fic: forget me not - part one
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, jenl3227
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.
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, jenl3227
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.