Archive of Our Own

We didn’t. It’s a fake. We didn’t… we didn’t steal it.

A snap of fingers in front of Hermione’s eyes brought her back to the present. Not Bellatrix, she told herself. Not Malfoy Manor. Ministry.

It’s the Ministry, she repeated in her head. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

“Unspeakable Granger?” came Unspeakable Hodge’s voice. “Come, dear girl, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

Hermione blinked, re-centring herself before she looked at the assistant to the Chief Unspeakable at the Ministry. “I’m sorry sir, did I hear you correctly? Am I to be working with Malfoy on this project?”

“Mr Malfoy, yes,” the portly man said, not noticing that Hermione had been seconds away from having a panic attack.

Hermione blinked, dread pooling in her gut. Her mouth was dry when she finally spoke. “May I ask why?”

Hodge tapped his undipped quill on the table, a sharp grating sound that made her want to snap. “Ollivander highly recommended Mr Malfoy for the job. I’m sure you know that he’s been apprenticing under Ollivander for a year now.”

She nodded, but still couldn’t mask her irritation. “Then why did Mr Ollivander not make himself available? Shouldn’t we have the highest authority working on this?”

She shuffled her heavy files onto her other hip, hoping this conversation would end soon so she could return to her office and set the folios down.

His tone turned severe. “Miss Granger, I was unaware that you were to decide.” Hermione restrained from rolling her eyes.”Now if you think you cannot work with Mr Malfoy, then we can assign this project to another Unspeakable.”

“What? No.” she cursed internally. “I mean... I’m sorry sir, I only meant to say that this is a very difficult assignment, the Curse-Breakers at Gringotts couldn’t figure out how to deconstruct Bellatrix’s wand…” She only winced slightly at the mention of the name.

Unspeakable Hodge’s annoyed expression instantly changed back to that syrupy smile that made Hermione’s molars ache. She almost missed the displeased look he briefly wore, as she often wished to punch the dopey smile off his face. “As it happens, Mr Ollivander has been in poor health these last few months. But he expressly recommended Mr. Malfoy as someone more than suitable for this project.”

She nodded resignedly. “Yes, sir.”

A full smile from him; a stifled gag by Hermione. “Now.” He reached into a drawer and picked out a file, handing it to Hermione, obviously unaware that she was about to topple under the added weight. “I’m sure once you receive the wand you will make your own notes, but the Curse-Breakers sent over their notes on both the enchantments on the wand, and the wand casing itself.”

Hermione nodded again, and the irksome man eyed the files in her arms. “You seem to have a heavy workload. Are you sure you can take on such a demanding project at the end of the quarter, Miss Granger? I know you work in the archives, so it surprised me when you volunteered for this project.”

Wholly surprising, she thought. There was no reason at all she would be interested in decommissioning a wand that tortured countless people, a twisted power that gave her a parting gift on her left wrist; tingling, jagged letters on the inside of her forearm.

Hermione straightened and offered a stiff smile. “Of course. This project is important to the department, and if I can help with it, I want to.” If I can help, those words used to mean something to Hermione. Now it felt like an acrid taste, one that swam in her mouth but didn’t swallow.

He smiled again, and her knuckles itched. “Wonderful. Well, I’ll see you and Mr Malfoy on Monday.” He turned from her, inspecting the sandwich his assistant left him, looking the part of a man suffering from starvation.

Hermione exited the office, allowing herself a heavy sigh before adjusting the added file, much heavier than the weight it bore, and walking back to her office down the hall, thinking about her soon-to-be project partner.

She saw little Malfoy after the war, and the odd time she did was at Ministry functions, celebrating the peace after the Wizarding War. As if you shouted ‘peace’ loud enough, it would undo the shrapnel still embedded in your heart, if not the real scars reflected in the mirror every day.

Ginny often dragged Hermione, or Ministry co-workers, who forced their company on her when the Daily Prophet cameras were present. Harry and Ron obviously didn’t realise this even though she specified it, but they took the information as they took most things Hermione said. “Come on Hermione, lighten up. We’re all just having fun here.”

So she’d found herself at galas, quietly resigned while she’d pretend to listen to the banal conversations around her while she sipped pumpkin juice. She’d sometimes catch Malfoy’s white-blond hair while she looked around. He often wore a bored look while he hovered in corners, a looming presence that most people steered clear of, as if just being near him could incite injury.

Death Eater, aged sixteen, almost successful in murdering Albus Dumbledore. The almost was an important word, but people largely focused on the attempt, the intent, if not the full desire to murder. Sometimes she would spot him drinking with Blaise Zabini or Theodore Nott, but mostly, he only stayed long enough to show his face for a Prophet photo, and then left swiftly after. She assumed it was because the Malfoy family-sponsored most of the events being held, their galleons a currency for reformation. However, since both his parents were still under house arrest, social calls seemed to be thrust upon him.

She never used to seek him out, but in an encounter at a gala, in the wind-swept chill of autumn and the descent of dusk, Malfoy surprised her. The oppressive need to comfort someone, offer empty words that fell like sand through battered emotions, Hermione didn’t need them. Malfoy offered her reprieve from it.

She remembered a panic attack hitting her at a New Year’s event over a year ago, and how she slipped behind a curtain to a balcony to calm her breathing. She hunched to her knees, heavy breathing masked by her hair as she tipped over. Until her breathing returned to normal, she didn't notice Malfoy's presence. When she looked up, he was staring at her, a dark brow arched while a cigarette dangled from his mouth, unlit.

Hermione remembered feeling flustered, smoothing her dress robes while he’d simply stared at her. Feeling lost in the spiral of post-panic, she was defensive and lashed out. She told him to get it over with, to insult her so she could leave.

When she looked into his eyes, they didn’t hold the same derision she’d expected, and a contemplative expression replaced the sneer she had become accustomed to.

“What?” she remembered asking, feeling pinned by his slate-grey eyes.

“There’s a twig in your hair. Really, Granger. This is a ball, after all.” A roll of his eyes. She almost felt aggrieved, but she realised he was teasing, if not by the amused lilt in his tone, then by the small smirk that made her stomach flutter nervously. She’d seen that familiar expression many times at Hogwarts, when he made a cruel joke or when Snape complimented his brewing, but the one he directed towards her lacked its usual smugness.

She reached a hand into her hair, finding the twig that must have attached itself when she was kneeling on the ground, plucking it out and wincing at the way it tangled in her curls.

She heard a snort, and when she looked up, Malfoy was still staring at her, no longer ghostly, but a crooked, almost-smile. The sight was so fascinating she found herself lips turning upwards without her permission, but before she could say anything Ginny was calling her name. She looked back towards Malfoy, then facing away from her, looking out towards the extravagant, or ridiculously hedged in Hermione’s mind, a garden of whichever Manor they’d been circulating through that month.

She sighed, turning around with a quiet murmur of goodnight, and pasted a smile on her tired face before returning to the crowd, thoughts of panic and a shadow of a smirk whirling through her mind.

Roused from her memory, the same fluttering she felt that night was taking space between her ribs. Not that she was attracted to Malfoy, but she’d felt a pull to him that night, one she couldn’t explain. And it was the mystery that made its way to curiosity that made Hermione pause and consider.

