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Hermione glances around the newly created eighth year Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, taking note of who had chosen to study the subject at N.E.W.T. level. Given everything they’d all been through, it surprises her how few of their peers are missing.
She had been hesitant to join herself, concerned that it might be too overwhelming. However, she’d had little other opportunity to process what had happened over the last year, and hoped that by confronting some of her memories head on, she might start to recover from the traumatic events.
The loud slam of the door makes Hermione jump, dragging her back into the present, and an unknown professor strolls to the front of the classroom. Her long, black hair is tied into a thick plait which bounces rhythmically in time with her quick footsteps.
She smiles brightly at the group in front of her. “Good morning, eighth years,” she calls over the cacophony of chattering students. “Welcome to your N.E.W.T. level Defence Against the Dark Arts class. I’m Professor Eaglet, and am humbled to be here as your tutor for the next year.
“I am, of course, aware of what you have all been through, and I know these lessons have the potential to be emotionally challenging—” there’s a pause as she looks around the room, gauging reactions before continuing. “I hoped that we could, therefore, start with a form of magic that I’ve heard a number of you are already familiar with: the Patronus Charm.”
A bubble of excited chatter ripples around the room, particularly among those who had been members of Dumbledore’s Army. The Slytherins show no emotion, staring blankly ahead, and Hermione understands how they feel.
Professor Eaglet smiles again. “Because this is such a complex spell, requiring a significant amount of one-to-one input, I propose that each student who is able to cast the Charm is paired with one who is unable, and you will work to mutually support each other during the week.”
The responding murmur holds less enthusiasm, but the professor’s bright expression remains intact. She picks up a piece of parchment which displays a photograph of each student and their corresponding names.
“Please could everyone who can confidently produce a Patronus put their hand up.”
For the first time in her life, Hermione’s arm doesn’t shoot into the air. It remains resolutely by her side—as though made of lead.
Harry, sat beside her, seems to immediately notice this change in her demeanour and elbows her in the ribs. “Come on,” he mutters.
She shifts in her seat, a red stain beginning to creep up her neck, forcing its way into her cheeks. Reluctantly, she lifts her hand.
“Wonderful,” Professor Eaglet says with a nod. “I’ll go through the list now, and the name of your partner will appear in front of you on a piece of parchment in just a moment.”
The sound of conversations and chair legs scraping across the floor gradually fills the room as everyone begins to receive their assignments. Hermione looks down at her desk, tears pricking behind her eyelids.
Harry’s elbow wedges itself into her side again. “Who’ve you got?” he whispers, leaning over her to try and read her parchment.
She glares at him and snatches up the yellowed paper, quickly opening it away from his prying eyes. Her heart drops when she reads the name.
“It’s—” she starts, but Harry’s gaze shifts above her head as he mutters, “Malfoy.”
Her head spins and turns to look into the eyes of one Draco Malfoy.
“Two thirds of the ‘Golden Trio’,” he nods condescendingly. “Granger, it appears we have some study sessions to arrange.”
Hermione blinks, looking thrown for a moment. “Um, tomorrow evening?” she suggests.
He hums in consideration. “Where?”
Harry stiffens beside her, and she knows how unhappy he is with this pairing. She attempts to give him a supportive smile before replying to Malfoy. “The old Charms classroom on the second floor, at seven?”
“Wonderful,” he says in a saccharine tone before turning and abruptly walking away.
A sinking feeling settles in her stomach as she watches his retreating form, and she can't help but dread their upcoming 'lesson'.
“Go on then,” Malfoy smirks the next evening, a sneer contorting his features. “Show me what form the Golden Girl’s Patronus takes.”
Hermione stiffens, her blood running cold as a wave of fear washes over her, adrenaline suddenly spiking.
Of course she’d known this moment would have to arise eventually, and she’d attempted to mentally prepare for it, but actually experiencing it was an entirely different matter.
“I… well, I—” she starts.
Malfoy raises an eyebrow, waiting.
She tries again. “Ever since… since the war, well—”
“Some time today would be great, Granger,” he interrupts.
Steeling herself, she narrows her eyes and tries to keep her voice even. “I can’t produce a Patronus anymore, okay?”
An uncomfortable silence bleeds into the classroom. Hermione’s eyes flit back and forth between Malfoy and the floor, her hands drumming a stilted tune against her thighs as she awaits his response.
“Are you being fucking serious,” he scoffs eventually, rolling his eyes derisively. “I thought you were meant to be the ‘Brightest Witch of Our Age’.”
She flinches at his harsh words. “Look, I know exactly how to produce one, so it shouldn’t impact on my teaching—I just won’t be able to show you what form my takes… took.”
