the work I missed last week. You know how it is, this paperwork seems to reproduce itself asexually.” Hermione all but pushes her out of the small office. “Now, you didn’t get all dolled up for me. You go out and have fun tonight, and tell me all about it tomorrow.”

“Okay, fine!” Miri beams. “On one condition. Leave here by nine.”

“Yes, whatever you say.”

“I expect a call when you’re home, Hermione. By nine!” She begins walking backwards, which Hermione thinks is impressive considering her added height this evening. “If I don’t hear from you by nine, I’m calling Draco.”

Hermione shakes her head in amusement before clicking the office door shut and leaning against it. A heavy sigh escapes her, and it hits her that she’s been doing that a lot lately. She’s stuck between being offended that he’d gone behind her back to have her friends watch over her – like a child! – being sad. Because if there’s one thing she knows about Draco Malfoy, it’s that he doesn’t talk about his feelings. He’d sooner do something about it or that expressed it than put his feelings into words. Just like now. It would be foolish of her to lament the fact that he hadn’t told her he’s concerned. (That’d surely be a sign of foul play – perhaps an imposter under the influence of Polyjuice.)

With a huff, Hermione stomps back over to her desk. I don’t have time for this right now. As she sees it, she has a good forty-five minutes’ worth of work between now and when Miri would sound the alarm, so to speak. Might as well make the most of it, hadn’t she? This paperwork and research wouldn’t complete itself.

Within fifteen minutes, however, she finds herself incapable of focussing on anything. Her mind keeps flitting from thought to thought, a problem she’s never had whilst working. And never before have her eyes burned so badly so early in the evening. It irritates her more than anything that she has so much left to do, and yet the one thing she absolutely needs to cooperate – her stupid body – isn’t. After a fair couple of minutes of grumbling to herself, she decides perhaps a quick nap is in order, and then she’ll get right back into it. Hermione gathers a couple of stacks of the papers she’ll need that evening and prepares to Floo home.

Suddenly, without warning, it hits her. Her head, pounding in absolute agony. She falls to her knees and cradles her head in an attempt to soothe the pain, but nothing will cure her of this feeling – like someone had placed a metal vice around her skull and was steadily tightening it. Tighter and tighter, until the pressure would crack her mind, her being, her very soul.

The pressure mounts, and she feels like her brain is trying to seep through her skull, trying to escape its confines. More than anything, her brain feels too full for her skull to contain. Hermione’s afraid to move, afraid to speak, afraid to even breathe. If she does so much as exhale, she’s sure she’ll explode into mere atoms.

The pressure mounts, and she feels desolate. She’s alone, just her and this brain that doesn’t fit in her skull. Just her and this agony and that crack, which must be her sanity.

The pressure mounts, and then it snaps, and her mouth falls open in a voiceless scream. As she falls into the darkness surrounding her, all she can feel is heat.

Fic: What's Enough?

withdrawnred — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 20:59:19 GMT

Written for Round 3 of hp_humpdrabbles' Hump Madness.

Title: What’s Enough?
Author: withdrawnred
Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy
Prompt: artistic
Word Count: 469
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none

“I can never be enough.”

Hermione’s arm veers off course, the paintbrush leaving an uneven path of blue behind it. A blue that they’d agreed on, which was unheard of. The perfect, calming blue to cover the blank white of the walls they’d spent too much time within during the war. A blue that would help them rebuild.

The broken tone of Draco’s voice surprises her, not to mention how it digs into her gut. Turning around, she takes in the sight of him, which matches the anguish she’d just heard in his voice. He is sitting on the end of their bed, his head down and his hands tangled in his hair, tugging painfully from what she can tell.

She quickly crosses the distance and places her hands on his shoulders, but he just shrugs her grasp away. “Face it, Hermione. I’ll never be more than a marked man. Literally.” With a groan of frustration, he scratches furiously at the scarred skin on his left forearm, and Hermione has to fight to swallow the lump in her throat.

“Draco,” she whispers. When he doesn’t respond, she takes his now-reddened arm and kneels in front of him. “You are so much more than this.”

She feels his entire body freeze when she bends to place a kiss in the very center of the mark.

“Hermione, no,” he mumbles, attempting to retract his arm from her grasp, but she holds fast.

Tightening her grasp on him, she lifts her paintbrush to his skin, just to the side of the Dark Mark.

“You’re a son.” She drags the paintbrush across his skin, the word son left in the wake of the brush in an imperfect script. He hisses from, she assumes, the cold paint.

“You’re a friend. A loyal friend. You’re a survivor. You’re a lover.” Hermione draws each word around the mark, careful not to obscure any part of it, because that’s not the point. That experience is as much a part of him as any of her additions, and she wants him to know that as she circles around, creating Draco Malfoy out of the words in her head.

“You’re a saviour.”

“You saved me,” she snaps when he scoffs. “And you’re mine.” She looks up at him through tear-laced lashes. “How is that not enough?”

His mouth drops open, but instead of saying anything he grips her arms and lifts until he can reach her mouth. Draco answers by kissing her hard.

When her knees can no longer stand the pressure, she pulls him down to the floor with her. And later, when she rolls out from under him, her heart still racing, her skin is as colourful as his, her back itching with rug burn and her front painted blue with a mixture of paint and sweat.

Fic: The Rule

withdrawnred — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 20:53:13 GMT

Written for (and won) Round 2 of hp_humpdrabbles' Hump Madness.

Title: The Rule
Author: withdrawnred
Characters: Scorpius Malfoy, Lily Luna Potter
Prompt: relentless
Word Count: 486
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: workplace fun

“Lily Luna.”

She bristles. If there’s one thing Lily Luna Potter hates, it’s having two first names. And he knows it. They’d done enough patrols together the one year they were both Prefects to have learned how to press almost every button.

Lily levels a glare at the intruder over her shoulder until he smiles and lifts his hands in faux surrender. “Fine, Lily. Hello.” If only she could actually believe the gesture.

“How can I help you, Scorpius?” she asks, turning her chair to face the entryway to her cubicle.

“Just some form Cane wants you to sign for whatever reason.” He waves the parchment, clearly not intending on taking another step towards her.

‘Typical,’ she thinks as she stands and walks to stand in front of him.

He breathes in deeply. “My, you smell nice. New shampoo?”

Lily can’t help but roll her eyes. “The same as every day,” she says, grabbing the paper from his hand.

This had become a weekly thing, since ten weeks ago when she’d started her internship with the Department of Magical Games and Sports. He’d work his way through various avenues of flirtation and end with some variation of Have dinner with me. But Lily has a rule—one she shared with the Ministry, for Merlin’s sake—that she won’t go out with co-workers. She likes an uncomplicated life, she’d tried to explain to Scorpius once when he had been particularly loathe to let her say ‘No.’

“So when are we going to have dinner, Lily?” he asks, his tone a clear attempt at innocence. “I swear, if you say ‘next week aga—”

“Maybe tomorrow. We’re all celebrating tonight.”

“What?” he asks, as if his ears were deceiving him.

“It’s my last day.”

And then she’s being pressed up against the inside wall of her cubicle, and she can’t help but sigh at the feeling of the length of his body against her own. Her fingers find their way from the lapels of his work robes—which she’d yanked him even closer with—to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. When she feels Scorpius shiver, Lily smirks against his mouth.

She’d be lying if she said hasn’t lusted over Scorpius Malfoy over their time working together. Her rule certainly didn’t prevent her from being attracted to co-workers. She’d have to be blind not to be. She just can’t act on it. Until tonight.

It takes more than she’d like to admit to pull away, chastising him with what little breath she has left. She sighs, her skin tingling with leftover frustration, and she’s painfully aware that his hands are still on her—one on her hip and the other caressing the curve of flesh under her breast. “Scorpius! Not here.”

He simply smirks. With one last squeeze, eliciting a whimper from Lily, he disentangles himself and leaves her cubicle. “I’ll finish this later.”

Fic: Challenge Accepted

withdrawnred — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 20:42:49 GMT

Written for (and won in) Round 1 of hp_humpdrabbles' Hump Madness competition.

Title: Challenge Accepted
Author: withdrawnred
Characters: Seamus Finnigan, Pansy Parkinson
Prompt: surrender
Word Count: 225
Rating: R
Warnings: Sexy tiemz!

“Pardon?”

Pansy smirks and bites her lip at the pure, unadulterated offense laced in his voice. Who knew that such a simple statement—a fact, as far as she’s concerned—could so quickly turn Finnigan from self-assured and apathetic to sharp-eyed and glaring.

“You heard me, Finnigan.” Pansy pauses, leaning against the doorframe, and takes care to slowly pronounce each of her words—naturally so that they’ll sink in easier. “I don’t beg.”

A smirk grows slowly across his face, and Merlin help her, it reminds her of Draco. Not her more recent memories of him, but her young ones. And just like Draco when they were young, Finnigan’s smirk causes her traitorous body to react almost immediately.

She manages to keep composed, for a while at least. The possibility of triumph spurs her on, even as he continues to challenge it. But then his hand is dancing across her skin, pulling across the sensitive underside of her breast, pushing against her with that combination of hard and soft.

She doesn’t even recognise her own voice when her whimpers turn into begs. Her mind is only filled with him and her need. When her plea escapes her, she finds that she doesn’t care that she’s begged. She thinks it’s okay to give in here, because her surrender is all the sweeter when he does too.

Fic: Save Me, San Francisco (3/3)

withdrawnred — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 14:47:33 GMT

I needed the closure. And I think it’s safe to say that any remaining questions I had about where we stand are more than answered.

Welcome back to Wizarding society.

This isn’t exactly the closure she’s needed, but she’s long since accepted that she may never get it fully. The closure she does get from this note will have to suffice, she decides, folding the pieces of parchment and sliding them into a small envelope. Her hand shakes as his name follows the point of her pen, but she’s too tired in too many ways to care if her script is more messy than normal. Like he’d remember her handwriting anyway. They’d never been the note-passing type—perhaps they would have been, had they not been in the midst of a war.

Hermione clears her throat and rises, the envelope in her hand as she marches through her door and to her secretary’s desk. The young girl smiles up at her.

“Afternoon, Madeleine,” she says with a small smile. The stretch on her face is uncomfortable—she’s never been a fan of insincere smiles. “Can you please send this out as soon as possible?” She places the envelope face-down on the girl’s desk.

“Of course. I was just about to head to the owlery.”

“Also, I will be taking holiday time next week.”

“Oh!” Madeleine looks almost perturbed in her surprise but recovers with a wide smile. “That’s great! I’ll be sure to clear that time with your contracts.”

Hermione nods. All of her contracts are required, by law, to include a certain amount of holiday time, so she’s not concerned about the time not being cleared.

“I’m glad you’re finally taking some time off, Miss Granger.” Madeleine rises, Hermione’s letter to Draco in her hand. “I’ll be back just as soon as I owl these.”

Hermione nods, turning back to her office once Madeleine is out of sight. She nearly jumps when she realises that Narcissa Malfoy is standing next to her office door. There’s no telling how long the woman had been standing there, and Hermione hopes against hope that she hadn’t taken notice of the addressee of that letter. It isn’t so much shame as it is a strong need for privacy.

“Mrs Malfoy,” Hermione greets. “How can I help you?”

“I thought we might discuss that particular matter in the privacy of your office, Miss Granger.”

Hermione nods and follows the matriarch into her office, shutting the door behind her with her foot. She waits until Narcissa has made herself comfortable—or at least as comfortable as she will get—in one of the chairs before taking her own seat behind her desk.

“I’m sorry I cannot offer refreshments, ma’am. We don’t usually meet with clients in my office, as you know.” Every other time the two women had met, it’d been at a slightly upscale restaurant.

Narcissa offers nothing but a curt nod. “Right down to it, then.” She reaches into her small purse and removes a change purse.

Hermione frowns at the sight of it. Almost immediately, her hands come up to pause the older woman. “Mrs Malfoy, please. I can’t accept your money.”

Narcissa looks at her shrewdly, incredulous. “This is the agreed-upon sum, Miss Granger. You were tasked with delivering my son back to me, and as far as I can tell, you’ve done so without irrevocable damage to his person.”

Hermione sighs, leaning forward onto her elbows. “Please, keep your money.”

Narcissa leans back in her chair, letting the change-purse rest on her lap. Her head tilts to one side just slightly, as if that will help her better understand the woman sitting before her. “Why did you take the job, Miss Granger?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Considering they concern my son, I would appreciate you casting some light on the subject.” Narcissa laces her fingers together, settling her linked hands over the bags in her lap. “Even the kindest people do not just do such a thing and refuse the money.”

Hermione sighs, trying desperately not to roll her eyes. “Consider it my charitable work for the year, then.” She can see Narcissa’s mouth transform into a barely concealed sneer. “Please, keep your money. I’m sure there are much better places you could be investing it.” Her mind quickly goes to the various charities created to help war orphans and widows, not to mention one for Hogwarts.

Narcissa gives her another curt nod and stands gracefully, placing the change-purse back into the confines of her smaller bag. Hermione wishes she could better tell what the woman is thinking. This must be where Draco inherited his uncanny ability to hide every emotion. She’s always been rather jealous of that.

“We are hosting an event this Saturday to celebrate his return,” Narcissa says as she slips a thick piece of parchment—an invitation, as it turns out—onto Hermione’s desk.

Hermione glances at it for all of three seconds, but she doesn’t reach for it. “I will, unfortunately, not be in town this weekend.”

“Yes—I admit, I overheard you talking about your impending holiday. Surely you could postpone it a few days.”

Hermione isn’t fooled. She knows she’s the last thing Narcissa would want at any of her social gatherings.

“I’m afraid I can’t. Though I’ll be sure to tell my friends to pay my respects for me, if they attend.” Hermione would bet her left arm that Narcissa was more concerned with a certain bespeckled war hero attending.

Soon, Narcissa leaves, although Hermione can see troves of questions in her eyes. Questions that even Hermione doesn’t know the answers to, that is if she wants them.

* * *

Draco Malfoy is the last person she’d expected to see at her favourite coffee shop in Camden Town. But there he is. The cowl of his jumper is pulled high over his head, but it’s not difficult to identify that hair. Or those angles. He’s always been a summation of hard lines.

He doesn’t notice her for a long time, but it allows her to observe him. She’d always thought it interesting to see how people act and look when they think nobody’s watching. He looks deep in thought, his lips resting against a steaming cup of what she can only assume is tea. Black, probably, with orange peel and honey. It’s times like these that she curses her memory. It keeps in stock things, like his favourite way to take tea, in lieu of more important things—like anything, really.

She hadn’t meant to stare, but soon his ears redden and his gaze snaps to her. The thoughtful, perhaps sad, look on his face disappears as his expression hardens.

“What are you doing here?”

She can hear the derision in his voice, and it nearly makes her flinch. A fight with Draco is the last thing she needs. She just wants to get through her morning and then her afternoon without incident and then sleep. With how sleepless her nights have been recently, Hermione’ll probably have to dig into her potions cache. The only good news, she thinks, is her impending holiday. A week of escape starting tomorrow, and all she can think about is the sleep she’ll hopefully get.

Motioning towards the counter with her coffee tumbler, she says defensively, “I come here every day on my way to work.”

He nods slowly, his eyes focused several inches to her left, and he takes a long sip of his drink.

“This is a bit far from, erm…” She pauses and glances around the room whilst trying to think of the least conspicuous word she could think of to signify Wizarding London, “… The Leaky and all that, isn’t it?”

Draco leans back in his chair with a sigh. “I’m trying to avoid my re-entrance to society for as long as possible.”

“Oh,” Hermione says a little too enthusiastically. More quietly, she continues, “So you’re staying.”

He nods.

She bites her lip, unsure of what to say. So many things have been said already. She loathes the feeling of awkwardness that always seeps into her bones in his presence. “Well,” she says, clearing her throat with a glance at the clock. “I’ll be late if I don’t head out now. It was good seeing you.” She hadn’t known it possible, but those last words leave her feeling even more awkward as she walks to the counter and orders her tea.

She has to force herself not to look over her shoulder and smile when she hears his low “You, too.”

* * *

Three days later, Hermione is 5,000 miles and eight time zones away. She now stands, leaning against the railing of a San Francisco pier, the night sea air caressing her face and further tangling her hair. Never having spent much time near water—her parents had always been much more interested in skiing and Paris than a beach for holidays—the calm that the water brings her is surprising. Cathartic even.

Her leather notebook is balanced on the top railing, waiting.

She’d arrived several hours ago, dropping her things off at the hotel and pausing to quickly Floo Ginny, who surprisingly hadn’t barraged Hermione with question after question. Instead, she’d calmly asked when Hermione would be back and then—just as Hermione was preparing to disconnect the call—Ginny mentioned, “He’s been looking for you, you know—at least, that’s what Harry says.”

Not surprising, Hermione had thought. He probably just wants to continue their argument. Anything to have the last word.

Hermione had returned to San Francisco for the water—it offers a calm unlike anything she’s ever known. She wanted to be as far away from England as possible, if only for a few days. Besides, the likelihood that he would return to this city in the midst of his family’s celebrations is miniscule at best. She tries not to think about how strong her memories of this place are stained by Draco, but there’s something about this pier that’s calming despite it all. No other place feels right.

She rubs her eyes as if to clear her mind of all thoughts of Draco. He isn’t the reason she’s here—well, not entirely, at least—and she needs to start now or she never will. Already, she’s walked around this part of the city three times today, before determining that yes, she wants to do this today. And yes, she needs to do this.

Balancing the notebook on the lowest rung on the railing, Hermione sighs and opens it. Her throat constricts at the sight of the quick note written on the first page.

G –
I was not put on this earth to listen to you whinge about everything in your life just because you couldn’t confront a Pygmy Puff.

The old dedication has never failed to bring a smile to her face—however small. There are so many memories wrapped into the one sentence. Through the war, as they’d spent more and more time together, he’d been privy to a growing number of Hermione’s rants about various things. Sometimes it was something as small as a leaking faucet or Seamus nearly starting a fire in the garden. She’d smiled and thanked him when he gave her the notebook, but her rants with him—at least that’s what he called them—didn’t stop. Rather, she’d grown to talk with him about heavier things—death, the war, the unfairness of it all—and if his own ramblings were any clue, he wasn’t too hurt that she’d tucked the notebook away. As far as she’d been concerned, she didn’t need it. Outside of the four walls of her room at Grimmauld Place, she’d had to be the brave girl everyone had come to know. That Hermione couldn’t break down or fail or stop and just scream, no matter how much she’d wanted to. Those things could only happen in the safety of her room, where Draco would talk her down from her whispered rage and panic, and she would later rock him through his nightmares.

That notebook stayed in her trunk, unnecessary and unused.

Until the Battle, that is—when everything changed. When they both had to tend to their respective families in the aftermath of the war, and hours together at night discussing the various wrongs and rights they’d experienced became a thing of the past. And when Draco disappeared off the face of the earth, leaving only a short note behind him— I’m alive. Don’t come looking. —she didn’t have much of a choice.

That notebook became her sanity and lifeline. And what she hadn’t realised until her recent ordeal in returning Draco was how much she needs closure, not just where he’s concerned but with every detail written on the pages of that notebook.

As she flips to the middle of the book, Hermione clenches her fist in an attempt to push through her hesitation. She’s determined to follow through with her plan: finally let go of the war. Pressing her lips together to curb any further reluctance, she breathes out her nose and promptly rips out the page she’s on.

* * *

Hermione’s grip tightens around the letter in her hand. She would swear she’d just heard the pier creak under the weight of someone’s walk, but it’s still the middle of the night (three in the morning, the last time she’d checked) and she sees no good reason for anyone else to be there. Perhaps it’s a homeless person, hoping to scavenge some loose change off her. If only they knew exactly how far the coins in her pocket would get them.

She turns, preparing to shoo whomever it is away. She certainly isn’t above a well-placed glare.

“Can I help y—” Hermione’s mouth falls open as her eyes take in her unexpected visitor, and the notebook falls from her hand to the pier with a loud thunk. With a heavy breath, she greets him.

“Draco.”

The huskiness of her voice surprises her, and she clears her throat and tries to wipe away any remnants of the many tears she’s shed over the past few hours. She’d known that making her way through that notebook would be no walk in the park, but she hadn’t been expecting Draco’s presence.

She watches him nod at her in greeting as if in slow motion and bend. Her heartbeat speeds with the beginnings of a panic attack when she watches him pick up the book. Before she quite realises what she’s doing, she steps forward and snatches it from his hand, pulling it into her chest almost protectively.

“What are you doing here?” she demands, her voice more acceptable now that she’s had the chance to swallow as much of that damned lump as possible.

He pauses, and she takes the moment to take in his appearance. He’s dressed rather formally. In fact, he looks like a picture of his pre-San Francisco self, with the difference of a very slightly aged face. He’d always worn fine clothes like a second skin, a habit that apparently had not been lost. His hair is the only piece of him even remotely out of place, and even then it’s barely windswept. For all she knows, it could have been purposefully coiffed—she’d heard of some men doing that to look ‘carefree’ or some bollocks like that. It seems like something Draco would do.

“Isn’t it a bit dangerous for you to be hanging out on a pier in the middle of the night?” he asks, completely ignoring her question.

She rolls her eyes, about to fire back when her brain connects his formal dress with her recent memory. “Wait,” she says, glancing at her watch before levelling him with a sharp glare. “Aren’t you missing your own party? That’s rather rude, isn’t it?”

His expression hardens almost immediately, and she can see his posture straighten. “Like it’s any of your business.”

She raises an eyebrow at his pathetic attempt to evade the question. “Ah, well, it’s not that surprising anyway.”

He narrows his eyes in suspicion, but he bites anyway. “What isn’t?”

“You running away. Has it become an automatic reaction now?”