Realising she was standing on the threshold of her office like she was barmy, she entered her office, closing the creaky door and waving her new fir wand to lock it, an action that took several tries before she heard the clicks on the door. The fir wand was described as suitable to owners who were focused, strong-minded and, occasionally, had intimidating demeanour. Hermione thought herself to have these traits in full and an even higher score on intimidation, where Ron and Harry were concerned.

An utterly crap description, seeing as she couldn’t even do a simple locking spell without difficulty.

As she put her files on the table, pondering her wand, she remembered Harry telling her that Ollivander had taken Malfoy in as a protégé, but she hadn’t given it much thought apart from being curious that he would take on someone who imprisoned him in their manor.

It wasn’t like Malfoy himself imprisoned Ollivander. And he didn’t give Harry up, even if he had identified her.

“Look, Draco, isn’t it the Granger Girl?” his mother had asked him, a frenzied look in her usually calm and severe blue eyes, so unlike her son’s. Through her panicked haze, Hermione remembered locking eyes with Malfoy’s ashen skin and deadened grey eyes, and she thought she might’ve seen conflict, but it was lost in his admission of her identity.

“I… maybe... yeah.”

It was fair, she surmised, lips quirking in sad amusement. She looked down at her arm, the raised skin still throbbing even after two years.

Hermione shook her head. It wasn’t so much the decision Malfoy made than it was the triage of importance Hermione always found herself at the bottom of. It was stupid, really, to consider her significance over Harry Potter’s. But whether the rattling in her heart was justified, it still cut like a blunt edge.

Resigning herself with her new project partner, Hermione sat down, opened the folio with both her and Malfoy’s name on it, and started reading.

Holly. She’d never used a Holly wand before. The wand was described as protective and considered beneficial for those who may need help to overcome a tendency to anger and impetuosity.

Well, it was, unfortunately, making her almost burn with rage at that very moment, opposing its apparent function. Hermione cast a simple Wingardium Leviosa with a quill on the table. It shook slightly but didn’t lift in the air. She squinted at the tiny black feathers on her quill, willing it through sheer will to rise.

She repeated the spell again, and again, and after the fourth time the feather finally whispered its way through the air, but Hermione’s hopes did not rise with it.

She snatched the quill from the air, squeezing it tightly in her fist while she batted away frustrated tears.

There was a sharp pain in her hand. Looking down, she realised she was digging the sharp point of her quill into her palm.

She raised her wand, intending to heal the cut, but she was so shaken with frustration, she cut a harsher line down her hand.

Sighing, Hermione reached for her beaded bag in her robes where she kept a healing kit, a familiar compulsion from hunting Horcruxes with clumsy teenage boys. She unfurled some gauze, and after pouring antiseptic on her hand, wrapped it around her palm.

She consoled herself by saying not everything needed magic.

She returned to the notes she was reviewing for Bellatrix’s wand and sifted through the questions she’d want to consider. She wasn’t as versed in wand lore as she wanted to be, and wrote several inches of scrolls about any information she might need.

As she was jotting down some extra points, she felt his presence without looking up. At Hogwarts, Malfoy had an impudent presence, a product of a single child who was solely used to the attention of others. After the war, however, his presence was dark, looming, and he was more of a gaping void. It felt like if you got too close to him, he would swallow you like a black hole.

She swallowed before looking up. “Malfoy,” she said in a calm tone, thankful that her voice didn’t betray the constricting of her ribs.

Hermione regarded the man before her, someone she didn’t know whether to define as an enemy or something entirely new, now that their two sides were shattered by a boy with a scar, and a mother who loved her son enough to betray Voldemort’s confidence. Before the war, the certain and the rational always guided her thoughts and decisions, but in the aftermath, when the lines drawn between white and black wavered, Hermione realised that the spectrum with which she separated people couldn’t run the full gamut of human behaviour. Her conclusions of a racist pureblood, someone who abhorred her for her apparent dirty blood, couldn’t possibly align with the person who chose not to identify Harry at the Manor.

Was Malfoy merely uncaring, his Slytherin dispositions positioning him towards the most favourable end? Or was he like Severus Snape, deciding out of personal loyalty, a desire and need to protect someone he loved?

He could be both, and yet something, of the likes that she could not disentangle enough to explore and understand, gave her pause.

A throat clearing brought Hermione back, and she blushed when she realised she’d been staring at Malfoy the entire time. She glanced down at her notes, quill poised on the parchment, as he entered the room they would use until they’d decommissioned the wand.

She looked back up when Malfoy hadn’t moved and met his eyes. Even in the distance, she could see the mercurial pool of grey. He was looking at Hermione with a blank expression, but she saw the strained look in the small lines developing around his eyes, and his shoulders were so stiff Hermione thought he rather looked like a knife had been placed in his lumbar. “Granger,” Malfoy nodded. He must have realised that he was just standing there as well, and came further into the room, shifting the brown satchel he was carrying further up his shoulder.

Silence.

“Er, so, this is our workspace for the duration of the project.” Hermione gestured awkwardly with her hand while she tapped her thigh with the other, feeling her palms clam up.

He lifted a brow. “I wouldn’t have guessed that, seeing as they had sent me an owl with an offer. But I think that must not have been clue enough, so thankfully I’ve also noticed the materials I might need placed in the shelves in the corner,” he said in an acerbic tone, arms stiff as he inched closer to the second table Hermione had placed several books on curse deconstruction.

Hermione went still. “Right,” she said primly. “Small talk is clearly wasted on us both, it seems. The wand will arrive shortly. I just came early to review my notes and get ready. I’m assuming you did the same.”

Malfoy nodded again, moving to the back of the room where a table attached to a wall had different materials she assumed he’d be using. Tools were hanging off a clipped lining along the shorter wall, different stirring rods hanging off them. There were also cauldrons of varying sizes, as well as several knives and scalpels.

Malfoy pulled out a stool, sitting down with his back facing Hermione as he took out objects from his bag that Hermione couldn’t see. She awkwardly cleared her throat, turning to her own table and back to her notes, her injured hand thrumming painfully, and her stomach steadily filling with nervous tension, not out of fear but indecision.

After about half an hour, there was a knock at the door before Unspeakable Hodge opened the door, his expression much too jovial for the time of the morning in Hermione’s opinion. There were two of what she assumed were Curse-Breakers from Gringotts behind him.

“Miss Granger.” He smiled genially at her, then turned towards her unwanted companion. “Oh, Mr Malfoy, you’re here too,” he said in a strained tone.

“Obviously,” Malfoy said in a bored drawl, and Hermione couldn’t help the small chuckle at how the timbre of his voice sounded like Professor Snape’s once had.

Her chuckle drew the attention of Malfoy, who gave her a confused look, and to Hodge, who shifted, and then gave an awkward laugh, looking around anywhere but around the sour blond, before continuing. He gestured to the man and woman behind him. “Come in Mrs Parker, Mr Hayers, let’s settle this ghastly object down and leave these two to it, shall we?”

The black wooden box, much larger than the contents it had inside, took up such a small space in the open room, and yet it felt like it was intruding upon the tenuous control Hermione had spent hours building so she would be ready for its presence.

