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Chapter Text

The day was a dreary one and already Hermione could feel herself falling asleep as Harry drawled on about his favourite three topics.

They were on the way to Hogwarts, and what a start to 6th year they were having! Already, they had slept through their alarms - much to Mrs Weasley’s horror who had all but pushed them out of bed - survived Ron’s moans of his dread to relieve 2nd year, had been caught in a torrent of rain and wind, and managed to squeeze into one over crowded train compartment (late).

Now, much to a tired and disgruntled Hermione’s dismay, she had to sit through Harry’s recount of the quidditch season to which Ron would frequently interject, only sparking debate as to what team would win the cup, his recounting of his nightmares (to which she is sympathetic too given any other day), and how Malfoy was almost certainly a death eater. Only one of those conversations could make her sit up. And it was most certainly not talk of sleep - otherwise she would surely pass out then and there.

“Are you sure that tosser is a death eater,” Ron had interjected.

“I mean sure guy’s got an inheritance to live up to but I mean he’s no older than us!”

Harry had given Ron a withering gaze.

“I know, ok, I just know something is different this year.”

Neville and Luna, who were this year’s company to the Golden Trio shared speculative glances from where they sat opposite each other, closest to the door.

It did not go unnoticed by Hermione who grinned, and leant over a now bickering Ron and Harry to whisper “Chosen boy stuff - he’s prophecy prediction is low key scary and this is coming from someone who thinks divination is as true as my Grandma’s gossip.”

Harry let out a disgruntled sigh as he rolled his eyes at Hermione’s snarkiness. It was most unlike her.

Then again she had been sort of off since he had first seen her at the Burrow but two weeks ago.

Both Ron and Harry would whisper late into the night over the fear that something had happened over the break – something that Hermione would surely tell them. Something she had yet to break secrecy over. Molly, overhearing such whispers, had promptly thracked Ron over the head and told the pair to help a visiting Charlie in the garden.

“Look, I just-”

Harry cut off as he saw the very figure that had preoccupied his thoughts since he last saw him in Nockturn Alley a few weeks ago, Draco it seemed had taken the opportune moment to stop right outside their compartment and open the door.

It was then that Harry stiffened, sitting up straight and clamping his mouth. All the while Ron lost composure having lent forward in the building momentum of the conversation and toppled forwards off his chair and onto the floor. Such a display of foolery had seen him grab the nearest thing, being Hermione, seeing her loose composure and lean onto Harry.

All the whilst Draco stood, slight glare and towering frame, nose turned up, as he leered.

“Forever making a fool of yourself Weasley. Most expected. Granger, how nice to see you.”

The venom that traced his cool detached tone suggested anything but. Normally Hermione might grit her teeth, but some small part of her whispered maybe this time it was deserved - he had just seen his father thrown in jail. “Rogers has called prefect meeting in 5.”

“And what, you have turned into his lap dog? On round up duty?” Ron snickered. He was silenced promptly by the face Draco directed his way. There was something hollow in his eyes Hermione reflected, of course Draco always had a first place death glare that would normally cause her a spark of fear, but now, since the summer, all trace of childhood rivalry was gone, in it’s place festered something more sinister – more sincere, when he turned pure hatred and an upturn nose upon a still sprawled out Ron.

It lasted all but a few seconds before he turned sharply, Draco didn’t bother to close the door before slaunting away, leaving the cabin in a disarray.

Neville looked star stricken, Ron had flushed almost as red as his hair, and Luna leant closer to Hermione - Harry meanwhile had stared off into the distance, lost in thought. He often was.

“HERMIONE!” Declared Luna, “You didn’t mention you were a prefect.”

Hermione who had been out of sorts, lost to her own dreams of sleep, perked up at this, as well as Draco’s reminder. It wasn’t often she was caught unawares, nor was it frequent that her highly detailed planner let her down.

“Well yes, it sort of never came up.” She cast an apologetic glance Ron’s way whose red face now subsided into one of almost hurt. For in truth there never seemed a good time to bring it up at the Burrow, as obsessive as the boys were in practically everything but her. “But I must go, I can’t be late.” With that Hermione scrambled out of the compartment, casting a smile to her four friends, all but Harry returned it.

Hermione hesitated.

Then, with a deep breath, she gathered her thoughts, her plans, and her courage as she followed the path Draco had just set out to the front of the train.

She had never been to the front, there wasn’t any reason for her to. 1st class tickets seemed an absorbent amount of money, silly for one to pay, let alone ask her parents to pay for, and well, she wasn’t in the habit of visiting any nepo babies.

Save Harry.

Harry always had a way of being the exception though.

It made sense for Tom Rogers, he was as rich as he was well liked - and simply put he was stinking rich. His father was some ex-minister of magic or another, whilst his mother was set in pioneering potion, after potion. All the matter, it made sense for him to have a 1st class cabin booked out for the first prefect meeting of the year.

She had, of course, received the owl that detailed the occurrence of the meeting, however she scarcely thought of who else might be prefect. It obviously wasn’t Ron or Harry, leaving her to consider Dean. As for the other houses, well, Draco should have been the obvious choice, but after the holidays she didn’t want to think of him. Not after what happened. She didn’t want to think about it, and from his cool response in collecting her neither did he.

She found the ensembled prefects quite easily, and much to her glee only half had arrived so far. To be late, Ginny often joked, should have been her boggart. Ron had laughed, whispering the truth of Hermione’s boggart to his little sister. The Weasley siblings had then shared a laugh in the transfigured Ms McGonagall telling her she failed. That had been third year her though.

Before everything had happened.

Before Voldermort came back to life.

Before a letter came warning her of a risk to her parents.

Before she cast oblivate.

Before the world got a whole lot wider, and her own world had shrunk with it.

Rogers beamed wide when she opened the door, sitting forward and patting at the seat inviting her to sit.

Hermione wondered what Rogers' life would be like. A pureblood with no worries in the world save ensuring everyone's day is a good one. What a difficult life.

“Hermione!” He declared, the Hufflepuff’s thick Scottish accent twisting her name.

“Sit sit, everyone should be here soon enough! I’m this year's head boy of course, Greengrass should be along shortly to introduce herself.” Rogers declared cheerily.

Her brow shot up, Angela Greengrass was a seventh year Slytherin, she supposed it made sense for her to headgirl, she was smart enough, certainly well met and pretty. Not one to voice any political opinions at all - and for that made her one of Hermione’s favourite Slytherins. Although as Hermione progressed throughout school, that list grew shorter and shorter. It might only be a handful of names by the time this year was done.

Soon enough all the prefects had entered. Hermione’s predications were practically all correct. Dean, it seemed, was a proud prefect, his badge all shined and most pristine part of his uniform. She snorted. Her partner for the year, yipee. As for the others, they were pleasant enough. Helena and Patil were kind girls at the very least. She couldn’t say the same for Pansy, smearing in the corner where she sat straight, poised as ever, beside a haunting looking Draco.

“It’s lovely to see you all!” Cheered Angela, she was elegant as ever in her robes. She had sharp features, flattering for her face shape, with thick, straight, shiny hair that a young Hermione would have wished for. It was Hermione’s best kept secret that in first year she had spotted Angela’s hair and had stayed up a whole night trying to find spells to give her the very same locks.

“Tom and I are so excited to see all of you here! Now, we are just going to get started on some ground work,” The new head girl beamed.

And so Hermione sat patiently, head nodding every now and then as the pair rattled on about keeping by standards, easy, school rules, double tick, and code of etiquettes, Hermione pursed her lips in agreement, eyes involuntarily flicking over to a zoning out Pansy. Hermione wrinkled her nose. She was not one to withstand bullies, but make that bully as distasteful as Pansy and she could not even imagine how she would get through close quarters with her the whole year.

She didn’t let herself even consider the implications this would have with Draco. A long time bully of hers. Hers and practically everyone, he would remind her – have it his way and she would believe she was nothing special. She sniffed, returning to the much more exciting details of duty and responsibility.

Draco, however, had not listened to a word of it. Nor did he want to. His mind, as of recent, has been practically anywhere and everywhere else. As the rain came down hard on the train, he couldn’t help but wonder why something – or someone – was shifting above where the bags were.

He couldn’t help but wonder what else would have spewed out of Potter’s mouth if he hadn’t made up some ludicrous reason to enter his train compartment and call an early Granger away to a meeting he was sure she was prepared for.

And he couldn’t help but wonder what his father would say if his son wanted nothing more then to scream at everyone about how ridiculous it was to pretend nothing had changed, before apparating away to France.

And so the rain poured on, as pointless conversation was passed, as Draco felt a pressing heaviness against his chest, and as Pansy picked at her nails.

All the while an invisible Harry had narrowed his eyes on Draco’s left arm, where Draco had formed a new habit of rubbing whenever someone would look his way.

***

Draco always had something that his mother described as an “inkling,” a ‘foreknowing’ if you will.

He had it as a young boy, a slight prickle on the back of his neck that alerted him of when his parents would check to see if he was truly asleep. Again, at school, when Slytherins would approach him in the common room to see what book he was reading, he would have to stealthily stow his Dickens novel. And now, as the prefect meeting was dismissed, he knew Potter and his stupid invisibility cloak were following him, out of the cabin, and into one where Nott and Zambini were sprawled out.

Let him settle. Let him get comfortable. Then strike. He plotted.

Show him just how much Draco had grown into the Death Eater Harry thought he was.

“Always show them the Draco they want to see,” his mother had reminded him every day of his life. She might have not meant the bully he no doubt had become, but she certainly meant the Malfoy he had most certainly grown into.