“So, what happened?” he asks carelessly. “What stopped you from being able to produce one?”
She swallows. Her mouth feels dry and tongue too big. “At the final battle… well, I tried to, and—” She chokes, unable to finish the sentence.
Hermione looks down at her wand as she fights to keep control of her trembling hands. She tries to speak again but her breathing becomes laboured and memories begin to resurface, clawing their way through her mind.
Not wanting to be near Malfoy for a moment longer, she turns and flees—thrusting her hands against the door and hurtling down the corridor. The cold air rushes past as she runs, tousling her hair and grazing her face.
She panics when her throat starts to constrict, and pauses to rest her face against the frigid castle walls.
“Granger?”
Malfoy’s voice sounds as though he were miles away, speaking to her through layers of the ocean.
She’s tired and sinks slowly to the floor.
“Hey,” he murmurs, “look at me.”
Despite her reticence, she does.
“Good, well done, now I want you to look around—can you tell me five things you can see?”
She looks and tells him: a painting, a window seat, an old wooden door, his tie, her shoes.
He continues working through each of her senses, until, somehow, she begins to feel more like herself again. As her breathing gradually returns to normal, Malfoy shifts and moves to sit beside her, his back pressing against the stone wall.
Pensive silence slowly infiltrates the space between them.
“How did you know that would help?” she asks quietly.
He doesn't reply for a moment, and Hermione wonders whether he’s heard her question.
Eventually, he says, “I’ve experienced a similar thing.”
She considers him. “For how long?”
“Since the war.” He shrugs. “It’s affected us all in some way, I suppose.”
Sighing, she pulls her legs up and holds them against her chest. “Harry and Ron won’t talk about what happened—they’d rather just block it out, pretend it never happened. But that doesn’t work for me, I need to talk about it… it’s just hard, to find the right words, you know?”
Malfoy lets out a low chuckle. “I never thought I’d hear Hermione Granger say she struggles to find the right words.”
She glowers and gives his arm a sharp slap.
There’s another silence, and Hermione glances at him, wondering why she’s spoken so openly.
He notices her look. “So, is this it then?” he asks, and she cocks her head. “We’ll just take this as free time? Given we’re not going to be able to conjure anything.”
She looks at him, aghast. “Of course not, we’re still going to try!”
“Granger, the spell is difficult enough as it is, let alone trying to master it with our amount of emotional baggage.”
“Difficult, perhaps—but not impossible.”
“Alright, fine,” he sighs, shaking his head in irritation. “We’ll give it another go next week, but don’t come crying to me when we fail.”
A few days later, Hermione strides into the Charms classroom clutching a pile of books to her chest.
Malfoy sits reclining in one of the low backed wooden chairs. “You’re late, Granger,” he drawls.
She glowers at him. “I had a lot of research to sort though, and could only carry so much here by myself!”
“Go on then,” he mutters, waving his hand dismissively. “Do tell.”
“Patronuses,” she says, clearing her throat. “To successfully produce a corporeal Patronus, one with a particular shape and form, you have to be able to muster the happiest memory you can think of – the happier the memory, the stronger the Charm.
“Having said the incantation—Expecto Patronum—the Patronus should then come from the tip of the wand and direct itself towards whatever your target is.”
“Wave my wand, forget about Voldemort, got it.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “It’s not about pushing out or 'forgetting' negative thoughts—that doesn’t work.”
“What do you mean?” he queries.
“Thought suppression has a paradoxical effect,” she explains, “it actually produces the very thoughts we’re intending to stifle.”
She looks down at her wand pensively, before glancing back up at Malfoy. His eyes are surprisingly gentle and he nods encouragingly.
Gripping the vine wood length tightly in her palm, she pictures the happiest memory she can think of. “Expecto… Patronum…”
Nothing happens.
Her hand shakes as a wave of embarrassment washes over her, cheeks heating up as she stares at the floor. Hermione Jean Granger, she chides, swot extraordinaire, can’t even produce a Patronus.
“Look, Granger, you say a Patronus is fuelled by happiness? Intense emotion, right?”
“Yes…”
“Okay, so why are you approaching this like an Arithmancy problem? You need to feel it, not analyse it.”
She opens her mouth to reply, and then closes it again. “Oh, and you can feel, I presume? You’ve not even tried to produce one yet, Malfoy.”
“Right,” he mutters, brows furrowing with concentration.
She watches his eyelids flutter as though he’s physically scouring through memories in his mind.
“Expecto Patronum!” he says confidently.
Nothing happens.
Malfoy scowls. “Fuck.”