The two Curse-Breakers motioned for Hermione to step away from the table, and she moved away, accidentally backing herself to stand right beside where Draco had. Feeling like she couldn’t step away without being rude, Hermione stayed put. She felt him staring from her periphery while the Curse-Breakers removed the enchantments off the box, and turned to look at him. Most people would flush and look away when they were caught staring, but Malfoy was apparently content.

“Do you need something?” she asked.

“Granger, you’re bleeding,” he said with a grimace in his pointed features.

Hermione froze, and she realised that the same place she dug the quill into before was bleeding again where she’d been clenching her fists. She looked up and realised everybody was staring at her. Even Unspeakable happy fucking countenance seemed wary at the sight.

“Miss Granger, are you alright?” said the man she wanted to beat over the head with a bludger bat, a well-intended use for Quidditch equipment, Hermione supposed.

“I’m alright,” said Hermione, feigning a smile. “I just re-aggravated a previous injury.”

He nodded, and returned his attention to removing the enchantments on the wand box with the wizards, one tall and wiry and the other rotund and dwarf-life, not unlike the elf and dwarf in a recent film she watched at the cinema.

Hermione reached into her dress robes with her non-injured hand and pulled out more gauze. In the stilted silence, she unwrapped the bloodied cloth and replaced it with the fresh one, then nonverbally banished the mess.

She didn’t want to think of the irony of her blood on a floor with Draco Malfoy in the room.

Malfoy was still staring at her. “Why didn’t you just heal the cut?” he asked, confusion painting his face.

She looked away. “Not everything needs to be done the magical way,” she said.

She repeated the sentence again privately in her mind, willing it to stick.

He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Hodge spoke up, cutting him off. “Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy,” he said, gesturing with his wand for them to come over. “If you will.”

Hermione walked toward the table, bracing herself. It was just a wand, she told herself. Just a wand, not the owner. Breathe, breathe, breathe. She looked at the crooked black of Bellatrix’s wand, feeling the coldness seep into her bones, and the cursed scar on her wrist throbbed, her blood pumping in the carving as if the words were being cut anew.

The unyielding wand, made of walnut and a heartstring core according to her notes, felt like it was vibrating with negative energy. Negative space that leeched in place of its master. She felt herself grow cold, her hands shaking in a convincing portrayal of the Cruciatus curse.

Hermione heard her name being called, slightly shaking her out of her reverie, and looked up to see that she and Malfoy were the only ones in the room. Hodge and the two Curse-Breakers had left while she stared into the past.

She looked up and met his eyes and suddenly jolted back, away from the wand. Malfoy flinched from his position beside her, and she thought he looked like he might brace himself for something.

“Sorry, you just startled me. I zoned out for a second.” She glanced at her hands, fidgeting with them to stop the shaking.

He nodded stiffly and looked down at her. Hermione grabbed her wrist with her other hand and tightened it. He saw the movement, but to her surprise, he only furrowed his brows. Then, after a split second, looked away.

“As I was saying, they left us the notes on the materials which make up Bellatrix’s wand,” Hermione and Malfoy both winced at the name, but he continued. “I would like to look and analyse it myself. They listed the spells they used when they tried to deconstruct the wand, but I would like to try a few obscure spells that will examine the inner core as well.”

Hermione nodded. “Alright.” She took her wand out of her wrist holster. “Let me cast an analytical incantation around it so I can take notes on the reactions the wand has when you cast out the material resin.”

He nodded in agreement. “You have a different wand,” Draco noted, gesturing to the dark brown wood with a rounded hilt.

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Yes. How did you know?”

He gave her a light smirk. “I’ve seen you throw enough hexes.” Then he looked more uncomfortable. “I also held it when you were at the Manor.” His voice was composed, but she could hear some of the strain in his deep baritone. It was much raspier than when they were younger. “I never apologised for what happened to you there.”

Her heart dropped to her stomach. She never expected to hear an apology from him, of all people.

After several seconds in which she composed her breathing, she spoke.

“I needed a new wand,” she said simply, stepping up to the other side of the counter, twirling her wand with both hands before straightening, casting the spell on Bellatrix’s wand. She looked up at him again. “And I forgive you. For more than just what occurred there.”

He looked up at her, a strained smile on his lips, but he nodded as he looked down again to watch her work.

She mouthed the incantation for the wand analysis with a calm, controlled voice, and the components of the wand spread around in colourful diagnostic, different colours describing unique elements such as weight, the inner materials used in the core, even power the wand bore.

Hermione found it odd that more difficult magic and complicated spells still worked for her when she cast them, but simple levitation and healing spells eluded her.

She had visited several wand makers the last year, even Ollivander himself at the end of the war, but no one could tell her what was wrong with her wand. So she resigned herself to changing her wand as often as she needed to until she found one as suitable as her lost Vine had been.

She avoided telling Harry or Ron, not wanting to worry them. They would tell her she was strong, or that she could talk to them, and she just didn’t have the energy for fake platitudes, no matter the sincere tone they carried.

When people offered their sympathy, it felt like an acid hex to the skin, burning into the tissue with each “I’m sorry” and the “I can’t imagine this happening to me,” until it went so deep you felt numb to its effects. The burn remained, of course, regardless of the saccharine flavour that was embedded in the turn of phrase.

Hermione put her wand down, feeling an elation from not failing the spell. She’d had more than a few blunders, mainly in front of the Weasley clan during their monthly dinners. It happened most frequently when she would try to help Mrs Weasley with the dishes, and a pile of plates en route to the sink would shatter on the floor because Hermione’s wand would shake in her hands.

She would apologise to Mrs Weasley, feigning tiredness from work before repairing the dishes and insisting that she could do them by hand. Other times, she would keep score while everyone played Quidditch in the yard, and suddenly the colourful scores in the air would glitch and scores appearing in the thousands would appear. Ron would joke that he’d never allow an opponent that many points, but Ginny and Harry would look at Hermione warily and ask her if she was feeling well. Hermione brushed them off, saying it was her new wand acting up, and she was just having issues getting used to the feeling.

Which was the truth, of course. And she would repeat it every month when she broke another dish, and the quidditch score was written incorrectly.

Sighing, Hermione looked up when a bright green glow emitted from Malfoy’s wand, swirling what looked like small electrical pulses as it drew near Bellatrix’s wand. She picked up an extra quill and looked at the analysis that was showing in the air like a detailed chart, outlining the stasis of the wand and the various enchantments. He cast Priori Incantatem on the wand, to Hermione’s confusion, but before she could ask him why, he took a sharp step back.

“Move back.” Malfoy suddenly snarled. Hermione startled and moved back, a knee-jerk reaction causing her to duck behind the lab desk. After a few seconds, she heard him shift back up on his side and followed the movement.

“What was that?” she asked, her heart beating in a frenzy as she tried to calm her breathing. She wished she wasn’t used to the fluttering of nerves in her chest or the churning feeling in her stomach, but it provided her with a keen sense of survival.

He looked at the wand with unveiled disdain. “I should’ve known my aunt would’ve planted hexes in the inner core, barmy bint.” He ran a hand through his white-blond hair, not as styled as it was at school, but still keeping a clean sweep. “Those halfwits at Gringotts seemed to only have removed the protective enchantments on the outside barrier.”