And a Malfoy it will be who will send Potter home from Hogwarts tonight.

“Drakes!” A no doubt severely hung over Nott called from where his head was stuffed between the cushion of the train’s couches. “Please say you brought me back some chocolate.” Blaise groaned in agreeance from where he too had covered his face with his Slytherin robes.

The two lazy-fuckers hadn’t bothered to even attempt to close the blinds he had opened but hours ago, having declared that they had to wake to sunlight.

Draco rolled his eyes and shoved Theo’s legs off the seat before settling down, making sure to give enough time for Potter to slip in before closing the door.

“Get your own,” Draco scoffed in indignation of his two dimwitted friends. At this the two groaned simultaneously, and Draco rolled his eyes. Wait him out. Maybe he would tease him. See what he would prattle back to his friends. Something about the idea of Hermione wanting to know about Draco had him sit up, eager to rope Harry’s attention.

“You were right Blaise, Hermione was a prefect. Although the perfect potter missed out.” At that Blaise let out a bark of laughter, his head finally surfacing from the crook of his elbow.

“Owe me five gallones you do!” Blaise clapped his hands in glee as he whacked Theo, who did the impossible and sunk even further into the cushions with a groan. Draco rolled his eyes again. Noting to never let them go out to a party the day before school break returns.

Draco had to get this on track. On topic.

It seemed he didn’t have to do much at all, and rather, he played his cards unknowingly well over the holidays removing himself from a now sobering pair of best friends.

After half an hour past, Theo had sat up, shared multiple wairy glances with Blaise, and the two shifted in their seats before Theo finally voiced what they were probably discussing amidst half hung over thoughts whilst he was at the prefect meeting.

“So… Draco, how was your summer? We didn’t hear much from you.”

“Busy.” Draco replied, clipped. He decided to resist the urge to speak of the ‘perfect’ holiday: Dotting Father locked up, Mother in fits of depression, and talks of me taking over the family business at not even 17 years of age really does the Summer vacation perfectly.

Instead Draco hit right home, “I was quite busy. Lot’s of stuff have fallen on me with Father gone now.” Vague. Just vague enough to rile up Potter. Just vague enough for Hermione no doubt to psychoanalyse everything in Potter’s retelling. Maybe he would drive her insane. He might secretly like that idea.

Theo and Blaise on the other hand, well, those closest to you always had an annoying talent of seeing straight through you.

It was with great difficulty that Draco withstood their bombardment of questions for the rest of the trip. It was with even greater difficulty that Draco prevented himself from screaming with pain at the buzzing on his arm.

But, when the time came, it was with ease he told the pair to go ahead without him. It was easy to lock the carriage door and stun Potter.

He might later reflect, when he was up in bed in the only place he has ever called ‘home’ – for Draco has always argued a house is not a home – that it was the easiest thing he has ever done to break Potter’s nose. One sudden, sharp stomp on his face.

Easy.

Draco always had something that his mother described as a sensitive heart, she would often laugh and stroke his hair as a child.

“You never do deal well with stress do you?” She would whisper to her giggling baby.

Narsissa was always right when it came to her child.

Draco did possess an inkling. An inkling when it came to Hermione Granger for instance, something that would haunt him that night as he remembered how his hair on the back of his neck would perk up as he recognised the settling of his gutt – Hermione is important this year. Why? He had no idea.

But, more importantly, Narsissa was always right when it came to her child.

Draco did have a sensitive heart. He didn’t take well to stress. And a now overwhelmed, hurt, reeling Draco, who would never admit to such vile emotions, found it easy to break Harry’s nose and leave him to the long train ride home to London.

He found it easy, because it would be much harder to consider the many other realities that accosted him whenever he closed his eyes.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: An Unraveling

The note had found its way to Hermione via owl during the first week of that Summer break.

“Hermione.

He is coming for your parents.

Hurry.”

Hermione still remembered the haunting owl, it looked sickly from where it was perched on her windowsill. Practically translucent in colour as if the moon had melted down and coursed through its veins, making its blood run a silver.

She could remember the feel of her stomach drop.

Her thoughts swirled in her brain as she hurried to untie the message from the owls leg. It was knotted, hastily tied. She could recall easily the settling feeling of horror, even before she read the message. Something, hell, call it fate, told her it would be bad. Something to do with the war. Those that she loved. But by god did it bring her to her knees.

Ever since she was but a babe many would tell her parents of her intelligence, unparalleled for someone quite so young. She could read quicker then most, write fluently, and talk in a provocative way that she was asked straight away by Tom at the Leaky Cauldron when first introduced to her if she might be related to the Minister himself!

Yet, in that moment, she wished she did not possess such intelligence, such a high wired mind that spun and twirled and couldn’t get the message out of her head. Of course she considered it to be a prank. But then, her stupid stupid stupid brain called attention to a potential reality where it was not. Where she went to Hogwarts and received the blue printed letter from the Ministry – a default message. A message to alert another of a deceased relative.

It frequently fell into muggleborns laps last year.

Hermione shivered.

It had yet to fall into her own. She hadn’t let herself consider before that it was only a matter of time. And soon she dismissed it as a prank after all. For, the penmanship was clear as day: the writing had a swirl over the “H” in the top right left of the letter, the H had looped around and formed the bridge in the construction of the letter. Such a writing was distinctly drilled into pure blood in birth. It was a distinct cursive way of writing that many seek to emulate. Those that want to seem prestigious, that is.

And although that did not legitimise it, the smudged ink, well, someone wasn’t putting time and care into this. No, this was a habit.

This was some pure blood wizard of a prestige house whose very habits for perfection were sacrificed in sending this to her quickly.

After the sun had set that day Hermione knew for sure some Death Eater had sent this to her.

By the time the sun had risen, Hermione knew in certainty that when that very Death Eater would grace the door step of her home, no one would be inside.

It was simple casting the spell.

Afterwards, it was not so simple.

By the time the sun had set once more, Hermione did not allow herself to think of it.

If she did, perhaps she would recognise a certain owl as she passed the ‘Magical Menagerie’ as she collected her books with Ron.

Perhaps she would recognise the man returning such an owl.

And his familiar grey eyes.

***

The start to the school year had been everything but calm Hermione decided as the Golden Trio departed for that night. Harry, whose nose had been smashed in had come into the dining hall late, tardy for a second time for that day.

And whilst he muttered that he was ok, and she managed to cast a few healing spells, Hermione knew something had struck him in his encounter with Malfoy. Something had shaken him so much that she could practically see his thoughts swirling.

Hermione supposed she knew what.

For she supposed, Draco was seeming more and more suspicious of being a Death Eater with every interaction they were having with this start of the term.

Gone was the upturned nose of the first year boy. In many ways then had been almost ‘play pretend’ at 11 years of age Hogwarts had seemed a playground - and sure the trio had never hit it off with Draco, but for certain they found the back and forth stimulating. As much as she used to playing tip, and hiding from the boys.

By second year she remembered why she had gone home crying to her mum as the boys in the muggle school used to pull on her plaits setting loose her spiralling hair; boys, Hermione learnt, could be the worst.

Third year Draco had only cemented such a finding, he was nasty yes, but by god did she dread crying over it. No. Draco’s drawling tone had become more like an aggrivator that could set her off in a frenzy of anger. This was not to be mistaken with anything but pure rage.

It was the fourth year that Hermione started to hate Draco.

Hermione had always hated bullies. Her magic showed itself for the first time when she had slammed Billy Nick over the head with her teachers book back in first grade. Ever since no bully had been victorious in knocking her about, and Hermione was always equipped with the brutal bounded weapon (being a novel).

Draco was no exception.

By fourth year Draco had grown into everything that she should have supposed he would. Gone was the facade of youth, and in its place was action after action. Pure resentment and bitterness stood in its place.

She supposed, in many ways, that had dwindled throughout fifth year. Hermione guessed everyone had grown up a little bit in that year. Hermione herself was too busy anyway. Although she didn’t fail to notice how Draco had mellowed out, for want of a better term. He became quieter, barely heard anything about his father, and stuck to observing.

Harry, to his credit, presumed maybe the guy was finding his feet.

Of course, this year, the many Draco Malfoys had begun to merge, and yet, at the same time, they seemed to be dead.

In its place was seemingly a growing man. He had certainly grown, his features had hardened, even his voice was considerably deeper. Draco in many ways was old for the year, but his eyes carried a certain age to them. As if he was being haunted. Exposed to something terrible. And in a blink anything from their childhood was forgotten, gutted, discarded.

And for his part, it wasn’t lost on Harry Potter.

No, all the Golden Trio had seen it. Draco Malfoy had seen death. And if Harry didn’t know better, he might have sworn he saw it flash in his eyes as Malfoy’s foot smashed down upon his nose.

Death. Intent. Hollow.

Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater. He knew it in the holidays, and by Salazar, he knew it now.

Hermione knew it too. She knew it, because she would be a fool not to take Harry’s instinct.

But, something was dawning on her. She knew that handwriting - that letter H.

She knew Draco had something to do with that note.

She needed to confront him.

And she would be damned if in sixth year, she didn’t solve Draco once and for all.

***

Hermione found herself eyes wide open as she sought to drift off to sleep. Hogwarts, in many ways, was her home. Especially now.

And yet, after months of being away, it felt cold and distant.

The other girls were asleep, Parvati next to her was snoring softly. The girl had all but crashed as soon as they clambered into their dorm, Lavender barely saying a word. Although that was quite normal. Parvati did all the talking.

