Chapter Text
If asked when everything changed, Hermione Granger’s first instinct would be to say the night she was on a Ministry business trip to Ireland when she was twenty-six and had too much Euphorix Potion before meeting up with an Irish Ministry colleague after business hours at some no-name pub in Galway along Ireland’s Wild Atlantic Way. Because it was there, insatiably giggly and carefree, that she met a several-years-older Irish wizard named Tommy Malone, who taught her how to dance to traditional Irish pub music, despite the fact that Hermione was convinced that she had been born with two left feet.
And that in the haze of the Potion, his accent and his confidence and his charm made Hermione temporarily forget about everything that plagued her. So when his hand moved lower as they danced, she let it stay there, relishing in the heat that it brought to her skin. And when they had stopped dancing and he backed her against a wall, his eyes dark and heavy with lust, she had quickly brought her lips to his. And when they had stopped snogging, the first words out of her mouth were “come back with me.”
Between the alcohol at the bar and the additional shot of Euphorix Potion that Hermione nipped from her bag when they were back in her room, the sex was a blur. She remembered the hardness of his body—like he had been carved from marble—and the roughness of his hands, and how much that had turned her on in the moment. But something had shut off in her brain when they began shagging, knowing exactly how wrong it was despite the obfuscation caused by the alcohol and Potion.
She felt physically ill the next morning when she felt his arms wrap around her, his lips behind her ear. “Morning, love,” he had whispered, his musky scent pouring over her. He was truly a kind bloke—he hadn’t plied her with alcohol or done anything untoward that she hadn’t welcomed. This was on her.
She thanked him for the evening but asked him to leave, watching emotionless as his face fell and he steadily dressed, looking forlornly at her for several moments before the hotel room door closed behind him.
Hermione quickly cast a silencing spell and turned to bawl into her pillow. Because Ron had proposed to her two months previous—sans ring, he was saving up for that—and she had readily accepted, despite the gnawing in her stomach as she did so. She had felt for some time that she and Ron were not the right pairing for each other—something was just missing between them that was not missing between Harry and Ginny or Neville and Hannah or Luna and Rolf or George and Angelina—but she was so desperate to move to the next phase in her life, to get over everything that had happened to them as kids, that she had eagerly accepted his proposal. Like if she could just get to the next milestone in her life, she would finally be happy.
But she didn’t truly want to marry Ron. But she also didn’t want to start over and potentially lose the family that she had spent the greater portion of her life building and maintaining. Merlin knows she didn’t have her own biological family anymore—the Weasleys were the only family she had. So while she didn’t particularly want to marry Ron in the way she felt she should, she figured they could be happy enough. He would be a good husband, and they would have children that would be cousins to the rest of the Weasley clan. She would be a part of a warm, loving, loud, and devoted family. Could someone truly ask for more?
The answer was clearly a resounding yes, because when Tommy Malone had pulled her body flush against his to dance and she had looked at his ruddy cheeks and disheveled hair, she felt a heat in her knickers that she hadn’t experienced in quite some time.
But if she was honest, Tommy Malone was not the first sign of trouble. Because even a year before Ron proposed, Hermione was increasingly relying on Euphorix Potion to get through her evenings. No one was the wiser, of course. She took just enough to make functioning like a normal human possible—she didn’t act giddy or flighty. Rather, the Potion just brought her back to center. So she could feel content having a lazy Saturday afternoon at the Burrow without feeling like her mind was trying to claw its way out of her skull.
Because everyone around her just seemed so normal. So satisfied. And while there was certainly nothing wrong with her life—she had the devotion of a man she cared for deeply, the support of a family she loved, and a Ministry career that was blossoming even better than she could’ve ever expected—she felt alone. And miserable. And anxious. And lost.
And she needed a daily dose of Euphorix Potion to get through the trivial exchanges she was forced to make each day.
The sensible thing would’ve been to see a Mind Healer. But Merlin—she wanted to be Minister of Magic one day—how would that look? Hermione Granger, Golden Girl, survived the War with her best friends-turned-family largely intact. But still, she finds reason to have issues. Certainly, no one around her seemed to have the constant internal dialogue and struggle that she did. George, maybe—but only for a while. Because Angelina seemed to heal him, and it wasn’t long before he was back on a broom with the rest of the family engaging in Quidditch scrimmages in the Burrow’s side yard, laughing and joking without restraint.
So the Euphorix Potion use increased. It never affected her job—she was incredibly mindful of that. And for a long time, none of her friends or family suspected. It was only in the weeks leading up to her trip to Galway that Ron confronted her about it, but Hermione—ever the clever fox—was able to run enough mental laps around him such that Ron was convinced he was out of place for even asking her about it.
While something within her had changed in the years since the War ended, Hermione Granger was still a Gryffindor. So when she returned from that trip to Galway, she told Ron everything, which promptly and savagely ended her engagement. As well as her connection to most of the Weasley family, including Harry, who had married Ginny several years earlier.
So, truly, things had started to go downhill at least a year before the night in Galway.