Hermione peered at the wand again and found several places singed. I don’t understand. I used her wand during the final battle. It didn’t hex me.”

He contemplated it for a moment. “Did it ever resist you?”

“Yes,” she said with a roll of her eyes. She remembered how the unyielding wand had frequently shot out spells different from the ones she cast. A Wingardium Leviosa would turn into a Jelly-Legs jinx pointed to Harry and Ron when they were shooting defensive spells.

“Hmm. I think because she was still alive at that point, the hex didn’t activate until after she died,” he explained. “Seems ridiculous until you remember what type of person she was.”

“That makes sense,” she said absently. She let out a chuckle. “Quite funny, don’t you think?”

“What is, Granger?”

“Her nephew is working with the Mudblood to decommission her wand. Bellatrix must be rolling in her grave.” She snorted indelicately, then froze when she realised what she said, and who she said it to. She shook her head at her stupidity, but looked up, surprised, when she heard Malfoy chuckle.

“Well, my mother actually cremated her, so I imagine the rolling part might be difficult,” he said in a sardonic voice, his eyes gleaming and no longer the dead slate from when he walked in.

Hermione burst out laughing before she could stop herself, and he looked taken aback before he cleared his throat and looked at the scan again.

“What did you do to her wand?”

He sighed. “Certain wands can have a magic lock placed on them, like this one, where you can’t just remove all the remaining dark magic at once. We’ll need to take it step-by-step before we try removing the magic itself.”

She sat back on the stool she was using before and lifted her notes. “Well, let’s get to work.”

He gave her a smirk. “What could go wrong?”

The next few days turned into weeks, and Hermione and Draco were in two constant states: at each other’s necks, or at each other’s necks except for a brief lunch period they sometimes took, where they would both complain about the paltry Ministry food as they downed greasy sandwiches.

After the first week, Draco called for his elf Gibly, to bring them a tray of food for two. Hermione yelled at him for having elves until Draco told her all the Manor elves were paid wages and given yearly holiday time. She was surprised, and Draco pushed her tray toward her as she crossed her arms, refusing out of pride.

After half an hour, she picked at the food, annoyed at the warming charm placed on the soup.

In the middle of one week, Draco suggested just snapping the wand and stepping on it for good measure.

Hermione reminded him that Harry could only do that once he defeated a dark wizard.

She expected him to get mad, but he burst into surprised laughter, and then mentioned how the speeches at the Ministry galas should be made by her rather than Potter.

Hermione felt a surprise fluttering in her chest at his unexpected compliment, but defended Harry, something she was used to after over a decade of friendship. Malfoy just rolled his eyes, and a mix of humour and disdain from an old rivalry tinted his face.

It surprised her how easily they worked together. Draco worked diligently throughout the day, and Hermione didn’t need to remind him to read her notes, because he often asked her questions as they analysed his wand work and Hermione’s notes on the dark enchantments.

She’d never enjoyed her work at the Ministry, and she always felt listless as she wandered the archives on the days that she wasn’t working in the small room with Draco. She didn’t want to think her work was useless. She didn’t want to think her work was useless, but as the paper stacked, her passion thinned.

She longed for the bright lights, the smell of rancid wand materials, the sound of a teakettle, and the softness of grey eyes.

Hermione rarely saw Draco outside of the brightly lit room they worked in, so she felt stilted when she arrived at work the next morning, a little later than usual because Crookshanks had been sick and she had to clean up the mess. She ran for the lifts in the atrium, and a large hand she recognised shot out to keep the grille open.

Hermione stared at Draco, taking in his appearance that was both the same and completely different. It wasn’t her fault; she reasoned. She’d never seen only Draco Draco in a warm, incandescent light. The single bulb that dangled from the ceiling cast his features in sharp contrast, showing his pointed features more clearly: the sharp jut of his cheekbones, his thin lips, which she did not pause at a half-second longer than she should have, the pale-blond hair that sharply contrasted with his pale skin.

Then there were his eyes. She didn’t even know how she could properly describe them. They were nebulous, the way the grey sparkled when he was surprised, or when he was speaking about wands like he found the definition of passion. Or now, when he seemed trapped in the same haze she was. She could feel the burn of his stare warming her whole body, but felt like she couldn’t look away.

Hermione felt something pushing against her back, and she realised to her absolute mortification that there were people behind her, glowering at her because she was standing at the lift's entrance, ogling Draco Malfoy like he was a fully transformed Veela.

Hermione closed her eyes tightly, wanting to sink into the floor, and then looked back up at Draco. His face returned to his blank mask that was so familiar to her, but she noted the tips of his cheeks were slightly flushed. She rushed inside the lift, about to turn to the right and as far from Draco as she could, but the impatient Ministry employees pushed her right into his chest.

She stumbled forward, and Draco caught her by the hips, a firm grip that awoke Hermione to the fact that yes, he had long fingers, and they currently spanned over her hips in a deliciously firm grip.

“Alright, Granger?” he asked, his breath tickling the hair which she left down today.

“Mhm. Yeah. Yes, I mean.” she said in a high-pitched squeal. She felt utterly betrayed by her vocal cords. She steadied herself, about to push up and away from him, her hands fisted around his white button-up shirt.

She could feel his sharp intake of breath.

Right. He was probably disgusted at having to touch her. Working with a Muggle-born was one thing, but having to touch her must’ve incited the reminder that she was still an other to him. Or maybe it was he who was the other, but the point remained that she and he were always on opposing sides of the definition.

Sighing forlornly, she said, “I’m—I’m sorry Draco. I tripped.” Her cheeks felt hot. “I was pushed. Er, there isn’t much space but I can try to move on to the next floor, I think. Many people stop on level...” she kept rambling while she wobbled around awkwardly. Draco’s hands on her hips were distracting.

“Granger.”

She looked up, and he was staring at her, amusement plain on his features. She expected disgust, and the opposing reaction stilted her for a moment. He moved his hands away from her hips, placing them on the tops of her shoulders, gripping her gently before he let go.

“It’s fine.” He cleared his throat, “At least I can see over your head,” a wry smile played on his lips, and Hermione’s eyes narrowed in a playful glare.

“I’m not short.”

“I could hide you in my robes if I wanted to, and no one would be wiser,” he said in a low voice.

She spluttered.

“Your hair would give me away, though,” he continued. “I don’t think I could package it as well.”

“Draco!” she chastised him, but she was smiling. He gave her a faint smirk, and she turned around. People in the lift were peering at her like she lost her marbles for speaking to Draco cordially, so she smiled wider, a gleam in her eyes that she hoped conveyed that if they said anything they would have her to contend with.

The lift came to the basement at level 9, and Hermione and Draco stepped through as the golden grilles opened. She felt a strange emotion coursing through her as they walked down the familiar polished floors. The sounds of her heels and his dress shoes clicking on the marble floor had a stable resonance. The lower levels were always cold, no matter how many warming charms you casted. However, Draco’s body heat next to hers, as he brushed his arm on her shoulder, was comforting. Heady.

As they passed by the break room, Hermione heard her name being spoken.

“Did you see the way Granger was shaking yesterday when William’s Patronus went past her? She was trembling so hard I could’ve sworn her hair was vibrating,” said a wizard she recognised as the Unspeakable who worked in the time chamber.