Now, Hermione couldn’t help but feel the most alone then ever before.

She couldn’t quite bring herself to open up to Ron and Harry. Not quite yet. She knew it might be silly, but in many ways she didn’t have the strength. She might collapse if she were to speak of it. Of her parents. To go on is easier when one simply does not think about the past, with all things considered Hermione’s conclusion seemed comforting.

And so, wide awake as she was, Hermione found herself drifting to Draco Malfoy, a seeming pattern given the day’s events.

They had seen each other, but a day after Hermione had cast the spell, at Gringotts of all places.

Hermione was placing the little of her life savings when she saw him. He was badly injured.

Hermione sucked in a deep breath remembering the bustle of people, how they had locked eyes, and how he had turned away.

She had no where to be, no where to go, and seemingly like a moth to the flame she drove through people to get to him.

Her vision was a blur, the memory was fragmented, but she could remember panic settling in her as she chanted his name in her head. It seemed impossible that she might see him, his leg covered in blood, and his stupidly groomed hair all tossed up (for the first time ever).
She might recall reaching him. Their encounter was brief.

She found herself squeezing her eyes tightly. Rolling over as she forced her head onto the pillow in an attempt to cease her running thoughts.

Hermione found herself soon drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

The encounter but suppressed, the events not unpacked, and her mind at considerable ease because of it.

She would have to deal with it at a later date she had assured herself.

Wasn’t like Draco was going to bring up how she had all but nursed his wounded leg.

***

The next day Draco found himself crammed into the potions classroom with a much reduced cohort hovering around the beaming Professor Slughorn. His red rosy cheeks had been flushed, something Draco could only put down to alcohol, whilst his eyes glittered. They sharpened as they landed on Draco.

Draco, in many ways, found himself respecting the man more for it. And he was yet to say anything.

When asked at the end of the lesson, Draco may take back any previous mentions of respect, for, once all ensembled, Slughorn opened his mouth and out poured the fucking Atlantic Sea worth of words. By Salazar the man was a walking library with the amount of words he rambled on about.

Draco wanted nothing more then to bash his head against the chalk board, cease the pounding headache that seemed to never depart, and maybe then run out of the claustrophobic class room.

ALthough he would never admit it, Potter’s sudden entrance saved the day. The door had slammed open, halting Slughorns recount of his holidays, and incessant yambering of how ‘jolly it is to be back!’.

Now a new topic was picked up; “Oh Potter! Thank goodness” he had exclaimed, cheeks getting redder, eyes sparklier. “I was wondering when you would arrive, well boy come, come.”

The class, yet to be seated, had all turned to face the new comers, what an entrance that they had made! Draco snorted. Even, he noticed, Hermione who was on the opposite side of the room and practically concealed by the dim lighting of the dungeon had rolled her eyes, her nose scrounching up as Ron declared loudly something about needing a book. She thacked Ron as he approached, clambering around the cupboard with Harry appearing at his side. Both clutching distasteful copies of Potion books, and hair messed up – no more then usual he supposed.

Unconsciously, he ran a hand through his hair, which was somewhat straight, and ordely. He liked it that way. Blaise would frequently call him pedantic, Nott might utter control freak, but either way, it was the one thing that he could rely upon, control, and just know that even if his dad might day, he would have to do all that is wrong in the world, and his mother might hate him – at least he would be going into an early grave with good hair.

Nott had not appreciated such humour.

Draco had since learnt to keep it to himself.

“Welcome, welcome.” The professor beamed warmly. “Now that we are finally all gathered here I would like to introduce you to the sixth year potions course. Simply ecstatic I am that you all chose the best course, if I do say so myself.” Slughorn chuffed, his chest seemingly puffing out. Gosh, Draco couldn’t help but think, the man is just pathetic.

Glancing to the only one with as much sense as him in the room, Malfoy spied the familiar look of distaste on Hermione’s features.

“Now, Snape is an apt teacher of course, but I must say I do have my own different style. I like to think of potions as a reflection of the mind. One must really find it from within themself.” The professor tattled.

Of course, Draco couldn’t care less. Whether he listened or not, nothing in the world would change, and at the end of the day, Daco just honestly couldn’t be bothered to know what the long term unemployed fool considered important. Draco always had learnt the hard way in life, despite what Potter might say about it.

Nott would hit the floor if he knew Draco’s thoughts, in stomach bending fits of laughter no doubt.

“Well,” The professor continued – as if his tangent was never ending, Merlin help them all, “Unlike Snape, I see potions as an intellectual pursuit. Being in sixth year and everything, such a connection to this subject must be fostered in pairs.” Immediately there was a commotion around the room. Harry and Ron seemed to snap together, hell even he and Nott shifted close, everyone had whipped around to their trustworthy partner.

Slughorn was not finished.
“Now now, I don’t mean your friend. This is an intimate process. One where you have to find your intellectual partner. I suppose it will take a few weeks so choose who you want for now and be sure that I will shuffle them accordingly!”

Draco was sure, by now, that it would be a miracle if he could get through the year without cursing his professor.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THREE:

The library was where Hermione always found comfort. Not many things were shared between the Muggle and magical world, save the fresh smell of books and parchment that she could find littered around her bedroom, the library down the street, or even in Hogwarts.

In many ways, she envied Harry. He so easily embraced everything to do with the magical world, needing no reminders of his life prior. Hermione supposed that was why he was able to tackle anything and anything. But to her?

She needed knowledge, the comfort of security: both in the unfamiliar terrain of a life where all her other peers were prepped and comfortable, but also in the familiar, where she could pretend she was any other, normal teenager. 

The library was as quiet as ever – few students electing to spend their third night back at school studying. To Hermione, it was never the studious, hard work her peers dreaded, but rather a way to immerse herself in a fascinating world that could replace her home reality, even if it was for a few moments. It could both remind her of her situation away from everything she was raised up to be, and the place she used to call home… in many ways that had to become a distant reality. The library helped.

The quiet hum of turning pages and the occasional squeak of a chair against the stone floor grounded her in her setting, so too did the pelting rain, which steadily dripped against the tall windows, streaking the glass with currents of grey and fog. No doubt was the dark of the night beginning to set – it would be fast, the change from dusk. The moon would situate above the sky as the stars would settle in neat arrays of heroes and kings - no doubt a reminder of the hollow earth in which they now lived. 

Storms, in many ways, softened the world, dulled its harshness, so as the rain poured out, she allowed herself the briefest of pauses to acknowledge the setting outside. Restless, the night was, and what comfort that brought her!

Slowly, she rose, scanning the shelves for books. Being but one of five students in Ancient Runes no doubt requires her to catch up: Parkinson, Malfoy, MacMillan, Bones and Patil all had an up on her. They probably already knew all the basics, fundamentals of runes that formed their world in which they were born. 

She had a lot to do before the first class. 

Running her fingers over titles of books she collected dust on the tip of her finger. Now and again, she would find a suitable title, and heave the book out of the shelf from where it was wedged together, papers half torn apart and weathering. 

It seemed the small course, with only five students, was reflective of the literature produced in the magical world on Ancient Runes, for there were scarcely any suitable books at all, much to Hermione’s displeasure. 

Soon enough, Hermione had scoured all the content of the books and turned to the only remaining one – she hoped it would be less disappointing. The gold leafing on the title was almost worn away now, no doubt the product of time, and many other studious hands that had gripped at its yellowing cover. 

The corner desk in which she sat allowed her to shift, bringing it onto her lap as her eyes darted around the index, mind buzzing. This was most unlike the prior sections, as she held the book, she couldn’t help but feel a slow creeping up her spine.

It read most peculiarly dark runes; she would not hesitate to call them dark magic, the index clearly outlined multiple ancient runes she would hardly believe to be passable by law. Most evidently was the section restricted. Existing, Hermione read on, casting her mind to her Slytherin peers who no doubt would have an understanding of this area.

And so, Hermione read of soul-bonding, mind-twisting, and flesh-melting runes that carried almost irreversible effects. 

Breathing deeply, Hermione shut the book quickly. In doing so, she looked up. Her position in the corner of the library was of great vantage point. She was hidden amongst the shelves, and in doing so, she was practically out of sight. But this meant, at the same time, she was opposite the entrance of the restricted section where Malfoy’s back was turned. It was dim lighting, as if the end of the library discouraged students from even passing by it’s shelves, yet even in the shadows she could recognise him by the sharp cut of his shoulders, and the tilt of his head as he studied (no doubt) the lock. 

Then, most unexpectantly, the doors opened and he passed through.

Muttering to herself, Hermione hastily shoved the book away. 

She had tried, over the years, to absorb as many books as possible. Almost like a personal goal. But when she slowly explored suitable books around the library, she found an insatiable desire to explore the restricted section. Something she was most jealous of Harry for doing with the invisible cloak. Although he always offered it to her to explore, she had always declined (reluctantly) as if in doing so she would be backtracking on all the morals she had set for herself.

But now? She was frustrated. Draco, a possible Death Eater and a prick who had just hurt Harry, had the privilege she would want nothing more to have? The possibility that he had access to something that she couldn’t drove her to stand up, and softly walk towards the gate, thankful for the shadows of the library so as not to be noticed.

All her life she was at a disadvantage. She would be damned now if she didn’t slip in. 

Perhaps she really had gone mad.

But that book… those runes… surely there would be more in there? And as an added bonus, just maybe she could get something of interest to Harry if Draco was snooping at dark book,s Harry would be sure to use this as evidence. Hermione wasn’t exactly sure if this was a good thing just yet. 

