Chapter Text
This was a mistake.
Hermione chewed the inside of her lip to stop the muscles in her face from pulling down into a frown. Arms crossed in front of her, she sat straight as a board in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom while some Ministry-appointed know-nothing who’d watched the war unfold from behind the comfort and safety of her desk prattled on over the new Board-of-Governors-approved eighth-year curriculum. Ankles crossed neatly beneath her, the side-to-side rocking of her right knee was the only thing belying her otherwise composed appearance.
"In preparation for your N.E.W.T.s, today we'll be learning Bombarda Maxima,” the sad excuse for a professor continued, “the strongest variation of the Exploding Charms. Now, this spell is quite dangerous, so you’ll want to exercise caution when casting. Bombarda Maxima is quite similar to Bombarda, except that it’s more . . .” She gestured erratically with her hands. “Explosive."
The loud thumps of the woman’s high heels on the wood-planked floor as she moved to the blackboard had Hermione’s molars grinding together. She poured her focus into the rhythm of her bouncing knee before she imploded herself in an accidental burst of nonverbal Bombarda Maxima.
They’d all been through literal hell on earth mere months ago. Every single one of the returning Eighth Years had been touched by the war in some way, with most fighting right alongside the older generations who should’ve shielded and protected them from such horrors.
But sure.
Learning a variation of a basic exploding charm that they all could have mastered in fifth year instead of having a true lesson in Dark Arts befitting their age and experience seemed like an excellent use of her time.
Bombardas certainly had their uses, but they wouldn’t save you from a turncoat who’d infiltrated your cause like a cancer. Or an evil soul shard whispering lies to you in your sleep. They wouldn’t help keep your wits about you when your best friend is bleeding out and all you have is a wand and some expired triage medicine rolling around in the bottom of your dirty, rain-soaked bag.
Bombardas wouldn’t offer protection from the demons that haunt your dreams even after the battle was finally over. When you’re forced to live with the decisions made under the worst of human conditions.
With a screech of chalk, their professor underlined the name of the charm she’d written across the blackboard in large, bold letters. Then, with a flick of her wand, the room divider folded up against the back wall and the other half of the classroom revealed a brick wall, shimmering under the protection of a containment charm.
“Alright class, for safety, we’ll form a single line and go at this one at a time. First, we’ll practise our standard Bombarda, and after everyone has that mastered today, we’ll elevate to the Maxima next time. Now, line up.”
She should’ve never bothered coming back. Should’ve stayed in Australia and started a new life. Or taken any one of the jobs Kingsley had offered her. Enlisted for Auror training with Harry and Ron . . . maybe she’d still be in contact with either one of them if she had.
As the rest of her class stood to shuffle unenthusiastically over to the other half of the room, Hermione threw her bag over her shoulder and made for the door.
“Excuse me, Miss Granger, is it?” their instructor piped up, waving a hand in the air to get her attention. “I’ll ask that you please queue up with the rest of us over here.”
Swinging her wand over her head, Hermione brought it down on the target, calling, “Bombarda Maxima!” She exploded the brick wall into atom dust with a hit so strong that the containment charm barely held. As the professor stood with her mouth gaping, blinking through the acrid tang of smoke in the aftermath of her destruction, Hermione turned on her heel and walked out with two fingers held up behind her.
| | |
Hours later, Hermione was curled up on the sofa in front of the fireplace, having skipped both Herbology that afternoon and dinner in the Great Hall. Her time was much better spent having the new, eighth-year common room to herself all day. Staring mindlessly into the flames, she attempted to not feel the crippling loneliness that had crawled inside of her months ago and made its home within her.
It was only when the door opened, and voices began filtering in that she turned her gaze from the fire and her eyes fell instead upon Pansy Parkinson entering with Malfoy.
There was no mistaking that white-blond hair, though it had now grown out past his shoulders. But that wasn’t the only thing different about him.
Draco Malfoy carried himself differently. He was loose and carefree, almost—happy.