“She’s always doing odd things like that,” said the nasal voice of Hodge. “She is gifted at decommissioning our special projects, and an outstanding archivist, but her personality leaves something to be desired.”

A woman spoke up, Romilda Vane, Hermione thought absently. “I mean, I know she was tortured, but she must be fine if she can work with Malfoy. I heard he let her lie there and just watched while his crazy aunt tortured her.” She felt Malfoy stiffen beside her.

“Yes, exactly,” said the unknown male again. “And we all suffered during the war by You-Know-Who, and you don’t see any of us jumping at every sound or ignoring social events unless people force her to come. She probably thinks she’s too good for them. Didn’t you say she was like this at Hogwarts too?”

Vane let out a high cackle. “Oh, she was a nightmare. She would dock points as a prefect if your skirt herm was shorter than standard issue, or if you were out past curfew for even a few minutes. It was the worst when she sucked up to all the professors, even when it was obviously annoying to everyone else.”

A laugh, and another, a chorus of humour, centring on her. Not with, but about her.

She walked away before they could continue the conversation and heard a murmur of agreement when Vane added Hermione wouldn’t have likely meant anything if Harry and Ron didn’t pity her with their friendship.

She kept walking, past the different offices, down the stairs, past the lab she and Draco worked in, until she found a well-used broom closet, stepping inside before shutting the door.

Hermione dropped to the floor, harshly breathing and wrapping her arms around herself while she tried to breathe.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. In and out, in and out. In…

She couldn’t breathe. The air felt like it was being sucked away from her, and if she exhaled, she would collapse.

She was so preoccupied with controlling her breathing that she didn’t hear the door open behind her.

She felt footsteps nearing her, but before she could try composing herself, she was enveloped in a hug, large hands folding over her and holding her tight.

She instinctively tried pushing him away, but Draco held on tighter.

She shook and then burst into tears. Dry, heaving sobs ripped from her throat as she cried in his arms. He turned her, and she buried her face in his chest, clinging to him.

He said nothing, but he brought a hand up to pat her hair while the other drew soothing circles on her back.

“I’m okay, it’s… I’m fine. I was just…”

She could feel him nod, but he lowered his hands to her waist and dropped his chin to rest on the top of her head.

She needed to calm down. She was good at keeping her panic attacks to herself. She didn’t even tell Harry or Ron about them. They had work to deal with. She needed to calm down. Draco shouldn’t have to deal with this. She needed to breathe, but the air was trapped in her throat.

“Hermione, please breathe,” he said.

She couldn’t… she couldn’t breathe. Breathing meant exhaling, letting go. She didn’t know how to do that. If she breathed, it felt like every emotion she kept inside would burst like a blood vessel.

She felt his palm on her jaw, lifting her eyes to meet his.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Please breathe,” he said in a somewhat shaky voice, his eyes an unfathomable bright grey as he stared down at her.

Draco lifted her hand in his and placed it on the wall next to them. Solid, a tether that showed her she wasn’t in some abyss. His pale wrist contrasted with the dark grey wall, and she could see a hint of the dark mark peeking from under his white dress shirt. He seemed to notice because he stiffened and tried pulling his hand away. She caught his wrist with her hand and held onto it, grounding herself with his long fingers and the roughened texture of his palms.

She was here. Bellatrix was dead. She was here with Draco. She was safe. Breathe in, breathe out.

Eventually, she started breathing again, the stuttered clashes of her heart sorting back into a steady rhythm.

Draco took his hand from hers and gently took hold of her face again, wiping her eyes with the pads of his thumbs. The action made her want to cry again.

“Okay?” he said in a low voice.

“Yes.”

“Are you lying?”

She gave him a watery smile. “Yes.”

He nodded, giving her a weak smirk in return. She was glad he didn’t press. Like on the balcony, he just seemed to know that asking wasn’t always a comfort.

He stood up and offered her a hand. She took it, but her knees gave out. He steadied her with his hands on her elbows, staring down at her with what she thought was a worried expression.

How silly, thinking Draco Malfoy would be worried for her.

“Well,” she said shakily. “We should get back to work.” Now that her mind came back to her, she was mortified at the thought that she had a panic attack in a broom closet. A panic attack in a broom closet with Draco Malfoy.

She tried moving past him, but he kept hold of her elbows.

He raised his brow at her. “Good to know that the Vane woman has changed little since Hogwarts. Does this usually happen with your co-workers?” He said the last word with a hint of disdain.

Her lips twitched. “Well,” she said in a cracked voice from crying, and cleared her throat before continuing. “I imagine she does, although I’ve only heard a couple throwaway comments about my hair. She must have felt very talkative today.”

His hands tightened on her arms, and when she looked up at his face, he looked… angry? But why? She supposed he was upset for being indirectly called a coward by Vane. She should tell him he wasn’t.

“Draco. You’re not...”

“And… you just take it?” he said in a low voice.

“Take?”

“Take what says about you.”

She looked at him, bewildered. “Should I send her a congratulatory card?”

He rolled his eyes. “Granger, why would you let her? You’re…”

She raised her brow. “I’m what?”

“You. You’re, well, Granger,” he said as if that had any meaning.

She gave him a bitter smile. “I am me, and it’s precisely why her saying anything doesn’t matter.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Yes, that’s precisely why you’re crying in a broom closet.”

She stiffened and ripped her arms away from his, stepping away. “Yes, rather pathetic, I know.” He blinked and looked like he was going to say something else, but she cut him off. “Now, shall we get back to work?”

As she walked past him, he grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “I wasn’t…” he cursed. “You’re not pathetic.” he turned his head away from her and swore again under his breath. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but just stood there.

“Draco.”

He didn’t respond.

She sighed, and placed her hand gently on his arm, looking at the wet spot where her tears lived on his previously freshly pressed shirt. “It’s fine.”

His mouth was pressed into a frown, but nodded, opening the door and gesturing for her to go ahead of him.

Hermione’s wand shattered all the beakers and glass rods in the room halfway through the day.

They worked the rest of the day in silence.

She blamed it on tiredness.

He gave her a disbelieving frown, but said nothing.

She was grateful for it, but missed the warmth of his arms. As she walked back to the lift, the coldness returned.

Exasperated, Hermione walked around the room and plopped down onto a seat, sending daggers towards the walnut wand.

“Why Granger, if you glare a little harder the room might burst into flames,” he said with a wry smile as he stepped through the doorway and set his coat on a rack before coming to the worktop, inspecting the progress on the so far resistant wand.

Hermione flushed angrily and burst out before she could swallow the words. “I hate it. I hate that wand. It feels like your aunt is still staring at me whenever I look at it.”

A silence, then “I get what you mean.” Draco said.

“How could you—” then she winced.

“I think I have a fair bit of experience with the end of that particular wand, Granger,” he said in a deadened tone, turning away from her.

“Sorry. I’m not used to speaking to people about this, it’s just an instinctive reaction.” She stood up, but realising that she was reaching for him, curled her hands into fists and put them behind her back.

“I’m not surprised, considering your friends are Potter and Weasley.”

She bristled. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do they know that you have panic attacks?” he asked suddenly, his tone calm, but she could feel his compulsion for cruelty coming to the surface.

