Chapter Text
5 years later
“Welcome home!” Harry greets Hermione, steadying her with strong hands as she sways from the portkey.
The drawing room of Grimmauld Place swims and swirls as she leans on Harry and fights down the inevitable nausea from being magically jerked across the globe. Regular portkey travel has always left her feeling unbalanced. International travel is a whole different problem.
“Hi, Harry,” Hermione says, forcing a smile to her face as she concentrates on the bright green eyes in front of her as the room stills and her stomach settles.
She basks in the presence of her friend, seeing him face to face for the first time in years, taking in his slightly taller stature, the sharpening of his features, and the new pair of glasses. But he's still wiry, his hair is still an untamable mess, and his eyes are still warm and deep and understanding.
Godric, she's missed him.
She lets Harry pull her into his arms, sinking into his warmth and the ever-present scent of pumpkin juice on his jumper. If he ever manages to drink a glass without spilling some on himself, it'll be declared a national holiday.
“I missed you,” Harry murmurs into her hair.
“I missed you, too, Harry,” Hermione replies as he tightens his hold just a fraction.
Movement catches her eye, and she looks behind Harry to see a flash of red hair and a blue jumper as Ron stomps out of the room without a word to her. She didn't have high hopes, but having her suspicions that he still harbors anger toward her confirmed leaves a lead weight in her stomach.
Ron Weasley hasn't taken up much of her spare thoughts in the time she's been away, but she has thought about him from time to time. She's wondered how he's doing, if he's alright, if he's planning or fighting, if she'll see his name in the papers as another Order terrorist—or worse, dead.
He might have been a right arsehole to her and she might have left the country without a word from him—just a pained, angry glare and a nod to Harry as he handed her the portkey to take her away—but she never stopped caring about him. Not even when he deserved it the most.
But it still smarts to think he might not have wanted her to return at all, that he found her absence preferable.
“I guess four years out of the country isn’t long enough for him ,” Hermione mutters with a pointed look and Harry winces as he breaks their hug and glances back at where Ron had been standing before he fled the room.
“Don’t worry about Ron,” he says. “He'll… he'll come around.”
“Ever the optimist, Mr. Potter,” Hermione says with a fond smile for Harry.
“One of us has to be,” he says with a shrug.
“And one of us has to be a realist,” she counters.
“I'm plenty realistic!” Harry argues. “I just—I'll talk to him. He's…,” he trails off at her skeptical look. Then he repeats, “I'll talk to him. I promise.”
“I know you will,” Hermione says. “So, your message said to come as soon as I could?”
“It did,” Harry confirms and then offers her a smile, one that reaches his eyes. “I have something for you. Something you’ve been waiting for.”
“Oh?” She perks up.
“Yeah,” Harry says and then turns to look at the man sitting in a wingback chair that's seen better days.
A man she hadn't yet noticed—likely by his own design—but one she'd recognize anywhere.
“Blaise?” Hermione asks, raising an eyebrow at Harry. “My surprise is Blaise Zabini ?”
“Am I not a gift to the world?” Blaise asks, a look of feigned indignation on his handsome face. “You wound me, Granger. I'm positively devastated.”
“Are not ,” Hermione snorts. His ego is massive enough to take the hit without any real injury. “How's Gin?”
“Perfect and lovely as always,” Blaise replies, lighting up at the mention of his woman. “She and Molly are doing some ward work on the Burrow, otherwise she'd have been here to see you too.”
“I'll see her before I head back, I'm sure,” Hermione says.
“About that,” Harry begins, shifting her attention back to him. “You’re not going back.”
“I'm not?” Hermione asks, confused. “But Harry, I haven't finished my course yet. I won't be certified as a trauma healer until—”
“I know,” Harry says quickly, softly. “But things are…”
He looks toward Blaise for help and Blaise l cuts him a suffering look and rises, coming to stand with them by the Black tapestry.