But if she had to trace it back to the beginning, things really started to turn sour only months after the Battle of Hogwarts, when she testified on Draco Malfoy’s behalf before the Wizengamot.
***
Harry and Ron both steadfastly refused to testify on Malfoy’s behalf, despite the fact that he had refused to identify them at the Manor. While there was undeniably room for Malfoy to have done immeasurably more to help them—Hermione knew this better than Harry or Ron—he had still bought them valuable time. And she couldn’t help but feel that they might not be alive had Malfoy not extended them that grace.
Even so, Harry and Ron were happy—almost excited—at the prospect of Malfoy facing ten years in Azkaban. Hermione couldn’t stomach the idea. She certainly didn’t like Malfoy, nor did she feel a significant amount of sympathy for him, but he didn’t deserve that. He was a child when he was Marked. He had been raised in hate and prejudice—and it showed—but when it came down to it, he was never truly vicious. He couldn’t kill Dumbledore. And he refused to identify them at the Manor.
Hermione steadfastly stood by her position that Draco Malfoy deserved redemption. And that simple idea was truly the beginning of the end of her relationship with her and everyone she had been tied to at Hogwarts.
***
Draco Malfoy served two years in Azkaban; his shortened sentence largely credited to testimony by Hermione Granger and Minerva McGonagall. Through the rehabilitation program set up by one of the post-War non-profit groups, at twenty, Malfoy ended up as an intern for the Ministry at the Department of International Magical Cooperation—where Hermione worked. He was such an exceptional intern and so impressed any foreign witches or wizards he encountered that he was quickly offered a full-time position despite his “sordid” past.
He rose through the ranks quickly, his charm and intellect making him an invaluable asset to the Department. Before Hermione knew it, they had adjoining cubicles. On the second day of shared space, Malfoy asked if he could take her out to dinner—nothing romantic, he quickly supplied—he just needed to clear the air.
Hermione agreed, owling Ron that he should go to the Burrow for dinner—she was going out with colleagues. And despite having her guard up as she went out with Malfoy, she was surprised to find that they had an easy and natural rapport. The night began with him in tears, apologizing profusely for not intervening when his aunt tortured Hermione and the countless other traumas that he had bestowed upon her during their school years, but somehow the evening quickly transcended into a cynical yet humorous discussion regarding the trauma of being child soldiers, and how it had so royally fucked all of them up. The humor was dark, but Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she laughed so hard. Or had such an honest conversation about how truly not okay she felt.
And unlike when she sometimes unloaded her anxieties onto Ron, Malfoy didn’t try to rush her through the discomfort or make it go away. He just held space for her to not be okay.
And then at the end of the night, Malfoy showed Hermione the ring he planned to give Pansy in the coming weeks.
“I know she seemed like a nightmare in school,” he said, “but my gods, if she isn’t the most protective, loving, wonderful person I have ever met.”
“It’s lovely, Malfoy,” Hermione responded. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”
So if testifying on Malfoy’s behalf had been the first fissure between her Hogwarts life and her adult life, her budding friendship with Malfoy at the Ministry was the second.
It became worse as the years wore on and Hermione and Malfoy—eventually, Draco—became closer and closer friends as they rose through the ranks in their department. Hermione began to insist that Draco and Pansy, and eventually Blaise and Daphne and Adrian—as she became close with them through Draco—be invited to outings with her friends. Her friends reluctantly obliged, but she watched with increasing disenchantment as the former Slytherins continued to try to make in-roads and apologies, while her “friends” steadfastly refused to let them in. Draco had been the only one of them to take the Mark. The rest were just turned away because they were sorted into a particular house when they were ten or eleven years old.
So the rift grew. By twenty-four, Ron was spending his Friday evenings with Harry, Ginny, George, Angelina, Neville, Hannah, Luna, and Rolf, while Hermione spent hers with Draco, Pansy, Blaise, Daphne, and Adrian. And somehow, she still thought she could build a bridge strong enough to cross that divide and make it work.
But that night in Galway had burned that bridge while Hermione was still standing on it.
***
“Merlin, Granger, what’s wrong?” Draco hissed when she came into the office after her trip to Galway.
“Break room,” she gasped, rushing past him.
Draco warded the break room as he burst through the door, taking Hermione into his arms. “Who do I need to kill?” he asked, rocking her slightly.
“Oh gods, Draco,” she sobbed. “I fucked up so badly.”
“Okay,” he began, “Momentarily forgetting the name of the spouse of some Irish Ministry official—.”
“I slept with someone in Ireland,” she choked out.
“Oh,” was his hollow response. He waited a few moments before continuing. “Did you—.”
“Tell Ron?” she croaked. “Of course.” A fresh wave of emotion came over her as she pushed her head into his chest.
“It’s okay, Granger,” he soothed, running his hand down her back. Violent sobs racked her body as she tried to pull herself in closer to him.
“Can you—.” Hermione no sooner had the words out of her mouth than she felt the whoosh of apparition and the familiar scent of her own flat. “And can you—.” Again, barely a moment before she heard the crack of another apparition and Pansy’s voice ringing through the flat.
“Let the expert handle this!” she trilled, marching into Hermione’s room.