After a moment “No,” she replied quietly, and she hung her head so he couldn’t see her expression.

“Why don’t you tell them?” He was looming suddenly, and Hermione found her whole body shivering at his closeness.

“Because I can handle it.”

Hermione found it disconcerting that amid an almost panic attack, it was Draco’s — no; she chided herself, Malfoy’s presence, which calmed her.

She looked back at him, and he was staring at her, eyes intent but his expression sullen. “I tell people that too.” She raised a brow in question, and he elaborated, “That I can handle it.”

“And what do they say?”

“That I’m full of shite.”

“Do you think I am?”

He smiled sardonically. “As much as I am.”

She laughed, an offer from her lungs instead of crying.

He picked up his satchel, placing it on his shoulders before heading for the door. “Goodnight, Granger.” he waved a hand as he turned from her, closing the door behind him.

She stared at his back, long after he was gone. The word paradox repeated itself into her mind, and how it described both Draco and his wand.

It was blisteringly hot at the Ministry today, and Hermione drew her curls up into a bun, pinning it down with her new Apple wand, suited for owners with chief aims and ideals.

At least the useless wood had some function. She sure had a chief aim of keeping her hair in place.

“Bloody hell,” she heard Draco curse, and when she turned she saw he dropped the brimstone paste, he was getting ready to whittle the handle of Bellatrix’s wand with, something he mentioned would wear down the outer components of the hilt, making it easier for them to downgrade the overall power of the wand before they removed the dark enchantments. Except, the sticky yellow paste had fallen all over the front of his shirt.

She giggled, actually giggled to her horror, before composing herself. “How did you manage that?” She was straining not to smile, but the indignation across his features was too amusing to ignore.

“Think it’s funny, do you?” He feigned a sneer, but there was a playful glint in his grey eyes.

She laughed again. “Maybe a little.”

He hummed, shifting into a predatory stance, his hands twitching towards the remaining brimstone. Hermione froze, stepping back and around the counter.

Her laugh became more nervous, and she pretended to look at a clock on the opposite wall. “Oh, wow, time for lunch already.”

“It’s only 10:30, Granger.” He was smiling at her, and it made her heart quicken a beat before she realised he crossed the distance between them.

She shrieked, but before she could round the table again, Draco caught her by the waist and spun her so she was facing him.

She clasped his hands with hers so he couldn’t dump the brimstone on her. Her hands dwarfed his, so he easily shook his hands out, and used one hand to take the sticky material out from the container on top of the table. She tried moving away, so he pinned her hips to the table with his.

She sputtered while he slathered the slimy paste all over her shirt and face, and even near her hair. “Draco,” she laughed. She kept moving her head side to side to elude him, so he pressed his body closer to hers to still her. Their faces were inches apart.

Hermione’s breath hitched, and she stilled. Draco froze as well, probably realising how close they were.

He awkwardly set the brimstone down to the side of her, and Hermione looked up at him. He looked profoundly uncomfortable, and there was a tinge of red going up from his neck to the tips of his cheekbones. Hermione mused on how he had unfairly nice cheekbones, but when she met Draco’s eyes she realised he was staring down at her.

She laughed nervously, craning her neck as she looked up at him. Was he always this tall at Hogwarts? “We both look a mess.” she smiled. She felt a blush rising up her neck and wanted to crawl under a blanket to avoid the heated stare he was levelling on her.

She wanted him to step away. She wanted him to step even closer. Until she couldn’t breathe.

Draco’s eyes darkened, and she tried and failed to not get lost in the way his pupils were taking residence in his silver eyes. She looked down again, unsure what to do in her awkwardness.

“Granger.” Did his voice get deeper? She was pretty sure the way she described him as a Veela in the lift was accurate at this very moment. The usual cool edge of his voice gave way to something else, something that made her skin prickle.

She smiled. “I get the feeling that you think using my last name might scare me. It does not, if you want to know.

He smiled wryly. “Is that so?” and he put both arms on the tabletop, effectively caging her in. Her heart thrummed, and she felt very naked under his gaze.

“Hermione.”

Oh. This was dangerous.

Her breath hitched, and she looked at him again, but he was gazing down at her lips. She looked at his lips, thin and pink, and she could see his white teeth from his open mouth.

He leaned in closer, and Hermione’s eyes fluttered closed. When they were a breath away, Hermione leaned forward—

The door banged open.

Hodge stepped in, expression jubilant as he asked for a progress report, and for once she wished her wand would react with an erratic fervour.

She didn’t get her wish, however, Draco in what he claimed was an accident patted his hands all over Hodge with the brimstone paste.

She smiled into her notes for the rest of the day.

They were progressing nicely in decommissioning the wand after Draco winnowed down the wand.

She found herself elated at being one step closer in the decommissioning process, but that also meant that she was one step closer to not seeing Draco every weekday.

The thought saddened her more than she wanted to admit.

Hermione and Draco had a routine on the way they worked after several weeks together. She’d come into the lab, sipping her tea quietly while Draco fiddled with the inner barrier around Bellatrix’s wand. They had resigned themselves to having to draw out the dark enchantments bit-by-gruelling-bit. Sometimes she would watch him, for purely observational reasons of course, and she noticed the way his brow would furrow, his left brow imperceptibly higher than his right when he would compare Hermione’s curse notes with the composition of the wand, or the way he would thin his lips to stop himself from cursing out loud when he was frustrated. She only knew this because sometimes the barrier in his mouth would slip and he would throw out expletives that would make most purebloods blush.

She banged the door to the lab open, startling Draco, who almost toppled off the stool he was holding his long legs precariously off of. “Draco,” she beamed and basically ran over to their table, dropping several wands on the counter.

“Gods, Granger, you realise you can open a door gently, right?” he gained gravity again, and without thinking, she moved right in front of him. Close, because she could admit that she yearned for the moments that were soon to be over.

“I was thinking about wands while I was brushing my teeth this morning.”

“As one does,” he said playfully.

“Hush.” She smiled at him. “Anyway, and I was wondering why removing the heartstring core wouldn’t work in detaching the power between it and the wood.”

He nodded. “The heartstring is connected to it. We’ve already discussed this.”

“That’s what I was thinking. But what if we just replaced her wand core? The reason I could use her wand is that my old Vine had a heartstring as well.”

His eyes widened, tiredness shifting into excitement. “It did?” He looked at the wands she placed on the countertop. “Are all these your trial-and-error wands?” he gave her a knowing look.

She tucked a curl behind her ear, flushing. “Yes. I tried removing the strings of these wands and binding it to the others. And then I realised belatedly that I am not, in fact, a wand maker.”

He laughed, a fully throaty noise that spun her for a loop because she was quite sure it was one of the nicest sounds she’d ever heard.

He was still laughing as he spoke. “Well, aren’t we lucky that I have a mastery in wand-making?”

She hit him on the shoulder. He feigned injury. She hit him again, and he caught her arms, standing up as he placed himself behind her, pointing to the wand components and which steps they would be taking.

They replaced the heartstring. A precarious process, Draco explained, had to be done delicately so the wood would properly attune to the new core. After several hours of watching him carefully remove and then bind the heartstring inside the wand, he added the resin adhesive to stick the outer layer back to fold over the wand.

It was complete.

