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Hermione casted Expelliramus just as Vargas did. They were both disarmed. Hermione was panting, barely able to stand. She’d been hit with a number of slicing hexes. Vargas could have started with the Killing Curse but he underestimated her and wanted to play.
She could hear her blood dripping onto the floor tiles. It was so loud. Louder than even her breathing. He had the upper hand despite him being disarmed.
She was on her knees. She knew she was dead. It had taken everything to get to this point. Months of planning. It shouldn’t have been her here, but it was and she would see it through.
“Stupid little bitch,” Vargus hissed. “What did you think would happen? You're inferior.”
Vargus never said “mudblood.”
Hermione had always wondered about that. And she wondered if this wasn’t about magic blood inferiority to him. She didn’t think it had anything to do with the wizarding world. This was just a man angry at everything that he saw as a threat to his ego and he was powerful enough to let his hate grow and grow.
Not unlike Voldemort, but just different and somehow more vicious and inhumane. There was no end game or bid for power. His group had a particular focus on muggle women and she had a hard time relating to the Aurors and the Minister that prejudice came in many forms that had nothing to do with blood or conquest. This was the destruction of the most vulnerable.
She had to finish this. Vargus’ following had been mostly disbanded and destroyed but as long as he was alive, nothing would change.
Harry didn’t believe in killing anyone. He hadn’t been right for this mission. Ron was strategic but he couldn’t think on the spot. He had planned this, though. From the bottom up. The small group of Aurors left kept the end goal from Harry, including Head Auror Robards. It was cruel and underhanded but The Boy Who Lived tended to be a martyr. His participation would have been a detriment.
But according to Ron’s plan, it was Malfoy who was supposed to be here, in this building, facing Vargas at this moment.
Hermione wouldn’t risk Draco.
Never.
She loved him too much.
She was no better than Harry but she was smarter.
Hermione knew Vargus better and she came more prepared than Draco would have. He was going to be so angry but he would be alive .
“What did you think would happen, Vargus? You’re worthless.”
She knew she could get a rise out of this fool better than anyone.
He grabbed Hermione by the neck and lifted her from the ground. She didn’t clutch his wrists even though every instinct in her screamed at her to do just that. No, her hand moved to the pocket of her robes, and she used her pointer finger to pull a pin.
He was a strong man, and he used wandless magic; enraged magic in that moment. Yes, she knew she was dead but she needed to survive long enough to accomplish what she needed to. It wasn’t a part of Ron’s plan. She hadn’t had a moment to make her move yet but she did now. She really hadn’t intended to die but, well, it was now or never and it was worth it.
Vargus threw Hermione through the glass windows that surrounded them.
Hermione Granger was a muggle-born and she had learned throughout the years that when it came to muggle technology, these new and old Death Eaters had no fucking clue.
As Hermione was thrown, she drew and threw the live grenade in the direction of Vargus. He wouldn’t know what it was.
Hermione Granger was a fucking muggle born. Lest they forget what they could bring to the table. Wizards would write about this in the future, too willingly ignorant to understand what happened because no one would be alive to tell them.
Now she was falling to her death from a 20 story building.
She had barely half a second to do the math. She did the math. Hermione always did the math.
One story was 14ft.
One foot equaled 0.03348 meters.
280ft x (0.305m/1ft) = 85.4 meters
Acceleration of objects on earth = 1g = 9.8 meters/s^2
2 h(9.8m/s^2)=
2 85.4m(9.8) = 17.4s*2
sqrt17.4s^2= 4.17s.
4 seconds.
The first part of the first second, she heard and watched the explosion happen in the room she was just thrown out of and she felt at peace. Draco was safe now. Everyone would be safe.
The next 3.5 seconds of her falling to her death were a lifetime and not a short one.
She was born. She was loved. She was strange. She was magical.
Her mother was wrapping her in a blanket around and dancing her to sleep. She felt warm.
Her father reading textbooks about dentistry to her not because she understood or was particularly interested but she loved the cadence and rhythm of his voice. It was her lullaby.
"You’re different, my lovely,” her father said.
“It feels bad and I’m scared.”
“No, darling. You just have something most people don’t.”
Minerva McGonagall sitting on the periwinkle upholstered sofa gripping a letter in her hand.
“Your daughter is special.”
Two boys. Her boys. Her friends. She’d never had friends.
They fought so hard and they were only children.
Harry. Ron. Harry. Ron.