And so Hermione slipped across the room, careful not to draw attention, and watched as Draco entered the restricted section. Without hesitation, Hermione slipped in behind him – the fool didn’t even turn around, so could scarcely have noticed her as she slipped behind the closest shelf and out of his sight. 

The next few minutes were spent in a blur. Hermione tasked herself with finding the Rune section, all the whilst cautiously stepping around piles of books, lest Draco might be leering behind them. With every section she passed, she found her heart beating louder, faster – her doubts almost doubling with every step as she second-guessed her rash actions. Actions she would have been sure to condemn and berate Harry and Ron for. Actions she hadn’t thought about, and had simply acted on.

Squaring her shoulders, she pushed forward, the lights growing dimmer as she walked away from the comparatively well-lit main section of the library. It was almost towards the end of the section that the Rune collection of books was found. The tiles were odd, darker than the rest, etched with faint carvings that ran alongside the book shelves, trailing and tracing the ridges of the very books that sat on their shelf. 

Runes. They had to be. Hermione held her breath. Her initial study had not prepared her for the intricacies in which they were carved. 

“Looking for something, Granger?” A familiar drawl came from behind her. 

Whipping her head fast, she spotted Draco immediately, his tall figure was slanted against the opposite bookshelf, as he flicked through an open book in his hands, his eyes downcast on the page. 

“Most peculiar to find Harry’s girlfriend in a section of Dark Arts, is it not?”

Draco shut the book suddenly to look up into her eyes, narrowing and direct was his gaze. She blinked.

“One would think it’s suspicious of you to be here,” Hermione added, wincing at how direct her words came across. It was evident their meaning, what with the highly publicised arrest of his dad. It was not her intention to cast his face ashen, nor was it to anger him. Shaking, Hermione reminded herself of who exactly she was talking to. It wasn’t like he had lost both his parents, and simply, why would she bother herself with his well-being? 

“Ahh yes. Because I am no doubt the Dark Lord himself come to play high schoolers with my spare time, you are insightful Granger.” Draco said, recovering and stepping towards her without missing a beat. At the same time, his fingers acted quickly, tucking away the book into his robes. 

Hermione glared as he approached her, stepping back ever so slightly closer to the Ancient rune books behind her.

“Do not insult me like that. I have some intelligence, you know, the Dark Lord would never choose someone without an inkling of subtlety or how to use his own wand.”

The same anger from before came rushing back, flooding her senses in what she would no doubt usually poke fun at as the Gryffindor spirit. Draco’s eyes lit, almost as if he was amused, with the slight upturn of his familiar smirk – as if she wasn’t quite part of a really funny joke. 

“You never know, he might really like playing dress-ups, and I do have quite the wardrobe for it. Dashing appearance, robes, the whole tortured package. It’s practically a brand.” 

Hermione’s glare did not waver as the blood rushed to her cheeks, “So what, you really are a daddy’s boy. Obviously so needy that you would take attention from anyone now that he is gone. I doubt Voldermort would even want you in his ranks. Disgraced and all.” She spat out, almost tempted to punch him smack in the face. Once, obviously, wasn’t enough. 

Draco stepped closer, just enough to test the space between them. His gaze growing more sinister, something she would not have believed possible before his rigid, frosty gaze. His smirk curved lazily, almost predatorily – which only riled Hermione more – as his eyes flickered from her scowl to the spines of the books behind her. 

“Judging by how much attention you’ve paid me lately, I suspect someone finds me of interest.” Hermione’s breath caught from irritation, as Draco slowly prowled closer. They were now standing much too close, the air heavy like the pressure of the storm outside. 

Before Hermione could even respond – not that she knew how she would in the first place, her mind growing much too foggy from the creeping scent of sandalwood and preoccupation with Draco’s height, which she decidedly found very annoying – a thrum echoed through her eyes.

It was low and ancient, seemingly vibrating through the stone floor, like something old stirring from its sleep. She found herself dreading the possibility of a second Chamber of Secrets at that moment. Yet another bashful thought that she would have to figure out later. 

Apparently she wasn’t the only one to feel it, Draco’s smirk had dropped, and he looked past her to the bookshelf behind her. The darkness of the restricted section was now glowing, faintly. Lit by the golden spiral of runes that ran alongside the bookshelf – something Hermione would otherwise smugly have noted she identified earlier, given a different situation.

Hermione stumbled.

In reflection, she would blame it on Draco – interference in her personal space, and his merlin-rutting face. That was what made her step back, arm swinging behind to steady her as she lost balance, hand whipping out to the closest structure for support, landing squarely on the glowing Runes. 

Eyes wide she stared at Draco, any previously vehemence dying out as she felt something pass through her almost like a current. 

As if instinctively – Hermione was doubtful any concern fed his actions – Draco rushed to grip her and pull her from the shelf, as if in fear it would suck her into the pages of a book – a curse she would expect from the restricted section. His hand shot out, grabbing her elbow as if to steady her as her knees threatened to buckle.

The crackling heat transferred between them, the scent of a curse thick in the air, almost as if a choir of voices chanted something static-charged, it swirled through the air like a snake, deliberate, fast, and with a suffocating strength. 

“Don’t touch me,” Hermione breathed as the searing heat charged through the pair of them, but he didn’t let go, because the moment his fingers brushed her skin, the golden light turned pure white-hot and their surroundings seemed to fold inward. In response, the entire library shivered. Then, as suddenly as it had happened, the light was gone. The air felt distorted, the space suddenly silent in the eerie, magical way that suggested the rest of the world had been held at arms length.

Their eyes met a second time that afternoon. For a suspended moment, neither of them spoke.

It was after Draco pulled her away that Hermione’s brain finally “de-fogged” and she realised multiple things at the same time. Not only did she touch some weird runes that she had no idea what they were about, nor what they did, but the rush of gold had run through her body, and Draco’s after he touched her. But, most important to her in that moment, was that she was now flush against Draco’s chest and could feel his toned body underneath.

Hastily, she pushed away, ducking her head to hide her blush in the now settling dark of the library as the gold light dimmed out. She could feel the pounding of her heart and the heat of adrenaline, still as Hermione finally spoke in the silence.

“What did you do?” Hermione spoke with expectation, aghast and shocked for multiple reasons that she couldn’t quite process now. She didn’t have the time. This was too rushed, too quick, everything was a blur, and her thoughts were a mess of emotions and panic.

“I didn’t do anything! You’re the one who shoved yourself up against a cursed bookshelf.” Draco spoke, shifting slightly on his feet as if he was attempting to put back his prick-and-very-punchable-face from before as he cleared his face and straightened his features – wiping any panic or recognition of the events that just unfolded from his face to one that she would suppose would be suitable for a calm reading session in the library, and certainly not for whatever one could describe as what just happened.

“You approached me! Gave me scarcely any room, of course I would step back, you bastard – we are probably going to die now.” Hermione spat, her anger pulsating with a growing migraine. 

Draco glared, and it was only in that moment that the two of them seemed to realise that his arm had snaked around her from when he had attempted to pull her back. There was no rune, no lingering glow, nothing out of the ordinary save the fact that it felt wrong. The touch was almost like the rush of magic she got when she cast from her wand, tingly and slightly warm.

They stepped away from each other in the same second, matching glowers. 

Their eyes were locked, until a bell toll could be heard from the other side of the library. Closing time. 

Draco narrowed his eyes once more in her direction, seemingly a never-ending trend on his part, before he turned to leave. It was rushed his actions were rushed, not quite his normal grace in which he held himself. She caught the tightness in his shoulders before he disappeared between the stacks, leaving a much put-out Hermione in shambles.

She couldn’t quite rein in her anger at the pompous git, her confusion on ancient runes, her fear for what exactly had just transpired, and her excitement for standing in the restricted section of the library. Either way, she had a long list of questions for her new Ancient Runes teacher for their first class tomorrow, and she had no plans of holding back the next time she saw Draco Malfoy.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4:

Harry PoV

Harry couldn’t sleep. He was restless. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. It was only 10 pm, the beginning of lights out at Hogwarts, and a fairly early night still. However, he had turned in from the laughter of his house’s common room with the excuse of a migraine. Something everyone seemed to instantly accept from him, as ongoing as they were. And now, alone in his room, Harry couldn’t quite explain his gut feeling that something was not right.

In Harry’s many years at Hogwarts, it always seemed that whenever something was going wrong, there was a good tie to a certain blonde-haired prick.

Sighing, Harry gave in and sat up on his bed to rummage around in his still-unpacked bag.

Eventually, he found the Marauder's Map, which was a bit crinkled on the edges and starting to wear its age as he flattened it out against his bed and opened it up, whispering the password to unlock it. 

As it unfolded ,Harry immediately scoured the surface of the Slytherin common room for Draco’s name. After several long moment,s he found Draco and Hermione together, in the restricted section of all places. 

Harry’s heart leapt as he tumbled out of bed in an attempt to pull on his socks and shoes.

He was in a panic as he straightened up and fled from his rooms to run down to the library and curse him. Merlin knows what Voldemort tells his followers to do to Muggleborns when alone. 

Hermione, as close as she is to Harry, and been fairly drawn away from the beginning of the term. That in itself was unsettling. She had been acting strange ever since Dumbledore had dropped him off at the Weasleys’, staying up late, jumping at shadows. And now? The restricted section of all places? Surely she knew better than to follow Draco in there – that must have been what she was doing!?

However, as Harry stumbled through the quieting Gryffindor common room, receiving several odd looks, he bumped into Hermione, all bushy hair and wide eyes and mumbled an excuse.