A sideways smile pulled at his mouth, eyes lit up with a joviality she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen in him. Though, she supposed if she grew up with a father like Lucius, she’d be thrilled after he’d received the Kiss last month too.
Hermione anticipated the two would continue on without a backwards glance, but Malfoy just stood there, feet planted and gawking at her with a wide-eyed appraisal, as if he was seeing her for the first time. Pansy tugged his sleeve, her cackling laugh finally pulling him from whatever odd moment he was trapped inside of, but before he’d turned away completely, he did something he’d never done before.
Bringing his hand up in a sort of half wave, he smiled at her.
Hermione narrowed her eyes, her brows furrowed together with a frown as he and Pansy disappeared into their respective suites.
The door to the common room opened again. “Hermione!” Neville’s face appeared in front of her, as kind as ever. “Didn’t see you at dinner, so I brought this up for you.” He held out a cloth napkin that Hermione opened up to reveal a green apple and two small bread rolls. “If you want, I can ask the elves to send a full plate up.”
Hermione forced a small smile to her mouth, he didn’t deserve to feel any of her bitterness.
“I’m alright, Neville. Thank you,” she said as he filled the seat on the sofa beside her. Hermione continued staring into the dancing firelight, the crackle of the heat muffling the awkward silence between them.
“You walked out on DADA,” he finally said. “I didn’t see you on the train yesterday, either, or at the sorting. And then you walked out on DADA, ” he emphasised again. “And missed Herbology. And now dinner again tonight.”
Hermione tightened her lips and hummed her acknowledgement.
“Am I off base to be worried about you, Hermione?”
“I’m fine, Neville, truly,” she lied, looking up at the concern etched into his features. “I’d rented a room at The Three Broomsticks this summer, so I was already here. And I just wasn’t hungry tonight.” Hermione fidgeted with the napkin, refolding it securely over the bread and fruit. “But thanks again, I might want to have some nosh a bit later.”
His warm, hazel eyes searched hers. The elephant in the room still hadn’t been addressed, but he blessedly didn’t repeat what he was surely still thinking: Hermione Granger doesn’t skip classes.
Perhaps the old Hermione.
The one who’d had a bright future mapped out in front of her; the Hermione who’d had a family, and friends, and options.
But her parents would never remember her.
And Harry and Ron had moved on.
Everyone had moved on, and left her still sitting alone in the wreckage.
Hermione was still stuck in place with no support system, an empty bank vault, and nowhere to live aside from the suffocating spare cot at the Burrow where Molly would be happy to smother her for the rest of her life.
Even rotting alone on the decrepit sofa at Grimmauld for all of eternity was no longer an option, as Harry hadn’t been able to regain access to it since a few weeks after the final battle.
Hogwarts had been her only option. She was an adult now, both in the Muggle and wizarding worlds. There were no resources for someone like her, no real future without a completed education and competitive N.E.W.T. scores, despite Kingsley’s promises for an auspicious career in the Auror pipeline for the Golden Trio.
A lucrative pull for Harry and Ron, perhaps, but Hermione had fought enough dark wizards to satisfy her for multiple lifetimes.
“I know it’s probably weird here without Harry and Ron, but . . . I’m your friend too,” Neville affirmed. “If you ever need anything or just want to talk . . .”
“Thank you, Neville, I really appreciate that.”
“Hi, Hermione!” Hannah Abbot appeared behind them, wrapping her arms around Neville’s shoulders and pressing her cheek next to his. “I didn’t really get a chance to see you last night after the feast, but I’m so excited we’re paired as roommates this year!”
“Yeah, that’s . . . great,” she said through a forced smile.
“Hey, listen . . . I wanted to talk to you. You wouldn’t mind if occasionally Neville stays over with me, do you? Just to sleep, of course. And we’d silence the curtains around the bed, and—”
“Yeah, no, that’s . . . it doesn’t bother me.” Why should she care that everyone else around her is happy and has someone they care about to spend all their time with? “I’m going to head to the library.” She stood, grabbing her bag where it still sat on the floor beside the sofa, slinging it over her shoulder with her napkin full of food balanced in her other hand.
