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Chapter Text

It was a cruel punishment, to be trapped with nothing but memories. Hermione was sure of it, now more than ever. The feeling of anguish, at first simply tasted now and then on the trio’s search for Horcruxes whenever she thought of parents who didn’t know her name, now multiplied into unbearable volume. At least back then she could have busied herself brewing more essence of dittany, or re-casting the wards around their tent, or any number of tasks to get her mind off the loss. Now, wandless and imprisoned in the deepest depths of the Hogwarts dungeons, Hermione could do nothing but dwell. 

The first few days were the hardest, slowly waking out of a dreamless stupor into a living nightmare of grief and guilt. Hermione’s friends’, mentors’, and comrades’ deaths replayed over and over in her head with no way to put an end to it, no sense to make of it, and the gnawing idea that she had, somehow, been the only one to survive. 

Hermione had yelled herself hoarse down the row of darkened cells, asking if there was anyone else imprisoned there. Unclear if they were charmed to be silent from the outside, she nonetheless received no response. Sometimes it was all she could do to yell, nonsense mostly, if only to give the endless stream of agony somewhere to go. 

Her cell received small morsels of food, drinkable water, and a burn salve once a day. The plate and cup disappeared when she finished eating, no doubt the same magic used in the Great Hall at breakfast, but the empty salve vials stayed. She stacked them under the small cot in the corner, using them to count the days. 

When the pain of hearing Ron’s strangled cries ringing in her ears became too much, Hermione turned to the last puzzle she had left to ponder: Why was she being kept here? It was a question in twofold. Why was she being kept here, in the dungeons, and sustained with food, water, and medicine? And why was she being kept here, on this mortal plane, when the corrupted regime that walked above hated her very existence?

On salve vial number sixteen, just as Hermione was considering that she might be kept around so the new Ministry might drain her of her blood to study its contents and find the source of Muggle-born magic thievery, she felt the presence of visitors long before she saw them. The palpable ache of the Dark Arts, like when she had worn Salazar Slytherin’s locket, seeped into the dungeon, turning the air cold and clammy. 

The light from the open door burned her eyes, accustomed to the near darkness, and she had to turn away, shielding her face. The visitors entered slowly, and the sharp, metallic smell of evil joined the dungeon’s mildew. 

The two sets of footfalls never paused at any cell but Hermione’s. I’m alone, then.

“The Clever Mudblood,” came a familiar hiss. “How have you found the accommodations?” 

Still too bright, she could barely open her eyes to see him. But Tom Riddle’s towering, razor straight silhouette was unmistakable. She couldn’t quite make out the man at his side before she had to squeeze her eyes shut again. 

“My loyal followers have made your stay comfortable, against their natural inclination. I do hope you can show a little appreciation,” Voldemort crooned. 

Hermione said nothing. 

“Severus, don’t you think this filthy Mudblood should be thanking us for keeping her alive?” He turned to the man standing at his side. 

“Imperio,” came the response, and Hermione’s mind went numb. 

There was only one thought, repeated over and over until thundering in her ears, and it forced her eyes to open, her feet to move, and her knees to hit the floor at the edge of the cell. 

She heard her own voice, sounding very far away and as if spoken underwater, saying “Thank you, my Lord, for keeping me alive. Thank you, my Lord, for providing food and water. Thank you, my Lord.”

Voldemort gazed down at her through his slitted eyes. “What you’ve been given is much more than your kind deserve. In the coming months, I will make sure the rest of the Wizarding World agrees.” 

The cold grasp on Hermione’s mind faded away, but her temples still throbbed. “Why am I being kept here?” she asked in a small voice. A question in twofold.

“Severus,” he commanded again.

Hermione turned to her former professor, barely getting a moment to take in his emotionless face before she found her back to the floor, nerve endings flayed beyond measure, white hot pain tensing every muscle, vocal cords pushed to their limit with her echoed screams, healing skin once again raw and bloodied as it tore anew. 

“Lovely,” Voldemort said as she drew ragged breaths from the cold flagstones. “Do keep the Mudblood occupied until I’m ready for her. After years of instructing her in subjects too sacred for her inferior nature, I’m sure the task is well handled.”

Snape didn’t move his eyes from Hermione’s limp body. “Yes, my Lord. You’ve no idea,” he said with a sneer. 

Voldemort gave one last wicked smile before turning back to the entrance of the dungeons. Snape pointed his wand towards her again, and Hermione braced for another Cruciatus Curse, grinding her teeth together in anticipation. 

The curse never came. Snape had crouched at the cell bars, but her muscles gradually relaxed, leaving a dull ache in place of raw pain. “You are only one of two members of the Order of the Phoenix to survive the Battle of Hogwarts.” He eyed the right side of her neck. “Though not for your lack of trying.”

Hermione finally looked up at him. “No one answered me here. Who survived? They aren’t imprisoned?”

“Not in these cells,” Snape replied. “See to it that you keep yourself healthy. It’s of dire importance.”

And without another word, he swept from the dungeon, leaving Hermione with more questions than ever in the familiar darkness.

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Six more burn salve vials had arrived since she’d received her first visitors to the dungeon, and Hermione was no closer to answering her primary question than when they had left. Whatever they were keeping her alive for, Voldemort had mentioned keeping her occupied for months. She didn’t know if she could even last another fortnight with no wand, no means of keeping herself busy, and still the utter guilt lurked behind every thought. 

Snape had said there was only one other Order member alive, but neglected to say who. Probably just another means to torture her with, and it was working. Hermione uselessly conceived escape plans, imagining a wandless spell allowing her to vanish the bars of the cell, sneak out of the castle undetected, possibly hexing any Death Eater who stood in her way, off to… where? Who?

The plans always fell apart after that, with no idea who was left, where they were, or if they were even in any shape to continue the fight. She imagined every Order member unaccounted for in her painful memories of the final battle, then tried to come up with a finite list of possible states they could be in, from unconscious at St. Mungo’s, to hiding in wait behind the door to the dungeon, waiting for the right moment to burst in and rescue her… but the possibilities were endless. 

It was no use to linger on that puzzle. At the risk of another endless ocean of grief, Hermione turned to a different one. What did Voldemort mean by keeping Hermione ‘occupied?’ Maybe Snape would stalk down once a week and force her to brew hangover cures for the rich purebloods celebrating their victory stories above, she thought bitterly.

What a stupid idea. No, they wouldn’t have her handling magical ingredients lest she slip anything under the cot to aid in a possible escape. Snape would have to watch her every move, making it a total waste of time to have her brew anything.

Maybe they wanted to capture that last Order survivor, and wanted to interrogate her until she gave up a possible clue to their location? It would be useless—Hermione hardly knew how she ended up here, much less how they ended up wherever they were. 

That brought her back to the original conundrum. Why was she here? It was infuriating to circle back to the question with no real way to answer. Based on the conversion between her kindly visitors, Voldemort tasked Snape to keep her occupied (with what?) until he was ready for her (to do what?), and Snape had told her (why?) that there was one remaining Order member alive (who, where, and how?)

There were too many blank holes in Hermione’s present information, but putting the investigation down required another dive into the madness of remembering her friends die over and over again. 

Neville had put up a brave fight against Greyback, but crumpled in the end. Molly was hit by a Knockback Jinx that had her falling off a moving staircase. Tonks went down to the same Fiendfyre flames that now marred Hermione’s own neck and shoulder. The piercing hot enchanted inferno was about the last thing she remembered clearly from the battle, but Snape’s recent dig at her confirmed her worst fears. She was only one of two alive; trapped, useless, left without magic.

As the days stretched on, her only solace being the calming relief of the burn salve, Hermione almost wanted Voldemort to come back down, grinning wickedly, and just get it over with. Whatever he was planning for Potter’s Mudblood, it was a fate likely worse than death.

Would she be chained to a desk and forced to take minutes in shorthand as new wizarding lawmakers formed rules dictating the exclusion of her kind? Frozen and propped up for pureblood first years to practise their hexes on? Have her magic sapped out particle by particle to restore the Sacred Twenty-Eights’ estranged Squibs?

Whatever it was, some days she wished that other Order member out there was the only survivor. Then she wouldn’t be here, alternating between sobbing until her throat ached for dead friends and dreading the fresh new ways Voldemort might torture her for the entertainment of pureblood society. 

Three burn salve vials more, and again the dungeon door was opened, assaulting her with light. Only one silhouette walked through this time, thankfully closing the door most of the way behind him to dim the unbearable brightness. 

Snape eyed the plate on the ground in her cell, the blueberry muffin and orange slices untouched. “Miss Granger, I specifically instructed you to keep yourself healthy. It won’t do to go hungry.”

Hermione glared up at him. “Why would I do anything you tell me? You haven’t given me a reason why I shouldn’t starve myself and rob Voldemort of his plaything.”

“Contrary to what you might think, Miss Granger, I am here to help you,” Snape hissed down at her. “I’m the one who stunned you and extinguished the Fiendfyre.”

“And you put me here,” Hermione replied scathingly. “Thank you, Professor, for imprisoning me. Shame Tonks was lost to the fire, maybe then I’d have some company.”

Before Snape could respond, she stood up against the cell bars and launched into her list of Order members unaccounted for. “Is George Weasley alive? Remus? Kingsley?” 

“Weasley was killed by Bellatrix. Remus was taken down by a giant. Kingsley was killed, unclear by who.”

He calmly kept listing the deaths, mostly Killing Curses, befallen to the comrades she questioned him about. With each name, Hermione’s heart sank further and further. Her days of mental lists had done nothing to help quell the new, raw despair forcing its way from her throat. 

She collapsed on the cot, tears wetting her cheeks anew. No more names came to her lips, only near silent sobs. 