Draco lifts his head, just enough that he has to look down his nose at here. “Much like the illusion that you’re actually better than everyone, you mean?” When she simply glares at him, he continues, “I see you still are incapable of actual confrontation, Granger.” With a smirk, he waves around what she can only assume is the letter she’d owled him days ago.

Hermione barely contains a snarl. “Don’t pretend you know anything about me.”

“Who said anything about pretending? It’s been how many years? And you still can’t stomach face-to-face conflict. Some Gryffindor you are.”

“Come to remedy that yourself, have you?” she asks, wincing when she hears how much her voice betrays her fatigue. It’s late, and she’s exhausted—emotionally, mentally, physically. Fighting with him had not been in her plan for the night.

“Look,” he says, scratching behind his neck. “I didn’t come to fight, Hermione.”

“So why are you here?” she asks softly. The question is so delicate in her mind that she’s afraid to speak it too loudly, lest it should break.

She follows his gaze down to the letter in his hands, noting how worn the creases look and the unreadable expression on his face. “What, you want to talk?” She feels like laughing, but she can’t tell if it’s the fatigue or not.

Draco slowly crosses his arms and shrugs, and she can’t help but roll her eyes. Ever with the non-answers.

“I don’t want to talk about any of that,” she says firmly. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“And what might that be?”

“It’s private.” She sniffs.

He sneers. “Well, you certainly picked a private place, didn’t you?”

Hermione sighs, fingering the spine of her notebook. “I’m trying to move on, Draco.”

At this, his expression softens—just slightly, but it’s enough. “Move on from what?”

A laugh escapes her before she even has the chance to realise it. It’s breathy and bitter and sums up the mess of emotions she’s feeling now. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone so she could just do this and get on with her life?

“Everything. You. The war,” she says, her voice breaking on the last syllable.

She presses her lips together in an attempt to retain her composure. Maybe if she says as little as possible, moves as little as possible, the giant lump in her throat won’t explode into sobs.

“And what if I don’t want you to?”

“Then leave!” she shouts, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. She sets her jaw and lifts her chin in defiance. She’ll be damned if she starts to cry in front of him.

Hermione can’t contain her gasp when she feels Draco take her face between his hands, forcing her to look straight into his eyes. There’s that familiar feeling that she’s always had a hard time putting to words. It’s safety and warmth, everything soothing and yet terrifying at once. The panic in her stomach starts to melt away, as if it’s just falling out of her pores and away into the water to accompany her letters.

“I—” he starts, swallowing heavily. “I don’t want closure, because I don’t want this to end, whatever this is.”

She exhales a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and raises her hands to lightly grip his wrists. She hadn’t been prepared for this, hadn’t imagined in a million years that her night at the pier would turn this way. As much as her entire being wants to just curl up in his embrace, there’s a mountain of doubt piled up in her stomach, and it’s something she can’t ignore.

She shakes her head and gently pulls his hands away from her, pushing them against his chest. “You left,” she says softly. “You don’t get to just run back in like this.”

His jaw clenches, and he steps to stand next to her at the railing, his front and her back facing the dark water. “I know,” he says. “It was a selfish decision.”

Surprised, Hermione whips her head to the side to look at him. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard him refer to himself as selfish. Never mind the fact that this sounds like the beginning of an explanation, something she’d have had to pull teeth to get out of him in the past.

“I couldn’t deal with it anymore. Pansy was eating away at me. I don’t care what anyone says; she should not have died, not like that. Not at the hands of her best friend, no matter how accidental it was.” He sighs, running his palm over his hair. “It consumed me, thinking about it—knowing that I’d failed her, and knowing that I’d fail again, with my track record. So I found a way to escape everything.”

She looks down at her hands, shaking her head lightly. “And that certainly turned out well for you.”

“It did and it didn’t.” Curious, Hermione turns her head just slightly towards him. “Not having Pansy occupy my every thought? That was brilliant. But there was a huge hole in my life all those years. I always felt out of place, that something was missing. And it was you.”

Hermione turns to face him, leaning her elbow on the railing.

“You’re home, Hermione. My life doesn’t make sense without you.”

It’s those last words that destroy her resolve to not break down. And it isn’t so much how heartfelt they are coming from him—because she knows he’d never lie to say he needs someone—but the knowledge that his words fit her just as well. And this is why she’s never been able to get over him, to move on and accept that he’d left.

“I need you, too,” she chokes out.

Blinded by her tears, she somehow manages to push herself into his embrace. She can’t tell who’s holding the other more tightly, but she finds it easier to breathe somehow around the discomfort. Hermione breathes in heavily, her nose pressed into the skin of Draco’s neck. His scent and the pull of his arms around her, so familiar, are home. And when he bends to kiss her, the notebook falls out of her grasp and onto the pier with a loud thud.

This is exactly the closure she wanted, but never thought to ask for.

Fic: Save Me, San Francisco (2/3)

withdrawnred — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 14:42:27 GMT

Title: Save Me, San Francisco (2/3)
Rating: T
Word Count: 20,000(ish)
Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling and 20th Century Fox, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

Summary: In which Hermione has to find Malfoy and return him to his rightful place in Wiltshire.
Warnings: Language (sorry, guys – I just can’t control Malfoy’s mouth!), memory!fic
Author's Note: Written for the second round of dramione_remix, with the prompt being Dimitri and Anastasia from Anastasia.
Betas: eilonwy1, dormiensa, and callarose

Part One

PART TWO

Hermione sighs as she walks in the door to her flat. A quick glance at her watch—still set to San Francisco time—tells her that she only has a couple hours until her Portkey back to California leaves. Placing her bag on the dining table, her eyes scan the flat. It feels like it’s been ages since she’s been home. These past five days could have been a year, as drained as she is. She’ll definitely need a real holiday after this job.

At the feel of something against her ankles, she looks down to see her Dorian. Hermione quickly picks the grey cat up and holds him against her collarbone. Dorian curls further into her and almost immediately begins purring, and she’s glad that her absence hasn’t completely robbed her companion of his affections. Cats could be so finicky—if she ever left Crookshanks for more than two days, he’d have snubbed her for twice as long.

With a quick scratch of his head, she sets Dorian onto one of the arms on her couch. He makes a show of protesting with a loud meow, but just as quickly settles down into the cushion for a nap. “Oh, I have missed you,” Hermione mumbles at the cat with a chuckle before turning to the mantle above her fireplace. She quickly studies each of the pictures and pulls out her wand, casting a spell to hold each of the magical photographs still. She tucks a couple under her arm to be put away, one a picture of Draco himself and the other of a triumphant Neville leaning over a cauldron containing his first successfully brewed potion. Neither of those are photographs she could explain to a memory-addled Draco.

She glances around the perimeter of the living room and grabs everything that may be too strange to be considered Muggle—the Sneakoscope and Extendable Ears from her bookcase, as well as the box of Floo powder from the mantle. Arms full, she pads back into her bedroom and gingerly places the items next to her old trunk. Hermione yanks the trunk open and blows the thin layer of dust away from the top contents. She honestly can’t remember the last time she’d opened it. She lays the Sneakoscope, now stuffed into a sock, into one of the few open spaces in the trunk. And just as she’s about to lay down the frames, she notices a folded piece of parchment tucked into the side of the trunk, between the fabric panel and her oldest copy of Hogwarts: A History. Her hand freezes, hovering over the trunk, and she can feel her heart hammering as she swallows.

Hermione exhales heavily and gingerly takes the parchment out of the trunk. She’d almost forgotten about this. She unfolds it in her lap, gently pushing Dorian away from the paper. Immediately, she recognizes the sharp strokes. Even now, she doesn’t need to see the two small initials in the corner to know the artist: DM.

Staring back at her is a scene that even now makes her smile. It shows the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, back when it was still the headquarters for the Order. Somehow, he’d managed to capture the essence of every person in the room. Seamus is grinning unabashedly at Ron, whose blush shows through even without colour. Harry and Ginny are gripping each other’s hand, and it seems like they barely even notice the other people surrounding them. Hermione herself is there, too, staring off—Merlin knows where.

This drawing had helped her through many sleepless nights after the war. She’d often found it hard to focus on the good after so much loss in such a short amount of time.

The sound of three sharp knocks on her door startles Hermione—who in Merlin’s name could that be? She hadn’t told a soul that she was back in England, mostly because it was for mere hours. She walks slowly into the living area of her flat, near the door.

Then, three more knocks—more insistent this time—and Ginny’s voice. “I know you’re in there, Hermione. Open up!”

Hermione’s eyes widen in shock, but she quickly opens the door. “What are you doing here?” she blurts.

Ginny just smirks. “There may or may not have been a charm to tell me when you’ve returned.”

She tries not to smile at her friends’ resourcefulness. “Glad to see you’re taking advantage of Harry’s position.”

The redhead grins widely. “It has its uses.”

“Well, since you’re here, the least you can do is make tea,” Hermione says with a playful grin. In all seriousness though, Ginny’s makes a damn good cuppa. Of all the things she’s inherited from Molly, that’s the best—at least in Hermione’s opinion.

Ginny just smiles and turns towards the kitchen. It’s almost unnerving how easily she navigates through Hermione’s kitchen. Soon enough, she’s put tea in a pot and the kettle on the stove.

“So, is it done, then?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet? What does that mean?”

“I’m just tidying up the flat. I’ve got a Portkey back to San Francisco in a couple hours.”

“Wait… You plan on bringing him here? To your flat?” Ginny asks, eyebrow raised high.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Not necessarily, but I figured just in case.” When Ginny moves her hands to her hips, she continues, “Fine, Molly. Do you think he’d expect me to drag my bags around with everywhere whilst he’s in London? Or maybe I’d just leave my things at his hotel room.”

“All right,” Ginny says, her hands up in mock surrender. “Down, girl. So you got him to come back?”

Hermione shrugs. “He mentioned that he’s unhappy in San Francisco, so I told him my employer has a position for a new art director that he might be interested in.”

Ginny frowns. “Since when has Draco Malfoy been interested in art?”

Hermione sighs, her mind going to the parchment on her bedroom floor. “A while, actually.”

Ginny nods slowly, “Colour me surprised. So he accepted?”

“Yeah. A couple days later, he called to say he’d be willing to interview for the position. So he’s taking a short holiday for a long weekend here.” Hermione smiles gratefully when Ginny places a cup of perfect tea in front of her. She takes a long sip and hums in pleasure. “Thanks for making this. I wish I could make it like you do, honestly.”

Ginny smiles back at her. “Anytime, love. Don’t get me wrong, Hermione, but you don’t exactly seem pleased about this whole thing.”

“I’m just tired.”

“I can only imagine,” Ginny says slowly. “So when you said ‘tidying up’, you meant…”

“Making it Muggle-friendly,” Hermione says with a chuckle. She’d never thought she’d have to do something like this, especially for one of the pureblood elite. “I’m almost done, though.”

With that, Ginny follows her back to the bedroom, where she quickly folds up the parchment and finishes placing the photographs into the trunk.

“What’s that?” Ginny asks, gesturing towards the unfolded parchment in Hermione’s hand.

“Just a drawing.” Hermione hopes Ginny interprets her answer as flippant and that she thinks it’s unimportant.

“Right.”

Hermione can tell she’s unconvinced, but at least she drops the topic.

* * *

It’s been less than a week since she first landed in San Francisco—maybe three days since she “bumped” into Draco at that café and less than one since she and Ginny sat in her now Muggle-friendly flat. Ultimately, she’s very happy that she went back to England, even if for such a short while. She’d agonised over the short twenty-four hours between when she’d returned from England and when she had to meet Draco en route to the airport.

Her anxiety soars from that moment and shows no sign of ever waning, but she’s secretly gleeful at his obvious nerves, enough that she forgets about her own. If only momentarily, it’s still a relief.

She ribs him about his fear of flying—“How do you think you got here if not by plane? People don’t travel the Atlantic by ship like they used to, you know.”—for which she gets the expected glare and a short rant—something about how he’s not overtly fond of flying and, moreover, planes aren’t to be trusted. She does a double take when he says he doesn’t like to fly, because it’s something she so naturally associates with him. Hermione never thought in a million years that she’d hear those words escape Draco Malfoy’s lips. But at the same time, a large part of her agrees with him. After so many years of travelling via Floo or Portkey or Apparition, spending hours upon hours on a hunk of metal, and trusting that it’ll remain in the air and not drop straight to the core of the earth, is disconcerting at best. At worst, it’s frightening, but she tries not to even allow her nerves to think about venturing in that direction.

Several hours later, when a shock of turbulence rocks the plane, Hermione grips the armrest of her seat like her life depends on it. Almost immediately she snaps her head towards Draco. But it seems those sleeping pills had really done the trick; the man was out cold, even snoring softly.

She’s amazed that she’s even got this far, to be quite honest. Ginny had been right from the start—this entire thing has been crazy, insane, unthinkable. That confidence she’d claimed in her ability to complete this job? Hermione doubted she’d fooled Ginny for a second. She’s long since accepted that she’s more or less transparent, especially regarding … certain people, and Ginny is better at reading people than most.

Once the plane finally steadies—at this rate, she’s starting to wish they were flying by broom—she releases the death grip and pries her fingers from the armrests. Draco is still deep asleep, ever the heavy sleeper. Hermione’s always envied that of anyone who can sleep through anything since she seems to wake up at the smallest sound or strange feeling. As she glances at Draco, she realises that this is the first time since their meeting at that café that she’s truly had a chance to look at him—really look. It’s kind of annoying that he hasn’t changed much. So many years have passed, and yet she swears he looks like barely half that time has passed. His hairline is receding slightly, and there are a few light scars here and there from their childhood and the war, but other than that and his Muggle attire, one would think it was 1998.

He looks peaceful, and Hermione is struck by a sense of déjà vu. It had always amazed her how different he seemed when asleep, especially compared to his usual snarky, snide self, like being asleep was enough to smooth away all of his stress and preoccupations. When he’s asleep, Draco Malfoy looks calm—as if his life had taken a completely different turn years ago. If only the peace would last. She honestly doesn’t know what his parents plan on doing with him once she returns him. Perhaps they’ve figured out a way to return his memories; perhaps they haven’t. She resolves to alert Harry—as if Ginny hasn’t already—and make sure he has his Aurors keep an eye out for anything … ulterior. She wouldn’t trust the elder Malfoys with a Sickle, to be frank.

It’s only then that it occurs to her.

She still cares. And too much.

Hermione lays her head back against the seat and closes her eyes, willing sleep to claim her. Anything to make this flight go faster—to get this bloody thing over with already.

* * *

“So, this is home,” Hermione says as she pushes the door to her flat open, her voice relaxed but her eyes roving the room for anything she may have missed in her sweep the other day. Satisfied that the flat is as “safe” as can be, she pushes forward. “Go on and make yourself at home. I just need to put these bags in my room.”

When she returns, seconds later, he’s just where she had expected him to be: hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, eyes glancing over the pictures and knick-knacks decorating her mantle. He looks up then, expectant and kind of awkward. This is certainly the first time the two of them have been in a flat together, with the marked exception of the two seconds it had taken him to throw his things in his hotel room. If the reason for his awkwardness, slight as it is, is that he’s unsure what is and isn’t appropriate between them, she can sympathise. So she throws him a bone.

“Would you like some tea?”

He visibly relaxes. “Please. Can I help?”

She waves him off. “No, no. I’ll just be a moment.” Hermione pads over to her kitchen, and she stops short when her hand instinctively goes to her pocket, where she usually keeps her wand. She glances over at her bag, where it’s been stored of late, and sighs. She’d never really thought about how much she relies on her magic to do even the most mundane things—like preparing tea. So, wandless, she carries on, boiling the water and setting up the tea service the same way her mother always does. Although it’s certainly more time-consuming, she’s grateful for that. It allows her to gather her thoughts and go back over her plan. She has a tentative back-up just in case the whole thing backfires, but she’s praying to whatever higher power exists that Plan A will go through. Plan B is much less foolproof, and she thinks it just begs to fail.

Laying the tea egg, full of Earl Gray—she’d thought of putting in his favourite, but figured that would make him more suspicious than she would like—into one of her grandmother’s old teapots, Hermione then pours boiled water in and latches the top. After a quick exhale and count to three, she lifts the tray and returned to the living room.

“I see you’ve found Dorian,” she says with a chuckle as she lays the tray onto her coffee table. Draco is sitting in one corner of her couch, a book in one hand and her cat occupying the other. “Careful. He may never let you stop petting him,” she adds with a cheeky grin. “How do you take your tea?”

“Milk, please, and two sugars,” he requests. “You know, I’m not sure I’ll ever recover my left hand at this rate.”

Dorian looks like he’s on Cloud Nine at this point, his purring indicating just how happy he is. “He doesn’t get many visitors these days, so I would be surprised if he ever lets you leave.” She smiles and hands him a fresh cuppa.

“Ah, well. It’s the least useful of my two hands anyway.”

Hermione’s cheeks redden. Well, maybe he meant it as an over-arching I’m right-handed and so obviously my right hand is more useful than my left! sort of thing. But he looks far too mischievous for that to be true, she thinks when she finally locks eyes with him. Hermione allows him a small smile but shakes her head. Men…

“I am glad you’re not allergic. I always forget to ask people if they are before inviting them in.”

“Have a lot of people come round, do you?”

Her mouth falls ajar at the innuendo. “Friends,” she emphasises. “I have a lot of friends come round.” Cheeky bastard. It seems that losing his memory hadn’t robbed him of his snarkiness. It may have taken a while for him to get out of his shell, so to speak, but apparently they’d gotten past that point.

“So,” he says between sips, “tell me about this company you’ve hooked me up with.”

“What, you mean you didn’t research them whilst you were deciding?” Hermione teases with a raised eyebrow.

“Of course I did. I don’t know how responsible that’d make me if I just jumped onto a trans-Atlantic flight without even looking into the firm I’m supposedly interviewing with.” He settles back into the couch, Dorian settling himself into the man’s lap. “I know what they say about themselves, and what the media says about them. But not the employee’s perspective. Or the outsider.”

She nods. That is a valid point, and not one she’d expected. “That’s fair. And I hate to disappoint, but I don’t have much of an insider’s perspective. I’m technically a contractor—I help many companies find the applicants they’re looking for, not just one.”

Hermione pauses, taking a long sip of tea in order to better postulate her answer. “However, no applicant I’ve sent to them has ever failed the probationary period, which is when my contact with them ends. As far as I know, their employees are happy with the company and with the work they do.

“I mean, what do you want from your next employer? From what I could tell you had two standards. One, getting out of San Francisco. And two, not being treated like chattel.” He’d gone on for what seemed like days on that pier about being essentially a lackey to someone else’s whims, the result of that most often being that he got the blame for mistakes but his superior got the praise for things well done. “I’d say chances are that this one fits the bill. In fact, I can say for a fact that it does.”

“And you know that how? You said yourself, you have no personal connection to any of these people.”

“Well, for one, the position is a ranked one—Art Director. Does that say ‘lackey’ to you at all? Sounds to me like you’ll have enough of your own little minions around to treat like chattel.”

Draco doesn’t answer. Rather, he continues drinking the tea, but she can still see the rather wide smile behind the rim of his cup. Having finished hers already, she waits for him to down what remains of his cup, and then she offers her hand to him.

“Ready? Let’s show you London, shall we?”

* * *

“You’re sure this is all right?” Draco looks at the gates with some suspicion. As if responding to his very presence, the gates are slowly opening, and he continues to eye the iron with what she can only assume is caution. Thank god for motion sensors, she thinks, as they’re the only feasible Muggle explanation for something like this. “I don’t see any placards or information booths or anything.”

Hermione nods slowly. “Yes, of course.” The strength of her voice is surprising. She’s very glad that Draco’s too busy analysing the gates to the manor to look at her, as she’s still in the process of composing herself. This is the second time she’s ever set foot on these grounds, the first since the war. Where’s your courage, girl? This house has never failed to make her feel inadequate as a Gryffindor.

“And we just … walk in?”

“The gate’s open, isn’t it?” He still looks unconvinced, so she continues, “What say we just take a turn around the gardens, and if you don’t want to go around the actual house, we can go home.”

He looks at her then, and she quickly grows uncomfortable under his gaze. Did she really just say home? “Sorry. I mean, back to the city.”

“Fine,” he says with a quick shrug and follows after her as she walks to go around the house.

The gardens are as beautiful as anyone should expect of such an elite family. Hermione can’t control her gut reaction to the sight of them—an immediate gasp and wide eyes.

Even Draco, as obviously reticent as he is, mumbles, “Wow.”

A winding pathway of large hedges, trees, and intricate patterns of flowers leads towards a quaint gazebo and an ancient willow tree. The view is magnificent, especially with the flowering trees in full bloom.

“Apparently, spring has sprung.”

He chuckles in response. “Too right. You don’t see springs like this in San Francisco. At least, not that I’ve ever seen in the city.”

Hermione nods. “How strange it must be to have something like this in your own back garden.” She glances over her shoulder at the house, its presence rather foreboding. “I wonder if the owners remember to appreciate it.” It’s something she’s always wondered about stately homes and their curators—and even those who lived in the homes once upon a time. Did they always notice the beauty just beyond their noses, or did it take a drastic change—such as between seasons—to open their eyes?

“There’s only one way to find out,” Draco offers, his eyes still scanning the grounds.

Hermione can’t help but laugh. “Oh, I’ll certainly never live on a property like this.”

“Why not?”

She fidgets under his sudden attention. “Beyond the fact that I could never afford a lifestyle like this, you mean? I’ve never been much for large spaces. Prefer it a bit cosier. Less to dust.”

“So you’d prefer a cramped flat in the city? After living in one for so long, more space is really attractive right about now.”

“I said cosy, not cramped. I think, ideally, I’d live in a cottage somewhere. Maybe in a forest.”

“A forest.” Draco’s brow is raised. “A bit random, isn’t it?”