“Oh, Harry, sorry! Didn’t see you.” Her grin didn’t quite reach her eyes. Harry cocked his head, in shock, surely he hadn’t taken that long to get ready that she had already come from the library?

“Hermione, all good?” He asked, confused and mind in a haze.

“Of course!” Again, her tone didn’t quite match her demeanour; she fidgeted – a telling of a lie. “Just doing some homework at the library. I just - I’m going up to bed.” She flashed another one of her hollowed grins. 

Harry gritted his teeth. There was most definitely something she wasn’t telling him. He knew she had just seen Malfoy, so why wasn’t she rushing to see him and tell him everything, and rather than going to bed? 

He was right: something in Hogwarts wasn’t right, and it most definitely had something to do with Draco Malfoy. 

He didn’t trust him, not after last year, and most certainly not after the mark he was probably hiding beneath his sleeve. But that wasn’t new. What was, was the seed of doubt nesting in his head as to Hermione’s role. 

Ron had been too distracted by Quidditch tryouts to share his concern over her odd behaviour. But Harry noticed as she rolled her eyes, sat away from them at Dinner, and flicked odd glances to Draco. 

Giving Hermione the best grin possible, he politely excused her, his head thumping as he wished her good night. As soon as he disappeared around the corner to the girls common rooms, he spared no time for the odd glances of his peers as he raced up the steps and back into his dormitory. There, on his bed, he retraced the names. 

Sure enough, Hermione was in her dorm, but Draco? He was completely off the map. Harry’s eyes narrowed, questions flying around his head. Surely he hadn’t got a reason for leave this early in the term?

His eyes cast downwards to where the cloak lay in his bag. Harry gritted his teeth and resigned himself to something he hadn’t done previously: his insecurity.

Throwing the cloak over himself, he began to trace Hermione’s steps to her room. If Draco had given her anything, if there was any clue as to what happened, he had to know. 

Something wasn’t right, and he was going to find out what, because Hermione was most definitely not telling him the truth.

Hermione PoV

Flustered, she ran up to her room after her encounter with Harry. Everything was falling apart, including her mind. By Merlin, did she need some space or else she feared crumpling onto the floor in front of everyone and tearing her hair out in frustration of her compounding mind. 

Discarding her cloak, and with it the books on runes she had fled the library with, she went into the shower. She had no intent on sleeping tonight; rather, she would pour herself over the last book she had found, the dark runes buzzing around her mind as she tried to recall everything she had read. A deeper read was necessary, she decided. She was determined to research what possibly could have occurred.

Midst her shower, she heard the door open, no doubt Lavendar or one of the girls. She shrugged it off; they always gave her a wide berth of space. Never interfering, never even interacting with her. It was best that way. 

If Hermione wasn’t with Ron or Harry, then she would be studying, and then there simply wasn’t enough time for anything else. 

She supposed she should try to work on that. Now with her parents gone and all, she supposed maybe a few words with the Patil sisters wouldn’t hurt. 

Slipping into some clean pyjamas, Hermione stepped back into the dorm, the empty dorm. Puzzled, Hermione brushed it off and approached her bed.

There, her eyes widened, gone were the books. They were taken from where she had discarded them. Her mind swirled with all possibilities as to how, and why, someone might have taken them. 

However, most importantly, there was a scrawled note on her pillow. It was written in the same cursive as the first note, something she had pushed from her mind from the start of the term, as if the reality was a bit bigger than she could process. Most like the former message, the note read: 

“Don’t go to sleep tonight.”

Holding her breath, Hermione backtracked, and for the second time that night, her back hit against a wall. Not blinking, she crumpled to the floor.

Something in Hogwarts wasn’t quite right. Her breath sharpened. 

By the next morning the rain hadn’t let up. The castle halls were slick with mist and the occasional trail of muddy footprints from those who ran in and out of the School’s sheltered grounds.

Hermione tugged her cloak tighter as she walked the west corridor, her direction wavered, her vision blurred, the events of the night, and her lack of sleep compounded in a disorientated sensory experience that had her chugging multiple coffees at breakfast. She hadn’t spared a glance to Harry’s disapproving scowl, nor Ron’s worried face as he (yet again) ranted about the quidditch trials this weekend. 

“Hermione!” A shrill voice sounded from behind her. Looking up, startled, Hermione turned to an approaching Rogers. If she was aware as normal, she would astutely notice his shaven and polished appearance, maybe even inwardly gushed. She did have a small thing for blondes, something she was hesitant to admit even to herself. 

“Hey!” She called, trying her best to plaster a normal-looking smile that might mean ‘we are just normal friends stopping for a chat in the corridor’.

“Hi” He breathed, catching his breathe before beaming down at her, “look I have the prefect roster for this term, we are thinking of doing it on rotations to get the body close together and all that. Anyway, you’re on tonight. Sorry for the late notice.” he scratched behind his head in an almost bashful look, it made his haughty experience look ridiculous, “Anwyay, here you go. I’ve gotta run but C’ya.”

Before Hermione could even reply, he was running away, as if he feared she would have an opinion on the roster, or Merlin forbid she say bye to him. Rolling her eyes, she internally berated herself for finding him attractive. It seemed, in their one and only interaction, he cared little for her. 

Maybe she was reading too into it. But by Merlin did Hermione hoped she was wrong. It stung, a little bit, to have someone so open and so kind to everyone else be so cold to her. 

Glancing down at the schedule, she breathed a deep sigh. It seemed for an hour tonight she had to be civil with none other than Parkinson. It should be a walk in a park.

The day passed in a blur. Fairly uneventful, thankfully.

She had little interaction with Harry and didn’t even see Malfoy. Nothing had happened to make her concerned about any death-enducing curse, and most importantly, Ancient Runes were amazingly interesting. 

Perhaps she was a bit sceptical as to why Draco wasn’t in any classes, but she decided, as she stood up from dinner, that it was most certainly not to do with her. 

Standing where Rogers had instructed, outside the dining hall, Hermione patiently waited for Parkinson, praying that they could get this over with, preferably with little interaction, before she would retire to her dorm, where there would be no note, and she could peacefully sleep. 

“Granger,” the hostile greeting was offered by Parkinson, as ever she was immaculately dressed, hair soft and glossy. Something Hermione would envy in her sleep. Offering a small smile Hermione inclined her head.

“How are you? Good start to term?” Hermione probed, hoping to destill the tension that was undoubtably taught between the two of them, Pansy being meters away from Hermione and no one else present in the grand entrance of the castle.

Parkinson huffed, “Please, may we do this in silence?” she asked, rolling her eyes as she finally strode up to and past Hermione. Blinking, Hermione narrowed her eyes. 

Something most unlike the Muggle world is simple attempts at pleasantry and politeness is not needed or welcomed. Why, back at home even if you hated someone you do so with gritted teeth and a plastered smile. Here? Well, she was adapting, and had been adapting for six years, and now she was fed up with the outright hatred everyone held each other. 

Silence. That would work. Hermione gritted her teeth. 

The two roamed the corridors, certainly not side by side, rather Hermione led the way onwards, Pansy at her heels. If the pace wasn’t to her liking the girl would huff behind her, something that would make Hermione speed up even more. Eventually, apparently it grew too much for Pansy relented on her established rule and spoke with a pout on her face.

“Look, I don’t know what your doing wanting me to run around these halls but for the love of Merlin slow down.” 

Hermione turned slowly, what came out was simple, not thought through, but by Merlin, was the look on Pansy’s “lady-like” face worth it.

“Slow down? Is that what you tell Malfoy every night?”

Pansy beat red, coming up short to stare at Hermione, outrage littering her features.

“Excuse me? You filthy-”

“Oh save yourself the trouble and go to bed Pansy .” Hermione spoke, her anger rising in her. It was an unsatisfied dragon this year, flaring up, controlling her, her emotions were out of hand, and she could not rein it in. Already this term it had got her in too much trouble.

She wished she had someone to talk to, to comfort her. But by Merlin would she step up, and do it for herself for now. 

“You and I both know if you finish that sentence, I will do something your fancy little wand won’t be able to stop. So go on, shoo.” If Pansy had ever been told to shoo, she certainly did not make it known. 

Pansy, red-faced and fuming, did something Hermione would least expect, for she did turn and practically run away. Hermione, although she would never admit it, found it an oddly satisfying sight.

please give kudos :(

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: When in Conversation

Chapter 5: When in Conversation

It wasn’t until that Wednesday, more than a week from the start of term, that Hermione saw Draco for the first time since the encounter in the library. It was first at the breakfast table.

Ron was growing jittery, mumbling every now and then, shaking his red hair, the only discernible words was “quidditch” and “trial” and “must-be-good” and “Thursday”. Hermione and Harry would spare glances towards each other as Ron’s hands would shake picking up a piece of toast every now and again.

Safe to say, Hermione had every reason to be bored on the Friday over breakfast, with her company failing to keep her wandering eyes preoccupied. Rather, she found herself looking back to the Slytherin table, which she was frequently observing over the week. 

For the first time in two days did she see him. He was slouched, hair tousled and eyes heavy, downcast on an empty plate before him. Hermione couldn’t help but feel unnerved. Draco was acting most peculiarly. For someone who normally holds himself with such a refined dignity: shoulders back, head high, never a crumpled uniform, and always freshly polished, he was doing everything that no doubt would tarnish the Malfoy name. Why, even his collar was askew. No, for the first time, Hermione found herself describing Draco’s appearance as tired. 