“Miss Granger,” Snape started again. “I didn’t come here to merely give you an update on the ranks of the Order. The Dark Lord intends to make an example of you soon, and the only way you can avoid being the first execution of the New Domain is by following my instructions. I have a mission for you.” 

Hermione slowly quieted her crying and looked back at him, eyes still blurry with tears. “A mission? You mean keeping me ‘occupied’ in between rounds of the Cruciatus?” 

“No. The Dark Lord intends for me to torture you until his plans are ready, so I may prove to him that I didn’t save your life out of sympathy, but out of service to him as I have reported.” His eyes were nearly emotionless. 

“You mean it was your idea to have me served up as the first kill of your New World Order? That’s why you didn’t just let me burn?” Hermione asked, voice rising. 

Snape tsked. “You are jumping to conclusions, Miss Granger. I seem to remember you being able to use a modicum of logic in your studies. Listen to me.” He began pacing the area in front of her cell while she watched, guarded.

“I stopped the flames during the Battle of Hogwarts and put you in this cell. When asked for my reasoning by the Dark Lord, I suggested that he use you as the first public execution.” She started to speak again, outraged, but he continued. “The New Domain will not be putting on such displays for many weeks, if not months. In that time, I will report to the Dark Lord that I am dutifully torturing you as he has directed. In reality, you will be carrying out a mission of my instruction. That is why you are still alive.”

Hermione’s protests died in her throat and she was quiet for several seconds. “You’ll set me free to complete this mission?” The question came out so much more desperate than she intended.

Snape’s face tightened. “In a way. As I said, I am trying to help you.” 

She didn’t speak further, only sat up on the cot and regarded him suspiciously. 

He continued in her silence. “I am unable to complete this task myself. You must deliver an important message.”

“And if I don’t?” Hermione whispered. Maybe if she provoked him enough he’d cast the Killing Curse and she’d be done with this farce.

He stopped pacing and narrowed his eyes at her. “I saved your life. You must.” 

A damn Life Debt. There was no question that she clearly owed him repayment. 

She stood again, closer to him through the bars. “Fine. Tell me the message, let me out of this bloody cell, and I’ll deliver it.” 

Snape opened his mouth to go on, but instead bent with a hiss and clutched his left forearm. “I’ll return when I can,” he said, righting himself and stalking towards the door. 

“Wait!” Hermione called, feeling freedom slip away. She pressed against the cell bars. “Please!” But the door closed behind him with a final slam.

Chapter Text

Hermione spent the next five days brainstorming about the new information presented to her. 

First, surprisingly, Snape was lying to Voldemort about why he saved her from the Fiendfyre. Interesting development. She thought back to the ache of the Cruciatus Curse leaving her body when she was convinced he would cast it again. 

It was compelling evidence, but Hermione wasn’t so sure about blindly trusting him just yet. Snape had still invoked a Life Debt to force her to carry out this deranged mission. Slimy bastard. 

Then there was the mission itself. He needed her to deliver a message. How odd. What kind of message was it that he couldn’t send by owl, Patronus, or just sticking his head in a fireplace to tell the recipient himself? If he was lying to Voldemort about her torture, it could be rebellious in nature. Could it be intended for that other living Order member? 

On the other Order member, Hermione cursed herself for not uncovering their identity. She scoured her memories, trying to think of someone who hadn’t died in the battle, but came up short. Could it be someone she assumed was dead, when they had actually survived? If Snape had extinguished the enchanted Fiendfyre flames, was Tonks still out there somewhere with matching burns?

Merlin, she hated him for taking away any chance of remembering the end of the battle. And imprisoning her here to carry out his sodding mission! He probably only saved her life knowing she’d owe him a debt. The reality was almost as hopeless as back when she didn’t know anything. 

Her meals and salve dutifully appeared in her cell each day. The sight of them popping into existence, probably arranged by a house-elf just as trapped as she, made Hermione want to cry. Why was she even being nourished with food and medicine? That small kindness from her captors and no doubt their servants felt like salt in the wound. Every bite reminded her Voldemort was only keeping her alive now to execute her later, so what was even the point? 

Snape appeared outside her cell once more, again glancing at her uneaten rice pudding and pumpkin scone, but this time he didn’t comment on them. 

Hermione watched him approach through narrowed eyes, resolved to get some answers. She spoke before he could, “Tell me the message and let me out so I may deliver it and fulfil my Life Debt.”

“We’ll be practising a new spell today, Miss Granger,” Snape said, ignoring her command and sounding as if he was talking to a first-year. 

Tired of playing into his infuriatingly ambiguous way of conversing, Hermione didn’t outwardly react beyond briefly closing her eyes in frustration. “What spell, Professor?” she said, voice saccharine. If he wanted to put on the teacher-student act, she’d make him regret it. 

“The Turnback Trance. It will be integral to your mission to deliver this message.” 

“Is that some kind of Apparition-adjacent method of getting me out of this cell?” Hermione asked, trying to bring the topic back to her release. At his sharp glance, she added, “So I may deliver the message and fulfil my Life Debt?”

Snape held her eyes. “Successfully casting the Turnback Trance will place your mind, body, and spirit into another point in time. Past or future.” 

Hermione stumbled back to the cot and sat. 

“Another point in time?” she murmured. The Time-Turner in third year had used advanced magic, but a single spell? It must be amazingly complex. “How?” 

“Unknown,” Snape replied. “It was outlawed centuries ago.” 

Hermione put the pieces together quickly. “I’m delivering a message to someone in the past? Or the future?”

“The past,” he confirmed. “Travelling to points of time that have already occurred is much more stable than travelling to the future. That much we do know.” 

She was eager to attempt the spell, of course, but its legality quelled the rising tide of curiosity. “You said it was outlawed. Is this dark magic?” 

Snape sneered. “You aren’t at liberty to refuse this deed based on its morality.” At her glare, he went on, “It is not dark. Simply unpredictable and prone to instability if not cast with respect to its power.” 

She still hesitated, going over the new information presented at this visit. Snape finally spoke again, quieter this time. “Dumbledore was convinced of the importance of this message’s delivery using the Turnback Trance in the event of a defeat.”

Dumbledore’s name piqued her interest, but Hermione was still wary. Snape could be invoking it just to coerce her further; she still wasn’t sure where his loyalties lied after the war. Though, after a year of Horcrux hunting and unearthing the Deathly Hallows on nothing but vague clues and gifts from Dumbledore, this time travel message delivery didn’t seem too far fetched for the old man’s plans.

Hermione frowned. “How am I supposed to cast it without a wand?” Maybe he’d smuggled her one and she could blast the bars apart and let him know what she really thought of this Life Debt. 

“I will be performing the initial spell on you.” Snape brought his own wand out of his robes. “All you have to do is concentrate on a strong memory. Lying on your back would be ideal.” 

She turned and lay on the cot, looking up at the dungeon’s stone ceiling and searching for a strong memory. Snape continued, “You’ll need to say an incantation to return to the present. Rhursus Praesenti. ”

“Rhursus Praesenti,” Hermione spoke, feeling nothing. “How am I supposed to cast that without a wand?” 

“Every magical person has a well of internal magic,” Snape lectured. “Draw on it.”

“I haven’t been able to do anything magical since I was put in this bloody cell,” Hermione snapped, feeling tears spring to her eyes. 

“Draw from your well. It’ll be enough,” he said, and it sounded final. “Returning to the present is as easy as waking up from a dream.” 

“Does that mean the initial spell is as easy as falling asleep?” Not that falling asleep was easy at all these days.

He paused, as if considering how the answer might affect her. “If only it were.” 

Great, it’ll be like the Cruciatus with a side of time travel. 

Hermione closed her eyes as Snape raised his wand and pointed it at her. “Concentrate on your strong memory, Miss Granger.”

She had spent too long thinking about wartime over the past weeks. Though the memories were strong, they were painful. Thinking about Harry or Ron only brought sharp pangs of grief as her mind instantly relived their deaths. It wouldn’t do. Hermione discarded the last few years and thought back further. A strong memory. Snape never said it had to be a happy memory, like casting a Patronus. 

Her thoughts went to third year, Care of Magical Creatures. Malfoy had just finished mocking Hagrid’s sorrow at Buckbeak’s impending execution, and Hermione had felt such white hot rage at his careless sneer that her vision went black; when it subsided she was standing and her palm stung from the slap. 

It was this anger she focused on, clear and focused within her chest, paired with the vindication of finally dealing something to that slimy git beyond verbal comebacks. How dare he mock another for their grief. How dare he. 

“Adducturum Pertempus,” Snape incanted, and she felt a warm haze envelop her, the blue glow visible from behind her closed eyelids. Hermione focused on the memory of slapping Malfoy, the blistering anger she had felt, and the pink handprint left on his shocked face. 

The blue glow faded, and nothing happened. She turned and opened her eyes to look at Snape. “You didn’t say it had to be a happy memory, right?”

“No. Any strong memory will do. Again.” His face betrayed no disappointment.

Hermione again focused on slapping Malfoy years ago and again felt the warm haze and saw the blue glow, but no more. Snape cast the spell three more times, and each time the haze and glow faded away to nothing. 

She sat up on the cot, the tears again swimming in her eyes. “I knew it. I don’t have any magic left.”

Snape lowered his wand. “This cell has no enchantments that could alter your magic. As I said, this is a powerful spell. It will take time to cast and receive properly. You will complete the mission in time.” 

But Hermione had already put her head in her hands, cheeks wet. “I’m useless, Professor. All my friends are dead. I give up.” The horrible grief and overwhelming guilt was back, eating away at her insides until there was nothing left. 