“Actually,” Neville stopped her, “curfew’s in five minutes.” He at least had the decency to look remorseful.
It was then she noticed the shiny silver Prefect badge on his chest. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Hermione didn’t hide her irritated groan as she rolled her eyes and stormed off to her shared suite, ignoring the stunned expressions on Hannah and Neville’s faces as she left them on the sofa without so much as a goodnight.
Throwing herself onto the four-poster bed clad in red and gold linens, Hermione closed the curtains around her and placed her own silencing charm over them so she wouldn’t have to hear Hannah and Neville just sleeping later on.
Gods, why had she come back?
If the witches and wizards who were supposed to be teaching her couldn’t even keep her safe, how was Hermione supposed to care about advanced magical theory? Why was she wasting her time learning theories when she’s already proven herself?
Because you had no other conceivable options.
Last year she was powerful enough to fight alongside the Order, and this year she has a fucking curfew.
She really shouldn’t have come back.
| | |
The Headmistress glanced down through her squared spectacles with a familiar, stern expression carved across her face, but the tone of warm concern in her voice was strangely absent. With a heavy sigh signalling to Hermione that her headmistress was too tired to deal with this on top of everything else, Minerva McGonagall proceeded to explain the same thing that Hermione had concluded on her own last night.
“If you wish to remain a student at Hogwarts, Miss Granger, you’ll be expected to attend all of your classes and participate in your assignments and exams. This—unprecedented eighth year—is a generous extension from the Board of Governors and exceptions cannot be made for students simply because they are of age. I can arrange the coordination of your N.E.W.T. exams if you prefer to pursue private study elsewhere, but room and board can only be provided for active students attending Hogwarts,” she said.
“I understand,” Hermione replied quietly.
“And as for the missive I received from you last week—”
Hermione braced herself for a second onslaught of disappointment.
“I spoke to the staff, and Madam Pomfrey would be happy to have you assist in the hospital wing part-time, so long as you are able to keep up with your studies.”
“I can do that,” she breathed, hope blooming in her chest for the first time in a very long time.
“I must remind you, as you are completely unqualified in matters of Technical Healing, you must be supervised at all times, and the compensation is little more than pocket change.”
“That’s alright, I’ll take it, I—I’ll do whatever she needs.” Hermione didn’t care what the duties entailed. Emptying bedpans? She’d seen worse—the sight of her empty Gringotts vault as she withdrew her last knut, for one.
“If you don’t have any more questions, you are free to go.”
“Thank you, Headmistress.”
Hermione left the round office and made her way down the spiral stone steps. It was a sad state of affairs when a low-paying entry-level job was enough of a win to lift her spirits. As the stone gargoyle came into view, a relieved-looking Malfoy appeared in the darkened corridor, causing her hackles to raise. Something was off about him.
“Hi,” he said, giving her the same odd smile he’d shown her last night. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Hermione’s feet faltered to a stop as he reached his hand out toward her.
“I’m Corvus.”
Hermione stood frozen in place, staring at his outstretched hand. So this was what he was doing? “Really? Corvus?” she asked, ignoring his hand and scanning the oddly colourless eyes staring back at her. “Another constellation? What, didn’t want to go with your middle name? I mean, you already look like your father with that hair.” Hermione flashed a smirk at him, hoping he’d hate the reminder.
“What do you mean?” His brows knitted together in a display of confusion.
“Look, if we’re reinventing ourselves, I would’ve expected something a little better than new hair and feigned naivety, is all. Hi, I’m Athena.” She waved her fingertips up by her face. “Goddess of wisdom and war. Get the fuck out of my way, Corvus.” Hermione pushed past him with a scoff, leaving him at the bottom of the circular steps, and headed for the library. If she were going to keep this job, she was going to actually need to attend her Potions class in ten minutes, and in order to do that, she needed to find a textbook.