Draco was sitting opposite Theo Nott, a boy who Hermione decided in their first year that she wanted little to do with him as soon as he and Draco became best buddies. Sure, he never did anything, but someone had to be crazy to practically never leave Draco’s side. 

Sure enough, they were together, unusually, they were not surrounded by their usual goons, to which Hermione was thankful for, it was much too early to see Pansy Parkinson’s face. She got off too good last time. False politeness, Hermione decided, will go nowhere.

However, Draco, in that same moment, she was about to look away, looked up sharply. His eyes locking with her own causing her to flush – she would hope with a red that conveyed her anger. 

Looking down at her plate, she ignored Harry’s sceptical glance. 

It was only a matter of time before Hermione would see Draco again; she just hoped there were enough people around to escape the inevitable confrontation. Surely, surely, he wouldn’t bring up what happened to the library.

She just wished she knew more since that damned book went missing. 

The next time she saw Draco Malfoy, his appearance was decidedly much more put together. The familiar iron-pressed shirt and freshly groomed hair were a strange assurance that perhaps everything was back to normal. What was most unnerving was his lack of glare.

Ancient Runes was near the top of one of the castle’s many turrets, and so they were mostly by themselves, as they walked up towards class. Draco, however, had stopped when he saw her. Eyes set, as if determined. 

In a few strides, Hermione found herself close to his chest, a second time she found herself in the situation – one she decided must not become routine. In a matter of seconds, Draco and somehow pushed her into a broom cupboard, the door slamming shut with the force in which it was first opened. 

Draco, Hermione realisesed as she watched him, may have been put together in his robes, but up close, his eyes looked crazed. 

“Malfoy.” Hermione gasped, realisation snapping into her as she struggled in his grip, her hair falling between them, a welcome barrier of defence. “Get off me.” Hermione struggled, willing her voice to even out and not shake. 

Draco let his arms fall away, but there was no change, she still felt suffocated from his presence, his cologne was consuming her, and she could scarcely see anything but him in the dimly lit cupboard.

“Didn’t your mother teach you anything about how to treat a women,” Hermione breathed, wishing to fill any silence and prompt Draco into action, surely now he would bring it up. A small part of Hermione wished he wouldn’t. 

The comment seemed to wake Draco up, a familiar spark in his face lit as he glowered and let out a sigh. 

“Granger just stop for a moment otherwise you’ll make us late.” Draco said with almost a mocking concern. It was well known Draco was frequently late to class this year, as he was last year, Hermione on the other hand? She had things to prove. 

Glowering even more Hermione started to subconsciously tap her foot, her arms going to her hips.

“Well. Do tell. What are we doing here!?” Hermione’s arms raised into the sky as she resisted the urge the throttle the useless git.

Draco simply scoffed, amused by the whole display, “Women if you were quiet for a single moment you would let me get a word in.” Flushed Hermione again repeated her now favourite mantra: resist the urge to punch Draco Malfoy. 

“Look is this about the rune? We need to go back, to study it. Do you have any idea what it was? I can’t find anything on it, and-”

“Hermione.” Draco snapped. It would be later that Hermione realised he said her name for the first time, and she would be unsettled by its effect. “Let me speak, Merlin's beard.” He sighed, as if exacerbated.

“I burnt the shelf, there is no rune, something like that had to be burnt.” He hesitated as if unsure whether or not to be elaborated. Hermione, however, was much put off, her hands found their comfortable position at her hips, and her chin jutted out. 

“Excuse me. You did what. Do you know how valuable anaylising that would have been? I could have done research, I could-”

“Oh please, all books on runes have disappeared, the only ones accessible are at my house, and frankly, even they are hard to find, they move along the shelf as if they avade being found, and those that I could grab are still written in an ancient manuscript that is illegible. Plus, princess, hate to burst your bubble but your not the only one that can take notes.” Draco rolled his eyes and pushed a leather bound journal into her chest, making her stumble backwards at the unexpected force. 

Briefly, her eyes glanced upwards before her hands worked quickly unbinding and finding Draco’s sketch of the runes. The bookcase held the outline of the many lines that was carved into the wood. 

When she looked back up at him his face was unreadable. Pale. Sharp. 

“So… so you don’t know what these mean, do you?” Hermione gestured to his sketch, which he had already taken out of her hands and was making quick work of rebounding it, tucking it away into his robe. His icy glare was enough of an answer. But this time, Hermione knew it wasn’t directed to her, but rather a frustration of not knowing. Something she supposed was mirrored on her own face. 

“Fine. Get me those books from your house. And I want a copy of the sketch. But, we are not going to our teacher. It’s suspicious, not until we know what it is and if we are even supposed to know what it does.” Hermione started listing off her plan actions, hesitating to even appreciate that she was making a plan with Draco in the first place.

Draco, to his credit, didn’t bat an eye, rather, if anything, his face began to split into a genuine grin. 

“Anything you say Princess.” 

_______________

That night, Hermione fell into bed with aching limbs, sparing no usual niceties the gossiping girls in her dorm, as much as she did want to over hear Lavendar’s recount of Lousie’s expecapies during the holidays, the pounding of her head from four nights of virtually no sleep saw her practically pass out on her bed.

Sleep was instant, so deep it felt like she was drowning, a warm, heavy darkness settled over her, and she found herself slipping away from all reality.

Hermione knew she was dreaming. She had to know—it was the only explanation for the fact that the sky above her was an impossible shade of indigo, like ink spilled over stars, and the trees were too tall, too ancient, their branches twisted like runes etched against the sky. The ground beneath her feet was stone—smooth and cold, patterned with glowing lines like veins of light running beneath her.

And yet, it felt real.

The air was cold. The kind of cold that crept below her skin and coiled into her lungs when she breathed. It was almost as if something possessed her to turn, something powerful that struck at the centreplace of her heart and rotated her to move.

There, standing behind her like he’d always belonged in this strange, in-between place, was none other than Draco Malfoy, the very same who had pushed her into the broom closet only that morning.

Hermione’s heart stuttered. Her first instinct was to reach for her wand. Her second was to question why she didn’t have it . Dream. Dream Dream. She reminded herself, there would be no other explanation for her surroundings, for her being alone in a weird world with only Draco Malfoy for company.

It was in moments alike to this that Hermione found herself longing to know Draco’s middle name. It would add to her construction of the pompous git in her mind. Not that she thought about him at all. 

Draco looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him, but it passed quickly—masked beneath that familiar sneer.

“Lovely,” he said, taking a step toward her. “Even in dreams, I can’t escape you.” He sighed. Gone was his usual malice. Most definitely a dream, he never looked so… unguarded before. But this was not the time to reminisce, Hermione had to know. She had to know why he was here. She couldn’t remember the last time she remembered her dream, let alone how one might play out. 

“You think this is your dream?” she shot back. “You’re insufferable enough in real life, you git.” Hermione narrowed her eyes, her hands finding their usual spot on her hip, “This is most certainly a dream, but by Merlin why would my subconscious put you here?”

He shrugged, eyes scanning their surreal surroundings. “Maybe it’s a fun dream.” Draco grinned, she wouldn’t be surprised if this weird, dream-like Draco shot her a wink as he elaborated, “Helplessly in love with me from afar. That sort of thing.”

Hermione stared at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you. I do really try.” He shot her a soft grin as she glowered at him. The tension was familiar—almost comforting in a strange, volatile way.

She turned away, an attempt to try and make sense of the place. Massive archways loomed in the distance, made of obsidian and carved with symbols that hummed beneath the surface. The air thrummed like a held breath. 

She found herself hesitating, as if in approaching the arch she would see the same runes that ran along the bookshelf. As if in analysing them, she would confirm her fears and there truly was a curse in touching the shelf. She turned away, willing herself not to explore. For once ,she was hesitant to know. It seemed a bit too scary to face a death doomed from ancient runes. She found herself longing to have picked even divination instead of this merlin-rudding class.

“Where are we?” she muttered, more to herself than him.

Draco’s voice came from behind her, closer than she expected. “Feels older then most places, almost like another reality or realm. I wonder if that’s possible.”

She turned, brows drawing together. “How do you know what it feels like? You just said it was my dream. And dreams are another realm, you’re sounding stupid.”Hermione snapped. She got some comfort out of reprimanding him; it brought satisfaction to her to have some control over something that seemed to be much too serious for her liking. 

He gave her a slow, unreadable look. “Right. Silly me.”

“No,” she whispered. “It’s a dream. It has to be—”

“You think dreams aren’t real?” he asked. “Magic doesn’t care what we believe.”

Hermione gave him a puzzled look, he seemed deep in thought. Not that he could possibly be, being just a figment of her imagination. No, it was best to dismiss his nonsense-filled comments, Hermione concluded.

And so, they wandered for what felt like minutes or hours—time didn’t seem to work properly here. The sky didn’t change, but the colours deepened: from indigo to violet to something like black opal, shimmering and alive. Beneath their feet, the light patterns shifted with each step, responding to them. She found herself cursing her imagination for making such a barren place.

Sometimes they walked in silence. Sometimes they snapped at each other. Never did they approach the arch, purposely walking away from it, and still, it appeared, just in eyesight every time they took a step away. Neither of them acknowledged it. 

“This is obviously some kind of magically-encoded space,” Hermione theorised aloud. “It might be a psychological trap—a defensive projection—”

“Or maybe your subconscious is just overthinking and overanylisisng everything, and really it isn’t that deep. We may as well just enjoy ourselves,” Draco interrupted.

She huffed. “You’re not even clever in my dreams.” 

“Still better company than Weasley.”