“You’ll do no such thing.” He replied sternly. “Dumbledore made it evid—”

“How do I even know you’re telling the truth about Dumbledore, and not just using his memory to force me to deliver your sodding message?” Hermione interrupted him, choking out the words. 

Snape didn’t seem to want to dignify that with an answer, instead turning to the dungeon’s entrance. As he opened the door, he looked back at her and simply said, “We’ll continue with the Trance soon.” 

Hermione was at once standing at the bars and clutching them tightly. She called to him down the hallway, “Go find that other Order member and have them deliver the message. I don’t want to do your bidding for you, Life Debt or not.” 

He paused there, holding the door open. “I am the other surviving member of the Order, Miss Granger.” 

At her shocked silence, Snape broke eye contact and looked ahead again. “Regarding your magic—try meditating.”

Chapter Text

It was several days before Snape was back in the dungeon. Hermione spent them looking back through memories, carefully avoiding ones that hurt too much, in hopes of finding a strong one that might help her succeed with the Trance. She knew the memory of slapping Malfoy in third year had been strong, but it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared with multiple memories to draw on. 

Though Snape hadn’t specified the nature of the memory needed to be anything in particular, it helped to go over happy memories. Like the day she had opened her letter to Hogwarts and everything had suddenly made sense, the feeling of relief as she realised that there might be a place for her in a different world. One where the strange accidents that seemed to follow her were celebrated, rather than being cause for concern. 

Or her first day in Diagon Alley before the start of her first year at Hogwarts. What a rush of new concepts, people, and ideas. It was overwhelming, and although her parents seemed out of their element, Hermione had drank in the unfamiliar world giddily, dreaming about a fresh start, a new opportunity to become who she really knew she could be. 

The first day Hermione had stepped foot in Hogwarts was another bright memory, but it was brushing too close to reality, considering her current quarters. She instead focused on her first visit back home from Hogwarts, where she spent every waking minute telling her parents about magical life, even brewing tea for them as she babbled about potions. Mum and Dad both swore they felt a little lighter after drinking it, even though Hermione couldn’t use magic outside of school and it had, in fact, been a regular Earl Grey. 

In her waking hours, the glimmer of hope regarding Snape’s supposed alliance to the Order, plus his mention of Dumbledore’s endorsement of the Turnback Trance mostly kept Hermione’s mind off of the familiar hopelessness of her past weeks. As she tossed and turned on the cot, probably only sleeping four or five hours a night, her subconscious steered in the opposite direction. 

Every happy memory she had catalogued in the hours before seemed to be corrupted in her sleep. Opening her letter to Hogwarts? Sorry little Hermione, wizarding society won’t want you either. Visiting Diagon Alley? The purebloods buying their school supplies probably shot disgusted glances at her family in their Muggle clothes. Seeing Hogwarts for the first time? Too bad it crumbled under Voldemort’s attack. Telling Mum and Dad about school? They didn’t even know who she was anymore. 

The nightmares never seemed to stop, the sights and sounds of Harry and Ron’s broken bodies mingling in just for good measure. Every day her progress on the happy memory front seemed to start over. How Hermione wished for a Dreamless Sleep Draught. 

She didn’t want to concede to Snape’s suggestion just yet, but after waking up covered in cold, clammy sweat from a vision of Luna getting hit with a Bone Breaking Curse and crumpling down the staircase in the Great Hall, tumbling through blood that wasn’t hers as the red rivulets flowed together down the steps, Hermione supposed it wouldn’t hurt. 

She righted herself on the cot, trying to sit comfortably. Closing her eyes, she tried to focus on her senses. The thin mattress’s fabric was rough under her palms, the dungeon’s slight damp scent was akin to old lichen, and the only sounds she could hear was the occasional settling of the old castle and quiet crackles of the magic within its walls. Hermione slowly drew a breath and let it out for a count of eight, and repeated until she lost tally of the repetitions, trying to clear her mind. 

The familiar despair tried to seep its way in, but she simply acknowledged that her current situation was less than ideal and sent the thought away. Hermione continued with the quiet recognition of errant thoughts and their dismissal, returning her focus to her senses, and before long had achieved a sufficient, if fragile, state of mental clarity. 

It was in this state she sat, breathing steadily, until the door to the dungeon opened again at long last. She opened her eyes, feeling more alert and restored than she had remembered feeling in a long time. 

Finally, Hermione was ready to take on the Turnback Trance again. She wouldn’t give Snape the satisfaction of knowing his suggestion had helped, even if… oh no. 

The figure entering the dungeon wasn’t Snape. A mess of black curls sat atop her head, which tilted side to side in animated glee as she stalked forward. 

Bellatrix stopped at the bars, her sharp teeth somehow still shining menacingly in the low light of the hall of cells. “Hello, Mudblood,” she hissed. “I heard you somehow managed to escape my pretty little bonfire.” 

Hermione felt any confidence about the spell die away as her throat closed up. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t; that hateful stare seemed to freeze her in place. How she wished Bellatrix had fallen to her own Fiendfyre just as Crabbe did. 

Heart pounding in her ears, she didn’t reply. Any quick retort or defiant response might have bolstered some Gryffindor bravery, but Hermione was at an obvious disadvantage with no way to defend herself and no means of escape. An exterior of feeble defeat felt much safer. It was mostly accurate, anyway. 

“So sad my sweet niece got burnt to a crisp,” Bellatrix continued at Hermione’s silence. “At least she didn’t have to go home to her werewolf pup.”

She was trying to get a rise from Hermione. The comment on Tonks and Teddy was working, but she still didn’t speak. 

Bellatrix sneered and drew her wand from her robes. “Finally learnt your place, then, filthy girl. Let’s see how quiet you are while I have my fun.”

She pointed it through the bars, the tip glowing red. Hermione braced herself for the unbearable pain as Bellatrix hissed, “Cruc—”

The door to the dungeon opened once more and Snape disarmed Bellatrix with a casual wave, her wand flying down the hall into his waiting hand. Bellatrix rounded on him, eyes wild. “You dare disarm—?”

He tossed the wand back to her as he approached the cell. “The Mudblood is mine to torment, on orders from the Dark Lord. I’ll not have you intervening with my assignment, Bellatrix.”

Bellatrix scoffed. “Yet another assignment for the New Domain you can’t seem to accomplish properly, Severus,” she snarled, pushing past him towards the door. “He’ll be displeased if he sees a well-kept prisoner. Watch yourself.”

The door slammed behind her billowing form with a bang and they were in near darkness again. 

“Bellatrix may be right,” Snape said, casting a small ball of light to hover near him. “If the Dark Lord wishes to check on the progress of my assignment, you mustn’t appear sound.” 

Hermione’s heart was still pounding from Bellatrix’s presence. She took another inhale and slow exhale while Snape waited. “Shall I eat and stay healthy, or should I look haggard for His Maliciousness? And must you keep that door unwarded so just anyone can stroll in and leer at me?” 

Snape took up his regular pacing in front of the cell, hands clasped behind his back. “Fine. I’ll cast a ward as I leave today.” He continued back to her appearance before Hermione could respond. “You must eat your meals. It will be harder to draw on your well of internal magic if you are hungry.”

She stood to close the distance between them. “Then how do you suppose I play the part of tortured prisoner if your boss wants to check up on your pet project?” Hermione asked. “I won’t be able to maintain a glamour charm without a wand, and you won’t be able to cast one until you’re closer to my cell. He’ll see me before that.” 

At once, Snape turned to her and raised his wand. The motion was so swift and precise she winced and expected to fall back to the floor at his curse, but again, it didn’t come. Instead a slight breeze whirled around her head, and as Hermione looked down, thick locks of bushy curls vanished before they even hit the flagstones. Her hand rushed to her scalp immediately. 

Snape had shorn her hair down to mere millimetres. It felt like nothing in her hands, but her head was almost weightless. 

“Was that your only idea?” Hermione gasped at him, clutching her head. “And without even asking?” She glanced around feverishly, searching for the hair that had been her shield for so many years, as if she could reattach it. 

“You wouldn’t have agreed.” Snape conjured a mirror, and the person looking back at her was a near stranger. Eyes wild with fear and distrust, ugly burn mark running down her neck into her shirt, and her head looking so small and round, the short curls going every which way. Hermione turned away immediately. 

“Surely that will be enough for me to look adequately tortured,” she choked out, hot tears pricking her eyes. She didn’t want Snape to see how much the loss had affected her. It’s just hair, you silly girl. 

“Yes. It will be adequate,” he intoned, seemingly oblivious to her shaky breaths. Hermione made a mental note to chop off his greasy mane next time she had a wand. Or a pair of scissors. Unfazed, Snape went on, “We’ll continue working on the Turnback Trance.” 

Hermione again tried to take a few calming breaths. Her hair. Just another way to make her feel helpless and forsaken. She uselessly opened and closed her hands at her sides, fighting the urge to feel her head again, knowing the short curls would only set back the meagre peace of mind she had left. 

“Miss Granger. The Turnback Trance. I assume you’ve been finding more strong memories?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and shoved the thought of her hair falling to the ground into a back corner of her mind where it would hopefully shrivel up and die. The memories she had spent the last few days curating fell into place at the forefront instead. Finally, she turned back to Snape, avoiding his eyes, and lay on the cot as before.

This time, Hermione focused on a far-away memory of going camping during the summer holidays when she was eight, with a school friend’s family. It had nothing to do with Hogwarts, Ron and Harry, her parents, or the wizarding world at all. There would be no rude intrusive thoughts spoiling her concentration, since she knew Gemma Finkley, her two brothers, mum, and stepdad were probably now living their lives thoroughly uninterrupted in Muggle London. 