She shrugs. “I’ve always loved forests, trees, that sort of thing. They calm me, I think. I’d probably get married in a forest if I could.”

He hums, which she can only take as agreement to some extent. “I feel the same, I think, about the coast. Something about the salty air.”

“Fresh air, at any rate.”

It’s always amazed Hermione how freeing a breath of fresh air can be. As much as she’s always been committed to her research, be that for schoolwork back at Hogwarts or in the stacks at the Ministry, she’s always loved sitting out on a patch of grass when the weather cooperates. There’s really nothing like a light breeze in springtime. It’s been a long time since she’s actually taken the time to just sit and enjoy anything. There’d certainly been no time for that during the war, no matter how breathtaking she’d found the sight of a freshly bloomed daffodil. And after the war? She’d been much too busy making sure nothing fell apart—both the government and what remained of her friends. And, in truth, herself. Perhaps she didn’t do it consciously, but working herself to the bone removed the possibility of thinking about what they’d lost—really thinking about it.

Wandering around the garden towards the gazebo, Hermione gets that feeling—one she both loves and loathes—that usually accompanies her forays into nature. That of being a mere speck on the canvas of the universe. How untouched the forces of nature appear, despite how tumultuous her life has been. The stresses of her day-to-day, or even of all her years, are nothing. There’s something both healing and frightening in that thought.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Draco deadpans. Hermione’s eyes dart to him. He’s partway up the stairs to the gazebo, his feet planted on different steps, and his eyes are riveted on something. She follows his gaze to find a pair of white peacocks. The birds look as suspicious as Draco himself looks, and they put Hermione on edge. She’s been wary of touching much of anything, even the oak in the centre—for all she knows, there could still be any number of items that would curse a Muggle-born. She wouldn’t put it past the Malfoys.

“Are you glaring at them?”

Hermione looks back at Draco, who looks to be barely restraining himself from laughing at her. She mentally fumbles for a reason. “I … uh, hate birds. They freak me out.”

“Birds.”

She nods vehemently. “Especially peacocks. I’ve heard they’re the Dalmatians of bird folk.”

“Bird folk?” And this time he does laugh, this one more of a bark if anyone were to ask her. “Where do you come up with this shit?”

Hermione rolls her eyes and hurries to catch up with him, careful to stay a large distance from those damned birds. “I’ll have you know Dalmatians are known for being unpredictable. Not good with children, all that. Despite what Disney would have us believe—”

“So now you think Disney is conspiring against us. I hadn’t taken you for one of those types.”

She glares up at him, suddenly remembering and cursing the large height difference. “What types?”

“Those bloody conspiracy theorists. I suppose you think Disney’s trying to sexualise today’s youth and all that rot.”

“I’m not a conspiracy theorist! And you know, as far as subliminal messaging goes—”

“Jesus, you really can’t take a joke, can you?”

Hermione lifts her eyes from where she’d been staring at a spot on his shoe, but she can’t continue glaring whilst he’s grinning down at her like that. She’s felt the effects of his smile before, and she hates that it still does such things to her. Hermione can feel her face growing hot and her stomach jumpy. He just laughs again.

“Come on,” he says. She nearly jumps when she feels his arm wrap around her shoulder. “Let’s have a look at this gazebo.”

Immediately, her mind goes into overdrive, trying to figure out why he’s suddenly that comfortable with her. She hopes beyond hope that it’s just him being comfortable in a platonic way. Because if it’s him being comfortable and forward … that may bring what she’s doing to another level of betrayal in his eyes. The more pressing matter, however, is figuring out how she can brush him off whilst still maintaining whatever camaraderie exists between them.

The answer comes to her in the form of a very feminine throat clearing behind them. Hermione spins quickly out from under Draco’s arm to look Narcissa Malfoy in the eye.

He’s slower to turn, and she watches his face closely—just as she’s sure Narcissa is doing—for any semblance of recognition. Draco barely blinks; he just smiles and greets her, his manners apparently one of the remaining vestiges of his former life. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

Narcissa is a great actress, Hermione thinks. Looking at the woman, you’d never have thought she was standing in front of her only child, who thought she was nothing more than a stranger with a large house. “Good afternoon. I came down to ask if you two would care for tea.”

Hermione glances at Draco, who simply shrugs at her. “I don’t see why not,” she says.

Narcissa gives them a sweet smile. “Wonderful. Please follow me.” With that, she turns on her heel and walks back toward the manor. She is every inch the aristocrat, from the top of her perfect coif to her graceful stride. If Hermione didn’t know any better, she’d think the woman was actually gliding. “I do hope you’ve been enjoying the grounds,” Narcissa continues, playing the part of the perfect hostess. “You certainly picked the perfect season.”

“Yes, we have,” Draco answers softly. “Your gardens are phenomenal.”

Narcissa smiles over her shoulder at him. “Thank you very much, young man. We certainly pride ourselves on the grounds.”

The rest of the walk is quiet, and both Hermione and Draco are content to simply take in the splendour of the inside of the house. The décor is immaculate, as she’d always imagined it would be. Her previous experience with the place had been rather limited. It’s quite different from other Wizarding houses and establishments that she’s been to before. The Ministry, Hogwarts, and the Burrow all come to her mind as having very cluttered décor, as if the inhabitants felt it necessary to cover every inch of wall space with something, anything. Malfoy Manor, rather, looks much like any of the Muggle stately homes she’s been to. Anyone could see that the decoration of each space was agonised over, and in fact, it was probably agonised over centuries ago.

“Please wait here. I’ll make sure the room is ready.” That is to say, let me clear out the house-elves, and please make sure my unknowing son doesn’t see them and have a panic attack.

This is exactly what they’d planned. It had been up to Hermione to get him to the property and to tea with his parents. It had been up to the Malfoys to procure a potion that would return his memories. Hermione will make her getaway as soon as possible after he consumes the potion—through the tea, she’d guess. That had been one of Narcissa’s absolutes in the agreement. She didn’t want the girl messing up any chances they had of piecing their family back together. Hermione had had no qualms about that requirement—she is more than happy to get away before his temper unleashes. Let the Malfoys deal with the problem they’ve created.

When Narcissa closes the door to the room, Hermione turns to Draco, who’s looking rather peaky. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “This place has just been giving me the weirdest feeling. Almost like déjà vu, like I’ve been here.”

She looks at him carefully, even going so far as to put a hand on his shoulder to grab his attention. “Do you think—”

“No,” he cuts her off with a laugh, one filled more with bitterness than joy. “There’s no way. What kid doesn’t dream of growing up in a place like this?”

They both look up, startled, when Narcissa throws the door open with a loud creak. Her smile is pasted back on her face, and Hermione almost envies how good an actress the woman is. Though she supposes it’s part and parcel of her upbringing as one destined to be married off to someone rich and powerful. Or at least, that’s what these elite families hope, Hermione would think. “Please, do come in.”

Hermione follows Narcissa into the room, with Draco behind her. It takes all of ten seconds for Hermione to realise which room Narcissa’s decided to take their tea in, and her body halts of its own volition.

“Are you all right?” Draco whispers, his hand at her back, gently urging her forward. She takes a deep breath, swallows, and surges forward.

“How do you take your tea?” Narcissa asks as they take a seat on one of the settees. Hermione waits for Draco to answer, meanwhile trying to will her heartbeat to something more resembling normality.

“Cream, two sugars, please.”

She watches, almost in a daze, as Narcissa sets about preparing his tea. Hermione imagines it’s been a long time since the woman has done anything so common for herself. She’ll chastise herself for the rudeness—mental though it may be—later, but it’s taking most of Hermione’s concentration to not look at that spot on the floor near the fireplace. Just the thought gives her goose pimples. The details of her last experience in Malfoy Manor are burned into memory, never fading—no matter how much she might wish or pray.

“And you, my dear?” Narcissa asks her, handing Draco his tea.

“Just the same, please,” she says softly, not trusting her voice to carry any louder. She quietly thanks their host when Narcissa offers her another cup and rests the saucer on her arm, hoping the warmth will ease the risen flesh.

Draco, polite as ever, waits for Narcissa to prepare herself a final cup and sit before he takes a sip of the tea.

“So, tell me,” Hermione hears Narcissa say, “what brings you to Wiltshire?”

After a slightly awkward pause, during which Hermione’s sure he’d expected her to speak, Draco answers, “Just a bit of sight-seeing. I’m visiting and haven’t seen a house such as this. It’s quite magnificent.”

“Thank you,” Narcissa says demurely, taking a small sip of the tea. Hermione does the same; she’d never admit it to Narcissa, but it’s quite possibly the best cuppa she’s had in years.

“What’s next on your timetable, then?”

“A nap, I’m hoping. I’m a bit jetlagged, I think,” Draco says, trying his best to stifle a yawn and failing.

Hermione looks up at him from her cup. He’s nearly finished his tea, and she can already see the signs of a sleeping potion. He can barely keep his eyes open. His last sip looks like it takes all of his remaining energy, and almost immediately he’s asleep.

Narcissa hurries over and grabs the saucer and cup from his hand, placing it on the side table. Hermione quickly gets up and gathers her things while Narcissa mutters things to her sleeping son. As much as she dislikes Narcissa and Lucius, Hermione believes they deserves the alone time with their son after so long.

“Where are you going, Miss Granger?”

Hermione already has her hand pressed against the door, fully prepared to leave and never return. “My work here is done.”

Narcissa clucks. “I’m afraid not. I need you to hold him down while I cast. This spell has the possibility of causing tremors, and I don’t want him to get a concussion from falling onto the floor.”

Hermione glares at the woman. Didn’t Narcissa know what she’d experienced in this room? That she wants out of here as soon as possible.

“If nobody holds him down, I can’t guarantee that the spell will connect with him during the casting.”

Hermione sighs. Of course, there had to be some danger involved. “Fine.” She drops her bag unceremoniously in the middle of the floor, her care for niceties and manners long since gone. She makes her way over to the settee and positions herself behind Draco so that she can wrap her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his. Hopefully he isn’t too much stronger than she is, and Narcissa will have clear access to his torso for however long the spell requires.

She closes her eyes and rests her forehead against his back as Narcissa casts. Through her eyelids, she sees flashes of purple, and almost immediately his body begins thrashing. At times her body wants nothing more than to just let his go. She hasn’t had to use many of her muscles aside from carrying one or two books since the war, and her arms and legs burn from the exertion. After what feels like a half hour, but must surely have been less than a minute, he stills. Hermione lifts her head to look at Narcissa, who nods. Hermione can only assume that means the spell is over, and so she quickly unravels herself from around Draco, repositioning his body so that he’s lying across the settee.

“Now you may leave,” Narcissa says, her voice low.

Hermione doesn’t know why the matriarch even keeps up that pretence of politeness. Don’t worry, she wants to say, you’ll never catch me near your property again. She marches over to her bag. When she bends to grab it from the floor, she hears a very low moan. She glances over her shoulder when she stands again, meeting the very angry eyes of Draco Malfoy.

Hermione keeps her face as impassive and free of emotions as she can, and turns towards the door again. With a deep breath, she leaves the room and walks as swiftly as she can towards the gates, from which she Apparates home.

Part Three

Fic: Save Me, San Francisco (1/3)

withdrawnred — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 14:35:32 GMT

Title: Save Me, San Francisco (1/3)
Rating: T
Word Count: 20,000(ish)
Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling and 20th Century Fox, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

Summary: In which Hermione has to find Malfoy and return him to his rightful place in Wiltshire.
Warnings: Language (sorry, guys – I just can’t control Malfoy’s mouth!), memory!fic
Author's Note: Written for the second round of dramione_remix, with the prompt being Dimitri and Anastasia from Anastasia.
Betas: eilonwy1, dormiensa, and callarose

PART ONE

“Remind me again why I let you run away to San Francisco?” Ginny Potter looks anything but pleased. Well, at least the parts of her that Hermione can see through the Floo do. Hermione is sitting in front of the fireplace in her hotel room.

“Look, you’re lucky I even found a room with a fireplace.” Hermione doesn’t know how many times she’s told her best friend that she hasn’t run away. “I told you, it’s just a job. Short-term. Plus, haven’t you always said I need to get out of London?”

Ginny scowls. “I didn’t expect there to be such extenuating circumstances, Hermione. I would have been ecstatic for you if you were taking a proper holiday and not working on Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy’s account. I can’t believe you’re actually working for them, of all people!”

Hermione takes a deep breath. “I know; it’s certainly not how I expected this year to pan out.” That’s the understatement of the year. When she was originally summoned to Malfoy Manor, she’d nearly had a heart attack. She hadn’t returned to that house since her first experience there, one she’d much rather forget and she isn’t afraid to admit that, but her curiosity had won out in the end.

Her friend’s eyes widen. “I think it’s far more than that. You don’t have to do this, you know. Why do you care if that man never sees his son again?”

“I don’t.” She sniffs and turns her nose up. “It’s just a job. Nothing different to any other case I’ve taken on this year.”

Ginny’s smile is too knowing for Hermione’s tastes. “That’s a bald-faced lie, and you know it.”

Hermione had been hoping they’d avoid this tangent. Ginny’s laugh makes her bristle, and she tries hard not to glare.

“I know it,” Ginny continues. “Even Harry and Ron know it. You’re not fooling anyone. I haven’t seen you pour yourself into a case like this in years.”

Hermione sighs. “This one’s time-sensitive, Gi—”

“Oh, don’t give me that, Hermione. I know old man Malfoy is on his deathbed, or claims to be. Whatever. I don’t care. And neither should you.”

“That’s the thing with being a personal investigator. I’m paid to care about what my clients need from me and when. This one just so happens to be desperate for an answer as soon as humanly possible.”

“Is that how you rationalise doing this? You haven’t mentioned any of their names once, always referring to them as ‘the client’. What will you refer to him as?” Ginny’s smile transforms into something ugly and … just ugly. “The deliverable?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Is he honestly why you think I’m here?”

“If the shoe fits…”

“What do I have to do to convince you it’s just a job, Ginny?” Hermione asks, pinching the bridge of nose. She’s tired of this argument. It’s one she’s had countless times with Ginny alone, not to mention every other being in her social circle that thinks her business is their own.

“I think saying his name would be a start. I almost think you’re afraid to say it.”

“Whatever. I’m here, in San bloody Francisco, to escort Draco Malfoy to England, after which I will wash my hands of the entire Malfoy family. Are you happy? Did I say their names loudly enough for you?” When she looks up, determined to see this argument to its sorry end, she’s surprised to see a sad smile on Ginny’s face. She sighs again. “What is it?”

“I was hoping that I might have been able to convince you to drop the entire thing and come home.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m here to stay.” Hermione glances at her watch. She’s got a half hour until the show starts, so to speak. Before she starts to implement her plan to somehow get Draco Malfoy back across the pond.

“So, I’m curious. What do you get out of this?”

“Just money. Perhaps a decent reference. At best, they’ll spread the word about my services and there will be purebloods galore lining up outside my door.”

Ginny doesn’t so much as crack a smile at her joke. “Are you sure that’s all? Hermione, I know it’s been something like ten years, but … it changed you. I know you don’t like that it did, but that doesn’t change anything. I’m—bloody hell, Hermione, I’m worried about you.”

Hermione meets her friend’s eyes again. “I know.” She sighs, a truth that she’s long since buried bubbling up and out of her throat. “I need the closure.”

Ginny’s lips thin, but she nods.

* * *

She pauses at the bar, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves and prepare herself. In mere seconds, the entire show will start and there’ll be no going back. Gripping her iced coffee tightly, slightly afraid that her sweaty palms will make it slip prematurely, she turns and slowly meanders through the small coffee shop. She sips from the cup, her mouth turning down at the temperature. Hermione’s always been the type to only drink cold drinks when it’s unbearably hot. But, as much as a small part of her would feel vindicated, she can’t justify dropping scalding coffee into anyone’s lap.

As distracted as she may seem to an outsider about god-knows-what—possibly including the beverage in her hand—she is anything but. Hermione honestly feels like one of those fighter planes from those ridiculous American war movies. She imagines herself acquiring her target, and then locking in on it, only to drop the missile perfectly and successfully accomplish the mission. Victory dance optional.

And well, it’s almost the same. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of that ever-recognisable towhead. Target acquired.

Her legs seem to move with more purpose at that point, as she sees the perfect avenue of execution. Target locked in.

She pulls out her Muggle mobile; it has a lot of shiny features she’s barely had a chance to glance at, much less assimilate, before she arrived that morning. A few swipes of her thumb, and she is doing … something interesting, certainly. She almost forgets that she doesn’t care whether what she’s doing on the mobile is interesting or as boring as Ernie Macmillan’s first-date speech. Crashing into Draco Malfoy’s table with the full force of her purposeful walk and dropping her latte—in his lap, no less—soon fixes that. Mission accomplished.

“Shit!”

“Oh my god!” she exclaims as he jumps out of his chair and tries to wipe off some of the scalding coffee with the newspaper in his hand. She quickly grabs her mobile off the floor, having dropped it when she’d crashed into the table, and away from a growing puddle of coffee. “I am so sorry! Please, let me help.”

When Hermione returns from the bar with a fistful of napkins, he’s still standing—silent and on the verge of fury, she can tell—looking down at himself with a look of sad acceptance. She approaches awkwardly, not sure whether she should physically help him or just hand him the napkins. He snatches them out of her hand and solves that mystery in one fell swoop. She stills when he finally looks at her. This is really the moment she’s been waiting for, or at least the first of many. His eyes pass over her face, and she doesn’t relax until she’s sure he hasn’t recognised her. He meets her eyes with a relatively dark glower, and she has to suppress a shudder. It’s been a long time since she’s seen that grey. She presses her lips tightly together, trying to will heart to return to a normal beat so that she can move on.

Well, at least the Glamour is working.

“I feel so bad,” she says softly. He just raises his eyebrow, and she can feel the associated annoyance rise in the pit of her stomach.

“It’s not a big deal.” His voice is husky, as if he hasn’t spoken for several hours. Not surprising, from the information she’s gathered about him in the short time since she was recruited. She’s almost certain she could recite every fact from the file they had given her, and that’s not counting her own investigating.

He keeps to himself, goes back and forth from work to a select few local establishments, never really associating with anyone in particular. There’s this coffee shop in North Shore, a breakfast joint out by San Francisco State, and one of the more touristy piers near the Embarcadero, one of the main streets of the city. She thinks that Ghirardelli Square is probably a big hit for him, but that’s more due to his infamous sweet tooth than anything else.

“No, don’t say that. Of course it is. I’m sure I ruined your trousers,” she whinges, placing her hand on her forehead for what she hopes isn’t too much of a dramatic effect. “Please, let me make it up to you. Can I buy you lunch, or maybe dinner?”

He looks at her blankly. “You want to pay for my dinner?” His up-intonation is so subtle, she almost misses that he had in fact asked a question. Another habit that seems to automatically annoy her.

“Really, it’s the least I could do. Unless of course you’ve already got plans this evening.” She can see hints of the internal battle in his face, and she almost thinks he’ll say no. It would be just typical for him to do that, wouldn’t it?

“Fine, yeah.”

Hermione blinks in surprise. “Oh! Great!”

He looks wary. Distrustful. In other words, normal. “What’s your name?”

The abrupt question shocks her, and she stumbles over her thoughts. “Jeannie. Or, erm … Jean. Or J. Whatever, really whatever.” She wants to stab herself with a pointy object for getting so flustered. It’s embarrassing.

“Really, whatever? So that means you answer to ‘bull in a china shop’ as well?”

Her eyes snap up to his in shock, and she’s even more surprised to see mirth hiding in that grey abyss. “Yeah, I suppose I deserve that.”

* * *

Hermione takes a deep breath as she enters the ladies’ room at the restaurant Draco had chosen. It’s certainly nicer than she’d expected, but on second thought, she can’t see why she didn’t expect Draco Malfoy to pick a fancy restaurant. Although, picking a Michelin-starred restaurant is another story entirely. Thankfully, this one only has one star, so she doesn’t feel like a complete cad. She just has to keep reminding herself that this meal is one of many expenses for which she’ll be charging her client.

With some trepidation, she approaches the mirror. Her hands go to her head almost automatically. Usually, she has a full head of hair, something that has long been a symbol of who she was. Bushy brown hair, that must be Hermione Granger. Uncontrollable, much like she’s always aimed to be. Not necessarily to the point of being a menace to society, but such that society couldn’t use her as a puppet. Merlin knows they’d tried on multiple accounts. To prepare for this job, though, she’d done the unthinkable and cast a Glamour charm, something she’s not at all fond of. Something about these charms has always rubbed her the wrong way. They just make her feel wrong somehow. So now she barely recognises herself when she looks in the mirror. Short, short hair. She’d heard someone refer to it as a “pixie cut,” like it was something adorable and cute. (The woman obviously had no experience with pixies.) Her hair’s still rather similar in colour to her own, but that’s where the majority of the similarities end. Her eyes are now blue, her face more angular and thin, and her skin quite pale. Luckily, her body had retained much of its shape, so she doesn’t have to worry about fitting her clothes to a different height or width. But she still feels like an absolute stranger in her own skin.

With a final swipe of her hand to smooth the non-existent wrinkles from her skirt, she walks back towards the table. The second she’d walked into the restaurant ten minutes prior, she could feel a difference in the very atmosphere to anything else she’s ever experienced. Even the air feels elegant, and she’s almost surprised they’re not charging her for their more pristine oxygen.

“Nice of you to finally join me,” Draco greets her, his gaze wary.

She doesn’t even try to hold back the blush. It seems to ingratiate her to him a little, so perhaps that’s a good thing. “This is a beautiful restaurant. I’ve never been to one with Michelin stars before.”

“Then why’d you agree to come here?” he asks. She can sense the unbidden question: can you afford this?