A shiver of relief at his failure trickles up her spine, before being abruptly weighed back down by guilt. “It’s fine,” she says, “we weren’t expecting anything anyway.”
He scoffs.
“Maybe you just need to pick another memory?”
“That’s not my problem, Granger,” he retorts.
She barely resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Then what is the problem?”
An uncomfortable silence swells around them, the tension becoming more palpable by the minute.
Hermione breaks first. “Come on, Malfoy. How am I supposed to help you if you won’t tell me anything?”
“Fine,” he snaps, drawing himself up, anger clouding his expression as he paces the room. “I don’t have a good enough memory, okay?” His voice lowers. “I’ve got plenty of emotion, Granger, I can feel, but there’s nothing that could be considered pure happiness.”
She waits for a moment, replaying the information he’s just revealed to her. “Okay… well how about all your years at Hogwarts—you were pretty popular, right? Was there something funny that happened at some point with your friends?”
“Right,” he jibes, “if it’s so easy to just conjure up a happy memory, then what’s yours?”
She flushes, stammering out a response, “Well, er… that doesn’t matter. I have one that has worked for me in the past—it’s you who needs to find the right one.”
“Such a hypocritical Gryffindor,” he mocks, rolling his eyes.
“No,” she mutters, her cheeks darkening. “But I don’t think we’re all that different. Although I might have happy memories, they’re either too tainted or I’m too scared to let them in and risk feeling the bad ones too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” she whispers. “It’s as though… as though I can see them, almost touch them, but they're tainted, warped, and no matter how hard I try, I still can’t push through the fog surrounding them.”
“How do you know that you don’t need a new memory as well, then?”
She shrugs. She doesn't know, but it seems too much to confess given the amount she’s already given away.
“We’re fucked up, aren’t we?” he mutters eventually.
She cocks her head in thought, and then, after a moment, replies, “Find me someone who isn’t.”
“You show me then, if it’s that simple!” Malfoy snarls a week later, having failed to conjure much more than small, silver tendrils. “Oh wait, you can’t!”
Hermione inhales deeply, determined not to get drawn into his tantrum.
“This is ridiculous, Granger—I’m not doing it anymore!”
Beads of sweat roll down his temples as he paces angrily back and forth, muttering obscenities under his breath and occasionally kicking chair legs that dare get in his way.
“Look, I can see you’re trying really hard,” she says carefully, ducking when he flings his wand in her direction. “But… I don’t think your memory is powerful enough.”
Malfoy scowls at her, before looking in the opposite direction. “I already told you—”
“Yes, yes, I know, you don’t have a happy enough memory,” she retorts, folding her arms over her chest. “But I just can’t believe that’s true.” She bites her lip and adds, “What memory have you been using?”
“It’s none of your business,” he grounds out.
Hermione only just resists the urge to stamp her foot. “Fine,” she huffs, throwing her arms into the air. “Have it your way.”
There’s a beat of silence before he sighs and drags a hand through his damp hair. “I was thinking about a dragon stuffed toy my mother gave me when I was five, alright?”
She stays very still, only giving him the slightest nod—scared that any sudden movement might stop him from talking.
“He… well, he came everywhere with me, made me feel safe.”
She notes his use of the past tense. “What happened?”
Looking down at the floor, Malfoy shrugs. “Father didn’t think it was appropriate for a boy of my age to carry a toy like that around with me—made me look weak.” He furrows his brow and takes a deep breath. “One day, Father took me outside and made me lay Dragon on the floor. He cast a quick Incendio, told me never to speak of the toy again, and walked away.”
She shifts awkwardly, not quite sure of the correct response. “I’m sorry,” she says eventually.
He shrugs again. “It was a long time ago.”
“I suppose it makes sense though, why your memory of him isn’t quite enough.”
“Yeah.”
There’s another pause before she asks, “Do you think you could find a different—happier—memory, and give it another go?”
He opens his mouth as if to argue, then closes it again. “Just once more.”
Hermione watches the crease between his brow deepen as he focuses, his lips silently mouthing the incantation before saying the words out loud. And, suddenly, tiny iridescent wisps spark from the tip of his wand and flit lightly around the room. He turns to gape at her, his face alight with joy.
“That’s amazing!” she cries, leaping forward and flinging her arms around his neck.
Blood rushes to her cheeks as she realises what she’s done, and his warm breath against her skin only serves to heat them further. She looks up at him, eyes wide with shock, to find their mouths are just inches apart. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip at the exact moment she stumbles awkwardly away from him.
She swallows nervously. “That was great…”
He cocks his head, a small smirk playing on his lips.