Draco gave a quick kiss to the top of Hermione’s head and then apparated away as Pansy pulled Hermione’s back against her chest as they collapsed into bed, Pansy soothing each of Hermione’s sobs.
“I—I’m sorry!” Hermione wailed, tears racing down her cheeks. “I know you have work. You don’t have to stay. I just—I—,” her words died in her throat as she felt Pansy draw herself more tightly around Hermione.
“The joy of owning your own fashion line, dear, is not only that you can dress your otherwise clueless friends in fantastic clothes,” Pansy mused, “but also you can set your own hours and take off at will.” Pansy deposited a kiss to the side of Hermione’s head. “Let it out, Hermione. I’m here for you, love.”
***
August 25, 2009
But that had all been years ago. Hermione was now twenty-nine, clean of Euphorix Potion for nearly three years, and the head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, with Draco as her deputy, and Pansy as her best friend and insistent designer.
She was on a trip to the Irish Ministry—she had only been back once since her indiscretion years earlier and it still made her uncomfortable to be there. The rawness of that morning when she woke up next to Tommy Malone and her entire world shifted—for the better, she believed—was etched into her bones.
After reaching a groundbreaking trade deal, most of her British and Irish Ministry colleagues decided to go out to a raucous club in Galway, an invitation to which Hermione readily declined. Hermione’s Irish counterpart—a witch named Niamh O’Donnell roughly seven years Hermione’s senior—approached Hermione and invited her to a Muggle piano bar that she liked to frequent on Friday evenings.
“It’s crowded, but subdued,” Niamh explained. “A good place to disappear for a couple hours.”
She didn’t need to say anything more. Hermione accompanied Niamh to the piano bar, observing instantly that it was, as Niamh described, quite crowded, but not in the typical hormone-fueled way that bars were.
“The crowd comes mostly for the Friday night performer,” Niamh explained as she and Hermione picked up their drinks from the bar. “He’s fucking incredible—and handsome as hell. Apparently just doing the piano bar stint to pay his bills—he’s like an aspiring classical composer, writes his own instrumental pieces, but hasn’t hit it big yet.”
Hermione nodded, taking a sip of her beer. Although a recovering Euphorix addict, her Mind Healer (twenty-seven-year old Hermione had been mature enough to admit she needed one) assured her that alcohol was still relatively safe. It didn’t have the same addictive quality for witches and wizards that it had for Muggles.
But Merlin, Niamh was right about the piano player. From where she was standing, Hermione could barely see him, but he played with a passion and exuberance she had never seen before—especially if this was just a side gig. He was pounding on the keys in a way that you wouldn’t expect from a pianist, and his voice was absolutely stunning. The crowd at the bar went wild for him, and Hermione felt herself whooping for him as the night wore on. His whole soul was behind the music—you could feel it.
Hermione and Niamh were at the bar for hours. They weren’t getting soused—just getting to know each other as the piano man continued to play in the background. But the patrons eventually began to file out, and as they did, Hermione got a better view of their entertainer. From where she and Niamh were sitting, it was still hard to get a clear shot of him. But even so, there were certain motions he made that made him look familiar somehow.
Like Hermione had seen that jawline before. The way that his hair fell over his forehead. The small peeks of his smirk as he played—she was sure she had seen it all before. It was distant but familiar. She couldn’t tear her eyes from him.
And then in the second bar of Vienna by Billy Joel, his eyes met hers.
Like a stunning spell to the chest, Hermione realized she recognized him. And based on the look in those breathtaking sapphire eyes, he recognized her too.
***
She could see the subdued panic flaring in his eyes. But ever the performer, he continued, his eyes not leaving her for a second.
Theodore Nott.
For most of their Hogwarts education, Theo was no more than the boy who challenged Hermione’s grades—the only student to give her a run for her money intellectually. But she also knew those eyes well because she spent a significant portion of their Sixth Year staring into them.
For the first few years after the Battle, Hermione would gather at the Weasley household, and they would say the name of every non-Death Eater witch and wizard lost at the Battle of Hogwarts.
Never once was Theo’s name mentioned, even though no one had seen him since the Battle of Hogwarts, and it was commonly accepted that he died there. And he was never a Death Eater—just the son of one of the worst. Hermione had broached the subject several times, but the Weasleys wouldn’t hear it. Son of a Death Eater, good as a Death Eater himself.
It was only after Hermione started spending the day with Draco and company that Theo’s name and memory was celebrated. Stories of his loyalty, perseverance, understanding, intelligence, and overall uniqueness made him a legend within his friend group. It brought a warmth to Hermione’s heart, because although she wouldn’t admit the full extent of it to her friends, she knew firsthand that Theo deserved to be remembered.
And she watched him now—knowing full well that he understood he had been discovered, but keeping a cool demeanor as he continued to emphatically pound on the piano and sing to a diminished but enthusiastic crowd—she felt her heart began to pound.
His song came to an end, and for the first time since Hermione entered the pub, the performer came away from his piano.
“I’m sorry, mates,” he said in a distinctly English—not Irish—accent. “I’ve got to go see about a girl.”