As Snape pointed his wand again at her, she closed her eyes and remembered the screams of delight from Gemma as her younger brothers had pushed her into the lake, the first kebab she’d ever eaten even after it accidentally fell in the campfire, and the sight of the clear night sky with a sparkling mess of bright stars. She steadied her breathing as the blue glow flashed through her eyelids again. The summer night breeze had carried the scent of burnt out fires, sunblock, and old forest through the air as they stargazed, Gemma’s stepdad pointing out made-up constellations and telling their outrageous stories. 

Hermione’s slow inhales turned slightly fresher tasting, the rank of the dungeon left behind. She thought she felt the cool wind on her cheek. The slight echo of water lapping gently at the rocky shore rang in her ears, as if in the next room over. 

With another exhale, there was a searing burn down her spine, like boiling water had been poured down the back of her collar. She snapped her eyes open. 

There was the lake, its name lost to time. The starry sky was distorted in its rippling reflection. An ancient green tent was pitched near the treeline, the embers of a fire still glowing in a ring of stones. She saw her younger self, and the five Finkleys, hands reaching towards the package of marshmallows ready to be roasted Gemma’s mum held. They were all still, as if she was looking at a Muggle photo. Yet the breeze and sound of the shore tickled her ears like she was really there. Hermione tried to say something, not sure what words would even come out, but nothing did. She simply existed there, the boiling water feeling fading away, looking at happy faces lit by soft firelight. 

“Rhursus Praesenti.” Came Snape’s low voice, and the scene dissolved into a blue glow. Hermione opened her eyes, although she swore she hadn’t closed them for a second looking at her own memory, and the dungeon ceiling gradually came back into view through an intense tunnel vision. 

“I saw it,” she choked out, even more overcome than before. She clutched her forehead, which had started to ache. “I saw the lake. I saw the Finkleys. I was there. It worked, Snape.”

If there was ever a moment Snape might look at Hermione with pride, it might have been now. A corner of his thin mouth turned down, as if he was trying not to smile, but his eyes betrayed him. He pressed on in their pursuit, never one for verbal acknowledgement. “Were you able to move?”

“No,” Hermione replied. “It was like a still photograph. I just saw them, that’s all. But I felt the wind and heard the water.” Tears were streaming down her cheeks now, and her voice was thick.

She had been free.

Chapter Text

Snape had continued to cast the Turnback Trance on Hermione and each time brought her back to the present with the second incantation. They’d spent hours practising the spell, and her head had pounded with a hot ache. But the glimpses of the past had been worth the headache and foggy thoughts.

A morning in peacetime. A bedroom in peacetime—a real bedroom, real children, real birds, real cats, real graves. 

She had still been unable to speak in the scenes she saw, and the people and creatures still didn’t move. But with each scalding entrance to the past, Hermione felt a stronger wind, a louder cricket chirp, or a colder shiver. She could feel it getting closer; could sense the boundary thinning between the present and the past. 

By the time Snape left the dungeon, Hermione was so depleted that she barely managed to catch his instructions to focus on her internal magic before she fell into a dreamless sleep, lying back on the cot as if trying the spell one more time. 

She awoke later, feeling vaguely like she’d slept for two whole days, and devoured the bread pudding and apple slices that had appeared. 

Ignited by the past day’s breakthrough with the Trance, Hermione dove into her internal magic assignment with a familiar vigour. Of course, there were no notes scrawled hastily on parchment to pour over, nor library books to cross reference, but it was refreshing to just have herself, her brain, and her magic. 

Beginning with inconsequential spells, she managed to shift about some specks of dust on the dungeon floor by making the movement for Wingardium Leviosa with her finger and concentrating on them for so long her eyes started to water. But the specks had moved, in the end. With several more attempts, Hermione could light them into tiny embers, then extinguish them with a droplet of water. 

She could feel it now, this ‘well’ of internal magic. Or rather, she could feel that it was currently empty from an hour’s work on casting spells with no wand. Her chest was tight, like being crushed under something heavy, and her right hand was restless, as if searching for a wand, an enchanted quill, a sprig of dittany, something magical that could be used as a conduit. But there was nothing there. 

“I’d love some more bread pudding,” Hermione said wistfully to no one in particular. 

There was an audible pop as another serving was conjured to the empty plate that had sat on the cell floor. 

She paused. “Thank you.” Hermione was marching back here to free the house-elves the second she could. 

The second serving helped immensely. Done with the dust specks, she placed her hands on her scalp and willed her hair to grow. No spell, no incantation, simply a wish. 

It did grow, a bit. Her curls felt more wild in her hands, and at least it wasn’t mere millimetres anymore. 

On a roll, Hermione stood up and cast any unlocking spell she could think of at the cell door, tracing movements with her finger in place of a wand. No dice. She tried to bend the bars, to melt them, but her magic wasn’t enough. 

She wasn’t even sure what the plan would be after that. Just walk out of Hogwarts like nothing happened? And go where? She knew nothing about Voldemort’s ‘New Domain’ and what would await her outside the castle walls. 

It seemed like the only options were to sit here and await her impending execution, no doubt through tortuous and vile means, or complete Snape’s mysterious mission. 

Dumbledore was convinced of the importance of this message’s delivery using the Turnback Trance in the event of a defeat.

The past might be the only way out. Snape likely thought so too, otherwise he wouldn’t be spending his days casting an illegal spell on an imprisoned Mudblood and watching her lay there experiencing some other time and place. Was this the last resort for the Order? 

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕

Snape joined her in the dungeon just as Hermione was finishing her third serving of bread pudding and sending the empty plate in small, halting circles over the floor. He approached and watched her last attempt to have it hover in the air, but it simply gave a half-hearted wiggle and didn’t fully leave the ground. 

He didn’t speak, only drew his wand and waited for Hermione to lay down on the cot. 

She closed her eyes and resumed the steady eight count breathing. The familiar blue glow flashed, and she thought of her first time on the tube. 

With the scalding pain down her neck, there it was. Hermione saw herself and her primary school class looking frigid in the cold November air, their noses and cheeks bitten red. Her old schoolteacher carried a pamphlet for the Natural History Museum. The air was a mix of stale underground damp and fresh melted snow tracked in on the boots of passersby. 

‘South… Kensington…’ said the announcement, as if in slow motion. She thought she could see the students stirring, their mouths moving slowly as they chattered. She opened her own lips, drew from the magic well in her chest, and mouthed the incantation, but no sound came out. It was as if the air was a thick treacle, but she could feel the boundary thinning, if only she could reach out and snap the tension between then and now, then and now, then and now.  

She heard Snape’s drawl, “Rhursus Praesenti,” and through the blue glow she returned to the dungeon yet again. 

“I can do it, Snape. I saw them moving this time, slowly. One more time. I’ll return myself. I can do it,” Hermione said, trying to convince herself as well as him. 

Snape only nodded, mouth pressed tight. 

As he raised his wand, Hermione thought about her first day in Diagon Alley. The memories of her life before Hogwarts were nostalgic, but they weren’t strong enough. It was after she received the letter that Hermione finally knew herself and what she could be. Any errant thought about her parents’ fate, or the prejudice of the wizarding world was acknowledged and sent away. She simply focused on the bricks in the Leaky Cauldron sliding out of place, rearranging themselves, and her childlike astonishment when they did. 

As the blue glow from Snape’s outstretched wand enveloped her, Hermione reached a palm to the cell’s wall and willed the magic of the castle to help her. It crackled and warmed her hand, simply responding to a witch in need within its walls. The back of her scalp burned as her mind was forcibly wrested to another place in time, but the warmth in her palm remained. 

She opened her eyes to a busy and bustling Diagon Alley. 

Parents and children hurried past her, boxes and bags of books and robes hovering close behind. There was Flourish and Blotts. There was Madame Malkin’s. There was Fortescue’s. People of all shapes and sizes roamed through the street, in and out of buildings, and effortlessly around Hermione’s still form. She was here. She’d done it. 

She took a tentative step. Then another. There was no longer the treacle feeling about the air. Hermione could move freely, as if she hadn’t just been magicked here from years in the future. She stepped forward again, marvelling at the feeling, and almost walked directly into Molly Weasley. 

“Pardon me, dear,” Molly said offhandedly, patting her on the shoulder and leading her family around, then turning away from Hermione and continuing, “George, we aren’t visiting Secondhand Brooms today, as I’ve said five times already.” 

All nine of them were there, even little Ginny, only ten years old. Hermione’s breath caught, seeing the Weasleys alive after witnessing their painful deaths just a few weeks ago. Fred and George were tugging on their sister’s hair, while Percy was trying to wrestle them apart. Little Ron was ignoring his Hogwarts supply list in favour of ogling the new ice cream flavours through the Fortescue’s window. Molly led the group to Flourish and Blotts while Arthur herded them from the back. 

It was a scene of total domestic tranquillity, in spite of the children arguing, pointing, and yelping. With another shaky breath, Hermione turned a corner away from them and wiped away a few tears. The intrusive images of Fred’s form crumpling or Ginny getting hit with a beam of green light threatened to break her concentration, but she forced them away into a mental lock box and focused on the tingling warmth still gathered in her right hand. It wasn’t a wand, but it would do. 

She walked cautiously in the opposite direction, avoiding the Patil family, and approached Gringotts. With no real objective but to catch a glimpse of the past and practise the Turnback Trance, there wasn’t much for Hermione to do in Diagon Alley. But the atmosphere was bright. There was no threat of violence, no Dementors looming in a stormy sky, only chattering, excited students preparing for another year and kindly shopkeepers selling their wares to keen parents. Hermione’s shoulders relaxed and jaw unclenched in a way she hadn’t felt in months. The past, before Voldemort’s return, was intoxicating. 