“The Patronus—the Patronus was great. I don’t think it’ll be long before you can produce a corporeal one, you know. That’ll be great, won’t it...” She walks backwards towards the door, her hand lifted in a half wave. “Um, well, bye then!”
"Expecto Patronum!" Hermione screams, thrusting her wand towards the cluster of Dementors swarming around Lavender.
Nothing happens— not even a wisp.
Hot tears burn a path down her grimy cheeks as she shouts the incantation over and over again, wildly waving her arms in a vague imitation of the required hand movement.
She watches as Lavender sinks to her knees, the wraithlike creatures finally overwhelming her.
One of the Dementor’s skeletal hands slowly slithers from its sleeve, reaching for its hood. Its rattling breath becomes more pronounced the further its head protrudes from the velvet black robes.
Hermione wakes with a start, sitting bolt upright. A thin layer of sweat coats her skin as she gasps desperately for breath. She blinks rapidly, trying to clear the fog from her mind, and grasps blindly for her wand.
She stares at the ceiling, waiting for her heart to stop racing and her breathing to slow down. Waves of guilt wash over her as the image of Lavender’s terror-stricken face imprints itself on the backs of her eyelids.
Despite her aching eyes and throbbing temples, Hermione knows she won’t be able to get back to sleep and gingerly lifts herself from the bed. The cold stone floor makes her gasp, but there’s something grounding about the way it feels against the soles of her feet.
Getting dressed, she quickly makes her way outside. The air is bitingly cold and she relishes the burn in her lungs as she inhales deeply, hoping to extinguish the lingering after-effects of the nightmare.
She wanders aimlessly around the deserted grounds, the crunching of frozen grass the only whisper in the early morning air, when the unexpected sound of ‘whooping’ floats towards her. She turns her head, searching for the source, and sees a flash of blonde hair dipping in and out of the dark clouds.
Moving closer, Hermione watches as Malfoy draws circles in the air with his broomstick, spinning and turning, swooping and dashing. She can’t help the upward tilt of her lips as she stares: her eyes centred on him as he moves with an air of ease she’s never seen before.
He looks so… free, and she wonders when she last felt that way, wonders when she last did something just for fun.
Lost in her thoughts, she doesn’t notice that Malfoy has alighted his broom and is sauntering towards her.
“Enjoying the view, Granger?” he drawls.
She rolls her eyes, trying to hide a smile. “No, just waiting for you to stop showing off,” she teases, but then pauses, a thought suddenly coming to her. “What’s it… What’s it like up there?”
He cocks his head, and, for a moment, Hermione isn’t sure whether he’s going to give her a serious answer. Then his whole face lights up with excitement, his eyes as wide as Quaffles, and she can’t help but mirror his expression when he talks about feeling free—untethered and unrestrained.
“Would you, er,”—he clears his throat, gesturing awkwardly to his broomstick—“would you want to come up—with me?”
She feels heat flare on her chest and creep up her neck, towards her cheeks. “Oh, no, no… that’s okay!”
He smirks. “Come on, Granger—you should be embracing the opportunity to experience some intense emotions, right?”
Eyeing the wooden contraption warily, she finds her head nodding and legs moving forwards. Even Malfoy looks surprised, as though he hadn’t really expected her to acquiesce. However, before she reaches it, a loud crack and low rumble erupt from the sky.
She tilts her head up and her eyes flutter shut as large raindrops fall heavily around them. A peal of laughter escapes her throat and she lifts her arms, waving them around her head as though trying to catch each and every droplet.
Malfoy gapes at her, abject horror written across his face, as he huddles beneath a hastily cast Impervious Charm. “You’re entirely mad, Granger,” he shouts over the drum-beat of rainfall.
She beams, and, carefully bending at her knees, leaps into a small puddle directly in front of him.
He lets out a high-pitched squeal as a wave of water drenches his trousers. The lapse in concentration causes the invisible barrier above his head to disintegrate, allowing a deluge of heavy rain to engulf him from head to toe.
There’s a brief pause as she looks at him, eyes widening, and then he’s moving, chasing after her. “Oh, you’re in for it now,” he calls.
She shrieks and races across the grass, slipping and sliding, tears of joy covering her cheeks, intermingling with the cold droplets.
They’re screaming and laughing and giggling, and it’s fun.
Her mouth aches as she collapses onto the sodden grass, chest heaving from exertion, and Draco falls down beside her.
“You”—he wheezes, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth—“you are liability, Granger.”
Hermione turns to look at him. “You love it really.”
She freezes, suddenly aware of the intimate tone lacing her words.