“I’ve always been curious about what the other side is like,” she answers with a small smile, unsure how exactly to say I have a very rich benefactor who’ll more than cover this meal for us, so don’t worry about it.

He looks unconvinced but shrugs it off, instead pulling out the menu. “Wine?”

She nods. “Do they pair the wines with the meals?”

“Probably.”

With that, they each glance down at the menu, and Hermione tries to ease the tension between her shoulders. So much of her so-called mission depends on this dinner; she needs to be as charming and sweet as possible for this blasted thing to go off without a hitch.

“See anything you like?” she asks, legitimately curious. It seems he’d know better than she what’s good to order here. Although, every bloody item on that menu is probably more delicious than everything she’s eaten in her thirty years combined.

“I always get a bit distracted by the pudding menu.” That makes her crack an involuntary smile. Always the chocolate with him.

Eventually, they each wade through the sparse menu choices and order their food, some of it quite mysterious to Hermione. She sees a silver lining in the fact that it is a four-course meal. She has that much more time to charm this man.

“So, I didn’t get your name earlier,” she says pointedly. She’s mentally kicking herself and hoping she hasn’t slipped and called him by his name before this moment.

He smirks. “You didn’t ask.”

“Well, I am now,” she teases. It’s a relief to see that he’s already flirting. The more at ease he is, the better.

“It’s Draco.” He glares almost immediately after he says it.

She raises her eyebrow. “And why are you glaring, exactly?”

“Almost everyone laughs when they first hear it.”

“Oh.” Hermione nods slowly, searching for the right words. It’s difficult with him looking at her like that. “I mean, it’s certainly unique, but it’s not the worst I’ve heard.” Draco simply raises his eyebrow, unimpressed. She straightens in her chair, pulling her posture as upright as she can. “Do you know why they chose it?”

“Hmm?”

“Your parents, why did they name you Draco?”

“You mean as opposed to something mundane like Jean?”

She can’t help but roll her eyes. “Yes, God forbid you have a boring name like mine.” Hermione pinches her thigh in an effort to curb her tongue. She’d promised them she’d be as civil as possible to him, but she just can’t help it sometimes. It’s like her mouth has a natural reaction to him. Word vomit, she’ll claim. She can’t control her gut reactions to this man, which was more often than not in the form of snide comments, any more than she can control her most primal urges.

“I don’t really know. Probably something to do with the constellation.”

She nods, her head almost automatically turning to the window next to them to look at the night sky. Or rather, what part of it hadn’t yet been blocked out by the San Francisco skyline. That’s the problem she’s always had with big cities. At her parents’ home in Surrey, she’d taken the sky for granted. But there isn’t a place in London where she can climb out on the roof to see the stars. The lights had polluted the sky and continued to obscure the stars, no matter the time of night or year. Also, she’s always been a bit skittish of city roofs, because she’s never been sure whether or not it’s actually legal. And then there’s that whole thing with falling.

“And yours?” Hermione turns her head back to Draco in confusion. He chuckles at what she can only assume is the look on her face. “Any particular reason behind your name?”

“Family tradition. There’ve always been Jeans in my family, and I’m the only child, so I guess there wasn’t really a choice.”

“Do you like it?”

She frowns momentarily. “It’s just a name. I don’t put much stock in them. Some people think your name affects the person you are, but I don’t think I’d be any different had my parents named me Penelope or Claire.”

“So you don’t like it.”

Hermione meets his eyes. And there he goes, putting words in her mouth. “I’m ambivalent about it. Do you like yours?”

“I do.”

“Then why were you so defensive about it?”

“It annoys me when people laugh at my name.”

“Well, a lot of things annoy me, I have to say, but I don’t find it necessary to make it known every time.”

His head tilts ever so slightly. “What annoys you?”

You, she wants to say. Instead, she says with a grin, “Washing dishes.”

Draco smirks. “Is that all? And here I thought you were going to air a string of annoyances a mile long.”

“I could, but I didn’t want to bore you with more of my mundane life.”

When she looks up this time, his smile is one borne more out of contentment, fleeting though it may be, than wry amusement as it has been most of the night. Hermione mentally gives herself one point. She’ll get through to him if it’s the last thing she does.

* * *

She is so happy she wore a dress. It means she has avoided the embarrassment of having to unbutton her trousers after dinner to make room for her protruding belly. Instead she can walk around with no such qualms. Her wardrobe problem comes in the form of heels. And walking. It’s a magical feat, especially for walking disasters like her.

“So, what are you doing in San Francisco?” Draco asks. They’re walking towards the Bay Bridge, a pretty sight if you like seeing city lights in the dark, he’d said.

“How do you know I’m not from here?” she teases.

“First, your accent doesn’t exactly say, ‘I’m from the Bay!’”

“I wouldn’t say your accent is so different to mine, good sir.”

He laughs. “Touché.” She blames the wine for the small pleasure she gets from that sound. “Second, when I mentioned going towards Bay Bridge, you started walking west.”

She blushes. “I did say I’ve never been here before. You were forewarned.”

“Not going to answer my question, then?”

She blinks up at him in confusion before she remembers the question. “Oh! Right, sorry.” She can almost feel him smile at the recurrent apology. It’s always been like she vomits apologies; they just come, unbidden sometimes. Like it’s her default for everything. “I’m on holiday, actually.”

“Nothing in particular brought you here?”

“Just wanted to escape London for a bit. Get some of that sunshine I keep hearing about.”

“And you came alone?”

She nods with a quick shrug.

“That’s pretty impressive, I must say. Most wo—people aren’t brave enough to travel without companions.”

Hermione raises her eyebrows, in lieu of the ability to lift just one. It takes almost all of her self-control not to call him out on what he’d almost said just then. “Brave?” She sees him shrug, noncommittal. All she can think is how much different his idea of bravery was ten years and another life ago. “I don’t know that I’d call it brave. I hopped on a plane and secured a hotel room. And then proceeded to spill my latte on a hapless stranger,” she finishes with a small smile.

Draco chuckles, and that pit in her stomach reappears at the sound. She pinches herself, trying to move past it.

“What do you do when you’re not on holiday?” he asks.

“I’m a headhunter for a firm in London.”

“Are you any good?” he asks with a smirk, which she can’t help but return.

“Only the best.” She grins. “I’ve always had a penchant for research, but it’s nice to be able to channel that into something that will actually pay my bills. Being able to make my own hours is a perk, though.”

“I can only imagine.”

“So what’s your story? What do you do here?”

“I’m a designer for a firm in the Financial District.” He points over his shoulder in the general direction of the neighbourhood. “Marketing, brand identity, interface design, that sort of thing.”

She smiles, although she sadly has no idea what interface design is. The topic has been mentally filed away as a future research topic. “Do you love it?”

“What?” His head snaps to her, the surprise evident on his face.

“Is it really such a strange question? Do you enjoy what you do?”

“No,” he hesitates, “I suppose it isn’t. Just not something you expect to hear every day.” He pauses again, licking his lips, and she tries not to get distracted by the familiarity of his habits.

She joins him when he sits on a bench facing the water and the Bay Bridge, one of the main streets at their backs, running along all the piers. She feels surrounded by the essence of San Francisco. The sight of the city’s lights reflecting off the water is breath-taking. It may be next to impossible to see any part of the night sky within this city’s limits, but Hermione has always thought that cities are at their most beautiful at night, when the full force of the people within them shines in the lights. Perhaps it’s fair, trading one sky of lights for a skyline of them. Both make her appreciate the insignificance of her problems.

“No, I wouldn’t say I love it.” Draco’s voice sounds, and Hermione would be lying if she claimed she hadn’t jumped. “But something’s got to pay the bills, right?”

He almost sounds defeated, and if she’s really honest with herself, it digs deep. “I guess it depends on whether you need to love your job. Unless it’s a means to a job that does make you happy.”

He shrugs. “With this economy, I’m just glad I have a means to pay my bills at all. I’ve always just figured happiness will follow eventually.”

She nods. The economy really is horrendous and has been for a while, so far as she can tell. “Must be thankful you’re not flipping burgers.”

“Too right.”

Hermione sits further back against the bench. She’s still rather amazed that he’d managed to secure a job as a designer at all. Through the war, everyone had had their therapy. For some it’d been sex, for others cooking, for her reading. Draco’s therapy had been a pen and a locked door.

“Why do you keep doing that?”

“What?” she asks, puzzled. As far as she can tell, she hasn’t done anything besides talk to him and maybe stare at the sky for the past ten minutes.

“You keep reaching towards your neck and … grabbing air.” He looks almost concerned for his safety. And well, that is unfortunately an expression she’s familiar with.

She blushes, still cursing how easily she does that after all these years. “I keep forgetting I don’t have long hair anymore. It’s habit,” she apologises.

He nods slowly. “How long ago did you cut your hair?”

She hesitates, but then offers, “A day or two.” She’d always been told—and by him, no less—that the best lies are always closest to the truth. It’s something she lives by when she has to use a cover like this.

He tilts his head slightly, as if sizing her up. Perhaps he’s trying to imagine her with longer hair. “It looks nice.”

She looks down at her lap as she feels the blush continue to creep into her cheeks. “Thank you. I’m still getting used to it.”

“Does your head feel lighter?” Her head snaps up, her expression incredulous, and he continues quickly, “I couldn’t tell you how many girls I’ve seen around that go on about how much lighter they feel after a massive hair cut. I always thought they were absolute loons.”

“Oh!” Hermione tries and fails to suppress her giggles. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but yeah, I suppose it does.”

Draco smirks. It looks like he still enjoys being proven right, she thinks. “So, how long are you in town, Jean?”

It takes her a second to realize that he’s speaking to her. “Oh, about a week. I’ve got to be back after the weekend.”

“Would you like a bit of a tour of the city sometime?” He seems to hesitate, as if he’s chewing over his words. “I figure I owe you something at least, after letting you pay for that dinner,” he says with a small smile. Almost bashful. It looks unnatural.

Hermione grins widely. “I’d love that.” She loves when things go according to plan.

* * *

They begin with brunch at a delicious little breakfast place on the west side of the city called Squat and Gobble, where the conversation is a little stilted and awkward until she challenges him to a game of people-watching. He seems to enjoy the creative, and sometimes cruel, nature of the game. The boy—man, she has to keep reminding herself—relaxes then, and Hermione feels her own posture slacken just a little in response. It’s still jarring, looking into that face after all these years. Age and the States have been good to him, she thinks wryly. A small part of her wishes it hadn’t. But then, she’s never really understood how men seem to grow more attractive with age.

As he regales her with the stories behind each of that skinny blonde’s tattoos, she tries to smile in all the right places. He mentions lovers and beloved movies, but the girl’s favourite is the first, arguably the ugliest, which he claims was for her first love. Hermione wonders how he justifies his own tattoo, not to mention the scars that line his body with no war in his memory.

Narcissa had deigned to give her some information last night that the blonde had felt was superfluous; they had great reason to believe, apparently, that Draco had no memory of his magical life. When pressed, Mrs Malfoy had given nothing else, stubbornly insisting that their reasons for believing it shouldn’t matter to her.

Just like how you hadn’t thought this little fact was important to me? Hermione had wanted to ask.

She asks him, “Do you have any tattoos?” It’s partially because she’s still so angry with his mother, but the other side of it is that she’s curious to know his explanation.

He stills, but eventually nods. “Just something from when I was a kid.”

“You don’t like it anymore?” she pushes. “What is it?”

“Some combination of a skull and a snake. Luckily it’s on my forearm, so it hasn’t been a problem at work or anything, but I’m not crazy about it. To be honest, I don’t even know why I got it.”

She offers a small smile. “Has it been that long?”

“No.” He frowns. “Well, maybe. It’s rather faded, so I imagine I got it a long time ago. To be honest, I don’t remember much before a decade or so ago.”

Hermione’s eyes widen and her jaw drops a little. She honestly never expected him to admit to such a thing—the vulnerability of it all. “Oh,” she pauses, chewing the inside of her lip. “I can’t even imagine…”

Draco purses his lips, obviously uncomfortable. Luckily for her, the waitress appears shortly after, carrying their meals. Hermione smiles up at her, possibly more grateful to her than anyone in her recent memory, before digging in to her crepe. She has to stop herself from staring longingly at Draco’s, which is stuffed with Nutella and various other things.

After brunch, Hermione and Draco work their way through many of the typical tourist traps, most of which she is only vaguely interested in. At Haight and Ashbury, Draco explains what little he knows of the political background to the streets, and he looks surprised each time she passes a storefront without batting an eyelash, but she’s never been a big fan of shopping. Especially when her nerves are this frayed. Retail therapy isn’t her fix of choice, and never has been.

However, on their walk from Chinatown—where they’d grabbed take-out for a late lunch—towards the piers, she stops dead in her tracks at the sight of City Lights bookstore. Her eyes widen and she’d be damned if her jaw didn’t completely slacken. It takes almost too much of her self-control to shut her eyes to the storefront and turn back towards the piers again.

Draco is looking at her with a strange expression on his face. Perhaps it’s concern that looks so strange on him. He must think her absolutely mad, but at least she hadn’t drooled, she thinks.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “I just really like bookshops.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “We could go in, you know.”

Immediately, Hermione shakes her head, perhaps more violently than is considered normal. “No, no, it’s fine. I’ll just go in sometime this week.”

“Really, if you want to, you should go in there and have a look.”

“No, you don’t understand. If I go in there, I probably won’t leave until they force me out at closing time.” She chuckles when he just raises an eyebrow. “There’s no reason to waste your time when I can just come back and spend all day there tomorrow.”

“I see.”

Well, at least he looks amused now, not concerned. The lesser of two evils, she supposes.

* * *

Hermione smiles as a small group of teenagers bolts past them. Her eyes immediately take in how carefree they seem with the California sun beating on their backs. The sight is rather bittersweet for her, as it’s a reminder of everything their youth should have been and wasn’t. From what she can guess, the biggest issue in those kids’ lives is figuring out what they’ll have for dinner this evening. What she would give to have had such trifling problems at seventeen.

The man standing next to her is reminder enough of the things she and her friends and classmates suffered. Not just once, but twice, it seems he’s been forced to give up the joys and security of being a young man. You’re forced to grow up a whole hell of a lot faster when your mistakes don’t cost your parents trivial bits of money but rather their very lives. That had certainly been a point of commonality between the two of them.

But that was years ago.

Hermione shakes those incredibly unwelcome thoughts from her head as they continue towards the more touristy piers. It’s been a long day of walking around the city, sometimes aided by one of its several public transportation systems, and the sight of the San Francisco Bay is spectacular. They are now walking down the Embarcadero, the road that each of the city’s piers calls home. There are at least forty of them, if the numbering of the piers means anything. The sidewalks are lined with street vendors selling everything from on-the-spot caricatures to miniatures of Alcatraz, the infamous prison on an island in the Bay. She tries not to let the sight of the old prison (now museum)—or the various knick-knacks based on it—make her think of the wizarding equivalent.

As they walk down one of the piers—Draco had mentioned something about sea lions and of course she’d insisted on seeing them—they walk in silence, each mostly concentrated on finishing off the melting ice cream cones in their hands. While Hermione had insisted on seeing the sea lions, Draco had insisted on a requisite visit to Ghirardelli’s for some ice cream. She wasn’t surprised, but neither was she particularly reticent. Merlin knows she’s always been a fan of ice cream, and one doesn’t just pass up the opportunity to get sweets from Ghirardelli Square. Besides, she’s glad for an excuse not to talk constantly to Draco, and she’s almost sure he feels the same way. Part of it is that it’s a comfortable silence.

The silence also gives her a chance to really take in her surroundings; so far on this trip, she hasn’t had much time to do so outside of planning every word that escapes her mouth. As she continues nibbling on the cone, Hermione leans on the side railing of the pier, her eyes locked on the water. The promised sea lions look magnificent. Several are napping on rafts placed randomly near each pier and some are taking their time swimming about the channel between the piers. The most entertaining bit, though, is when a pair fight over a nap spot on a raft.

She feels so at ease, so much more than she has in years, with the wind just barely tangling through her curls and the sun kissing her bare shoulders. She’s always been so concerned with working herself to the bone that she rarely notices things happening in the physical world around her. It only makes this experience sweeter.

Having finished her own cone, she finally turns to face her companion. He’s standing next to her, elbows propped on the railing much like hers. She’s momentarily distracted as she watches him methodically suck on each of his fingers, presumably to clean the sticky ice cream off of them. Hermione immediately closes her eyes, then moves her head to reopen them to the water and the sea lions. Funny how they don’t seem half as enchanting now as they had mere seconds before.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Hermione swallows, hopefully inaudibly, at the sudden sound of his baritone. She offers a quick smile and turns her gaze towards him finally. A small smirk is on his face, but she’s long since wondered if it had become permanent over the years. “I was just thinking how I need to do this more often.”

“This?”

She gestures towards the water. “I don’t know—enjoying life, I guess. I don’t usually take vacations or stop to see what’s going on around me, to be honest.”

“Haven’t you heard that idiom? All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl.”

“I’ve never been much good at balancing a social life with everything else. The only thing my friends complain more about than that I never make time for them is that I never take a holiday.”

“And no boyfriend, then?”

“Not at the moment, no,” she says softly, very much thrown off by this tangent. “I’ve been focussing more on my job lately than my love life.”

“From the sounds of it, there’s never been a time that you haven’t.”

Hermione smirks through the annoyance that rises from the pit of her stomach. “I’d much rather be career-driven than driven by that.”

She gestures her head towards a couple several metres from where she and Draco are standing. The man is caging his girlfriend—or at least, Hermione hopes she’s his girlfriend—into the railing. She’s giggling up a storm, and Hermione can hear every personal rule she has against public displays of affection being shattered. She’s more than a little pleased when Draco’s mouth turns down in obvious distaste.

“Not a huge fan of public affection either, are you?” she asks.

He chuckles, almost sardonically. “No, can’t say that I am.”

Hermione sneaks another look at the couple in question. “I’ve never much understood why people in love can’t just reel it in whilst in public. Honestly, it isn’t like the love is going to disappear if you don’t constantly prove it to the world.”

“I don’t really believe in it at all, to be honest.”

“Believe in what?”

“Love. I can’t say that I’ve ever really been in love with anyone—that I can remember.”

Hermione’s eyes close almost immediately in reaction, and it pains her more than she’d ever admit that he doesn’t—can’t—recognise the effect of his words. “I’m sure there’s a girl out there somewhere who might be surprised to hear you say that.”

He shrugs. “What about you?”

“Almost, once,” she claims. “But it ended weirdly and never went anywhere.”

“Weirdly?”

“He basically took off one day, left a note, the end.”

“What a dick.”

Hermione blinks; she keeps forgetting he’s spent so long in the States—it’s enough to make anyone pick up Americanisms like that.

“Mmm,” she hums. “But that was a long time ago. Ten years, almost, I think.”

“You seem like the type of girl who’d have picked a huge fight over that.”

She laughs. “Maybe.”

“And you haven’t fallen in love since?”

She shrugs. “Something’s always been off, I guess.”

He nods, like he understands. “Something always is, isn’t it? It never seems worth it anyway.”

Her brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

Draco looks down at the railing, his long fingers following the old grooves in the dark wood. “You put all that work into a relationship and more often than not, you’ll start off with something like that,” he cocks his head quickly towards the couple in question, “but then something’s not right with one or the other and somebody always ends up on the shitty end of things. Why even bother, honestly? Seems like an utter waste of time and energy.”

Hermione watches him with wide eyes as he continues to massage the panel beneath his fingers. It’s almost distracting, how reverently he’s worshipping the wood that’s holding them safe and dry. But even that isn’t enough to activate the filter that usually censors her thoughts.

“What are you scared of? Nobody’s ever died of a broken heart.” It sounds more bitter than she wanted it to—which was not at all.

“That you know of,” he quips, but his smile is still a bit too sad.

Part Two
Part Three

fic: Forget Me Not

withdrawnred — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 18:14:08 GMT

Title: Forget Me Not (1/?)
Author: withdrawnred
Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger, featuring Harry/Luna
Chapter Word Count: 6819
Rating: R
Warnings: Angsty
Summary: Memories are the building blocks of our being, the glue that bonds us together. And we are mere shadows of our selves without them.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize isn't mine, including the lovely characters. Sad, but true.
Betas: callarose, dormiensa, jen3227
Note: The first half (prologue and parts 1 and 2) were written for the first round of dramione_remix, but I unfortunately couldn't finish the story in time. So, here it is -- published outside of the fest.

Prologue

Year 0, Day 0, Hour 20:00

“I was under the impression that you rarely attend social events,” Hermione Granger comments just as her companion reaches for his wine glass. Her own hand is entwined in the chain of the locket that always graces her neck. “In fact, I think you said as much yourself … but with a few choice words, of which I think ‘swine’ was the most tame.”

Draco Malfoy glances up from the table, lips clamped together in an attempt not to laugh. “Normally. But I just can’t resist a free quality meal. Especially at the Ministry’s expense.”

The corners of her mouth turn up. “Who knew you were so cheap?”

“I prefer opportunistic.”

“Excuses. Admit it, you’re as excited about this project as any of us.” With that, she looks pointedly at the remaining guests at their table.

There are three others; each is an instrumental part in some facet of their preparation for the trial. The three—two witches and a wizard ranging from fresh out of school to three decades into the work force—had been virtually hand-selected. It’s in both his and Granger’s nature to seek excellence in their respective associates. Otherwise, what’s the point? There’s almost nothing worse, in his humble opinion, than being in the presence of someone who just jabbers on whilst you feel your brain cells killing themselves for mercy.

He can’t help but return her smirk. It’s true. If this project pans out, he will not only stand to inherit quite the profit thanks to his financial investment in the trial, but his actual career will benefit greatly. Being the only prosecutor with access to such memory technology will give him more of an edge than anyone in a courtroom would expect from someone like him.