Bits of conversation floated through the warm air towards her: 

“...unclear why they see fit to include Rudimentary Rules for the Student Sorcerer on the supply list—the first chapter goes over the need for a wand to cast spells. They’re first years, not imbeciles,” Lucius Malfoy’s haughty voice was saying. 

Narcissa replied in turn, “That text caters to the students… newer to the concept of spellcasting. You know how the Hogwarts faculty is. Draco, let Mummy see the list again.” 

The three Malfoys were descending the stairs from Gringotts, nearing the corner at which Hermione stood. Lucius and Narcissa consulted their supply list, making comments here and there about cauldron material and number of robes, et al., while an eleven year old Malfoy trotted alongside with his little chest puffed out proudly. 

Hermione moved away to avoid another close encounter, but Malfoy had already caught sight of her. She expected a smart remark or disgusted sneer, but none came. Instead the boy’s eyes were latched on to the giant burn mark diving into the neck of her shirt, looking horrified. He stopped short, and Narcissa corralled him along dutifully. 

Her eyes flicked to where Malfoy’s were transfixed but seemed to pass over Hermione without much notice. “It’s rude to stare, Draco. Come along.” 

Malfoy sheepishly looked away from Hermione at last and walked towards Madame Malkin’s with his parents, only glancing back at her briefly, that scared expression still marking his young face. 

There was no way he’d recognized her, was there? This Malfoy had never even met Hermione before, and even if he had, he would have met her at eleven, not eighteen. Was the Fiendfyre burn really so shocking to him? 

Hermione didn’t stay in Diagon Alley long enough to contemplate further. She slipped around a corner, out of sight, and focused on the warm energy still in her palm. Squeezing her eyes shut, she held her hands to her mouth as if whispering a secret into them, pleading that this could work. 

“Rhursus Praesenti,” she incanted, concentrating on the way each syllable moved through her mouth. Her hand grew pleasantly hot, as if holding a cup of tea, and a small spark of magic ignited in her chest. It was enough. 

She opened her eyes to the dungeon ceiling once more. 

Snape was back to pacing in front of her cell. As she stirred, he turned to face her again. “You were gone for some time.” 

“It… was a lot to take in,” Hermione heard herself saying, her vision still foggy. 

“What did you see?” 

“I was at Diagon Alley before my first year. Everyone was finally moving. I could walk around without issue. I saw the Weasleys. And Malfoy,” Hermione replied, sitting up from the cot. “He… looked afraid of me. I’m not sure why.” 

“Mr. Malfoy wouldn’t have recognized you at that point, correct?” Snape asked.

“No. We hadn’t met yet.”

“Time is a fickle thing. In the course of delivering the message, it would be wise not to mention any time travelling. Especially not to myself or Dumbledore,” he mused.

“Obviously,” Hermione countered. “I got the Ministry rundown on time travel years ago. You mustn't tell anyone you’re from the future or let your past self see you lest it destabilise the timeline.” She had lost count of the times a Ministry worker had told her Time is a fickle thing while she was applying for her Time-Turner. 

Snape regarded her coolly. “Very well. On to the message, then, Miss Granger.” 

Hermione sat up straighter, holding her breath. 

“You must convince Draco Malfoy not to kill Dumbledore.” 

At her shocked silence, Snape continued, “Dumbledore planned for this possibility extensively. It could be the key to winning the war.”

“It ‘could be’? You’re not sure?” Hermione suddenly found her voice, and it sounded shrill. “Keep Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of the last century alive, and it ‘might’ win the war?”

He looked down his nose at her. “The mission is not regarding Dumbledore’s life.”

Hermione thought about the Shrieking Shack, and Nagini coiled in her ball of light, striking Malfoy’s torso with a precise, deadly bite as he screamed hoarsely and tried to push her away to no success. Hermione had closed her eyes immediately, unwilling to watch the rest of the scene play out as Voldemort left the shack without a care. But the sickening crunch of bones and the metallic smell of blood had persisted.

That memory was one she didn’t want to revisit. She locked it in a drawer in her mind and threw away the key.

“I’m sorry. You want me to go back in time and prevent Malfoy from murdering the Headmaster… and it’s about saving Malfoy’s life?” This just wasn’t on the Life Debt Time Travelling Message Delivery Bingo Card.  

“Mr. Malfoy’s task to kill Dumbledore is simply a catalyst that has the power to influence the rest of the war. Ensure he does not kill Dumbledore. That is the message,” Snape insisted. “It’s likely that if the Battle of the Astronomy Tower ends differently due to your influence, it will be impossible to return to this version of the future. At that point, you will need to stay in the past.”

“And do what? Try to win the war a different way?” 

“No. Making too many changes could lead to unforeseen results,” he continued on before she could reply. “What I’ve told you thus far is the only information on the Turnback Trance that has survived its outlaw. A timeline alteration of this scale has not been performed in centuries. All we know is that the Battle of Clatteringshaws was not won on the first try.”

Hermione glowered at him. “And I have to do all this just so your favourite student’s life is saved?”

Snape’s face twisted. “I have emphasised the importance of this venture to the outcome of the war at large. If you wish to ignore that fact in favour of any perceived regard for Mr. Malfoy, so be it. But you will be delivering the message.” 

And he stalked from the dungeon before Hermione could get another word in. 

Chapter Text

It was only three lonely days and three more burn salve vials before Snape was back in the dungeon, pacing swiftly towards Hermione’s cell with gusto. 

This time, she spoke before he could: “Prove to me that convincing Malfoy not to kill Dumbledore will win the war. Otherwise I won’t waste my time traipsing through time, coddling a spoiled twat who did nothing while I got tortured in his living room, if I’ll only end up imprisoned here again.” 

Snape seemed to choose his words carefully. “If Draco never bests Dumbledore in battle, then the Dark Lord will not be able to take control of the Elder Wand. Without the Elder Wand, a victory is much more viable.”

Hermione looked at him shrewdly. “That’s not surefire. We still have to fight Voldemort in battle, he just has a different wand? Any number of things could change based on my actions.”

“Then see to it that you don’t make too many changes, Miss Granger. It’s the only option we have now.” Snape’s eyes betrayed a slight disappointment in their softening. 

If she relented, Hermione would be thrust into yet another uncertain, dangerous mission against Voldemort’s forces. Worse, she’d have to talk to Malfoy, possibly at length. The chances of a single conversation swaying his conviction to murder Dumbledore were slim to none. 

On the other hand, she wouldn’t be imprisoned while completing the mission in the past. That fact alone was quite compelling. 

With a final glance at Snape, she sighed. “Fine. Where do we start?”

He betrayed no satisfaction as he raised his wand and she moved back towards the cot. “What was your last strong memory of Mr. Malfoy before Dumbledore’s death?”

She thought back to the year before. “I watched him get taken into the hospital wing after Harry cast Sectumsempra on him.”

“Very well. We’ll start with that moment. You must not reveal that you are from anywhere but the present,” Snape said, the tip of his wand glowing blue. 

“I know,” Hermione replied, suddenly realising the dual purpose of her unsuspecting haircut. 

Eyes closed, she remembered seeing Malfoy’s tall form helped to the infirmary, with Snape’s handiwork having done most of the healing already. But he was weak, his lips blue and trembling, and needed both Madame Pomfrey and McGonagall to lean on as they led him through the door. It had closed behind them with a soft click, and Hermione had turned away. 

“Adducturum Pertempus,” Snape said, the spell so familiar now after weeks of practice. 

With her hand on the cell wall, she focused on Malfoy’s pale face as she had glimpsed it in profile, his eyebrows knitted together in pain and eyes fighting to stay open as he struggled to the infirmary. The scald of the spell travelled down her neck once more, and when she opened her eyes again, the cell ceiling was gone and the halls of Hogwarts stretched out in front of her.

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 

The old parchment and fresh ink smell of the castle was achingly familiar, and it steadied her pounding heart. Hermione was now standing slightly down the hallway and around a corner from the vantage point held by her past self. Peeking around the corner towards the door to the infirmary, she watched as a long haired, unscarred Hermione twisted away and walked down the hall, face unreadable. 

Seeing that other Hermione in a now juvenile-feeling Gryffindor uniform gave her pause. She looked down at the jumper and jeans she had been confined in for so long. They’d been repaired from the Fiendfyre before she awoke imprisoned, but with no wand, she’d been unable to further repair or clean them during her time in the dungeon. What’s more, the Muggle clothes looked terribly out of place at Hogwarts. 

The warm glow in her hand felt stronger. Perhaps it was because she was a witch in need within the Hogwarts walls in both this time and another. Hermione filed the notion away to research later if she could get a second alone in a library. She held her hand to her clothes and slowly transfigured them into nondescript black robes. 

Now she had the simple task of marching into the infirmary as a total stranger to all of its occupants, getting a private audience with someone who just lost a litre of blood, and convincing him not to kill the person he’d been scheming against for the better part of a year. It sounded like a walk in the park. 

McGonagall opened the infirmary door and Hermione heard the tail end of her conversation with Madame Pomfrey: “...away on business and Narcissa is visiting family on the Continent, but the elves assured me that they would pass on the message that Mr. Malfoy simply needs a few days in the infirmary to regain his strength.” She finished with a nod to the Mediwitch and strode down the hall in the same direction the other Hermione had. 

So Lucius and Narcissa were both away. She didn’t have to guess at what kind of ‘business’ Lucius was busy with. Narcissa would likely want to visit to comfort her darling son, but was in another country. Hermione’s brain spun. Would it be so far-fetched that Narcissa might send a trusted family member to check on Malfoy? 