All they had to do was test it.

“Ready?” she asked, standing beside him with both a giddy and nervous energy.

He nodded and directed the spell. “Priori Incantatem,” he said firmly.

Nothing.

They looked at each other. He tried a shield penetration spell next to see if the wand would defend itself.

Nothing.

He walked over, took the wand in both hands, and turned to look at her, a smile on his face. “Do you want to?” he asked.

Hermione walked over to him, placing her hands on the wood Draco was holding in his palms. She touched the wood that was just wood, a power that was devoid of a catalyst.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to suggest we break it together, are you?”

“Why would I do anything of the sort?” She grabbed the wand in his hands, inspecting it for just a moment before she set it down on the table behind him.

He looked confused, until she reached for him, placing her head on top of his chest for a second, conceding to the exhaustion that had built up in her. The torture at the manor, hunting for Horcruxes, the years, really, that she kept on her too-thin shoulders.

He didn’t allow her the second.

Instead, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair, prolonging the moment. She shook and returned his crushing grip with her own.

“I know,” he said in a muffled voice through her curls. “Me too.”

“I think I know what’s wrong with your wand,” Draco said suddenly while they were having a drink the next day, wrapping up the notes on their decommissioning process. Hermione was perched on a stool in the corner while Draco was leaning against the counter, his arms folded together and his body visibly tense.

She looked up from her glass of empty firewhiskey. “Oh?” she smiled, the tingling effects of a small buzz warming her body.

He looked weary, but continued on. “I believe you’ve been coming at it the wrong way.”

She waited for him to continue, but he was looking pointedly away from her. His lips thinned.

“Draco?”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to tell me?” She felt anxiety bubbling its way up her chest, seizing her muscles and tightening her chest.

“Have you considered therapy before?” Draco asked.

Hermione blinked, confused. Why on earth would she need therapy? “Therapy? I’m not injured.” She motioned to her body as if to prove that she was uninjured.

He shifted on his stool, but turned his face and met her eyes. “No. I meant a mind healer.”

Hermione blanched. She felt like the room was getting smaller suddenly.

She moved to stand, needing to know that the walls weren’t closing in on her. A defensive retort rolled out of her chest before she could consider its effects on the already tense conversation. “No.” She laughed, a sharp and cruel noise that made him flinch. “You... I’m sorry to say you are terribly mistaken.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why you would even suggest such a thing.” She shook her head and started stacking her files together.

Technically, she was done for the day. The wand was decommissioned, officially. There was no other reason for her to stay. She had only stayed… well; she didn’t know why she stayed.

He sighed heavily. “Granger, there’s nothing wrong with needing help.”

“No, there isn’t. But for you to suggest that I need it is because I had one panic attack in front of you is far-fetched.”

He sighed. “Granger,” but she was ignoring him. She had to leave. It felt like she couldn’t breathe. She needed air that wasn’t tainted with pity.

She crossed the room, leaving as quickly as her shaky legs allowed. “You have no right to command me to go see a mind healer,” she said in a strained voice.

Draco slammed his fist on the table and stood up as well. “I suggested therapy because I, unlike you, can see that you aren’t ok.”

“Nothing is—”

He cut her off with a snarl. “Every single time I walk into this room, you are looking at my aunt’s wand with your shoulders shaking, head down, as if you have something to be ashamed of. The great Hermione Granger, bested by her own bloody guilt because she couldn’t defend herself.”

“Piss off,” she hissed, reaching for the door handle, but he caught her by the wrist and tugged her toward him. She struggled against his grip, but he only pulled her closer.

It was satisfying, Hermione thought cruelly, to see Draco lose some of that carefully maintained control.

“How many wands have you tried now?” His voice was shaking with rage.

“I don’t—”

“Oh my apologies,” he bit out. “Should I mention your eye bags instead, Granger? I’m afraid you can’t hide those in your sleeve.”

Hermione felt her face go slack. “Why do you even care?” she said defensively.

“One of us has to. One of us has to give a fuck about you.”

She inhaled sharply, not daring to breathe. “But why?”

Draco gave her a rueful smile. “You know why.”

She did. The way she would catch him staring at her from her periphery when she was writing notes, or how his eyes gleamed in interest when she talked about several subjects others would have either not followed or looked at her with glassy eyes. She noticed the way he would brush his body against hers when he passed, closer than was strictly necessary. The almost kiss they had left her light-headed than anything far more intimate than she’d done with another person.

But that wasn’t the point, these feelings spilling inside her like a tidal wave. She forced herself to push against the current he was consuming her with.

Draco seemed to come back to himself. He blinked a few times, and the open and pleading expression he adopted moments ago vanished into that cold, indifferent mask.

She hated that expression on him. Experiencing the warmth of Draco Malfoy was a double-edged sword, and the blunt edge was a precise Diffindo.

She felt tension building in her shoulders, and her hands were shaking so hard they were vibrating. “I don’t need therapy. And I don’t need advice from somebody who hides behind his Occlumency walls and then tries to tell me it’s okay to be broken.”

“Don’t compare me to you. It’s not the fucking same,” he said with a rasp in his voice. Hermione’s eyes widened. “I don’t need to show people what I’m thinking. I don’t want them to know.”

“Yes, but—”

“Stop deflecting—”

“Then stop interrupting me—”

He stepped into her, causing her to move back a few steps, and grabbed hold of her upper arms as he pressed her firmly against the dark wooden door. The feeling of the cold door on her back and his warm body to her chest was a combination that was equal parts dizzying and disorientating and had Hermione waffling for air. With Draco looming over her, she was reminded of how tall he was, towering over her even though she was wearing heeled sandals today. Her chin came up to his chest, and she could feel his breath ghosting her cheek as he stared down at her.

When they were playing around, her hand intertwined with his, looking at her with a softness in his grey eyes, she felt her heart fluttering; not a frenzied beat, but a calm wave as it ebbed and flowed through the water, still touching, still creating a movement of energy. But now, as he glowered down at her, his eyes heated and his roughened palms squeezing her arms forcefully, she felt something different, but not entirely unwelcome, coursing through her.

He was like fire, drawing her in both a soft caress and burning her when she got too close. She found she rather liked the way his flames licked at her skin.

Draco removed one of his hands, and Hermione, to her horror, almost whimpered at the loss of contact, but then he moved to cradle her chin, lifting her face to meet his.

She found that whatever pool of arousal she was beholden to was quickly giving way to anger when she remembered what they were arguing about. “Why do it to me, then?”

He looked confused, and his hold on her arms loosened from their punishing grip. She rather liked it, the bruising imprint of his long fingers.

“Do what?”

“Why do you get to confront me about my emotions when you can’t even face yours?”

A ghost of a smirk. “We both know which of us is worth caring for.”

“I care about you,” she said, and the way he looked at her made her wish the words died on her tongue.

He furrowed his brows and Hermione could see the clench of his jaw. “You… why?” he asked, perplexed.

“I don’t know…” she couldn’t admit it, because even when someone told you they cared for you, it didn’t stop the hurt, the belief in the inevitable that even people who care about you could still wound you. Before he could say anymore, she put her hands to his chest and pushed him as hard as she could.

She needed to get away from him, away from the warmth that made her feel more whole than she'd felt in a long time.