And if it doesn’t, he doesn’t stand to lose much. As much as he dislikes thinking about the possibility of defeat or failure, it is something with which he is rather familiar. The only thing he really has these days is his job, which they can’t very well take from him when the trial is completely ordained by the MLE (the pigs are just happy that they don’t have to foot the entire bill). And his mum, but he’s more than completely sure she’s a secure thing in his life. If the Blacks are good for anything, it’s their undying loyalty.

“I must admit, Granger, when you came to me with this idea, I thought it was your most hare-brained yet.” He takes a long sip of the Riesling he and Granger had decided to split. One of the few commonalities they’d discovered through preparing for this was their taste in wine. In fact, she’d suggested it, as the “economical thing to do”, since a glass costs the same as half of a bottle. He’d decided not to remind her she wasn’t paying for the meal.

“And?”

“Colour me surprised.”

“Oh my! I thought nothing could faze the great Draco Malfoy.”

“I said nothing about being fazed. ‘Surprised’ was the word.”

“And is that a good ‘surprised’ or a bad ‘surprised’?”

“Won’t know until the results of the trial come out, now, will we?”

“You do realize when those are coming out, don’t you?”

Five whole years. The joys of the scientific process, especially when combined with bureaucracy.

“A handful of patience is worth a bushel of brains.” She simply raises her eyebrow in response. He supposes she was valiantly trying to ‘dignify that with an answer’. “One of my favourite Dutch proverbs, you know. I particularly like the fact that it’s a bushel of brains, don’t you?”

He sniggers as she shoves his face to the side. “Oh, shut up, will you? Leave my hair alone.” He turns his head back to face her once she starts giggling.

A light cough brings both of their attentions across the table, where their youngest researcher sits with her glass raised. Miri smiles warmly at everyone. “A toast,” she begins, “to this wonderful project and this awe-inspiring team. It’s been an absolute honour working with such brilliant minds over the past few months. A huge thank you to Hermione for putting this group together and letting us be a part of this.”

“And to Malfoy,” Cameron quickly cuts in with a cheeky wink. “We really couldn’t have done it without your Gringotts account.” A solid thud sounds underneath the table, quickly followed by Cameron’s grunt of pain.

Hermione chuckles, and Cameron glares at Miri. “That was completely unnecessary. And okay,” he admits, looking back up at Draco, “we’re glad you’re testing the trial out for the Simmons case.”

“In all seriousness, you all should know this project would never have reached stage 2 without you, much less come to the actual trial.” Hermione raises her glass. “To Team Moneta.” She is rewarded with a number of sharp clinks against her glass and several excited faces.

Day 0, Day 0, Hour 23:00

Most of her life, Hermione has always thought being rich must be overrated. She’d always been happy with her middle-class life in her youth, and as far as she could tell, her parents were just as satisfied with their life.

Five minutes of lying in Draco’s bed, waiting to catch her breath, nearly completely changes that opinion. Nearly. She’s never been so comfortable in her life. It’s like lying on a cloud. A very fluffy cloud, with goose feathers and the softest sheets she’s ever felt against her skin and a warm body surrounding her.

Once her heart rate returns to something resembling normality, she takes a quick breath and climbs out of his plush bed. “I should really go. If I fall asleep here, I won’t want to get up until Friday.”

“Feeling less stressed, then?”

By the time she’s found her dress and heels and dressed enough for her trip through the Floo network, he is standing next to his bed. It’s unfair of him to say something so cheeky when she can barely get her words from her mind to her mouth. Apparently her wit and his nakedness are not meant to coexist. Especially when mixed with fatigue and wine.

She yawns and shrugs as she pulls the satiny sheath over her head, tugging it to the proper length just above her knees. “Sure.” She’s trying to will herself not to think about where they will go now. Will they continue along this path of (bad bad bad) flirtation, or is it one of those Thrill of the Chase things for him? A one-off, perhaps? She shakes her head in an attempt to get rid of those sorts of thoughts, ones that include almost inevitable hopes, which always seem to attract disappointment. With the trial beginning in the morning, she has bigger things to be anxious about. Like the future of her career or, more importantly, her research.

“You’re shaking.”

Hermione jolts. When she’d turned around to pull her shoes on, using the doorframe as support, he’d been standing several metres away. His sudden proximity is disorienting, to say the least. She glances over her shoulder at him, eyes wide. “Am I? Just tired, I guess.”

He chuckles low, placing open-mouthed kisses on her bare neck as he zips the back of her dress. Goosebumps remain in the wake of his soft lips.

She straightens her posture, slightly wobbly on unsteady legs and her pumps. “You know, this is highly unethical.”

He seems completely unfazed as his hands move to rub her arm, his face still dangerously close to her neck. “Do you really think I care about ethics?”

“Well, you should,” she says, turning around to face him, despite how red her cheeks must be. She knows she probably paints the perfect image of a deer in headlights.

“If you say so.”

She merely nods. “Um, well, I’d better go. Need to get a good nigh—” His lips cut her off, and she can’t help but lean into him. When she opens her eyes again, he is smirking at her. Never has she wanted to wipe it off his face more than in that moment.

“Good night, Granger. Big day tomorrow.”

She sighs, her mind veering back and forth between her recollection of the past hour and the pressure of everything she’s got to do tomorrow. She really needs to get a full night’s rest, which is looking tentative at best. “Right. Good night.”

Year 0, Day 1, Hour 9:00

The Memory Investigation office, nestled deep within the Ministry of Magic’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement, screams of chaos. Memos have been flying since six that morning, and the small office is filled to the brim with assistants, researchers, officials, and lawyers running back and forth to finish preparing for the meeting.

When Hermione walks in the door at precisely nine o’clock on this, the most important day of her life—or rather, career—she has to stop herself in the doorway for the first time ever and take a quick pause for breath. Today would be stressful, she’d always known, but she hadn’t quite envisioned this level of pandemonium.

She closes her eyes, sparing a short moment for sanity. Today marks the beginning of a change to her career. Whether said change will be positive or negative is up in the air, but the tentative optimist in Hermione is insistent on the former. Still, she’s on edge with frayed nerves.

Needing a moment of calm, she reaches for her locket. It contains still photographs of her parents, the very raison d’être for her passion for memory research and her involvement in the MI department. At times, that small pendant has stood as a tether to sanity over the past couple of years. Her eyes shoot wide open, spine stiff as a board, when her fingers graze bare skin.

“Shit.” Her whisper flies out on a breath, her mind racing with the possibilities of where she’d left it. It could be virtually anywhere. Christ, but it’s so unlike her to misplace something, much less something so valuable—even if it’s all in personal sentiment.

Before she can get carried away in mentally retracing her steps, Miri appears before her. The younger witch’s smile is wide with unadulterated excitement. “Are you ready for this, Hermione? We’re going to make a difference today.”

“I—”

“Come on, the meeting’s starting.”

As she follows Miri to the conference room, Hermione does her best to gather her mental faculties. This is the last preliminary meeting before the trial officially begins this afternoon, but the Ministry still has the ability to stop it in its tracks if they suspect a single gear is out of place. She needs to be completely mentally present at that meeting, prepared to answer any and all questions the group of media representatives and Ministry officials would have. She can’t be distracted by something so seemingly trivial as a missing necklace.

Perhaps she just left it in her bag…

“All right. We might as well get started since everyone’s arrived.” Cameron stands at the front of the room, marking the beginning of the meeting. The noise dies out within seconds, though some tension remains. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming.”

Miri nudges Hermione, who follows her to the front of the room near Moira. Together, the four of them stand as the researchers for an investigation called several different things. Officially, mainly for the purpose of the press, it’s called “Project Moneta”, taking the name of Ancient Rome’s goddess of memory. Most commonly amongst the researchers, however, it is referred to as “The Trial”. The MI office likes to throw around the words “harvesting” and “transplants” as well. Anything to sound like they know what they’re talking about.

This is actually, in all probability, the largest number of people that have ever congregated in MI’s small office. The Facilities department had cast plenty of Extension charms on the usually smaller room. Twenty officials from various departments of the Ministry, as well as a small number of reporters from the likes of the Daily Prophet and the Quibbler, sit around a half-moon table, their attentions focused on Cameron. He is, for all intents and purposes, the mouthpiece for the project. He and Miri are equally charismatic, in Hermione’s opinion, but Miri is often taken less seriously due not only to her age but that she looks evenyounger than her nineteen years. The girl often blamed her height, or lack thereof—what she likes to refer to as being “vertically challenged”. As much as the thought of that particular injustice makes Hermione bristle, she knows that battle is for another day.

“As you all should be well aware, today marks the end of the preliminary stage of Project Moneta and the beginning of the trial stage. Our team has spent months researching and preparing for this day, and we could not be more excited to stand here before you. If you’re unsure of what exactly Project Moneta is … well, you’ve likely strolled into the wrong meeting. However, I will humour you.” Cameron chuckles to himself quietly.

Hermione frowns and clears her throat, sending him a warning glare. She knows his tendency to joke around with virtually everything, and this is neither the time nor the place. The younger individuals may appreciate his attempts to lighten up the meeting, but the majority of the big-wigs are much more traditional and sober about things as potentially controversial as this study.

Her hand reaches for the chain around her neck out of habit and comes up empty once more. She grasps the neckline of her Ministry robes, grateful for something to hold onto despite her growing anxiety. Where had she put the bloody locket?

Cameron sighs quietly, a sign of—hopefully, thinks Hermione—his acquiescence. “You all probably know that the purpose of this project is to investigate innovations to memory investigation. Currently, the only memory technology we have apart from what we call First-Degree Recollection—that is to say, the recollection a witness gives of his or her own memory—is the Pensieve, often paralleled as Second-Degree Recollection. Although Pensieves have helped the MLE in leaps and bounds, the technology is still limiting and fallible.

“Team Moneta researched and developed this trial to test another manner of viewing second-degree memories. While we currently use Pensieves as the medium through which we view another person’s memories, we have reason to believe a much more efficient way to view them is to use our own brains as the medium.”

A hand shoots in the air. Dangling from it is a quill with which Hermione is irritatingly familiar.

“Yes, Ms Skeeter?” Cameron asks, his nose twitching a little.

“What … exactly does that mean? Using your brains as a medium.”

Cameron looks relieved as Moira steps up to answer. “It’s essentially an implant. Simply put, a memory is inserted through cutting edge technology—”

“And what technology might that be, ma’am?”

“I’m afraid that’s quite confidential,” Moira states. This is what Hermione loves about that woman: so matter-of-fact. Unfortunately, she also knows how wily Rita Skeeter fancies herself.

“Surely you can give some sort of information about it.”

Distracted from her anxiety by her disdain for the woman sitting in what looked more like a lime than a pantsuit, Hermione clears her throat, ensuring the attention will shift to her and away from Moira. “The thing about confidentiality, Ms Skeeter, is that it remains in confidence. You should be well aware of the Ministry’s regulations regarding such matters by now. We as the research and development team for this project are not in the position to offer the information you seek.” Rita turns to face Hermione, her nose turned up just so. “Now, if you are still interested in such information, you can take it up with our investors.”

“And they would be?”

Hermione can’t help but smile. It might be slightly triumphant. “Why, the Ministry itself, of course. They are rather tight-lipped about their new technologies, but not quite as much as the other investor.” Every guest in the room, looks expectantly at her, though Hermione really only cares about Rita’s reaction. “Mr Draco Malfoy.”

The explosion of conversation that erupts after that revelation is expected. The idea that two such prominent figures from the war as Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy could work in any capacity together still shocks the public. Even after nearly five years, his name sparks with controversy. Smears are not so frequent anymore, but neither are they yet obsolete.

Another hand rises, and Cameron jumps at the chance to answer a question not from one yielding a Quick Quotes Quill.

“Yes, thank you,” says the young reporter. “There has been a rumour of Draco Malfoy’s participation in the trial, but I thought it was not financial.”

Cameron nods. “You’re quite right. Mr Malfoy has been involved since the beginning of the preparations. He is the lawyer the trial will be providing information for.”

“Is that not a conflict of interest?”

“Not at all, considering he is not involved in any of the actual R&D—sorry, research and development. He is simply receiving the information as evidence for his case.”

“But if he stands to make a profit off of the technology…”

“I assure you, the MLE and the Minister have both been informed and have come to the agreement that Mr Malfoy’s participation as both an investor and lawyer using information from the trial is by no means whatsoever illegal or unethical. Any other questions?”

“You said the technology uses someone’s brain as a medium. Who will be participating as the medium in the trial?”

“To be honest, we’re more than impressed that this little tidbit hadn’t been leaked before now,” Miri pipes in, her excitement almost tangible.

Hermione stuffs her hands into the pockets of her robes in an attempt to hide how much they are shaking.

“Our first … ‘medium’, as you put it, will in fact be our very own Hermione Granger. Although, we’ve been using the word ‘proxy’.”

She forces herself to smile at the reporters and officials surrounding her. She needs to find that damned locket as soon as possible. Hermione can honestly not see herself surviving the day without it.

Year 0, Day 1, Hour 11:55

“All right there, Granger?” Hermione raises her head from her folded arms. Malfoy stands in the doorway to her office, which is truly more of a closet.

It’s been at least two hours of frantic searching and wracking her brain—and still no cigar. No locket to be found … anywhere. She has spent the last twenty minutes going through the pros and cons of postponing the start of the trial and popping home to search for it. The only thing that has kept her in place is the idea of telling the technicians and her superiors—and her team!—that she can’t go through with it because of a bloody locket.

His smirk falls a little. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.” He strolls in, taking the only other chair in the small room. Hermione’s anxiety has been high all morning; being in a small space with Malfoy elevates it so much that she wants to pull every hair out of her head if it will just free the pressure. She can’t remember being this on edge around any other bloke in her life.

A groan escapes her. “I don’t think I can do this.” His eyebrows furrow, and her stomach clenches. She hadn’t realized how loud she’d said that.

“Did the meeting really go that poorly?” A bit of concern tinges his voice. The unfamiliarity of it distracts Hermione for a moment, causing her to look up into his face rather than the corner of the doorframe she’d been gazing at so intently.

She clears her throat. “Erm, no, it went fantastically, actually.”

“Then what’s the problem? I thought everything was in order.”

“It is. … I just—something’s not right.” She fists the collar of her robes once again. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

He stands abruptly, and she jolts, startled. “What are you talking about, you’re not ready?”

She has nothing she can tell him by way of explanation. “It’s silly, really—”

“Well, what is it? Come on, out with it. I’m sure we can figure something out.”

“I lost my necklace!” she finally blurts. Her cheeks redden almost instantly with humiliation. She hasn’t felt this vulnerable in a long time, and certainly not in front of Malfoy. Or is it Draco now? Seriously, this—this confusion and uncertainty about their new boundaries—is the last thing she needs.

He looks perplexed. “A necklace? You can’t go through with months’ worth of preparation and research because you don’t have a piece of jewellery with you?”

Her gaze falls down to her desk, which is littered with stacks of paperwork about the very research she’s spent the last several months on. “I told you it was silly.”

“Merlin, Granger. I—wait.” He pats his robe once or twice, feeling through the fabric of his pockets. His hand emerges from one of the chest pockets fisted, and he empties it onto her desk, an old locket falling out of his grasp. “I told you not to leave anything behind.”

Hermione nearly screams as she leaps from her chair. “Oh, Merlin! Did I really leave it at your—oh, thank God!”

“I intended to give it back after the procedure. Though, if I’d known how important it was to you…”

“Oh, never mind that!” She grabs the locket and walks around her desk to where he’s standing. “Would you mind clasping it for me?” she asks, holding the chain out to him. She’s sure that her eyes are shining with the unshed tears that are nearly blinding her, but she can’t bring herself to wipe them away.

He simply grabs it as she turns with her back towards him, and her entire body sags in relief once the clasp has been fastened once again around her neck. She’s so overcome that she quickly turns in his embrace, determined while she’s still got the courage, and captures his mouth hard with her own, her thumbs rubbing along his cheeks. When she pulls away, she’s certain that she looks as dazed as he does, perhaps more so. “Thank you so much, Draco,” she says, never more grateful in her entire life. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

He smirks. “Well, actually going through with this thing would be a start. Someone convinced me to put a lot into this project, if you recall.”

She smiles, almost shy. “Let’s get this show on the road then, shall we? I just need to grab the last of the paperwork.” As soon as she’s compiled everything the technicians need, she and Malfoy leave.

“So, did you get released from that liability rubbish?”

She smiles up at him. “Of course I did.”

“Oh, and let me guess. You didn’t take a single one of my suggestions to heart.” He smirks. They had had a very long discussion—some would call it an argument—over how she should go about dealing with the mountain of liability releases the Ministry wanted her to sign. His suggestions had been for word manipulation to avoid it, and Hermione had argued for what seemed like hours that there must be a more ethical way.

Her smile falters. As it was, she’d had to resort to what she is now mentally referring to as “Malfoyian” tactics. Basically Machiavellian, but with a slight difference she had yet to pinpoint. His knowing smile doesn’t help matters.

By the time they reach the conference room, her nerves are significantly less on edge, leaving her almost relaxed. The stress she feels from the oncoming procedure pales in comparison to the past couple of hours. But that makes sense. She’s researched and planned and prepared for this moment for what feels like years but is probably months. She, Miri, Cameron, and Moira had explored every possible avenue, and she is as sure as is possible that this will work.

The room shocks her at first when they enter. Even after so long in the Wizarding world, magic and how limitless it seems still catch her off guard at times. Like this. The conference room has been completely changed and expanded. In place of the stiff tables, chairs, and presentation materials stands furniture much more fitting of a room in St. Mungo’s. The place looks sterile in its brightness alone.

She spots a Healer in the corner conversing with Moira, who offers a warm smile. Next to the two brunette women is a small assortment of phials, each filled with something silver and viscous. Hermione moves to nudge Malfoy towards Moira and the Healer, but when her elbow swipes through air, she looks up to see that he’s already making his way over. Taking larger strides than usual, she catches up with him just as he stops next to Moira.

Malfoy’s entire body is suddenly as stiff as a board, and he falls back one step. Just as Hermione is about to question what’s happened, she recognizes the Healer, and her eyes widen.

“What are you doing here?” Katie Bell’s voice sounds low. She looks like she can’t decide whether she should be angry or afraid.

And Moira looks simply confused. “Mr Malfoy is the participating lawyer,” she explains. “He’s in charge of the case and is here to brief Hermione on the memories—right, Draco?”

Malfoy nods curtly, his gaze riveted now on the phials on the counter.

Katie snarls. “Fine. You can brief her whilst I check her vitals. Hermione, if you’ll take a seat.”

Hermione strides quickly to the seat her former House-mate motioned towards and perches on it. As Katie begins her array of diagnostic and other spells, he begins.

“As you know, this case is charging a man with burglary, and these memories were procured from the Simmons family’s house elves—voluntarily,” he quickly adds with a raise of his eyebrow at Hermione. “The first two are from the head elf, who apparently had the most contact with the intruder. There are two more from others in the staff, and we’ll only be administering four today, per your own suggestions, Granger.” Hermione nods. She’s heard this all before, seven ways to Sunday. She thinks she could probably recite the details about everything—the case, the memories, the procedure. “Granger and I have done a walk-through in each of the memories in the MLE’s Pensieve, so there should be no surprises.”

Hermione nods her affirmation once more, and then Malfoy drags Moira towards Cameron under the pretence of some legal something-or-other the two need to be aware of. Katie visibly relaxes once he’s several feet away. Her posture is less rigid now, and the frown on her face relaxes.

“You know, he’s changed,” Hermione whispers.

Katie’s hands still. “That’s easy for you to say.”

Hermione doesn’t know how to respond, and so, for once, she keeps quiet. She figures it’s the smart thing to do, considering Katie is armed with an arsenal of pointy objects.

“I still have nightmares,” Katie mutters, her voice pained and eyes shining. “I took this job to see some familiar faces, you know. That, and I’m quite interested in the research you’re doing, Hermione.” Hermione offers what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “But suffice to say, I’ll be asking for another Healer to be assigned to you lot.”

Hermione can think of nothing to comfort the girl but to grasp her hand and squeeze. “I understand, Katie. I promise we won’t be offended if you can’t do this.”

“Pity, too. This really is great work you’re doing here.” Katie smiles at her then, a first for the day. “Well, you’ve got a clean bill of health. Looks like we’re set to start this.” She quickly summons the others over to Hermione’s chair. “Is this everybody, then?”

Cameron affirms with a yell before he locks the door, ensuring no interruptions. As the group gathers around her, Hermione begins to feel more and more anxious. Her knee begins to dance with anticipation.

“Nervous?” Hermione’s eyes dart up to see Cameron smirking, trying to contain his own excitement.

“Hardly,” she states primly. “Just ready to dive in and get this done with finally.”

Cameron simply nods, and she knows he doesn’t believe her. Well, it’s at least half-true. She couldn’t consider herself human if she weren’t the least bit nervous about sticking something foreign in her mind. The idea frightens her, but she’s also as excited as she’s ever been.

“I’ll assume that satisfies the vow of consent,” Miri says, looking at Malfoy, who nods. “Right then. Healer Bell, whenever you’re ready!”

Hermione can barely hold in her chuckle at Miri’s enthusiasm. She then looks up at Katie and nods with a small smile. The Healer gives her a vial of a purple liquid, explaining, “Just a sedative. You need to be asleep for the procedure.” She then summons the first of the four vials. Hermione nods and thinks to herself, Bottoms up, old girl.

What seems like seconds later, her eyes open to the bright lights of the conference room. Just as she’s about to ask what’s happened, her mind flits straight to a strange, new memory. She closes her eyes once more and tries to steady her breathing when she feels something akin to an old, heavy door opening.