It wasn’t much, but it was a cover. And once Madame Pomfrey was out of earshot, she could drop the falsity. It would get her to Malfoy where she could deliver the sodding message. Merlin, why hadn’t Snape gone back in time himself? She didn’t have a clue what might change Malfoy’s intentions. 

Calming her breathing, she stepped toward the door and knocked, before she could overthink the plan and get choked up in the details. 

Madame Pomfrey cracked the door, looking harried. “Can I help you, miss?” She looked Hermione up and down, pausing on the burn, but betrayed no recognition. 

It was now or never. Hermione was about to get really good at lying on the fly. She arranged her face into an expression she hoped looked like a concerned family member, and breathlessly started, “I came as soon as I heard. Narcissa couldn’t get an international Portkey on such short notice, but she sent me an elf who told me what happened and asked that I visit in her stead, I do hope that’s alright. Oh, it’s just terrible news!”

Madame Pomfrey seemed unconvinced by the hysterical edge Hermione had added to her voice. “And who are you? Mr. Malfoy needs rest, not visitors.”

“I’m his cousin,” she forced out. Pomfrey’s eyes went to the mess of dark curls on her head and she added, “On the Black side. Distantly.” 

With a pause and purse of her lips, Pomfrey finally replied, “Very well. You’ve got ten minutes.” And the door swung open.

Malfoy was tucked into a hospital bed near the end of the room, facing an open window. The sheets were drawn all the way up to his chin so only his blond head poked out, and several empty Blood Replenishing Potion vials sat on the table next to him. He had regained some colour in his face, but his eyes were half closed, his head tossed to the side. 

He raised his eyes as they approached. They were red-rimmed, as if he had just been crying. "Thank you, Madame Pomfrey. My family is always a comfort to me," Malfoy said hoarsely, looking at Hermione instead. "Cousin Cordelia, I hope mother isn't too worried about me."

Cordelia? Maybe she looked more like a Black cousin than she realised.

Malfoy weakly reached his right hand out from under the bedclothes and found one of hers twisted in the fabric of her robes. Merlin, he must be delirious. At least she knew he didn’t recognize her as Hermione. Delirium or not, he’d probably rather Crucio himself than hold her hand. Not wanting to flick his cold hand away in front of Madame Pomfrey, Hermione held it and tried to act cousinly.

"Y–yes, Narcissa was quite worried. She dearly wished she could come see you herself," Hermione heard her own voice saying, nearly believable. Madame Pomfrey was still eyeing her. “Though I’m glad to see you’re awake and being well taken care of.” Malfoy's eyes pierced into her, as if egging her on.

Madame Pomfrey seemed satisfied with their familial exchange and turned away, reminding them that Mr. Malfoy could only visit for so long before needing rest. 

Hermione found a nearby chair and pulled it close to Malfoy’s bed. “Listen to me, Malfoy. I know you don’t know who I am, but—”

He gave her an oddly amused half smirk that was no less annoying than usual, despite his current appearance. “No, I know who you are.”

She swallowed nervously and replied, “You do?” All plans for getting Malfoy on the ‘Don’t Kill Dumbledore, Please’ Train vanished from her mind. If he knew her identity, there’s no way he’d think she was from the present. He’d probably just seen the present Hermione in class this week and she was clearly unscarred. If he knew she was time travelling, they could cause a temporal paradox and fracture the very nature of time itself. Time is a fickle thing. But why on earth would he be holding Hermione’s hand?

“Of course. You’re Cordelia. ‘Black.’ My ‘cousin.’” Malfoy glanced towards Madame Pomfrey’s office and back at her. “I’ve been looking forward to this visit.” 

Hermione’s mouth hung open. “What?” she finally asked, sounding hollow. 

His smirk grew wider and he leaned back into the pillows as if just woken up from a satisfying dream. “Ah, how good it feels. Finally! You’re the one in the dark, and I get to lord it over you. It was almost worth the blood loss,” he said, sly chuckle giving way to a pained grimace. 

He was infuriatingly right; she was completely in the dark. It wasn’t even clear what he meant by knowing who she was. As a means of discerning that detail, she ventured, “We’ve spoken before then. What about?” 

Malfoy raised a brow and gave her a smug once-over, his grey eyes glancing to her basic transfiguration work on the robes, gliding up her neck to take in the sight of the Fiendfyre burn once more, and settled back on her face. “My, my. You’re simply desperate to know. What will you do for me if I tell you?”

Hermione didn’t have an answer for that. She didn’t know if she could even do much with her meagre magic at present, besides perhaps saving him from being eaten by a giant snake. But that was later, and starting out with that information probably wasn’t the right way to go. 

“Nothing to offer then?” Malfoy interrupted her thoughts. He was still staring at her and looking as haughty as one can manage to look in a hospital gown. “Guess I’ll keep it to myself then. I confess—” He turned his head aside in faux sadness, “—I’m hurt. You can’t even be bothered to remember our past meetings… I really must not make much of an impression.”

Their past meetings? That didn’t sound like anything Hermione had gotten up to with Malfoy during her sixth year. And there didn’t seem to be any temporal paradox disasters forming around them. She settled on the theory that he knew her as ‘Cordelia’, somehow. 

The magic in her palm burned brighter, and his arm twitched slightly as she pressed the heat into his. “Listen, Malfoy. I’m here to help you make a choice that could affect both of us more than you know,” Hermione hissed. “It’s imperative. It’s life or death. Clearly we’ve spoken before, in the past.” 

One wrong word and she would accidentally let out that she was on her way back to the past right after this. Instead, she said, “I… seem to be under a Memory Slipping Jinx. If you could kindly enlighten me, so that I may discern how best to guide you in making this choice, it would be much appreciated.” She forced more heat into her hand, burning them both, and Malfoy finally tugged his away. 

“Injuring the infirm. That’s a new tactic,” he finally said, eyeing his palm. With a sigh, he continued, “Though if you must know, you’ve been nothing but a thorn in my side the last year. Every month it seems, you’d come tugging me away into an alcove to lecture on your precious mission.”

Malfoy raised his voice to a shrill whisper and waggled his head side to side as he recounted, “Malfoy, I have a message for you! Well, at least consider my help! Where are you going?! Malfoy, I’m a Seer, I can see how you’ll die! Don’t you want to avoid it?! Malfoy, stop fixing that bloody cabinet, you’ll get yourself killed! Malfoy, watch out for Potter in a post-stinging state! Do what I tell you and don’t ask questions!” 

“I don’t sound like that!” Hermione shot back in a shrill whisper that sounded remarkably like Malfoy’s impression. He simply gave another smirk, then with a glance over her shoulder, leaned back in the pillows and cautiously took her hand again.

Hermione wanted to toss it away like it was a slimy Flobberworm that had fallen into her grasp by accident, but Pomfrey’s steps were approaching. Malfoy’s skin was smooth, and his hand was slender and motionless in hers. Bloody cousins and their bloody carrying on with the hand holding and fussing over one’s near death. It was revolting. 

“Time is up, dear. Mr. Malfoy needs to rest,” Madame Pomfrey said primly as she approached the bed. 

Taking a measured breath and staring daggers at Malfoy, Hermione replied, “Oh… I suppose it is. I’m so sorry to leave you so soon, M… cousin. I do hope you feel stronger soon. You must write to me with updates on your condition. And your mother, she’s worried sick.”

Turning to Pomfrey, she continued, “Thank you so much for allowing me a short visit. I’ll be out of your hair now.”

The Mediwitch looked more confused than ever, but simply replied, “Mr. Malfoy will be right as rain soon. Safe travels back home, Miss Black.”

Hermione took her leave back to the empty hallway where she could return to the dungeon out of sight. Taking a moment outside the door to try and gather her thoughts, she could just make out a quiet exchange.

“I had no idea you had such a… cousin, Mr. Malfoy. Another Blood Replenisher, there you are, and an Invigoration Draught just to be safe.”

And Malfoy’s easy response: “Yes. She’s just back from Beauxbatons this year—you know the French.” 

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“He mentioned several meetings?” Snape questioned once Hermione had recounted the conversation in the hospital ward. 

“He said nearly every month for the year. And he didn’t seem as severe as he used to. He was messing with me. He called me Cordelia,” she replied, rolling her eyes. That prat. Of course he’d use the name of a character who got punished for the majority of her source material. 

Snape pondered this information. “I suppose you have more work to do then. Under a predestination theory—”

“I’m familiar,” Hermione interrupted flatly. “Joy. Can’t wait to see his sodding face again. Though hopefully this time in a chronological order. I saw him when I was with Harry and Ron in Diagon Alley before term began. We can start there.” She laid back on the cot again. 

Snape’s wand remained at his side. “We’ll need to continue next time, Miss Granger. Have a list of memories you can travel back to prepared when I return.” 

Hermione tried to protest, telling herself she wanted to get the subsequent travels over with, but Snape was already at the entrance to the dungeons, and the door was closing. 

A wave of exhaustion hit her, head pounding, and in the moment before she succumbed to sleep, she knew it wasn’t really the end of the mission she was racing back towards, or even the potential of a war won.

No, she simply craved the freedom of the past.

Chapter Text

Hermione found herself back in Diagon Alley several days later and a few years beforehand. That is, she travelled back in time to her visit there the week before sixth year, a week after her encounter with Malfoy in the hospital ward. Therefore, it was both recently after and many months before she’d held his slender hand in front of Pomfrey and fretted over his near death like a simpering cousin would. 

Hidden several steps away from her past self again, she’d chosen the moment herself, Harry, and Ron followed Malfoy down Knockturn Alley to Borgin and Burkes to travel back to. Of course, the trio was hunched over under the invisibility cloak somewhere near the side window of the shop, but Hermione could still see the Extendable Ears stretching their way to hear Malfoy’s conversation with Borgin. Or was it Burke?