She rounded on him. “You don’t get to talk about Ron.”

His smile faltered. “Touchy.”

“Infuriating.”

“Always.”

They had come to a bridge. It was narrow in its construction, such that the land had given way and the only way was across the arched bridge that ran above a river. Hermione would want nothing more then to avoid the weird mist of swirling silver that made up the currents, now water rushed beneath them, it was something made up of shadows. Hermione had enough fear of one curse to worry about a second one.

In crossing the bridge they found themselves walking across an ever narrowing platform of land, leading towards the arch. Hermione hesitated, Draco too grew wairy as the two of them stopped, avoiding approaching the now inevitable. It seemed both of them were willing to distract each other to avoid recognising the haunting ominous arch. Hermione wanted nothing more then to wake up, and dreaded any possibility of walking through.

Hermione paused. “I can’t help but feel bad about this. It’s almost as this land is watching us.” Hermione whispered, unsure, and doubting – something that she hated. 

Draco was beside her now, quiet for once. Definitely a dream then – he never withstood a chance to take a jab at her, and was she vulnerable right about now. He stared into the mist. “No, it feels like it’s waiting.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. So they stood there, side by side, the silence not quite comfortable but not entirely hostile either.

“Let’s get this over with.” Hermione declared, she was a Gryffindor for crying out loud. And so she swallowed her uncertainty and charged towards the arch, not sparing a glance to a now wide-eyed Draco Malfoy who hurried after her, and followed her straight through the arch.

The stars blinked out above them, leaving only a velvet-black sky. The air grew heavier. Dense with magic.

And when Hermione looked at Draco again, having just past through the arch, something in her chest twisted .

His eyes were locked on hers—not mocking, not cruel, just present . Real. There was sweat beading at his temple, and his shoulders were tense like he’d been bracing for a fight. But when he spoke, his voice was quieter.

The world around them disappeared, rather, around them was constructed an abyss of nothing. Black became the sky, and ground, and walls of their reality until the only thing left was each other. Standing face to face.

“Granger… do you feel that?”

Hermione opened her mouth, but the words got lost in her throat.

Yes.

She felt it.

The hum in her veins. The way the light reacted to both of them now—intertwining, curling like twin vines beneath their feet. Their presence here was connected somehow. Not one dream, but two. Woven.

She stepped closer without meaning to.

So did he.

“Is this… is this you?” she asked.

Draco looked like he wanted to deny it, but didn’t. His voice was low.

“I thought it was just mine. But you keep showing up. This keeps showing up.”

Hermione’s fingers brushed the edge of her sleeve. The skin on her inner wrist burned faintly, like an afterimage of something unseen.

“I think…” she whispered, “I think we’ve been marked.”

There was silence.

Then Draco said, with a trace of irony, “How romantic.” Hermione would normally scowl at the jab at her. As if he would ever see a mudblood like her in any category of possible romance. No, this confirmed this was a dream.

And yet, there was no venom in his remark. Hermione’s breath hitched.

“I don’t trust this,” she said.

“Neither do I.”

“But it’s real, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he stepped even closer—so close that she could see the rise and fall of his chest, the faint shadow of something almost like fear in his expression.

They didn’t touch. Not quite.

There was something familiar now of this position. That should have scared her in many ways, she supposed.

But she felt it again—that pull , the invisible line of magic that tethered them together here, wherever here was.

Their chests almost touched.

And then—

Everything collapsed.

A rush of light. The ground splitting open. The dream folding in on itself like torn paper. Hermione fell, reaching out instinctively—and for a second, just a second , she felt Draco’s hand close around hers.

Then— Nothing. Darkness. Not the dark of the abyss, but the darkness of her sleep which took hold before her eyes fluttered open. 

She woke, hands grappling at the sheets beside her as she bolted upright in bed. Her sheets were damp. Her skin was cold. Her heart was racing. Sweat plastered her curls to her face, her adrenaline made her very blood pump loudly. So much so that when Lavender stirred in the bed beside Hermione’s, muttering in her sleep, Hermione couldn’t help but fear that they could hear her own beating heart.

The dream was gone.

She looked down at her hand, bare of any skin and glow, and breathed deeply. It was just a dream. A nightmare – a nonsensical fear that the runes would do anything. 

Across the castle, Draco Malfoy sat on the edge of his bed in the Slytherin dormitory, breathing hard.

He’d had the same dream.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Half Realisations

The morning air over the Quidditch pitch was wet and grey, the kind that annoyingly clung to her skin and frizzed her hair at the edges – even more so then usual her hair stood out, making her curse and frequently retie the bun she had messily put it in. She needed another one of those potions – bless Harry’s dad for making them. She grimaced at her insensitivity. 

Thursday afternoon was the day Ron was preparing for. Quidditch tryouts had finally arrived. 

Hermione stood on the sidelines, her wand in hand, whilst the other clutched at her fraying scarf, an attempt to keep warm. Hermione watched intently as Ron mounted his broom with the usual mix of nerves and bravado.

“Come on, Ron,” she muttered under her breath. If he didn’t do this, she would be hearing about it… for ages. Ron’s mellowed-out self was sometimes a bit painful to be with. As much as she loved him, it did have to be said.

To anyone else, she looked like an impartial observer — Harry had asked her to help with note-taking and timekeeping during the Gryffindor Quidditch trials, and she’d agreed with a reluctant sigh. 

She glanced sideways as McLaggen barked a laugh loud enough to startle a flock of birds from the stands. Loud bastard. He adjusted his gloves with much too confidence than what he should be comfortable displaying.

Hermione’s grip on her wand tightened.

Ron was decent. No — he was good, when he wasn’t in his own head. He’d practised all summer. He deserved a spot. Just… Hermione looked to the swaying Ron on his broom… he might need a bit of help to truly display that. 

So when the Bludgers were released and the first round of Keeper trials began, Hermione gave a very small, very silent flick of her wand behind her back. Barely anything — a simple directional drift charm, disguised within the wind.

McLaggen dived. The Quaffle barely nicked the edge of his fingers.

Hermione strayed her facial features as soon enough the ball arced through the air towards Ron. Then, another quiet wand motion — this time to slow the Quaffle’s spin. Almost imperceptible. Ron’s glove smacked it clean out of the air. Hermione grinned slightly.

An hour later, back in the castle, the corridors bustled with the usual post-weekend chaos. Students jostled for spots outside Charms while first-years clung to each other like sheep as they approached Defence Against the Dark Arts, no doubt in fear of Snape. She didn’t blame them – she was much the same in the first year. 

Now, she found herself wanting nothing more then finding her own flock to hide behind as she came face to face with Draco Malfoy, yet again. He was standing at the far end of the hall, leaning against the stone column near the arched windows, arms crossed, expression unreadable. 

She hadn’t seen him, not since the events of last night, she hesitated. There was something offputting about that dream. 

It was too vivid. Too strange. The two of them, alone in that black-vaulted space. Words exchanged. Breath shared. She could still feel the afterimage of his voice — low, uncertain, close. And the mark… 

It was a dream. That’s all it was.

Her jaw clenched. As she passed him, she didn’t turn. Didn’t slow. If he noticed her, he didn’t show it. For that, she was thankful. She wasn’t quite yet ready for him to look at her like he knew something.

It would be the last period of the day that she had potions with Slytherin and she braced herself for the usual taught room after Slughorns bashful announcement. Her grade lived in perpetual fear of just who Slughorn deemed suitable for a partner. Not even Snape dared to presume such things. By the time she reached the dungeons for Advanced Potions, the chill of the dream had faded under layers of distraction. The stone walls dripped faintly with condensation. The torches flickered a sickly green. 

Slipping into her usual seat beside Ron and Harry, Hermione began to unpack her books. Slughorn was practically buzzing at the front of the room as he gushed towards Harry. Hermione rolled her eyes. This stupid book of his was sure to get him in trouble.

She hesitated. What if there was something about runes in there? There did seem to be an array of magical knowledge of the Prince written in the sidelines of the text. She dismissed it – a problem for later.

“Welcome, welcome, I was just telling Harry the exciting news!” Slughorn declared, Hermione’s eyes widened in concern, flicking fast to Harry, who grew nervous, shifting on her chair. 

“Today is the day that I am going to put you into partners. Now, now try to look excited, it’s going to be jolly fun trying out complex potions for this semester. You will of course, be ranked on your ability to work together; team work is important.” Hermione stilled – is he joking? “But also importantly your ability to brew a variety of potions.” 

Slughorn was practically radiating with glee when he declared this. He began to write out names on the whiteboard. Once he was done, he stood in front of them, as if waiting for a big reveal to present a performer. “Now, do try to sit next to them. It’s important to make friends across houses.” Ron and Hermione shared a shocked glance. There was no way a chance they would be partnered with a Slytherin. Hermione could not stand it if she was with Pansy. She gulped. She might just go mad by the end of it. 

As if sensing that Hermione was about to go insane, Slughorn stepped out of the way revealing the list of names. Immediately Hermione stilled. Just of course she was partnered with Draco of all people.

A dozen thoughts scrambled through her mind at once. Surely this was a mistake. 

Whispers began to spark amongs the classroom as people groaned and cheered alike, “Now now” Slughorn drawled, mostly forgotten to the now chaotic classroom, “remember teamwork! Brew collaboratively. I will be needing loggs and co-signs for this to be proven it is very important…” And on Slughorn rambled of the importance of this task, and on Hermione groaned inwardly as she dreaded looking up.

Theo Nott was one of the first to move, heading directly towards the trio where he hovered over Ron, no indication of hatred on his face, rather it seemed bored.