Year 0, Day 3, Hour 19:00

Hermione sighs at the awkward silence and continues to stir her soup. Harry had certainly never hidden his feelings, and their dinner that evening is no different. Waves of disapproval seem to waft from his being, complete with a deep frown and an untouched plate.

“Harry, are you going to eat, or are you just going to glare at me all night?” she asks as she manoeuvres the spoonful of broth to her mouth.

He blinks, his eyes refocusing on her face. “I wasn’t glaring.”

“Fine. Are you going to eat, or are you just going to frown at me all night?” Semantics.

And with that, his frown deepens. She hadn’t thought it possible.

“We’re just worried, Hermione,” Ron pipes in from beside her, having decided to take a breath between bites for once. “Even Luna thinks the whole thing’s odd.” He adds with a whisper, “And that’s certainly saying something, isn’t it?” though not as low as he’d thought. Harry’s frown then does really turn to a glare, followed by a loud thud and Ron’s grunt of pain.

“I’ve told you all, you’ve got nothing to worry about! I’m perfectly fine.” She’s been trying to explain how safe the project is for months, as well as how instrumental, at least to her. Ron mostly accepted—she isn’t so delusional to think he truly understands—what she tells them, but Harry? The only word can she think of to describe his reaction is ‘resistant’. How much time he spends with Luna probably isn’t helping Hermione’s case in his book.

Luna’s reaction had actually been the most surprising to Hermione. It was, in fact, the first time she’d seen the girl so ill at ease. Hermione had half-expected Luna to be as excited about it as she herself was, but then again, she and Luna have never seen things the same way.

Harry lets out a grunt, which Hermione doesn’t know how to interpret. Just as she’s about to ask what he wants, because honestly, she’s sick and tired of all the brooding, sighing, and grunting, he cuts in, “Look, let’s just talk about something else, all right? There’s got to be something else we can talk about, right?”

“Erm,” starts Ron, “Ginny’s got a new bloke. Apparently he’s a reporter for the sports section of the Prophet and spends a lot of time around the team or something.”

“Glad to see we’ve moved the conversation onto bigger and better things,” mutters Hermione, “like gossip. I think the purpose was to pick something that’s going to lift Harry’s mood, not make it more sour, Ron!”

Ron looks at least somewhat sheepish. “Well, I don’t know what to bring up! The only people I see around besides you lot are my family. What else am I supposed to talk about?”

Hermione chances a quick glance at Harry. She thinks he looks mere seconds away from murdering the fish on his plate. Her gaze darts back to Ron. “Oh, I don’t know, what about the shop? How are George and Angelina doing? And Verity?” she hisses.

“Shop’s fine. We’re getting ready for that little anniversary party. Are you two coming, by the way?”

Harry nods. “Yeah, of course, mate.”

“Right then. I imagine you’ll be bringing Luna?” At Harry’s nod, Ron continues, “And you, Hermione?”

“Of course I’m coming.”

“Well, yeah. I’d have expected the moon to fall out of the sky first. What I meant was are you bringing anyone?”

Hermione blinks rapidly. “Oh.” She’d completely forgotten about a date. “Yeah, I probably will.” She has an idea of whom she’ll invite, though whether he’ll accept … that is a completely different question.

“Well, let me know if you need—”

She interrupts Ron mid-offer, “No, no. You don’t need to do that. Even if I don’t have someone to go with by then, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone alone, would it? No.” She smiles and barely stops herself from winking. “From what I hear, there’s someone who’ll be expecting to be your plus-one, Ron.”

He blushes a little but manages a toothy grin. “So, how’s Luna doing, mate?” he asks their other half. Hermione hopes that the mention of his newly betrothed will bring a little sun back into him.

And it does. Just enough. “She’s great. Helping her father out with the magazine still. She claims the readership’s been going up by a steady 300 hyatiwatts per month or something.” Hermione’s always found Luna’s oddities … well, at odds with her own hyper-logical personality, but she’d bear five million hyatiwatts of nargles if it means keeping that bit of sun in Harry. The logic could wait.

She spoons herself another bit of soup but can’t enjoy it, despite how delicious it’d been twenty minutes ago. Hermione’s never been able to enjoy a soup gone cold. Something of the flavour always seems to go with the heat, and even a solid Heating Charm never can quite do the trick. It never tastes the same. She supposes it’s the same with some things in life. Relationships, perhaps. It’s what had happened with Harry and Ginny years ago. They lost something of their very essence, and no matter how much either of them tried, everything else seemed to fall short.

“Have you two started planning yet—for the wedding?” she asked, setting her spoon down. Luckily, Harry has found a new soup, so to speak. This one was so much less heated in the beginning, and nobody had really understood the attraction. But whatever heat had begun between Luna Lovegood and Harry Potter two years ago has never waned; whether it’s increased was the couple’s secret to tell, but it’s obvious to most who care to look that the heat is constant. Hermione’s logical mind compared Ginny and him to the flame that burned hot and burned out quickly, but he and Luna are much more the flame that starts low but always burns, whether it increases or remains in stasis.

“She really wants a spring wedding, so it’ll probably be this time next year,” Harry answers, a smile tugging on the sides of his mouth. Hermione smiles and squeezes his hand.

Year 0, Day 3, Hour 20:00

“I still don’t see why we couldn’t be there, Hermione.”

Hermione’s eyes fall shut. She had hoped to avoid this conversation altogether, but it seems that Harry was just waiting until Ron left to really dig into her on the subject. There’s also the fact that they’re outside of the restaurant, away from the threat of causing a scene. Auror training has certainly honed his skills, but Hermione has always thought an Auror must be at least a little Slytherin. “Don’t be brave!” she'd heard a ranked Auror shout at his trainees once, which had certainly turned her for a loop.

“I’m part of the MLE, Hermione.”

“Harry, I realise that. There wasn’t the room.”

“Haven’t you heard of Expans—”

“We just wanted it small and quick, with only the necessary people there.”

“And Malfoy’s more necessary than me?” Hermione could almost hear the dual hurt and anger in his voice. Even after so many years as an MLE lackey and, later, an Auror, he takes almost everything as a personal offense.

“Harry. Stop this,” she says, grabbing his hand once more. “Malfoy had to be there to brief the case, and you know it. I obviously survived intact, no harm done.”

“I just still think this is a bad idea.”

Hermione sighs.

“And I know why you’re doing it, Hermione.” When she simply looks at him in question, he continues, “It won’t bring them back, whatever you’re doing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“All this research you’re doing, this development where it really doesn’t belong … ” Harry says, taking ginger hold of the pendant around her neck and opening the locket. Her parents, not moving in their Muggle photographs, look back at him. “It isn’t going to bring them back to you or bring you back to them.”

She swallows, a lump having formed in her throat. “Nothing is absolute.” Hermione can’t bring herself to say the words that had been on the tip of her tongue: You don’t know that. It sounds so childish to her ears, petulant even. And there isn’t a single other thing she could say that would have born more proof to Harry’s claim. “Besides, this trial has nothing to do with reclaiming memories. It’s ab—”

“Yes, I know. It’s all about ‘better memory investigation’. I’ve heard your speech countless times, in person and on paper, Hermione.” He steps closer to her, and suddenly their height discrepancy is much more obvious. She has to hold her head back to an uncomfortable angle to even meet the level of his face, much less eyes. “But I’m afraid that you’re putting yourself onto a slippery slope.” He ignores the roll of her eyes. “Maybe if you weren’t so obsessed—”

Hermione’s jaw drops. “I’m not obsessed! What are you on about?”

“Really?” His gaze drops to her locket again. “Right, then tell me why you don’t wear any other necklace.” She can feel her cheeks heating, and she curses her utter inability to control how easily she blushes. “Or why you have an anxiety attack each time you misplace it?”

Her silence greets him.

“Hermione,” he says softly as he pulls her into a tight hug. “Just promise me you know what you’re doing.”

She nods and, muffled against his jumper, answers, “I promise.”

“And that you’ll ask for help if something goes wrong.” There’s no room for question.

She nods again, her eyes shining. “I promise, although nothing is going to go wrong.”

He smiles down at her, the first she’s received that night unsolicited. “Ever the optimist.”

“I prefer realist,” she says with a smile.

Fic: Our Love in Boxes (Seamus/Padma)

withdrawnred — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 05:53:31 GMT

Title: Our Love in Boxes
Author/Artist: withdrawnred
Pairing: Padma Patil/Seamus Finnigan
Word Count: 1293
Rating: PG
Warnings: Angsty
Summary: His first instinct is to bolt—again. But Dean’s gossip is still ringing in his ear, and if Seamus knows one thing about Padma Patil (besides the fact that she hates being vulnerable, but that just can’t be helped), it’s her fear of abandonment, especially at the hands of her sister.
Disclaimer: Not mine, any of it.
Note: written for interhouse_fest 2011 - prompt 93, by leigh_adams

The look in her eyes is daring. Daring, not in the sense that she is being adventurous. It’s a challenge, and one that he isn’t particularly inclined to accept. Having had experience with the sharper end of her tongue, Seamus knows how to pick his battles. Or an idea, at least. So when he locks eyes with her in the Ministry library, he chooses to spin on his heel rather than comment on the obvious dried tears and lines etched into her face from a(nother) night of sleeping on her books.

“I saw Padma today …” Dean begins, his tone hesitant.

Seamus simply stirs his meat pie once more and hopes his face isn’t red. He blames being Irish, but the one thing he’s always—always—hated about his appearance more than anything else, teenaged acne included, is his utter inability to control his blush. Downright impossible.

Dean simply stretches his long limbs under the table and continues. “She doesn’t look so great, mate.”

“Why would I care what she looks like these days?”

“Don’t act like you don’t care.” Dean sighs. “I hear Parvati’s gone.”

Seamus sits up, trying to will away the goose pimples that have just run up his arm. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”

“I heard from one of the girls that she’s run off somewhere. She didn’t tell anyone, but most of them are guessing the Continent or India.”

“Right,” Seamus mutters. “She never was the same after.”

He doesn’t have to fill in the rest of that for Dean. After the Battle. After so many died. After Lavender died. They’d all taken that particular blow to their numbers poorly, but nobody so much as Parvati. Her reaction still haunts Seamus sometimes. He tries not to watch Muggle horror films anymore, because it seems like anything can trigger his memory of her pale, unnatural face and the wailing. As if her sister had died. As if she didn’t have any other family but the young woman lying prone on the dusty floor.

As if she didn’t have a twin sister standing within reach of her.

He figured he’d run into her again. Despite that she probably wants to see his face even less than he wants to see hers, the Ministry is only so big. Seamus has told Dean on more than one (drunken) account that he doesn’t know if he’d have gone into curse-breaking if he’d known how closely they work with researchers in the stacks. Dean, of course, always knows that it’s all utter shite. He loves curse-breaking from start to finish, and if he has to cross paths with a Dreaded Ex, so be it. (Except that even Dean knows she isn’t so much that as a Scared to Stay Ex.)

If Seamus weren’t so familiar with everything Padma, he’d never have known that she’s crying. But to him, she’s a textbook he’s long since memorized—one with really good pictures, so he can’t as easily forget. Upon seeing the way she’s positioned herself over her research—elbow propping up her head, her hand covering her eyes, her hair curtaining around her—Seamus’ eyes almost immediately snap to her other forearm, where he sees the expected tension.

His first instinct is to bolt—again. But Dean’s gossip is still ringing in his ear, and if Seamus knows one thing about Padma Patil (besides the fact that she hates being vulnerable, but that just can’t be helped), it’s her fear of abandonment, especially at the hands of her sister. Having basically grown up in the same common room as Parvati and Lavender, he’d never thought much of how close they were. Most of his thoughts on the two girls went more along the lines of “They’re such annoying twits”. There were also thoughts about changes that happened between terms, physically speaking, but Seamus preferred to not acknowledge those.

The last thing he’d ever thought about would be how the Patils were affected by being sorted into different Houses. When he’d been with Padma, he received mainly obscure clues about why Padma is the way she is. Aside from the pride he felt at figuring that part of her out, there was no joy in it.

To put it plainly, knowing what he’d figured out in Hogwarts combined with his new knowledge about Parvati’s whereabouts make it difficult for him to flee. He sighs, wondering where his conscience has been all this time.

Unfortunately, that sigh is enough to alert Padma to the fact that she isn’t, in fact, alone. He’s sure the second she sees him her mood will sour trifold. As if it isn’t bad enough that someone sees her crying, it has to be him, he’s sure she’s thinking.

Her voice sounds too controlled to be a proper snap. “What are you doing here?” She reaches up with the sleeve of her robe to wipe the tracks from her cheeks.

Seamus purses his lips and shrugs. “Last I checked, I’m allowed to walk through the library, Pad.” She rolls her eyes, and he continues to stand there, hands stuffed in the pockets of his trousers. He doesn’t feel so awkward in the silence, and he uses the time to note her other physical cues. Padma never had understood the idea of body language, at least not the way Seamus did. Her eyes are puffy and not quite bloodshot but reddish.

“You’ve been crying.” The second the words come out of his mouth, he regrets them. Her entire body immediately tightens, culminating in one of the worst glares he’s seen in a few months.

“Bugger off, Seamus,” she says, almost seething. It’s times like these, when her borderline hatred of him digs deep under his skin, that he wonders why he left. This is what he gets for doing the “right” thing.

This time he’s the one to roll his eyes. “Sorry that I was trying to find out what’s wrong when you’re so obviously upset.”

Her body immediately gets more tense, which hadn’t seemed possible moments before. “I’m not – I’m not upset”

Seamus is barely able to suppress his amusement, as ill-fitting as it is for the moment. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“What do you want?”

“Just because we aren’t together doesn’t mean I don’t ca—“

“No!” It seems then that she realizes how loudly she’d just exclaimed.

“No,” she nearly whispers, “you broke up with me. You don’t get to care anymore. You don’t get to ask me how I am.”

“Well then it’s a good thing I don’t subscribe to your rules. Not everything is black and white, Padma. Shades of gray, remember?”

Her eyes slip closed, and he can almost hear her counting to calm. Anything to regain her composure and not cause a scene in this most holy of libraries.

Seamus takes advantage of her concentration and mutters, “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about Parvati.”

Her eyes snap open. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard she took off.” He looks down and fidgets, moving his balance from one foot to the other. When he doesn’t hear any signs that she heard him—usually in the form of huffs or slight violence to his person—he looks up. The look on her face startles him—it’s too open.

“I have to go.”

Seamus stands still, biting his lip, as she throws everything from her table into her bag without so much as a thought to how wrinkled the papers will be and beelines for the door to the library. It takes all of his willpower not to run after her and force her to talk to him. Deep down—or perhaps not so deep down—, though, he knows that’s probably the last thing he should ever do.

BAD Internet Laws Heading Your Way

withdrawnred — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 16:43:47 GMT

Originally posted by write_light at BAD Internet Laws Heading Your Way

From the flist:

Spread the word, even you're not a US citizen, it is important for everyone!! It easy to do and it can change everything. More info by clicking on the banner.

Website Blocking

The government can order service providers to block websites for infringing links posted by any users.

Risk of Jail for Ordinary Users

It becomes a felony with a potential 5 year sentence to stream a copyrighted work that would cost more than $2,500 to license, even if you are a totally noncommercial user, e.g. singing a pop song on Facebook.

Chaos for the Internet

Thousands of sites that are legal under the DMCA would face new legal threats. People trying to keep the internet more secure wouldn't be able to rely on the integrity of the DNS system.

Read this analysis from boing-boing.net

Get on the phone and call your representative. Express your disapproval. Tell him or her exactly how you feel, and that you don't support this. Tell your friends to call their representatives, their Congressperson, and complain. Mention that you are a registered voter that takes your civic responsibility seriously and that you will use that vote to express your feelings about this.

http://www.rollcall.com/issues/57_60/Internet-Companies-Boost-Hill-Lobbying-210345-1.html?pos=olobh

“We support the bill’s stated goals — providing additional enforcement tools to combat foreign ‘rogue’ websites that are dedicated to copyright infringement or counterfeiting,” the Internet companies wrote in Tuesday’s letter. “Unfortunately, the bills as drafted would expose law-abiding U.S. Internet and technology companies to new uncertain liabilities, private rights of action and technology mandates that would require monitoring of websites.” The chamber-led coalition in support of the bill includes Walmart, Eli Lilly & Co. and Netflix.

Google and other opponents of the legislation argue that restricting the Internet in the U.S. sets a bad international precedent and that the language defines infringing too broadly.

dmhghalloween 2011 drabble

withdrawnred — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 17:16:38 GMT

Author: withdrawnred
Recipient: jadestrick
Prompt: masquerade
Rating: G
Word Count: 360

Hermione sighed in front of the mirror, brushing her fringe out of her eyes for what seemed like the thousandth time that evening. If she hadn’t been staring at her reflection at the time the spell had taken effect, she’d barely have recognized herself. In her opinion, there was far too much glitter going on, but her boyfriend—it still was weird to think that she could call him that—had insisted on going all out this night. So, glitter it was.

After three knocks on her door, a glittery princess-like figure glided to and opened the door to another cartoon-ish character. She still couldn’t wrap her head around the Wizarding fairy tale that they were dressing as, but with Draco, she’d long since learned to just accept things when it came to his traditions. The other thing she couldn’t wrap her head around was how amazing the glamours were that costumed the pair of them … as well as surely the entire Wizarding population on All Hallow’s Eve. In the Muggle world, she knew half the fun was being someone else, but magic took that to a whole other level. One could in all seriousness be someone else for the night.

True anonymity, that’s what it was.

And that was exactly why she and Draco had decided that All Hallow’s Eve would be the perfect time to reintroduce her to his parents. They’d be none the wiser that they were actually meeting one Hermione Jean Granger, about whom they probably had very colourful things to say. As much as she wanted to keep her integrity and not trick the Malfoys into liking her, Draco had beamed like a child on Christmas when he had come to her with his master plan.

So, tonight she would try to woo his parents as— “What’s this costume again?”

Draco grinned with amusement. “Gallie. Should I write in on your palm, or will you remember?”

She resisted the strong urge to smack his arm, only because she knew that glitter would fly everywhere and drench her foyer if she moved with any speed. “Let’s go, Berchie.”

This time he laughed. “It’s Bertrand, Hermione.”

Prompting open at dmhghalloween!

withdrawnred — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 19:01:58 GMT

Prompting is now open! Pass the word on to everyone. :)

Feel free to start posting claims (up to 2) at our prompt table at this post.

Prompting is open for the next 12 hours, until 12am (midnight) PST. If you're concerned about missing out, find the time the corresponds to your timezone at this wonderful Time Zone Convertor.

The following is the basics of what you need to know to participate:

1. The allotted time to claim a prompt is: October 16, 12 noon (PST) to 12 midnight (PST).
2. List three prompts, in order of preference, in case of cross-claiming. Don't list six prompts if you want two. We'll work with just your three preferences, so just say that you'd like to claim two and not just one.
3. Include your e-mail in the post so we can confirm with you which prompt you've won! As well as be able to communicate with you all :)
4. The deadline is October 30. To keep this probable, you may only need to write 100 - 1500 words. We don't expect anything more from you!
5. You can find the text that needs to be written at the top of your submission.
6. Be awesome.

Come and get 'em!

fic: Of Second Meetings (Draco/Hermione)

withdrawnred — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 19:04:21 GMT

Title: Of Second Meetings
Author: withdrawnred
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Rating: K/G
Warnings: n/a
Word Count: 741
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author's Note: Written for sarahyyy with the prompt "As if we never said goodbye".
Summary: A project working, yet again, side-by-side with Draco Malfoy is dumped on her with a mere few minutes to prepare herself mentally.

She would probably have been nervous if she'd had time to. However, as it was, this new assignment -- complete with new-but-old partner -- had been thrust upon her within the past half hour, leaving her twenty-five minutes to scramble like a mad woman to compile proper preparations for the meeting. That had left the five minute commute across departments for her to wallow in her nerves.

She concentrated doubly to not show any outward reactions to him as she walked into the boardroom. At least they had given her some form of notice, she reasoned. Merlin only knew how she'd have reacted if his presence had been a complete surprise. It wouldn't have been pretty. Hysterics would have certainly been possible. That, and awkwardness.

As it was, she'd had the ... fortune of foresight, despite that foresight being a mere half hour. She wasn't bitter or anything. Just disconcerted.

"Gentlemen," she greeted as the door slid shut behind her, precisely at 10:00. Her glance at the object of her thoughts lasted the length it required to give him a curt, though polite, nod.

It was the perfect amount of time to look at her ex, whom she'd not seen in a little over six months. That would definitely explain how much tighter her shoulders were drawn after catching a whiff of his cologne. Thankfully, though, as far as she could tell, he hadn't noticed.

***

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" she commented cheerily as they departed the boardroom.

It really surprised her how ... easy it had been to collaborate with him over the past couple of hours. She was trying not to dwell on just how not-bad it was, on how actually good it was. Almost the same as it had been. And by almost, she meant exactly.

They truly were an almost unmatchable team when they put their minds to it. In fact, that was how they'd hooked up in the first place. Strap two people on enough projects together and eventually they will at least 'get along', though that phrase had been defined almost completely differently by each supervisor who had received their cases. Then the tension grew. And then it had snapped, resulting in a long, emotionally involved (For both parties, Hermione liked to think, but she wouldn't be surprised if that was her delusional tendencies rearing their ugly heads.) relationship.

And, well, she was just glad they were still compatible co-workers after all that.

His eyebrow rose in response, his typical choice to demonstrate boredom. "What wasn't?"

She waved her hand between their two bodies, sincerely hoping he'd get the hint and not make her flounder in her attempts to explain her train of thought.

Those sorts of situations with him had never really turned out well for Hermione. In fact, she quite preferred not to think about it. It was a common theme in her life when Draco Malfoy was concerned.