This time, she didn’t feel the need to hide away from the shady clientele of Knockturn Alley. There were few shoppers compared to the crowds down the street in Diagon Alley, and most scurried about in the shadows as if they didn’t want to be seen. With a giant scar covering half of Hermione’s visage, she figured she’d probably blend in here a lot better than she used to. 

She couldn’t hear the conversation Malfoy was hissing at the shopkeeper this time, but could watch as he shoved his left shirtsleeve up and thrust his pale arm out, threatening him with what was undoubtedly an ugly black mark. Then she could just make out the words as his mouth formed the shapes: You wouldn’t want Fenrir Greyback to pay a visit. 

Gathering his purchases, Malfoy stalked around and left the shop with all the airs of the poncey pureblooded heir he was. He was walking directly towards her vantage point in the narrow walkway next to Shyverwretch's, brows drawn. 

This version of him was harder, sharper than the version that had been smirking at her from the hospital bed. This Malfoy looked as though he’d curse the next person that accidentally bumped into him. 

Then I won’t accidentally bump into him. Hermione thought. Time to become a thorn in your side, Malfoy.

Gathering her courage, and testing the sparse magic in her palm just in case, she spoke up just as he was barrelling past. 

“Malfoy.” All other clever ideas on how to get his attention out the door, then. But at least it worked.

He whipped his head around, as if outraged that someone dared to speak to him. But instead of a sharp retort or smarmy insult, he was silent, his face changing to shock instead of anger. He was thrown off at the scar as it seemed like everyone was, but he wasn’t even trying to hide it, his mouth hanging open and eyes wide. Bloody prick. 

Hermione went on, trying to seem unfazed, “I have an important message for you.”

Malfoy didn’t respond. He was frozen still, taking in her form. If he started again with that ‘I know who you are’ mess, she’d scream. 

“It’s regarding your future. And your fate,” Hermione said.

He finally ground out, “Who are you?” Well, at least this time she wasn’t the one in the dark.

“That’s not important.” She took a step further into the shadows as a few patrons left Shyverwretch's. “In the coming year—”

"What's your name?" Malfoy interrupted, following her back and looming in a very unpleasant way.

Hermione had no choice but to use the alias he had already bestowed on her, months from now. "...Cordelia." Her voice sounded small.

"Cordelia what?" He demanded, probably consulting a list of Sacred Twenty-Eight surnames in his head.

In the infirmary she had been Cordelia Black, but this Malfoy knew he had no such cousin.

She cleared her throat and said the next best thing: "Cordelia Gray." Of the Noble and Most Ancient House of… Gray. 

He didn’t say anything at that, just glanced at her shoulder again, looking like he was solving a complicated Arithmancy problem in his head.

“Listen, Malfoy. It’s vitally important that you hear what I’m about to tell you.”

“Not interested. Tell my mother I don’t want any Seers to advise me on whatever she thinks it is I need help with,” Malfoy said, finally composing his face into a practised shield of rich boredom. 

Oh no, he wasn’t getting away that easily. Though, he didn’t seem to actually be getting away. He could have easily dismissed her attempt at Malfoy Message Delivery and continued with his evil errands, but he seemed to want to linger. And bored though he looked, he seemed to be unable to stop looking at her sodding scar. 

Hermione huffed. “Your future's not set in stone, Malfoy. You have a critical choice to make, and once again I must emphasise the importa—”

“Ha! That’s where you’re wrong. I know exactly what my future holds,” he said darkly, standing up tall and adjusting his already perfect sleeves. Drawing his wand so she could see it in a veiled threat, he stepped closer so Hermione’s back was to the wall of the alley. “You’ll leave me alone if you know what’s good for you, Gray.”

Hermione summoned a bit of magic from her palm and sent it directly to his wrist. It was a small zap; at most he might drop his wand, but his hand barely twitched. 

Malfoy looked down with a sneer. “That all you can do? I’m not dignifying that speck of magic with a response. If you ever talk to me again about my future or anything else, you’d better have something stronger ready.”

With a click, he’d holstered his wand and turned away, back to the main alleyway.

“Well, at least consider my help. Where are you going?!” she called after him, but it was useless. Malfoy was gone.

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Hermione found herself pushing the door to Borgin and Burkes open in search of information on the Turnback Trance not two minutes later. 

The small shop was as claustrophobic as ever, with potion vials of all colours glinting from the shallow shelves, sparkling jewellery and knick-knacks stacked in haphazard order, and spiked torture devices hanging from the rafters. She didn’t dare touch anything as she browsed, but tried to look for any books that might shed some light on her new task. 

Burke (or Borgin?) was behind a desk with several crates of shiny snuff boxes, polished paperweights, and ornate letter openers piled onto it. The shopkeeper’s back was to her, and he appeared to be buffing a large crystal in the shape of a skull. 

“Excuse me?” Hermione ventured, approaching the table.

He turned to put the skull back in its velvetted case, his gruff voice dangerous. “Listen missy, I thought I told you to take your questions elsewhere. Leave this establishment before I—” He’d caught sight of her then, and seemed to rethink that line of thought, wide eyes drawn to the scar. “My mistake, I… thought you were someone else. How may I assist you?” 

All she’d learned so far is that having a giant visible burn mark from an enchanted fire might have well been a Take Me Seriously command. And it was proving quite useful. 

“Do you have any texts on illegal spellcasting? I’m interested in one in particular, regarding time travel,” Hermione said. She didn’t seek any of the dark artefacts here, but inquiring about other illicit deeds was worth a shot. 

“Ah… we don’t sell books. Not for any research, at least. Though if you’re in possession of any cursed books, we will gladly take them off your hands and compensate accordingly.” The shopkeeper began going through the crate of snuff boxes, casting curse detection charms and sorting the antiques by their results. “Victoria’s might have what you’re after.” 

“Victoria’s. Great. Thanks.” She turned to leave the cramped shop, but he called after her once more.

“How’d a little thing like you survive Fiendfyre?”

Hermione paused, and turned around, though he was already out of sight behind shelves of accursed merchandise. “I don’t know,” she said to the shelves, “Someone saved me.” 

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Hermione couldn’t find any Victoria’s in Knockturn Alley, but further down the dark and damp walkway was a small bookstore called Vittoria’s Villainous Volumes. It was less than six feet wide with no windows on the front façade of the ground floor. The bay window on the next floor showcased stacks upon stacks of books pressed against the glass, their yellowing pages blending into the faded slats of the building itself. The result was a tall, narrow mass of dingy off-white sandwiched in between a dim, empty pub and a nondescript building advertising ‘discreet locating services.’ 

The door to Vittoria’s had a piece of parchment affixed to it; flowery script in scarlet ink:

FOR COLLECTION ONLY

WE ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY DAMAGES, INJURY, CRIMINAL OFFENCE, OR DEATH RESULTING FROM IMPROPER USE OF ANY BOOK SOLD HERE.

She pushed through the door and was almost bowled over by a thick tome with eagle wings sprouting out of the spine. The hallway, because that’s about as wide as it seemed with the teeming shelves of books on either side, threatening to topple over, was softly lit by the glowing stasis charms on several copies per shelf. Other volumes were furred, or scaley, or seemed to burn with a heatless flame. Each new spine Hermione laid eyes on was different in some way, in increasingly exotic and far-fetched forms. Some were wrapped with a chain and padlock, others jumped up and down in their places as muffled narration sounded from within them. 

If there was any written information on the Trance, it had to have been here. 

The books were sorted by subject, alphabetically. The As were nearest the door, starting with Alchemy. Hermione started down the row of shelves, searching for T for Time or Time Travel or Turnback Trance.

With each step she took, the cramped space seemed to get longer. Unlike the look of most establishments in Knockturn Alley, Vittoria’s didn’t seem outright evil, not necessarily. But with the way some of the books looked under their stasis charms, paused in mid explosion or melting halfway down the shelf, the shop still gave her a slight sense of unease. 

A yellow title caught her eye. Immortality for Idiots: Five Methods to Beat the Eternal Sleep by Judie B. Boartusk. The book was still, and quiet, and didn’t appear to require suppression by any method. 

She took it off the shelf, careful not to disturb the babbling manuscript beside it (The Pureblood Parent’s Guide to Bloodline Rituals, Infancy to Toddler Age) and opened the immortality book to search for a possible Horcrux chapter.

Little is known about the destruction of the Horcrux, due to the small number of confirmed Horcruxes throughout history. The object containing the soul fragment must be destroyed beyond magical repair, effectively killing the soul fragment itself beyond magical revival.

“Trying to cheat death a second time, love?” A tall, broad-shouldered woman seemed to appear next to Hermione out of nowhere. Her white-grey hair was pin straight, and piled on top of her head with a gilded wand sticking out at an odd angle. The thick frames of giant amber-tinted glasses covered her eyebrows, making her look expressionless and surprised at the same time. She pushed a narrow cart stuffed with even more books, one of which was frozen in a lunge at her with another well-placed stasis charm. 

Hermione picked up the immortality book she had dropped at the woman’s sudden appearance and placed it back on the shelf. “I’m just here for a bit of research. I had no idea this place existed. Are you Vittoria?” 

“Indeed I am,” Vittoria said, drawing her wand from her hair and flicking it so the books on her cart flew to their places. “Can I help you find anything for this research?” 

“Well… yes. I’m looking for information on the Turnback Trance.” 

“I think… I may have one text that mentions it,” Vittoria said as she pursed her lips and looked hard at Hermione. She seemed to sense that Hermione wasn’t the hard-boiled type that frequented Knockturn Alley. “It’s extremely dangerous magic, love. Not just for the caster, but for everyone. For the universe as we know it. Time—”

“Time is a fickle thing. I know,” Hermione finished. 