Her parents were gone gone gone. She couldn’t get them back.
I’m sorry I’m so sorry I wanted you to be safe.
They won a war. They were children.
3 seconds.
It’s time to let go. It’s time to stop thinking, Hermione. Just feel the air and the weightlessness.
NO
She heard wings fluttering.
She is 18,
They were broken. All of them. She shouldn’t have come to Hogwarts without Ron and Harry. She was always afraid. She woke up afraid, gasping for air, always looking around for her friends – the ones that were alive and dead.
And then she came across him and he was so familiar to her for so many reasons, good and bad but still, familiar .
“Hello, Malfoy.”
And Draco Malfoy looked at her from his seat on the stairs to the astronomy tower during their 8th year and stared and stared and stared and Hermione felt strange and overwhelmed with emotions she couldn’t understand, but she wasn’t afraid.
“Hello, Granger.”
She wasn’t certain who did what and why but they started following each other around after that. They became friends. Always sniping, always fighting but they were friends.
“ Stop chewing on your nails, Granger.”
She put her hand down and glared at him.
“Don’t look at me like that. You have beautiful hands. You’re not doing yourself any favors.”
He did that a lot. Fussed at her. Made sure she didn’t carry too many books. Always asked her if she had eaten enough and even when she said yes, he appeared with a snack from Merlin knows where. Wrapped her in Slytherin colored scarves when he deemed her clothes unsubstantial for the cold. He became so dear to her that soon she wanted to express her affection physically like she did with Harry and Ron. Like she did with everyone she loved. A hug. A pat on the back. Mussing his hair. Pinching his side. He never let her touch him and he never touched her. And sometimes it made her feel bereft.
Still, he became so important to her and she knew she was important to him.
Now, she is 20,
Harry announced Robard had accepted Draco as an Auror. There was pushback. Hermione volunteered to be his partner. Harry and Ron didn’t understand why.
She understood.
Draco Malfoy was an excellent partner. In fact, they were continually lauded within the DMLE. Something about strategy, intelligence, and teamwork.
Harry said over drinks to her one evening, “It’s strange how you two work together. It’s graceful. Like a dance, in tandem, especially during stressful situations in the field.”
She laughed “A dance? What does that even mean, Harry?’
Harry frowned into his drink. “I think you would both die for each other.” Harry shook his head. “No, I think he would die for you.”
Hermione closed her tab after that.
As time went on, Draco started to watch her intently without trying to hide it.
She grew accustomed to it. His eyes on her were intense but always, somehow, a balm. She didn’t dissuade him. She would tease him.
“How wonderful do I look in my Auror robes, darling?”
“They fit horribly. You look horrible”
And she would laugh. When she asked him the same question before galas and Christmas parties wearing dresses that accentuated and molded, Malfoy answered the same way.
“You look horrible.”
It never hurt her feelings.
Because somehow Malfoy always made her feel beautiful and important and wanted without seeming to want her at all.
3.1 seconds? 2 seconds?
NO
She heard wings fluttering and flapping.
Hermione is 24.
There has been a rise of new age Death Eaters that were well funded, well trained, and they have a leader who is a true strategist, Arthur Vargas. A half-blood, of course. His group was targeting muggle borns and muggles in particular.
Draco wanted her to step back from field work. She, Ron, and Harry argued with him.
“Hermione is strong and she knows how to navigate through muggle cities.”
“Hermione can fight.”
"I will fight, Draco.”
When she and Draco returned to her office, he backed her against the door after he closed it. His hands were on either side of her head. Draco never touched her, even after all these years. He was touching her now. His thumbs brushed against her cheekbones. He put his forehead to hers.
She loved him. She desperately loved him.
“You can’t die”
“I won’t die, Malfoy.”
"It’s a real fucking possibility.”
“And it’s apart of the job.”
He hissed.
“You. Can’t. Die.”
His eyes were glowing and his body was tensing up and up and he didn’t look quite human.
She didn’t understand. She knew something was different about him. Hermione considered herself a bold witch even though it had taken her 6 years to ask–
“Do you love me, Draco?
Draco didn’t stumble back. He didn’t stumble or stutter.
“Yes.”
Hermione opened her mouth to answer but he continued.
“ You’re everything to me. I chose you. I’m only doing this fucking job because you did and I want you safe. I want to be by your side. Always.”
"Why didn’t you tell me before? How long have you known this?”