"Mmm," he murmured in response, and she sent up a silent prayer to the gods that someone had taken mercy on her, saving her the hassle of impossible explanations.

"If it wasn't so bad, why were you so stiff? I haven't seen anyone look like they had that large of a broomstick up their arse in months. Thanks for that, Granger."

Her head snapped over to him, mouth wide open in preparation for the developing retort. Hit, he had noticed, the cheeky bastard. His own mirthful grin stopped her.

"Merlin, woman, relax." He squeezed her shoulder, his thumb rubbing back and forth a couple times before he snapped it back and averted his eyes. It seemed he was fighting the same thing she was: how to be in close proximity with each other while decidedly not falling back into their old patterns. It would be so easy.

Hermione glanced down at her black flats. "Right." She rubbed one toe against the hem of her trousers, trying to get a scuff off the smooth material of the shoe. "Well," she continued, glancing up again, "I'd better get back to my office. I'll see you next week."

The most she could do was offer a small, hopefully professional and polite, smile as she turned at the fork between her department and his.

On the way back to her office, amongst various personal reprimands to not fall back into it, she promised herself that throughout this collaboration she wouldn't send him a single personal owl.

What she hadn't done, though, was decide whether or not she'd reply to any he sent her way.

fic: Home (Draco/Hermione)

withdrawnred — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 19:40:28 GMT

Wouldn't it be nice if I could keep up this daily posting thing? Man, I've been creatively productive lately. This is what happens when you start a new job and they take forever to finish preparing your assignment for you, haha.

Title: Home
Author: withdrawnred
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Word count: 700
Rating: PG-13/T
Warnings: couple f-bombs. Nasty little mouth Draco's got.
Author's Notes: I don't know whether the concept of a "born-again Christian" is present in the UK or if it's particular to America. If it's just an Americanism, pardon -- though it won't be changed.

This was written for callarose , who requested a Draco/Hermione fic around the prompt "this is my temporary home".
Disclaimer: Nothing recognizable belongs to me. JKR holds the keys to the world.

Summary: But homes, for Hermione at least, were always more about the people she shared the space with.

"So, when'd you get home?"

The question was innocent enough. She hardly thought it warranted the sneer and snap she received in response. "This isn't my home. It's just where I live--temporarily."

Hermione blinked at him, trying to steel herself internally to not be fazed. Something must have happened on the last mission he'd been sent on. Merlin, she knew they were getting more and more dangerous (her sprained knee was still recovering from the previous week's raid, thanks to their new emergencies-only rationing rule for Healing), but Malfoy's moodiness hit a higher note than necessary.

Her lip curled, an action grown far too familiar to her than she'd like. "You sound just like a born-again Christian."

His sharp eyes darted to her own, appraising. It was sure sign of his curiosity, she'd come to realize over their time together throughout the war. "A what?"

As she struggled to think of how to explain the concept to him, she set one of the mugs in her hands by his elbow. By the time she'd sat across from him at the dingy little kitchen table, he'd taken the initial, hesitant sip. It was like clockwork: he blew on the tea, took a tentative sip, and then proclaimed his verdict. It made her think of her parents' wino friends at times. Her mother's best friend had tried, in vain, to teach her the intricacies: see, swirl, sniff, sip, savor. When she'd first noticed his habit with tea (or in times of great need, coffee), she'd convinced herself it was his own means of checking for poison. But no. He was just rather picky about how he liked his tea. Black, two sugars. Draco Malfoy had no problem cutting into someone for making what he considered rubbish, plebian tea. Silence while he continued to drink, usually accompanied by disappointed grunt -- disappointed, that is, that there was nothing to critique.

Like with this cup. It gave her the kick of confidence she needed to start her explanation.

"There's a Muggle religion known as Christianity, and some of the followers consider themselves born-again in that they've been supposedly saved by their God. Anyway, most of them consider earth their temporary home and themselves pilgrims until they can move on to heaven for all eternity."

Following her quick and, she thought, quite concise telling, he simply raised his eyebrow and lowered the cup to the table. "Is this your way of trying to cheer me up? Because, let me tell you, comparing me to crazy religious Muggles ... not the most effective means."

She stared off past his shoulder, chewing the inside of her cheek as she thought. The house was falling into shambles. Hermione was of the perhaps optimistic opinion that all it needed was a little attention. "What would it take for you to consider this good enough to be home?" Her voice sounded very distracted and blank, almost detached. Her mind was filling with tasks that she'd never have time for. Peeling the remaining shoddy wallpaper, scrubbing the grease off the stovetop and the coffee and tea stains off the countertops and tables, dusting the mantles and banisters. The kitchen would be a light yellow with white trim. She'd always been a fan of sunny, yellow kitchens.

His hoarse chuckle shocked her out of her redecorating daydream, and she locked eyes with him once more. "This place? You've got to be joking."

She scowled. "It isn't that bad. Just needs a bit of work."

"Yeah, really. If by 'a bit', you mean 'a fucking lot', then yes."

"Making it over into something elegant wouldn't make it any more of a home, and you know it."

Sure, this place wasn't the most ... homey. But homes, for Hermione at least, were always more about the people she shared the space with. Her parents' home was because of her parents and its familiarity. It was waking up to the smell of her parents' coffee, the comfort offered by her father's overstuffed armchair and her mother's afghan. The same could be said for Hogwarts and her friends.

And, now, she could say the same of her place with Draco Malfoy. There was no other way to describe it; he was home.

fic: Plans for Vengeance (Seamus/Pansy)

withdrawnred — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 20:57:06 GMT

Title: Plans for Vengeance
Author: withdrawnred
Word count: 428
Pairing: Seamus/Pansy
Rating: PG-13/T
Warnings: some nasty little curses -- tsk tsk, Seamus.
Disclaimer: Though I share the trait of red hair with JKR, I do not in fact share the HP universe with her. It's a testy subject.
Author's notes: This was prompted by my love, callarose , from a drabble meme to include "that's not us!" with Seamus and Pansy. Not entirely happy with it, but I just want it done.

Summary: The Society section of the Prophet causes some workplace discontent.

Seamus had been immersed in that morning's edition of the Daily Prophet when his attention was diverted by loud taps. Someone was coming down his hall. No, scratch that. Those were not taps, but beastly stomps. Someone was charging down his hall. "Fucking hell," he muttered under his breath. He hated surprises, and two before half ten was pure misery in his book.

He stood just as the door to his small office swung open. "Christ, Parkinson! What're you trying to do, break it off its hinge?"

She simply huffed, blowing dark bangs out of her eyeline, and glared at him venomously, not even attempting to disguise how utterly out of breath she was. He was of the not-so-secret opinion that most former Slytherins had had entirely too much practice perfecting malicious glares. And if he had growled, it was because she brought out the best of him.

"Well?" he prodded, snapping. "What can I do you for, princess? C'mon now, I don't have all day."

She snarled, stalking towards him. "What the hell did you do?" All of a sudden, her open palm slammed something into his chest -- another copy of today's Prophet, pulled open to the same section he'd been glancing at in annoyance when he'd heard the tell-tale sounds of her arrival. Under the Society section, the headlining photographed featured two ... individuals who bore a striking resemblance to himself and the harpy standing in his office; in fact, he was almost certain Polyjuice had been involved, which just made his skin crawl. He hated even the thought of that devil's brew.

Parkinson's voice screeched in his ear, "That's not us!"

"Yes, I'm quite aware. Jesus, you sound like fingernails on chalkboard."

"Shut up, Finnigan! Do you realize what this is going to do to me? I--"

"Right. I--"

"What are you going to do? Do you have a plan?"

"I'm sure you already have one, don't you? Does it have anything to do with bloodshed and violence? I hear that's right up your House's alley. Wouldn't exactly do wonders for your reputation as the exonerated, would it?"

And her glare returned. "And what is your brilliant plan, oh great Gryffindor?"

He grinned cheekily. "Well, now that you mention it, I was thinking of just going with it. What do you say, Parkinson? How about we give them something true to talk about?"

She rolled her eyes in response and groaned, murmuring something about idiots surrounding her or something like that, before tucking the paper underneath her arm and stalking out of his office.

Seamus wasn't concerned though. She'd be back. Eventually, at least.

fic: An Apple a Day (D/Hr)

withdrawnred — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 22:40:52 GMT

Title: An Apple a Day
Author: withdrawnred
Word count: 251
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Rating: G/K - all audiences
Warnings: mystery at the end is all
Disclaimer: Though I share the trait of red hair with JKR, I do not in fact share the HP universe with her. It's a testy subject.
Author's notes: This was prompted by Miss cytt from this drabble meme to include "green apple" and "red handkerchief". Also, brownie points to whoever can tell what the fascination with green apples comes from. :)

Summary: Hermione and her thoughts about Malfoy's daily snack.

She watched in fascination as Draco Malfoy slowly peeled a red handkerchief, complete with an unsurprising monogrammed "M", off the lump in his hands to reveal his daily treat. So that was how his apples were always immaculate.

It was one of their points of commonality, that each ate an apple a day -- though his were almost always green (he liked firmness, she supposed), and hers were most often red (the traditionalist in her rearing its head). While Hermione chocked her affinity for apples to her upbringing on "only nutritious sugars", he had claimed wryly that he had a horrid sweet-tooth and was watching his figure. She had, of course, merely snorted indelicately; his figure had to be the least of his worries ... not that she'd noticed his figure or anything.

What she had noticed, rather, was his tendency to stare at the little green apple for longer than a post-lunch snack usually warranted. At first, she'd assumed he was looking for any blemishes, the smallest of which would earn it a launch into the nearest rubbish bin. But she'd had the inkling for a while that this certainly was not the case -- and the discovery that he wrapped his fruit in pretty little handkerchiefs solidified her suspicion: no, blemishes were not the point of his thorough inspection.

What the inspection was for, however, she hadn't the faintest. It had been many weeks since Hermione Granger had accepted her fate as one always baffled by Draco Malfoy.

fic: The Anniversary (Draco/Hermione)

withdrawnred — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 09:45:16 GMT

Can't believe I still hadn't posted this! :3

Title: The Anniversary
Author (H&V username): withdrawnred
Rating: MT
Word Count: 4,550
Summary: Every ... participant of the Battle of Hogwarts (because let's face it, I was nowhere near a hero) deals with the anniversary in his or her own way; fourteen years later, many of us have grown used to these once-yearly habits.
Warnings: Mild Profanity, epilogue-compliant
Betas: dormiensa & callarose
Notes: written as pinchhit for the Reverse Challenge at H&V, as inspired by 11 Years Later by Goldenwood

Title: The Anniversary
Author (H&V username): withdrawnred
Rating:
Summary: Every ... participant of the Battle of Hogwarts (because let’s face it, I was nowhere near a hero) deals with the anniversary in his or her own way; fourteen years later, many of us have grown used to these once-yearly habits.
Genre(s): General, Drama
Warning(s): Mild Profanity
Timeline: DH, epilogue-compliant
Characters: Hermione, Draco, Rose, Hugo, Scorpius
Themes: Friendship, Baby/Children/Pregnancy
Hermione: Campaigner
Draco: Broody
Side Pairings: Draco/Astoria, Hermione/Ron

Story Notes:
Beta(s): dormiensa, callarose

I can hear the light squeak of my galoshes hitting the damp ground—and the loud squeak of my son’s. That, and his high-pitched squeal when he jumps into a particularly large—though thankfully quite shallow—puddle. It isn’t raining, but I wouldn’t put it past that sky. It’s deceivingly nice out today; anyone who’s spent longer than twenty minutes in London knows that partly cloudy, sunny, or foggy, rain is almost unavoidable in early May. Oh, no clouds in the sky? Tough luck, it’ll rain anyway. I’ve an umbrella tucked into my jacket just in case. The boy is fascinated with the mechanisms under the black cloth, unused to Muggle contraptions. Considering we’re standing in a park in Muggle London, I couldn’t exactly protect his health with a quick charm. I’d have the Muggle-Protection Society or whatever the fuck they’re calling themselves these days on my tail, threatening child services or some such shite. They just need an excuse, one bloody minuscule excuse, I swear.

Now, if only the weather’d hold up for the next couple hours, I’d be ever so grateful. Two hours is all I need. Is that too much to ask for? One could only hope.

“Look, Dad!” Scorpius’ excited voice drags my attention to him, to his extended finger, and then to the sight of his small form bolting ahead. My eyes snap ahead to find our destination already populated with two brunettes and a redhead.

The Granger-Weasley clan, minus the “alpha” male. Let’s not get into how well he does or does not fulfill that role. I’d rather not think about it, honestly.

Scorpius nearly levels little Rose Weasley as he envelopes her into what he’s lately taken to identifying as a “bear hug.” She grins, a pair of teeth missing from her smile. He turns to Rose’s mother with a shy wave, then offering a more confident one to the small ginger-haired boy next to Granger: Hugo, her youngest.

Not only is it early May, it is May 2: the anniversary of the famed Battle of Hogwarts. The fourteenth, to be exact. In the earlier years, I’d tried my hand at celebrating through the bottom of a bottle of Ogden’s Best, but my wife quickly rid me of that habit. (Honestly, I don’t know how she ended up in Ravenclaw and not my own house; the woman is downright cunning.) After Scorpius was born—Merlin, has it already been six years?—she’d as good as shoved the boy in my arms each year on this day, trusting that the presence of my child would cut the brooding down substantially. Or at least, she’d trust me not to develop a need for magical dialysis while I was caring for Scorpius. Once, she’d told me she never worried that I’d purposely off myself. “You’re much too proud for that, darling.” I hadn’t known—still don’t, actually—whether to feel comforted or offended.

That day, I’d wandered about my favourite park in Muggle London with my then-four-month-old cradled as securely as possible in my arms until a sudden rain drove me running to the nearest cover: a small gazebo. A gazebo under which I’d found an incredibly surprised Granger. She was also incredibly pregnant. The meeting was awkward, each of us inching as far away as was possible while still avoiding the torrent of rain. I’m sure she was acting defensive because of the swollen abdomen she was sporting; I knew my own was due to the small bundle in my arms. Aside from the polite acknowledgement (“Granger.” “Malfoy.”), no words were spoken, and I bolted the moment the down-pour stopped.

The following year found me toting a sixteen-month-old Scorpius to the same park, this time stopping at a (thankfully dry) park bench near a play area for children. Not that it helped. Bloody wriggler, he was. He’s always been a mover. Ever since he learned to crawl—and, eventually, walk—he’s been a little man on a mission. Except . . . without a mission really, at least that we can tell. Eventually, I found a nice patch of grass to let him loose in, but I soon regretted that decision, as he crawled past a tree and within eyesight of my unwitting companion of the previous year, the only difference being the almost Scorpius-sized bundle of limbs near her that had then (I assumed) resided in her belly. And before I knew it, our toddlers were engaged in . . . some toddler game of whatever. I don’t even know.

“Well, hello there, little one. Who do you belong to, hmm?” Her voice sounded oddly bemused. That is, until she saw me watching from a short distance, just a metre or two away. She’d always been one of those who wear their hearts on their sleeves, and nearly a decade hadn’t robbed her of that trait. I saw it all: surprise, fear (at which I gritted my teeth in anger), apprehension, and a roll of the eyes as her gaze rested on her child’s new tow-headed companion. My smirk was almost involuntary. Yes, Granger, you should have figured. Who else would sire a boy with such hair?

I mentally weighed my current options: let Scorpius stay (content, not crying) on that blanket with Granger and mini-Granger or remove him (and my ears would bleed from the wailing) and leave. But Cor, I was exhausted. I’m a very light sleeper, so I was usually the first to tend to Scorpius in the middle of the night. And my insomnia seemed set on being at its worst in early May. So, I blamed my fatigue when I just slumped into a sitting position at the base of the tree.

No matter how hard she’d tried to appear comfortable, her spine gave away the tension. Later she would tell me that she hadn’t been at all wary of Scorpius interacting with her precious daughter, just me. Typical Granger. Trust and protect from the corrupt those who are innocent. Even the innocent born of the corrupt, apparently. Well, it was good to see my son wasn’t evil by association.

Some time later, he injured himself. Somehow. This happens more often than I’d care to admit. Turn your head for a millisecond, and by the time you’re facing him again, he’s got some bruise or cut or abrasion or combination thereof. My guess is that he’d decided to crawl much faster than his chubby little arms would carry him; this time it was a cut on his chin. His large eyes filled with the unavoidable tears, and almost instantaneously I was next to him, the small bag pulled from my pocket and expanded to its proper size.

A small washcloth.

A tub of disinfectant salve.

A discreet casting of Aguamenti to dampen the washcloth.

I can’t tell whether my efficiency in cleaning my boy up was more a product of having done the same over and over the past year throughout his clumsy infancy or from the war itself, but regardless, he’s comforted and cleaned in a trice.

That was the first moment I ever saw eye-to-eye with Hermione Granger. Something bordering on respect had been reflected in her eyes after I’d settled Scorpius back down to continue doing whatever the hell he’d been up to before his tragic injury.

Not a lot was said that year. Other than your typical baby gibberish, which those two were kind enough to share a torrent of.

Today, they talk just as much; the only difference is that we can understand what they’re saying . . . most of the time. Too often, I can’t even attempt to follow their trains of thought, and sometimes the very words they articulate evades me. I had hoped it wasn’t a defect only present in my son, this apparent attempt to speak Japanese at 300 kilometres per hour, but thankfully, Rose is similarly defected. So, I’m assuming it’s relatively natural. And Hugo will no doubt follow in his sister’s footsteps as soon as she gives him a moment to get a bloody syllable in.

The boy waves wildly at me as I catch up with Scorpius and join the small gathering. The children are smiles all around, overjoyed to be with their once-yearly friends. Rose had grabbed Scorpius’ hand and prepared to bolt over to the playground when her mother’s stern voice halted her.

“Young lady, where are your manners?”

The fact that she hadn’t greeted me would never have bothered me (I’ve long since grown used to being overlooked; Rose’s forgetfulness is the most innocent reason yet.), but Granger is ever insistent in her attempt to turn her daughter and son into well-mannered children. Her insistence is rather reminiscent of my own mother, actually. She’d always claimed that, so long as raising me was her only job, she’d not be excused if I were to turn out a sloppy idiot. The result of this was dancing lessons, musical lessons, scolding on which fork to use when (”Go from the outside in, Draco dear.”), and so on and so forth.

Granger had done the same, made her children her only job. (Although, I’m fairly certain the manners she was teaching were more of the mundane please-and-thank-you variety. Her children should consider themselves lucky that they’ve unwittingly evaded the torture that is ballroom lessons.) The world was shocked when Hermione Granger—er, I mean Weasley (I can’t fucking kick the ‘Granger’ habit)—actually quit her post at the Ministry when she became pregnant. Almost everyone had expected her to take maternity leave but return as soon as that ended. I am ashamed to admit I was a little disappointed; I guess I always perceived her as this do-or-die feminist and campaigner. But then I think of my own son and experience something I thought I’d never share with the likes of her: understanding. Such a strange word to connect the two of us.

Besides, she could never not be a campaigner. She’d once mentioned that she was using the time between the birth of Rose and the day she dropped Hugo off at Platform 9 ¾ for his first year to compile research. On house-elves of all things. It was one of her favourite things to discuss with me for a couple of years. (She claims she needs to get the “pureblood point of view” on these issues, as it’d only be fair, and of course her report must be well-rounded, have every base covered, every contingency. Any former schoolmate of hers would expect no different.)

A light blush flashes across Rose’s freckled face at her mother’s admonishment. What with Granger’s light sprinkling and Weasley’s overabundance, the poor children were destined to be freckled messes. Hugo had made it out, despite his red locks, about as freckled as his mother—which may as well be “unscathed” where Weasleys are concerned. Granger put it down to the fact that he’d inherited her brown eyes, while Rose had been “blessed” with her father’s light blues—Granger’s words, not mine. Something about jeans or some such Muggle rubbish. I’d been amazed to hear that it is actually considered a prestigious science. Honestly, do they have nothing better to do?

Rose’s eyes crinkle as she smiles widely up at me. “Hullo, Mithter Malfoy!” she greets, that pair of missing teeth causing a slight lisp.

I smile in return. “Good morning, Rose.”

The inquisitive little brunette standing before me has grown on me over the years. At times, I’d taken to calling her ‘Inquisitive One’. One year, I’d tried to count all the questions she’d asked in a day (she and Scorpius were nearly-four and four), but had lost count. I can only imagine how annoyed most people get with her incessant questions—though I think she’s completely aware of this; sometimes I catch the tiniest smirk when she earns an exasperated sigh from her mother (no small feat). If my interactions with her weren’t limited to a few hours each year, I’d no doubt be at my wit’s end after the first . . . oh, ten.

With a toothy grin, she turns once again towards the playground. She and Scorpius flank Hugo as the three run towards the sand in barely contained excitement, the smaller boy forced to take two steps for every one that Scorpius and Rose do.

“They’re growing up so fast . . .” Granger’s voice trails off.

Never have truer words been spoken. I feel like just a week ago I was holding my newborn son in my arms for the first time. Never before and never since have I felt such tumultuous emotions—or so many at once. Awe. Fear. Hesitance. Anticipation. Love, even. The first and last are the two that have never left me since that day. Naturally, the others squirm their way in off and on through the years, but my days of constant fear ended with the war. I would do it all over again—live my life the same way, make the same choices—if it meant I’d end up with that boy in my arms. He is the thing that I love most about my life and the thing that I am most proud of. I could not love anything or anyone as much as I do Scorpius.

Pureblood society strips away most romantic ideas of love, specifically in marriage. Here, in the realm of arranged marriages, love is something left to the middle classes, the Muggles, and trashy romance novels. Me? I’d been lucky that the Greengrasses had still honoured my betrothal to Astoria after the disgrace my family suffered after the war. We were socially decrepit and paying out the ears for war reparations. My day we married was the day I finally felt my life taking a turn for the better, but we were certainly not what one would call a ‘Great Love’. Love had nothing to do with it, though I’m incredibly fond of my wife. I had sworn that I’d never experience something like that until Scorpius. As ridiculous as it sounds, my son is my Great Love; it was something I’d realised that first moment we spent together, the son in the father’s arms.