Her eyes dart to his, and an emotion she can’t place flashes so quickly across his face that she wonders if she imagined it. He reaches out and gently curls a piece of her damp hair around his finger, before tucking it behind her ear.
Pulse pounding, she jumps away as if scalded. “Right,” she says, her voice a pitch too high. “Um, we ought to be getting inside—it’ll be breakfast soon and I’m soaking wet.”
Her heart hammers against her chest as she walks to meet him later that week. It’s not an entirely unwelcome feeling, and she enjoys experiencing the sensation as anticipation, rather than fear, for once.
Draco is sat on the floor, still somehow managing to look aristocratic whilst leant against the wall. “Do we have to start straight away?” he bemoans, a petulant tone to his voice.
Rolling her eyes, she huffs but lowers herself to sit next to him.
Hermione doesn’t realise their shoulders are touching until he yawns, and the fabric of his shirt brushes lightly against her robes. She imagines what it might feel like if he were to wrap his arm around her, pulling her tightly to his chest.
Draco’s voice breaks her daydream. “Granger—are you even listening to me?”
“Yes,” she lies.
“What did I say then?”
She gives him a guilty smile, trying desperately to prevent her gaze from dropping to his lips.
He huffs. “I said, what form do you think my Patronus will take?”
“Something strong,” she says automatically, and instantly regrets it upon seeing the surprise etched across his face.
“What makes you say that?”
“Oh, um, just—you’re resilient, I suppose.”
He looks at her for a moment too long and she can feel his warm breath brush across her face. It would be so easy to lean ever so slightly closer…
He pulls back. “Should we... ”
“Yes, yes okay.”
“You first?”
Hermione nods and, as she says the incantation, tries to concentrate on her memory, but the heat from Draco’s arm floods through her and she struggles to think of anything else.
Wisps of silver float from her wand and arc delicately across the room. They’re shapeless, like puffs of air on a wintry day, but it's the closest she’s been to producing something for a long time.
“What were you thinking about,” he asks, eyes roving over the shadows before flickering back to her.
Her cheeks feel flushed. “Oh, um, the usual,” she stutters. “Your turn!”
His brow furrows, but he makes no further comment, and, instead, reaches for his own wand. “Expecto Patronum!”
They continue to practice for another half an hour, until it’s clear that neither is feeling particularly attentive, and, as the last pearlescent tendril dissolves from the room, they decide to call it a night.
Hermione bounces on the balls of her feet, jigging awkwardly. “Okay, well, see you next week, Draco.”
Her eyes widen and she looks up at him as she realises what she’s said. She tries to recall when she first started thinking of him as Draco.
He takes a step towards her and she panics, spins around, and starts to march down the corridor.
“Wait,” he calls, reaching out to gently catch her arm.
She tenses slightly, before hesitantly turning to face him.
“Hermione?”
There’s a pause.
And then, she’s not sure who initiates it, but suddenly they’re grasping at each other, pressing their bodies tightly together.
His lips are warm and soft against hers and she gasps when he brings his palm to her cheek, drawing gentle circles at her temple with his thumb. His other arm wraps around her waist and pulls her impossibly closer; she can feel his heart pounding in time with her own.
It’s everything and nothing like she’s imagined.
He deepens the kiss, and it’s rougher, more desperate, as if he might never get another chance. Her tongue slides against his and she leans into him, gently biting his bottom lip and eliciting a moan of pleasure.
Breathing heavily, they reluctantly break apart for air, and he rests his forehead against hers. His swollen lips whisper nonsensical words into her hair as she sighs, warmth blooming through her body.
“I’m not ready to go back to the Tower yet,” she murmurs eventually.
His grip on her tightens as he shakes his head. “No, not yet,” he agrees. “We could go for a walk?”
She smiles, slips her hand into his, and pulls him from the classroom.
The evening air is warm as they meander slowly towards the Black Lake, the velvet sky alight with stars and a full moon. It’s quiet except for the chirping of crickets and the gentle lapping of waves against the shore.
Their fingers are entwined as she pulls him onto the grass, settling herself between his legs and leaning against his chest. His body fits perfectly behind hers, as if she belongs in his arms.
She’s not sure why she asks, but Draco nods when she suggests they try to conjure a Patronus one last time; and so, sharing each other’s warmth, they say the incantation together.
There’s a moment’s pause, and Hermione’s heart stutters as she wonders whether even this moment won’t be enough. But, then, silvery mist erupts from their wands, swiftly solidifying to form two perfect corporeal Patronuses.
Draco pulls her closer to him and, resting his chin against her head, they watch as a peacock and an otter chase each other across the water.