She ignored Draco for three weeks. He sent several owls to her, apologising for his behaviour.

She didn’t know how to reply without admitting he was right.

She felt stripped bare as if it had rung all her emotions through a metal grate ground until only sinew and bone remained.

Rationally, she knew. Psychological healing was an important branch of healing. But to look from the outside at the pain of others and tell them that mind healing was helpful was an easier process than being positioned as the person who needs it.

Therapy didn’t feel like a salve. It felt like a proposition to cut her open, to wage war on the thin strings of her core. And if it failed, if the carefully woven twines that were barely holding her together snapped, she didn’t know if she’d be able to wade through the carnage.

To admit to something is to open it, leaving it unfortified against attack.

She thought about how Draco’s attack against her defences wasn’t an onslaught nor a soft prod that pressed eagerly—cruelly, at her heart. He was a wand maker, and his gentle but firm movements had already burrowed their way inside her defences. His stage of attack was swift and underhanded, and she didn’t stand a chance at pushing him out.

She walked a familiar walkway, passing through the quiet streets of Diagon Alley after normal work hours.

She saw the sign of Draco’s shop, a granite grazing on a dark wood backdrop, reading the words: Roots and Recesses.

Hermione stepped up the small steps and opened the door, a small bell above the door showing her presence. The small shop screamed everything and nothing of how she imagined it would look. The walls were painted a dark Slytherin green, and shelves lined every wall with all kinds of assortments: several books on wand lore, on potions, scrolls of varying thickness, different potions that she could see a faint protective barrier on. There was even a foe-glass on a top shelf. She’d read that they weren’t mirrors but a reflection that showed those approaching with ill intent. There were several drawers labelled with similar materials Hermione saw Draco use in the lab: hair cores, feather cores, strings, tip and tail weights, polishing cloths and finishing oils. What surprised her was the warmth, the dim light of several sconces lining the room, the dark brown wood of the floor and tables which made her feel a sense of calm unlike the drab lighting of the Ministry and the cold floors which she could feel sinking into her pores. Some cabinets had small snitches as handles, a fact she would find endearing if she wasn’t bouncing on the balls of her feet with nervousness.

Hermione’s eyes met his, standing by one of the dark tables as he looked back at her, a mixture of confusion and nervousness lining his face in the warm light of the candle on the table. He was holding a box with a bow on it. She dwelled on the narrow box for a moment longer before straightening herself, remembering why she came here.

“Draco,” she said. She fiddled with her sleeves. It was a chilly night, and she was wearing a fluffy black cardigan and a pair of old denims.

She looked around awkwardly, before settling on a mug on Draco’s workstation. It had in small writing, so she moved closer. She saw the words ‘Dragons Do It Better’ inscribed.

She burst out laughing, unable to control both the absolute ridiculousness of the mug that contrasted so much with his usual persona, but also at the fact that she missed him so terribly that if she didn’t laugh, she would cry.

He turned the mug, so the words faced away. “Theo and Blaise thought it would be a great present when I opened the shop,” he muttered, “and they seemed to know every time I’d throw it out, and then would send me a new one. So, I gave up and just used it.” He put the box he was holding on the table and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

It was a special experience, seeing Draco Malfoy blush. She thought she rather enjoyed seeing how the red crept up his neck, up to his face, to the tops of his cheekbones.

“I made you something,” he said after a moment, picking up the long narrow box he was holding in his hand previously.

“Me?” she said, feeling nervous.

He held it out to her. He looked like he stopped breathing. “Yes. Open it.”

“What is it?”

“There aren’t too many objects that would fit into a long box, Granger.”

Hermione furrowed her brows. “You made me a wand?”

He nodded, a small, nervous smile tipping his lips up.

She backed away. “Weren’t you the one that said it wasn’t my wand, but my magic—”

“I did, and I still do.” He took hold of her arm when she tried backing away further and put the box firmly in her hand. “This wand is nothing but a reminder.”

“A reminder,” she repeated. She opened the box with shaking fingers and gasped when she looked inside.

Light brown. Weaving leaf designs. If she measured it, she was sure it would be 10 ¾.

“Ollivander taught me that Vine wands are less common and that their owners are witches or wizards who seek a greater purpose, who see beyond the ordinary.”

Hermione kept looking at it, amazed at its similarity to her old vine.

He quirked a brow. “He also told me vine owners also frequently surprise those who think they know them best.” His eyes were amused as he regarded her. “Drivel, if you ask me. Who would want to be considered in such pleasant terms?”

She hummed. “Your wand is Hawthorne, right?” He nodded. “Hawthorne’s signify a paradox. The tree it comes from has leaves and blossoms that cut, but they also heal.”

“You know, I didn’t know that. Ollivander must’ve skipped those parts of my lessons.” he teased.

Hermione laughed, then promptly burst into tears. Draco pulled her to his chest, wrapping his arms around her shoulders while she sobbed into his chest.

“I cry too much in front of you. I never cry in front of people.”

“I seem to have that effect on many people.”

“Shut up,” she tried laughing, but it was broken with a gasp as she tried to control her breathing.

He pulled back slightly and gently wiped her tears with the pads of his thumbs. “If your eyes get any wider, I’m concerned they might pop out,” trying for humour.

She chuckled, then glared at him. “My eyes don’t bug out.” She sniffed, looking away to wipe the rest of the tears.

She took hold of the wand and felt her magic coursing through her, still unsteady because she finally accepted the diagnosis.

He hummed, then his expression grew serious.

“Hermione.” It wasn’t a question, his use of her first name.

She looked up at him clearly. “My first appointment is on Monday.”

Draco smiled at her, and she felt her pulse fluttering against his chest. “The poor mind healer who has to go through Hermione Granger’s expansive and stubborn brain,” he teased. His eyes were alight as he looked down at her.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the insolent upward curve of her mouth. “I also resigned from the Ministry.”

His eyes widened. “What, why?”

“If I lied, I would say it’s because I found a new passion where I couldn’t let the opportunity just pass me by. But I’m just sick of being miserable.”

“So you thought you’d what, pack up, and go on a holiday,” a tone mixed with condescension but mostly amusement. “What are you going to do now?”

“For the future, who knows? Now…”

Hermione wrestled out Draco’s hold, her new wand in her grip, and a mischievous smile directed at him.

Draco didn’t have his wand on him and seemed to realise that he could not protect himself save for the step backwards he took and a nervous, almost pleading laugh. “Now, Granger—”

The Aguamenti spell had a shaky quality as it left her wand, but it spurted all over Draco’s shirt and his face, and he spluttered water from his mouth while Hermione stepped closer, freeing laughter shaking from her lungs.

He kept laughing, backing away and running to the backroom in the corner as Hermione chased him.

She found out that his direction to the backroom was a ruse, an ambitious plan of action to capture her in a crowded space. He was still a Slytherin, after all.

She breathed in his fire as he pushed her against the wall, tilting her head the way he wanted it as he pressed his lips to hers desperately, and then burning her as he trailed his mouth down her jaw.

Her shaky fingers reached up to cup his face, twirl in his hair, fisting it as she brought him closer to her. They were both shaking as they kissed, a collection of nerves, learning, and connection as they fit together.

Not unlike the makings of a wand.