Blaise's dark eyes move over the names and faces, the scorch marks, the family lines, and they linger on a particular blonde and Hermione feels that deep sense of loss again. It's the same one she'd had settle in her chest when she woke up on that morning five years ago to find Draco already gone. It was like someone had punched a hole right through her and created a wound that refuses to heal.
She knows the ache of his absence won't ease until she lays eyes and hands on Draco again. She won't feel right until she has him back.
Then Blaise turns to her and at the look in his dark eyes, she thinks he understands. Hermione let her heart walk away, told him to run, and has mourned his absence every day since; Blaise lost his best friend without warning, without a goodbye, and has spent every spare moment not dedicated to Ginny or the Order scouring the earth to find him, to bring him back.
“The situation is rapidly evolving,” Blaise tells her, tone clinical, almost bored, like he's reciting talking points. “The Death Eaters are making moves and we need to do the same.”
Dread knots in Hermione's stomach all the same. If the Death Eaters are mobilizing, if they've decided they've waited long enough, that they've put enough pieces in place that they can finally act , then their lives are about to become that much more dangerous.
It means the Order’s efforts at containment, at prevention have failed.
It means escalation.
It means violence and terror and death.
It means open war.
“You're not going back to finish your course because we need you here more than we need you to be certified,” Blaise explains. “You're a competent medic. Whatever you lack in training, we're confident you'll make up in learning on the job.”
“I suppose that's true,” Hermione agrees, albeit reluctantly.
She really would rather finish something she started than bail on it so close to the end. But the war effort comes first. If she's needed at home, then the decision is already made.
It's why she joined the Order, after all.
It's why she's stood by Harry all of these years.
It's why she fled across the ocean when the Death Eaters started infiltrating the Ministry, when they started targeting muggleborns, when she became Undesirable No. 2 and the Order determined she would be safer out of the country and could pick up some much needed skills in the meantime.
It's why she Obliviated her parents and sent them to safety.
It's why she told Draco to run.
It's why she's missed him ever since.
This war is the reason for everything.
Everything .
“And there's one more thing,” Blaise says, waiting for her to meet his gaze, his dark eyes intense, shining, excited . “I found Draco.”
“You what ?” Hermione gasps, her heart pounding in her ears at the sound of his name, at the thought of them finally, finally knowing his location.
Hope blossoms in her chest and she sways as she feels a bit lightheaded, but Harry's there, sliding a steady arm around her waist and holding her close as she reels from Blaise's words, words she's longed to hear.
“He's a slippery bastard, I'll give him that,” Blaise says, voice full of admiration, because of course he’s impressed. “That he was able to elude both the Death Eaters and me for so long… he did an incredible job.”
“How did you find him?” Hermione asks, the adrenaline surging through her veins making her feel shaky and faint as she leans into Harry just a little bit more.
She might actually vomit instead of faint.
But they've found him . He's alive and they found him. She'll get to see him again, touch him, hear his voice, feel him.
And never let him go ever again.
“I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve,” Blaise smirks.
He does not elaborate.
“What matters is that if we've been able to locate him, then it's only a matter of time before his father does too,” Harry interjects.
Right. Of course they should expect Lucius Malfoy to not be very far behind. He's more powerful and resourceful and just as determined as they are, after all.
“Where is he?” Hermione asks, feeling alive for the first time in over five years—even the specter of her father-in-law can't darken the light that has crept into every cell of her body.
Blaise found him. They know where he is. For the first time since he walked off of school grounds and disappeared into the night, they know where Draco is.
“London, Hermione,” Harry answers. “He's been right under our noses this whole time.”
“London!” Hermione exclaims, practically bursting at the seams with the restless urge to go right now .
She's a doer , gods-damn it. She acts . She can't just sit here with the knowledge that he's right in the same city as her without either spontaneously combusting or doing something horrifically reckless.
But Harry gets it. He always does. And he takes her hands in his own, meets her gaze, and says the only words she can hear, the only words that could make it through the buzzing storm of thoughts and half-formed plans and the need to do something .
“It's time,” Harry tells her. “Let's go get him back. Let's bring him home.”