Hermione entered the cold classroom—ragged seventh-year Potions book in hand—with just a minute to spare, taking a seat towards the back at the only open table. A quick double-take showed Malfoy had made it to class before her—and his typical shit mood was back, along with his short hair. Hermione trained her eyes on the wooden surface of her table. Had her words really cut that deeply?
“Welcome back, Eighth Years!”
Hermione snorted as Horace Slughorn entered the classroom. Was there really no one else that could teach Potions in the last century aside from Snape and Slughorn?
“It’s good to see so many familiar faces,” the aged professor said, his cheeks shining with his usual overly-sunny disposition.
The door to the classroom opened, and Hermione tried to blink past the glitch in the matrix that was Draco Malfoy walking into class.
“And some new ones, as well! Welcome, welcome, take your seat.” Slughorn gestured to the back of the class where the last open seat remained beside Hermione.
She couldn’t resist the urge to turn around and find out if she’d been hallucinating, but there was the Draco Malfoy she’d always known sitting behind her, and approaching the table now was—
“Hi—Corvus,” he introduced himself to her again, repeating the interaction from earlier, with his hand held out to her once more as he took the seat beside her.
Hermione stared at the outstretched hand and swallowed thickly before finally holding her own out and allowing him to shake it. She continued to blink at him for a moment until sniggering from Pansy behind her brought her back, and she cleared her throat as she took in the red and gold striped tie laid loosely around his collar. A Gryffindor sort.
And undoubtedly a Malfoy in every other way—from his white-blond hair and grey eyes to his sideways smirk and that towering Malfoy height.
“I think you might’ve confused me for my twin brother just now, Athena . . .” He shot her a flirty wink.
“Hermione Granger,” she said, finally finding her words.
“Hermione Granger,” he repeated. She braced herself for the onslaught of recognition from all the post-war media or perhaps second-hand stories from his own family. “You dated Viktor Krum . . .”
That was unexpected. “'Dated' is a bit strong—”
“No, no, I remember hearing all about you. I played Quidditch with him at Durmstrang. For months after the Tournament, he was a lovesick fool. I think I finally understand why . . .”
“Alright.” She ended the conversation abruptly, unwilling to try and have a conversation with this stranger while still trying to process the fact that there was a second Malfoy running around Hogwarts. And a Gryffindor, at that. Hermione turned towards the front of the class just in time for Slughorn to announce they would be breaking off into pairs for their first project of the term. The sinking feeling in her gut let her know she’d be pairing up with the Malfoy pretty-boy beside her before she even looked up and saw everyone already pairing up with their seatmates.
“Looks like it’s you and me . . . if that’s alright,” he said with a soft, gentle voice.
Hermione sighed. “It’s fine.”
| | |
“Hey, so why did nobody warn me that there’s another Malfoy at Hogwarts?” Hermione whispered as she took the seat next to Neville on the common room sofa. The other Eighth Years were filtering in and out for the evening, some already in their suites for the night, some scattered about the great room. “And that he’s a bloody Gryffindor of all things?”
“Technically speaking, that’s Corvus Black, not Malfoy. And you would’ve known that if you came to the start of term feast,” Neville replied. “He went through the sorting ceremony after the First Years.”
“How can he be a Black? He said he and Mal—Draco—were twins.”
“Identical,” Neville confirmed.
“So then how . . .”
“It’s complicated.”
She turned her head over the back of the sofa, narrowing her eyes at the twins sitting at a table across the room. For every way they were identical, they were different as well. Clad in green and red, one tight and tidy, the other relaxed and affable. As if on cue, Corvus threw his head back, laughing loudly at something Daphne had just said. In the next second, he’d locked eyes with Hermione. With a large smile spreading across his face, he winked at her.
Without breaking contact, his hand reached out to his twin’s shoulder, getting Draco’s attention and nodding his head towards her.
“What about her?” She saw more than heard the words leave his lips.
Two sets of identical grey eyes appraised her now before Draco glanced back to his brother with a subtle shake of his head. Hermione turned back to the fire.
Well this was just fucking perfect.