“Since I was 18, maybe before. Fuck. I’ve always wanted you. I’ve always wanted you to have a choice.”
Hermione nodded. She still didn’t understand but time was limited.
“Let's talk about this later. We have a job to do.”
2 seconds.
NO
She heard wings fluttering, flapping, and swooping through the air around her.
1.80 seconds
This wasn’t the past or the present.
At 25, Draco Malfoy seduced her. Or she seduced him. It was a mutual seduction and it was everything.
“ I love you waited and waited and now you’re mine love you fucking love you” he whispered into her skin.
Hermione watched the sun shine through dust motes and silver feathers while she caressed pale skin.
He was watching her like he always did.
At 26, they had a small marriage ceremony with only their closest friends in attendance.
At 27,
1.5 seconds
NO
“Scorpius? That’s so… intense.”
"Your name is Hermione and mine is Draco. Is it really that odd?”
When Hermione was 28 she gave birth to their son, Scorpius. He was an exact replica of his father.
“The Malfoy line tends to have only one child, and always a son.” Draco sounded guilty about this.
Hermione held her son in her arms and stroked his blond head. “Well perhaps my unique genetics will change that.”
“Genetics?”
Hermione raised her eyes to meet her husband’s. “My blood might change that.”
Draco cocked his head like a bird might, considering that statement and then he smiled.
At 32,
Their second child was a girl.
She did not completely take after her father. Her hair was very light brown and uncontrollable like her mother’s, her eyes were gray.
“Muggle school punnett squares didn’t prepare me for Malfoy blood.”
“Punnett what?”
"Nothing. How about the name Lyra?”
“Beautiful.”
1 second
NO
Their third child came 9 years later and was very unexpected. He had his mother’s brown hair though his curls were less unruly. His eyes were amber and brown with flecks of green depending on the light. Draco and Hermione were teased relentlessly over the third child. It was unusual for a witch Hermione’s age to bear a child.
Scorpius was sorted into Syltherin. Lyra was sorted into Grffyndor. Draco’s parents and aunties and uncles were pleased.
And when Caelum Malfoy was sorted into Hufflepuff,, Draco Malfoy laughed with delight.
A Malfoy in Hufflepuff. Statistically, well, the chance was supposed to be 0. Hermione and Draco were always beating the odds, it seemed.
0 seconds
Hermione hit the cobblestones below and her last thought before impact was that she was glad she wouldn’t land on anyone. So many people had died already. Then there was nothing.
——
She woke up in a bed in St. Mungo’s.
If this was the afterlife, then it really sucked. Everything hurt.
There was a healer standing above her performing diagnostic spells.
Hermione tried to say hello but it came out in a garbled croak that immediately made her throat give up.
The healer startled, jumped more like it.
“Au-Auror Granger! You’re awake! Wait wait I’ll get the doctor.” And the healer disappeared.
This really sucks, Hermione thought before being dragged under by the dark again.
She heard voices flitting through her mind
Quite remarkable she was for all intents and purposes very very much dead.
All her bones have healed but her muscles are atrophied
Hey Hermione, wake up soon so we can talk about how I’m the Boy Who Lived and you’re The Woman Who Fell Out of a Building and Basically Exploded on Impact but Lived.
It doesn’t quite ring the same, Potter. Try again.
Well what would you call her, Malfoy?
The Woman Who Survived Defenestration, obviously.
Ah, ‘Mione, you really had to get yourself shackled to that arrogant piece of shite. I’ll get used to it.
Not much is known about the Veela bond, but I can say with confidence that this bond is very, very powerful and unheard of. Nothing in written record has ever suggested this as a possibility.
Wake up, Granger. You’ve been lazing about for too long. This hospital gown looks horrible on you. We have things to do. I need to yell at you for being a swotty stupid reckless Gryffindor. You need to start recovering your weak little muscles so I can fuck you good and proper again and again. I need to make sure you’ll never leave me. It’s imperative. You silly bint. I love you. Wake up.
Hermione woke up.
Draco blinked and his eyes widened. His breath hitched.
The years stretched out before her for just a moment, tangible, visceral, and real but the reality she knew was coming was fading with every waking millisecond. She could hurry and do the math. She could calculate the seconds that totaled the days, weeks, months, years that equaled a lifetime of happiness starting now . She could hold on to that number like a cherished possession because Hermione liked to know what to expect.
She didn’t. And the future was gone but a sense of hope lingered.
And even though it hurt every muscle in her face, she smiled.