Unfortunately, he’s nowhere near tiny enough to hold like that. But at least he’s not so old that fatherly affections become unwonted. Yet. I promised myself when I married Astoria that I’d never be a cold father like my own, so this entire experience has been completely unfamiliar. I have no idea what the signs will be that signal that need to change, though I guess it’ll be somewhere around his double-digits—when he prepares to go off to Hogwarts, when he feels he’s too big for hugs from Dad.

I nod. “Too fast. Our time’s nearly halfway over now.”

Rose and Scorpius are each six years old—at least, Rose will be in a week’s time—and each a mere five years from their first one-way visit to Platform 9 ¾. Bloody depressing thought, that. After only five years—they would fly by, just as the previous six had—my interactions with my son will be limited to shipments of sweets accompanied by sure-to-be-left-unread letters and winter and summer holidays. It’s all a bloody mind-fuck to think about.

“At least you’ve got Hugo a bit longer.”

That earned me a sad smile. “Yes, for a whole two years. And you think five will fly by? It’ll be one of those blink-and-you-miss-it moments. The two of them there one minute, Rose gone the next, and then a second later so is Hugo.”

“Whatever happened to counting your blessings, Granger?”

She just shakes her head. I imagine she’s slightly amused, someone like me admonishing someone like her for not being optimistic. What a joke. Optimism had a Hufflepuff reputation in my house. Pessimism—now that was something worthy of the green and silver.

“Why do you still call me Granger? You know it’s not my name. At least, not anymore.” Well now, that’s a bit of a surprising change in subject.

“Habit, I suppose.”

“Couldn’t you just . . . I don’t know, try to call me by my last name?”

“What, ‘Weasley’? No, couldn’t. In my mind ‘Weasley’ will always be reserved for . . . well, Weasley,” I answered, hoping she understands that to mean her beloved husband. “Sorry. A Severing charm couldn’t even separate you and that name; you’ll always be Granger.”

“If you say so.” She laughs softly . . . almost mischievously. “Well, I suppose it is a step up from M—”

“Right,” I interrupt as soon as I hear that first consonant. That is honestly the last thing I want to think about. With five years of conversation, we’d managed to avoid the more painful topics. I had hoped that we could avoid them forever but obviously, the Fates have it out for me. Not that I hadn’t already suspected that, but honestly.

To my surprise, Granger looks apologetic. Which in turn makes me feel horrible for having ruined the mood of the conversation. Light was what it needed to be, light and carefree and away from all those things each of us tried to avoid each year on this day. The anniversary of that bloody (what a double entendre that is) battle was spent by every participant in a different way.

Vacations, like I’d heard Potter was prone to do.

Firewhisky.

Shopping trips.

Visits to the memorial on the school grounds.

And then there was downright avoidance, which seemed to be our preferred cup of tea. Run off to the Muggle world with your little ones and avoid all of the ruckus sure to be happening in the public Wizarding places like Diagon Alley and the Ministry, avoid all the topics that only serve to bring up painful memories and regrets. Because those are the last things that I want to expose my son to. If I had my way, his ears would never hear terms like what I’d called her in school or Death Eaters or V-Voldemort or the fucking Killing Curse.

“Honestly,” I say, sighing as I rake fingers through my thinning hair, “sometimes I wish I could just freeze him, make him stay six years old forever.”

And wouldn’t that be grand? Six-year-old boys don’t have problems other than valiant attempts to stay atop their broom mid-flight, misplacing a favourite toy, and whining enough that Mummy lets them have just one more biscuit, please. I dread the day that I’ll have to sit down my ten- or eleven-year-old son to remove the veil from his innocent eyes, describe all the horrors that contained my life before him. The coward in me wants to wait as long as humanly possible, but I can honestly say that I’m not enough of a coward that I’d let him continue on in ignorance at school. Sometimes, though, I wish I were. I know without a shadow of a doubt that the day I explain my Death Eater past will be the day our entire father-son dynamic changes, probably for the worst.

Granger’s looking at me in the heart-broken-for-you, sad way that she has nearly perfected. Fucking bleeding heart. I can’t stand looking at her when she looks like that, like she’d gladly pick up every piece of you, no matter how miniscule, and glue you back together the Muggle way. Because she’s that person. She’s the one that cares about everyone and everything, no matter how terribly she may have been treated before. I can’t stand seeing her look at me like that, like everything’s-going-to-be-okay,-Draco.

I hate it, because I don’t deserve it. I don’t know how she can be so blindly kind and compassionate. It doesn’t make sense. Compassion had never had a place in my world.

I hear her exhale softly, but still refuse to look at her. Instead, I find my clasped hands much more interesting. Stay within the familiar, Draco. Safe, where you understand everything and can keep it so much more black-and-white.

“It’d be wonderful if we could keep them cloaked for the rest of their lives. Keep them ignorant of everything that controlled what should have been a carefree childhood. It’s why I come here.” She’s delving into topics that I’ve long since wanted to bury until I’m forced to rip them back up again.

I raise my gaze from my hands to her face, prepared to glare until she changes the subject and stops this nonsense discussion of our childhoods and their childhoods and the giant trench separating the two. She isn’t fazed. Perhaps I used my glare too liberally in her presence.

“I come here, because it’s the easiest way not to think about how utter shit our childhoods were,” I snap. “Now can we please change the topic?”

She glares in return, her nose tipping up defiantly. “No, we can’t. Who else are you going to talk to? Your wife? Oh, I’m sure that’ll be a lovely conversation with someone who wasn’t even involved. Parkinson, who tried to sell Harry out? I’m sure she’ll be really understanding.”

“Shut up!” I seethe, attempting to keep my voice low enough that the kids won’t alert to our rather fiery discussion. “You think you’re all set to understand what I go through every day? That is such bullshit. You don’t have to tell your daughter that, no, you didn’t kill anyone, but you almost did. And then again, you may as well have, because you were responsible for letting the ‘evil ones’ in.” Her eyes narrow, and I simply chuckle under my breath. “No, of course not. You get to tell your daughter all about the heroics. About how the Golden Trio saved the fucking day and how proud she should be of you all for keeping her safe.”

I feel a sharp jab to my ribs. “Ow! Merlin, what the hell was that for?”

Another jab. I scowl. Bloody pointy, jabby fingers. “Do you honestly think Rose is the only one who should be proud of her parents? You idiot. That boy loves you! He loves you, and he nearly worships the ground you walk on, so don’t insinuate that he’ll never be proud of you. And you know what? He should be proud of you. Yes, it won’t be easy at first. God only knows how hurt and put out he’ll be, but how much worse do you think it’ll be if you completely ignore the issue and wait for someone else to tell him? If you don’t tell him the honest-to-God truth, he’s going to get some adulterated version from the son of—I don’t know, Seamus Finnegan.”

My scowl deepens just at the thought of some freckled, Irish idiot with two left feet explaining the sordid details of my betrayal of wizardkind. No doubt riddled with little Gryffindor remarks on my morality, probably a mention or two of that blasted transfiguration incident in fourth year.

“That boy deserves the honest truth. I swear on everything that is magical, Draco, if you’re here the year they go off to school and haven’t told him the truth, then I will.”

I look at her then, surprised by her fervour. Maybe I’ve underestimated her. I never, honestly, thought she would be one to care that much. About Draco Malfoy’s son. Yes, she’d always been rather compassionate. It took a lot to spout off rubbish about the welfare and rights of bloody house-elves, but her investment in Scorpius’ life—and what he deserves—was a whole other unexpected development. It makes me wonder when exactly she started to care that much. For him. For me. For us. Because, as much as I’d like to ignore it, her little speech had been as much about offering me whatever atonement she thinks me deserving of as the truth we both know my son deserves.

Too tongue-tied to offer any sort of eloquent response or agreement, I simply nod. And she accepts it. I’ll never understand where or when she managed to gain such a grasp—such an understanding—of me. But somewhere along the line, it happened. I haven’t decided just yet how I feel about it.

And soon, it is time to go. Time for our families to separate, only to meet perhaps the following year for those few hours of solitude together. Rose, as she does nearly every year, is on the verge of tears upon learning that Scorpius will yet again be unable to attend her birthday party the following weekend. Granger had mentioned that she’d wanted to bring him a slice of her cake and had been immensely put-out when her mother claimed it would likely mould before a month had passed, much less eleven and a half. She was just glad, as well as I am, that they’re still too young to think anything of their once-yearly friendship or the flimsy reasons we give for why they only can see one another once a year. It is this childlike naïveté that I find myself jealous of relatively often.

“D’you have fun, Scor?” I ask, grabbing his small hand as we walk the opposite way of the Granger-Weasley clan. He is tired from his long day of playing with his friends and doesn’t even notice any of the puddles, much less care to jump feet first into anything resembling muddy water.

He nods and gives me a huge smile, one that spells contentment. As if he were the most satisfied little bugger in this great shithole of a world we’ve got. “’Course I did! Can we play with Rosie and Hugo again?”

“We’ll see if they want to play again next time.” I wish I could offer him more than a ‘maybe’. It’s even worse than that; it’s a ‘maybe in twelve months, son’.

The look on his face can only be described as resignation. Fuck, I think I’d rather see him bawling. Resignation and children are not things that belong together. Ever. Then, just as I begin contemplating the various ways I could bring that smile of contentment back to his face—a new broom; a box of Sugar Quills or Chocolate Frogs, maybe; or perhaps a spontaneous trip to Fortescue’s, despite how I loathe the sight of Diagon Alley on the second of May—it appears. Like magic. He looks almost radiant, happy. His excitement is almost tangible.

“Dad, Dad!” The boy yanks on my arm with all his strength. “Can we bring Rosie a cake next year? That way we can celebrate her birthday together, all of us.”

My eyebrows rise in surprise. Of all the things he could be so bloody radiant about, this was the last I’d ever have thought of.

“You’ll have to remind me,” I say, offering my acquiescence. After a quiet moment, I add, “When did you become so generous? Must have come from your mother’s side of the family, because you certainly didn’t get it from mine.”

“Oh, I will!” he exclaims, his grin still luminescent.

Every year, I’m surprised that she shows up again. In fact, I’m surprised that I show up again. But if this sort of brilliant happiness in my son is the result, I doubt I will ever not show up.

fic: You've Got Mail (Seamus/Pansy)

withdrawnred — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 20:06:10 GMT

Happy I can finally post this, now that the reveals have happened! :)

Title: You’ve Got Mail
Author: withdrawnred
Rating: PG-13
Word-count: 1,836
Pairings/characters: Pansy/Seamus
Summary: Seamus returns home from assignment to a tempest.
Warnings: swearing
Author's notes: Obviously, the title is stolen from the wonderful film directed by Nora Ephron. And the characters belong to the wondrous JK Rowling and not me. Originally written for the 2010 harry_holidays exchange. A huge thank you to my beta, dormiensa , without whom this would never have been completed.

Fourteen steps: the distance from the main door to the elevator.

Ground floor. 1, 2, 3, - fourth floor. Click.

The man cursed the existence of the mirror, just as soon as he recovered from the shock of seeing his reflection. Whoever had thought it was a good idea to place mirrors on all sides of a bloody elevator was sorely mistaken.

Merlin, but he hated Portkey travel. He almost considered it worse than Muggle air travel, although he had to admit nothing was worse than taking off and landing in those ridiculous machines. Needless to say, he looked downright haggard: sunken eyes, pale skin, hair that needed a good washing. He raked his hands through his hair, not even caring at this point how much she hated his hair untidy. She’d hate it no matter how it looked when he walked through the door - he just wasn’t sure whether she preferred messy or oily hair. She probably didn’t even know. She wasn’t exactly a lesser-of-two-evils kind of bird. To be honest, all he really cared about was having a nice tumbler of Firewhisky to take the edge off and then tucking in to bed. Not that he necessarily played into the stereotype of the drunken Irishman, but damn it if he didn’t like his whiskey. He was a Finnegan, after all.

And twenty more steps to the apartment’s threshold - these even more weary than the previous had been. The travel was certainly catching up to him. Seamus shook his head in an almost pathetic attempt to jolt himself awake. It wasn’t entirely effective. That Firewhisky would surely put him to straight to sleep in his armchair if he wasn’t careful.

What was effective in jolting him to his senses was the blur of silver that swam before his eyes the moment he opened the door enough to push his body inside the apartment, immediately followed by a loud crash as it careened to the floor below. Yes, nothing was quite as effective at waking him up as some object -- well, in this case a pewter candlestick -- hitting the wall mere centimetres from his head.

Fantastic.

He sighed, stepping over the discarded object and attempting to gather whatever energies he could to prepare for the approaching tempest -- because Pansy Parkinson was nothing if not as frightening as a super-typhoon in her rage.

“Not now, Pans. I’m totally knackered.”

He watched as she sputtered in (expected) indignation. Couldn’t she see he really was knackered? The bloodshot eyes were sure to give him away, right? But the look in her eyes -- which he was very tempted to describe as crazed. Not to mention, she’d certainly castrate him if she found he’d even thought the word -- was unmistakable. Whatever it was he’d done -- and Merlin, was he ever clueless on that one -- had been enough to warrant the full-out Storm. Sure to be complete with lightning and thunder and perhaps even some hailstones. Bloody fabulous.

“Two weeks, Seamus,” she gritted out, her explosive anger barely in check. Suddenly he was regretting that specific commonality that had helped bring them together. “Two weeks, and not so much as an Oh-hey-I-arrived-safely!”

He blinked, attempting to shake off both his fatigue and new-found confusion.

“What are you going on abou--”

“You didn’t owl me. You didn’t FireCall me. Not even a bloody note from the Aurors’ Office!”

Seamus was slack-jawed in shock as he watched his girlfriend pace back and forth in front of their fireplace. She began to mumble to herself, an arm occasionally reaching above her head in her fervor; it seemed that every thirty seconds her voice would hit a yet shriller note.

In his opinion, she should have known that a fatigued Seamus -- especially one so obviously fatigued as he fancied himself -- was not a Seamus who easily processed or read between the lines. His confusion merely surmounted. The single thing he had been able to deduce, besides the fact that she was clearly angry--Neville would’ve been able to see that, and that was certainly saying something--was that he’d supposedly cut all ties while on assignment. Which was all bloody ridiculous. He’d taken enough shit from his partner for insisting on sending a postcard to his woman every day or so. It had been nearly a daily occasion: Seamus would grab some asinine piece of cardboard from a
tourist shop, scribble whatever came to his mind, and manipulate their route so he could both purchase Muggle postage and throw the postcard down the chute.

No communication, my arse!

“--Merlin! I should have listened to my mum after all.”

Oh God. His hands shot up to massage his temples, treating the migraine that was surely en route. If there was one thing that could pull Seamus Finnegan out of his thoughts, out of whatever shallow introspection he’d been involved in, it was that word.

“I thought we agreed not to bring our mothers into this house,” he grumbled. Yes, she had promised. Even the word was taboo in their home. “Mum”, for both Seamus and Pansy, was the great elephant in the room who wouldn’t ever leave.

Ever.

Pansy huffed, her bangs flying up momentarily with the breath of air. And then glared, rebellion imminent. “Mum. Mum mum mum. Does it hurt to hear the word, Seamus? Hmm?”

Seamus sneered. “Oh, shut it.”

“No, you know I don’t think I shall. Merlin, I hate when she’s right, but look at how this has turned out. Sad, really. I guess it’s true though: you can take the man out of the --”

“What the fuck does your mother have to do with anything?” he interjected, not liking the direction she was taking their discussion, if it could be called that.

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps being right entitles her to some facetime in this conversation.”

“Is that what you call this? A bleeding conversation? As far as I can tell, it’s just another bitch-and-moan session for Princess Pansy.”

“At least I’m talking, keeping the communication open. But perhaps you don’t even know what that means, poor boy. You’re the one who can’t even write a single missive in two weeks.”

“This has got to be a joke. I wrote every bloody day!”

“You’re such a liar! I didn’t receive a single owl!”

“That would be because I didn’t send a single owl!”

And there it was: the confusion. Seamus was secretly glad to see that on her face and not his own for the first time throughout this entire little ... exchange. The look of confusion faded vaguely as she narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

“Well, I didn’t receive any FireCalls from you either.”

“Surely even you know there are other ways to communicate, Pansy.” And there, his condescension finally made its appearance, such a common thing in their fights--from both parties.

He could see the calculation in her eyes. They were narrowed in concentration, and her forehead creased as it always did when she was thinking particularly hard.

Not feeling particularly charitable or sympathetic after all that, Seamus cut in almost callously, “Surely you recall our Muggle mailbox. I’d wager it’s chock-full of postcards after the past two weeks and obviously nobody removing them.”

“Why would you use Muggle mail when you’re a full-fledged wizard?! Did you even remember that you have this little thing called magic? Did you even think that maybe--just maybe!--I’d have wanted to see your face through the Floo? Cor, that’s so typical of your kind--”

“What the fuck does that mean? ‘My kind’?”

“You know exactly what I mean. You’re a bloody wizard, in case you’ve forgotten, and you don’t think to use a measly owl or the Floo. Oh no, let’s not worry about how Pansy’s worrying about you and use a stupid card that takes ages to arrive. How was I even supposed to know to check the thing?”

Ah, he should have known she’d turn on his blood next. As much as it pained him to think, his mother’s words were coming back to him now. Or at least the gist of it was penetrating the fatigued cloud that was his mind: something to the effect that she’d never respect him as wholly as she would a pureblood.

It’s just her nature, Seamus. It’ll never last between the two of you.

“If I remember correctly,” Seamus retorted, “you were impressed with the postcards I’d received from home, and I thought I was being oh-so-thoughtful in sending you some from the Continent. Oh, but don’t worry. I won’t try being creative ever again, since it’s been so well-received.”

Pansy sputtered, again, but he cut in before she could say her piece, not about to allow her the last word, “You can fuck off, Pans.” And with that, Seamus walked swiftly into their guest bedroom, slammed the door, and cast a couple strong Locking and Silencing charms. He just wanted to sleep.

And as he dozed off, he thought about how he’d not had that tumbler of Firewhisky. And how much quid he might’ve saved if he hadn’t thought Pansy would appreciate his effort in sending her all those postcards.

The following morning, Seamus padded out of the guest bedroom, only to see Dean walking out the front door. As he was still wiping the remnants of sleep from his eyes, he nearly missed the wave and “Later, mate” that his friend called back as he left the apartment. His confusion about the purpose of Dean’s visit abated quickly - as soon as he saw Pansy bent over the kitchen counter, a stack of postcards spread around her, her facial expression the epitome of awe (much like the one that had inspired his actions, when she’d seen the postcard his mother had sent him from Galway the previous month). Specifically, the postcards he’d sent while he’d been on the Continent, the ones that had been collecting dust in their Muggle mailbox.

When she glanced up, Seamus felt a little gleeful. He could honestly say he’d never seen Pansy Parkinson look ashamed, but there it was. An expression to remember, definitely. There was no telling when (or even if) he would ever be graced by its presence again.

“I see you’ve found them,” he quipped, unable to resist.

“Aye. I managed to get Dean to ... help me out a bit,” she smirked, walking towards him.

“You Slytherins always were resourceful, weren’t you?”

He thought he saw her grin mischievously, but his attention was quickly diverted by his girlfriend’s lips capturing his own. Pansy tended to communicate certain things physically, things that she seemed to be unable to verbalize. This particular time, it could have been I’m sorry. It could have been Thank you.

But, as usually happened when she communicated through kisses, Seamus couldn’t bring himself to care what exactly she was saying. He just wanted her to continue.

drabble: Naming Names

withdrawnred — Thu, 30 Sep 2010 04:20:01 GMT

Title: Naming Names
Author: withdrawnred
Rating: G
Character/Pairing: DracoHermione
Word Count: 100
Disclaimer: I do not, in any way, own anything.

"Really? Your parents named you 'Hermione' and their names are Jack and Anne? I rather expected them to at least be multi-syllabic."

She should have known even such a seemingly innocent question as What’re your parents’ names? was anything but when Draco Malfoy’s involved.

"They love The Winter's Tale," she began. Her name has always been a sore point with her parents. She'd never tell him she hadn't learned how to pronounce her own name until she was four.

"Doubtful.”

She concedes, “They like to keep things interesting.”

He smirks. “I see the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

recipe: Magi's Turbans

withdrawnred — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 22:18:38 GMT

How yummy do these look?! :D

image source: VGP

1 1/2 sticks (3/4 cup) butter, softened
1 cup packed brown sugar
2 tsp baking soda
1 tsp each ground cinnamon and ginger
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1/4 cup light molasses
1 large egg
2 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cup granulated sugar
56 Hershey's Hugs (from a 13 oz. bag), unwrapped

Beat butter, brown sugar, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger and cloves in a large bowl with mixer on medium speed until well blended and paler in color. Beat in molasses and egg. Reduce speed to low and gradually add in flour just until blended. Cover and refrigerate 1 hour or until firm enough to handle.
Heat oven to 350. Have baking sheets ready. Put granulated sugar in a small bowl. Roll tablespoons of dough into 1-1/4 inch balls; roll in sugar to coat. Place 1 1/2 inches apart on ungreased baking sheets.
Bake 10 to 12 minutes until tops crack but cookies are still soft to touch. Place baking sheet on wire rack. Immediately press a Hugs in center of each cookie. Transfer cookies from baking sheet to rack to cool completely. Store in airtight container at cool room temperature up to 2 weeks or freeze up to 3 months.

Recipe from Woman's Day Holiday Cookies magazine