“Weasley up you come.” Nott spoke, a light mocking spark on his face. Hermione rolled her eyes as she leaned over a now ashen Ron to speak to a gleeful-looking Harry.

“Managed to get Patil” He whispered, “Slughorn must have taken pity on me.” Hermione’s eye twitched. Call her a hypocrite but seriouly this teacher-favourite thing was getting out of hand. Surely Slughorn didn’t hate her that much?

Around her many others seemed upset. Pansy gave a theatrical groan. “Bloody Longbottom? I swear, I’m cursed, I thought he dropped too.” Opposite her Neville’s face dropped, as he mumbled something about being forced by his Grandmother, his hands gripping his books tightly, slightly green from Herbology, no doubt. 

Hermione swallowed. She hadn’t looked up yet. Couldn’t. Ron had just clambered up to join a too gleeful-looking Nott, and Harry had all but bounced over to the Patil twin where they sat down, no doubt talking about Quidditch or something they loved. Hermione was left alone. 

Then, a shadow slid into the seat beside her.

She didn’t need to look to know it was Malfoy.

“Looks like we’re bound together, Granger,” he said coolly. “Again. How poetic.” Hermione bristled at the use of words. Needing to remind herself that it was a coincidence, that he hadn’t known of her dream. 

She kept her eyes on her notes as she sighed heavily. “Don’t talk to me.”

He gave a quiet laugh — not mocking, not cruel. Just surprised, as if he expected a cordial interaction. 

Slughorn cleared his throat. “Now, everyone, today’s potion is one of subtlety. A mood stabiliser — useful for focus, clarity, and mild emotional regulation. Perfectly legal, perfectly safe. And perfectly complex.” His little clap at the end was something alike to a child celebrating receiving candy. 

And so Slughorn waved his wand. Instructions unfurled across the board like a scroll.

Hermione forced her thoughts to align. Ingredients. Ratios. Brewing time. Not dreams. Not Draco. Not the way his presence next to her unsettled something inside her she didn’t understand. Ugh. This year at Hogwarts was beginning to really get on her nerves.

“Let’s get on with this,” She looked up to Draco, “you go to the pantry, I will get the cauldron.” She decidedly put, sparing no glance if he complied or not.

Surely, by the time she returned she came across perfectly measured ingredients. Hesitating, Hermione took position over the cauldron sparing a cautious glance to Draco before she got to work. 

She could have sworn, from the corner of her eye, she caught him watching her hands as she measured crushed valerian root, and later as she pulled her hair up, and out of her face. His gaze was far away, like he was trying to remember her. Or decide something.

The room filled with soft bubbling, the occasional hiss of a misstep. A frequent reprimand from different partnerships. It seemed all Gryffindor and Slytherins didn’t quite get along. 

Hermione added the powdered moonstone. The potion shimmered pale blue.

From beside her, Draco murmured without looking up, “You slowed McLaggen’s shot.”

Her hand slipped slightly on the stirrer.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Hermione sniffed. She avoided his gaze as he huffed a laugh. 

“Of course you dont-”

“Don't call me that.”

“What?” Draco asked coyly, as if he didn’t know he would call her Princess like he did yesterday.

“You know what.” Hermione all but growled. His eyes were amused, as he leaned over the boiling potion.

“Princess,” He grinned, causing her to drop her knife as he whispered into her ear, “don’t think of doing it on the weekend.” 

______

The first Quidditch match of the season always carried a special kind of noise. Not just cheers or jeers—but the pulse of the castle itself thudding in time with the brooms above the pitch. Today, it was Slytherin vs Hufflepuff.

From the stands, Hermione felt that beat in her chest, but she wasn’t here for the game. She never was, and hoped never to be. It was a fairly boring afair, but to express such a sentiment would have her walloped by both Harry and Ron, and simply she had no energy for that.

The air was damp and heavy with late autumn mist, curling around the towers like smoke. Beneath her boots, the wooden bleachers moaned softly with every shift of weight from the crowded students. One day, this would cave in – then a Quidditch game might just be exciting. She sat near the middle, wrapped in her Gryffindor cloak, parchment clutched in one gloved hand.

That morning over breakfast her and Ginny crowded Harry, who had just announced the team. Ron’s success earnt many whoops along the Gryffindor table, but Hermione’s mood soured over the reserves.

“McLaggen’s going to be unbearable,” she’d muttered when she saw the list, whispering her disapproval to Harry. “He only made reserve, but he’ll still act like he owns the team.”

“Tell me about it,” Ginny had replied. “He tried to give Harry flying tips after falling off his broom.”

Harry glowered at the two of them, “Hey, he isn’t too bad, attitude aside, he can defend quite decently.” 

Hermione tucked the parchment away now. The Gryffindor team wouldn’t play for another week, and yet Ron was practically vibrating in excitement beside her, his grin uncontrollable. 

The game below roared to life—players blurred through the sky, green and black chasing yellow and gold. Slytherin played sharply, violently. Hufflepuff countered with grit and clean teamwork. And high in the air, circling like a storm cloud, was none other than Malfoy. She sighed. She really could not escape from him.

Draco PoV

Draco flew above the match. To any onlooker, he would be scouring for the Snitch. He wasn’t. His gaze filtered through the rows of Gryffindors, he had seen her hair bouncing down to the stadium and had wanted nothing more then to shout at her. Never had she come to a Quidditch game that wasn’t with Gryffindor, leaving Harry and Ron alone. He knew she never had! But now?

It was throwing him off his game, something he wasn’t prepared for. It was something he hated about this year, he seemingly was prepared for nothing.

She sat, arms crossed, expression unreadable in the midst of her Gryffindor crew. Her hair was half-tamed by the wind, cheeks pink from the chill. Hermione Granger. Always near the centre of things and yet never quite where you expected her to be. 

He should have hated that. Should have turned his eyes back to the game. But he didn’t.

She was haunting him, he hardly believed she was a witch anymore, and more so a ghost at this point.

He felt hollow lately. Like the season had changed inside him and left the echo of something unfinished. A piece is missing. Ever since the rune, the dream... the castle felt different. She felt different. And what was worse, she had no idea.

Hermione PoV

The match was close. One of Hufflepuff’s Chasers darted past Slytherin’s Keeper with a clean, brilliant spiral shot. The crowd roared.

Hermione didn’t cheer. She was watching the sky. Watching him. It was as if her eyes were tugged upwards and forced to watch him. 

Draco wasn’t looking at the Snitch. He was coasting above it all, eyes flicking—searching. His form was precise but distant, like he was going through motions just to avoid falling.

She didn’t know why that aggravated her, but it did.

Slytherin scored again. The game cracked open into chaos. Bludgers flew dangerously close to heads. One Hufflepuff Beater took a hit to the shoulder and spiralled downward, recovering just in time.

The crowd hissed. Hermione didn’t move. She felt it again—that tug. A thread between her chest and the boy in the sky.

Finally, the game ended with a brutal Slytherin win, 230 to 190. The stands erupted—jeers and cheers alike. Everyone was much too busy to notice Hermione slip away.

She walked alone through the frost-bitten courtyard, the hem of her robes trailing through dry leaves, breathing heavily.

Harry PoV: 

Harry had had a busy week. First of all he had to balance Quidditch trials and the many demands of his Gryffindor teammates – who was the best player? The best defender? Fastest on his broom.

And then, there were the books he had found in Hermione’s room that night. He knew, at first, that it was wrong. But some urge told him it was needed. Reading was never his strong suit, and yet, one particular book called to him. The rest he willingly returned to the library, but alike to his potion book, the weathered book was filled with dark arts.

Hermione surely wouldn’t have known? Although such a book would have belonged in the restricted section. Such explained her and Draco’s presence there just last week. Harry hesitated. 

If Hermione was helping Draco secure Dark Arts book… what could that mean?

Flipping through Harry identified the three main runes.

The one that stood out the most was intricate, a golden complicated rune referred to a ‘trial sigil’. Something long since banned, part of an old magical bonding system Harry couldn’t help but imagine was right up Draco’s alleyway. 

Outlawed, now centuries ago, Harry’s eyes narrowed. In many ways he supposed it was similar to a signet ring, meant to test compatibility for dualling and defensive magic. However, it also meant the merging of souls. Harry winced; it sounded painful. The sentence at the end of the page spiked Harry’s interest; usually it is harmless. Usually, it was a rune of compatibility and heightened magic during duels. But, the book details that this is not the case if the rune is corrupted. The only further indication is the symptom of dream walking. 

Harry squinted, turned the page, turned the page again – nothing more was said. 

He breathed out heavily. Harry hoped Hermione knew what she was doing, he only wished he could trust her.

Gritting his teeth he supposed it could all be revealed the following week, when the Duel Club started up. It was largely whispered about between professors, Harry had picked it up when lingering in the hallway with Ron during a free. 

The two hastily eavesdropped over Snape’s familiar drawl and found themselves pleasantly surprised. Instead of condemning facts about Draco’s nature as a Death Eater, Harry found himself excited for the Duelclub. 

Snape and rebuked Dumbledores and Flitwicks concerns, his voice wafting from the door as he declared, “It doesn’t matter if parents object, practical defence training is needed. Especially now.”

Flitwicks answered next, Ron and Harry looking to each other with glee, “I suppose… It would only be suitable for those in fourth year and above, though. Supervised, of course.” 

Harry grinned then, late at night, over a book, Hermione would never believe such an image. But Harry, in that moment, had the best opportunity to test his theory, and just the teacher to get it to happen.