With a nod, Vittoria briskly led Hermione down the long hallway to a tiny Time section right between Taxidermy, enchanted and Torture.

She hovered a pointed finger over the six or so volumes in the section before withdrawing her hand and instead summoning a book which zoomed down the aisle from the front of the shop. 

“There you are.” Vittoria handed her the thick tome and turned back to the empty cart. “I’ll be upstairs if you have any other questions.”

The Battle of Clatteringshaws: What We Know, Abridged by Eunice Weatherington was a large history textbook that Ron and Harry would have moaned about for ages had they needed to read it for school. The table of contents spanned eight months of battle strategies, sabotage attempts, and negotiation approaches. Hermione turned to the introduction. 

The Black Water of Dee was once home to the Bruchei clan of fairies and thousands of shallow-water-dwelling magical creatures. When wizardkind attempted to construct a dam to transport clean water to nearby magical village Roskeld, devastating their natural habitat, the fairy clan banded together with the likes of grindylows, river trolls, weetimorousbeasties, pixies, nettle salamanders, merotters, and imps to fight back and sabotage the construction of the dam. It was part of the larger Fairy Rebellion of 1432, a bloody and grim blight on the history of… 

On and on Eunice waxed poetic about the battle itself, with not so much as a mention of the Turnback Trance, which should have been the actual key to ending the fight if Snape’s adage about not winning the Clatteringshaws on the first try was true. 

As much as Hermione would have liked to stay and read all 319 pages while tucked into a corner of the bookstore, she didn’t have the privilege. She closed the book instead and placed her palm over the cover. Summoning every crumb of magic she could, she tried to concentrate on one phrase in particular. 

Turnback Trance.

The book gave a momentary glow but seemed to do little else. Fine then. A different phrase.

Time travel.

It glowed once more for a second.

Time traveller.

Still nothing.

Um… timeline?

At that, several snippets of the book’s pages floated up from the closed cover.

Page 73
…the proposed dam was to be conjured on a rushed timeline, due to the need for…

Page 183
…see illustration on opposite page for a timeline of the events of November 1431…

Page 310
…Puckland claimed to have travelled from a ‘doomed’ timeline in which the fairy…

There. Page 310. Hermione flipped feverishly to the back of the book and read the page. The only mention of time travel was in a footnote:

⁷³⁸ The suggestion to simply relocate the creatures affected by the dam came from one Barnaby Puckland II. Puckland claimed to have travelled from a ‘doomed’ timeline in which the fairy and creature armies had devastated the wizard side in rage, destroying Roskeld and killing most of the inhabitants. 

That was it? She repeated the finder spell with ‘Puckland’ and it only returned the instances she’d already read. This whole town was saved by a time traveller and the only mention he got in the textbook was a footnote?

Vittoria appeared next to Hermione again quite suddenly. 

“I’ve something for you, love,” she said, pressing a small trinket into Hermione’s hand. “Without a wand, it’s the next best thing.” 

Hermione stared back at the tall, moth-like woman. “I don’t have any money.”

“No matter. Take the book too, it’s been getting dusty on the shelf for years. My clientele doesn’t go for history.” 

She finally looked down at the trinket. It was a tiny hollow globe made of glass, with a golden hinge and clasp on the equator and decorative gilded points on the north and south poles. “What is this?”

“It’s an Incantorium. Catch a spell inside, and it’ll stay there until you break the glass, then it’ll pop out and take effect,” Vittoria replied, shuffling a few nearby volumes back to alphabetical order. 

“Why are you giving me all this?” Hermione asked, holding more that now belonged to her than she had in weeks. 

“Oh, love,” Vittoria sighed. “I can tell you’re one of the good ones. I don’t get a lot of those here; need to take the opportunity when I do.”

“Then why even have this place?” Hermione retorted. “If all you attract are nefarious types?”

“I catalogue and research dark forces and ideas. I don’t use them for myself. But if you had access to your enemy’s playbook, why wouldn’t you read it?” Was her reply. “There’s no moral high ground in keeping yourself uninformed on distasteful subjects.”

With a pop, a cowering house elf joined them. He addressed Vittoria: “Dezmo is being here to pick up Mistress Lestrange’s order.”

The two women looked back at each other evenly. Hermione spoke first, “And selling these books to the highest bidder…?”

Vittoria had a small guilty smile at that. “It’s how I keep food on the table.” 

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Hermione’s wake from the Trance was worse than ever. The trip to Knockturn Alley was the longest she’d spent in the past at once. Her vision swam and her temples pounded. 

She sat up on the cot. Snape was no longer in the dungeon’s hallway. Worse, the Clatteringshaws book and Incantorium that she had clutched tightly in her hands not two minutes ago had disappeared. The globe hadn’t taken a single spell she’d tried to stuff into it with no wand, but its absence still left despair.

Back in her prison and facing an insurmountable task, Hermione wept.

Chapter Text

Opening her eyes on the 1st of September, 1996, Hermione was standing at the Hogwarts Express station in Hogsmeade. 

With a start, she almost dropped the fairy rebellion textbook and the Incantorium as she felt the weight of them rematerialise in her hands. The glass globe went in a pocket of her robes and she held the book to her chest, breathing a quiet sigh of relief to feel its canvas bound cover again.

Her past self, wild hair tied in a low tangle, had just climbed into a carriage pulled by two thestrals. Pansy Parkinson and Theo Nott were standing near the last carriage in the line, gazing towards the train. They didn’t seem to notice Hermione’s sudden appearance; too busy arguing over where Malfoy could have gotten off to. 

With a pointed glare, Parkinson climbed into the carriage and Nott followed, proclaiming “We’ll see him at the feast somehow… he wouldn’t miss scaring the first years.”

As the last of the thestrals pulled away, Hermione boarded the Hogwarts Express, steam and sparks still rising from the tracks as it sat in the station.

Three carriages down, she found the man of the hour. Malfoy was stalking the length of the locomotive briskly, apparently trying not to miss the departed ride to the castle. Seeing Hermione, he stopped short with a sneer. 

“You again. Haven’t changed into your house robes yet, witch? Or maybe you forgot them at home with your wand like the last time we spoke.” 

Hermione stepped in his path as he began to barrel past, feeling stupid with barely any magic to use and the considerable height difference between them. “Busy catching up with friends.” At least her voice sounded confident, unlike her rapidly beating heart. “Listen, about your future—”

Malfoy looked down his perfect nose at her. “What house are you even in? I’ve never seen you at Hogwarts before. Perhaps that’s why you can’t adequately defend yourself?” 

“Does it matter?” The retort left her tongue before she had a chance to think it through. “I have important insight about your mission, Malfoy.”

His eyes narrowed. “Been eavesdropping with Potter, have you? Gryffindor, then. Get out of my way, witch.” With a precise flourish, his wand was out and pointed at Hermione’s face.

Hermione did nothing but gather the fizzing warmth of magic in her hand, praying that if her body was blasted to bits in this timeline she’d still wake up in the other.

With a sneer and an annoyed exhale, Malfoy started his charge. “Incarcerous!” 

“Protego!” Hermione shouted just as quick, and the light from his wand dissipated in front of her. 

She staggered back in the train aisle, palm burning with spent magic, and had only a moment to gather more energy from her well before she cast two more shield spells in quick succession. 

“Stupefy! Levicorpus! ” Malfoy kept egging forward, his face twisted in concentration. “Confringo! ”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping—Impedimenta!—you dolt. I’m trying,” Hermione ground out as sparks flew through the carriage, “—to help you. I know you’re tasked with killing Dumbledore, Malfoy—Protego!” 

He sent a last jinx towards her and said no more, but kept his wand raised. His eyes burned with fury. “Where did you hear that?”

Hermione didn’t answer his question, but outstretched her empty hand towards him and used the last of her magic: “Expelliarmus! ”

Malfoy’s wand flew to her grasp. He gaped at her with eyebrows drawn, still enraged, but with no wand he’d lost most of the bite to his bark.

She dropped the textbook and searched through her robes for the Incantorium. All she’d need is one good spell with Malfoy’s wand to fill it… 

“Gray. Answer me. How do you know about my task?” He was striding forward now, reaching out to snatch his wand away, but her fingers finally closed around the glass globe. 

Hermione twisted away from him, buying more time. The slight disconnect to the unfamiliar wand was only a blip in the relief of her magic being completely channelled and harnessed for the first time in weeks. 

Closing her eyes and focusing once again on a crisp summer night on the lake with Gemma Finkley, she took a breath to say the words, “Expecto—”

But Malfoy had caught up and yanked his wand back forcefully. 

“You’ll tell me how you came across that information about my mission. Now!” He was pointing it at her throat again, but eyeing her wandless hands with alarm.

Hermione put the empty Incantorium back in her robes with a sigh. “I told you, Malfoy. I have insight about your future. You didn’t seem to want to listen.” 

“Are you a Seer? Is there a prophecy about me?”

“No prophecies. I’m just trying to help you make the right moves.” Hermione met his eyes again as Malfoy lowered his wand. 

“Harry Potter!” Tonks’ voice echoed distantly from further down the train.

Malfoy’s head whipped around at the sound and he finally slipped past Hermione to the carriage’s exit. She retrieved the Clatteringshaws book from the floor and followed, post haste.

He was walking out of the station and taking the road to Hogwarts, though the thestral-drawn carriages were long gone. With a glance back at her trailing his path, Malfoy made a vaguely annoyed movement with his hand and sneered once more. 

“You’re mad, Gray. I don’t need your help,” he said gruffly, but his eyes fell to her scarred neck, then her hands. “Stop following me.”

Hermione didn’t stop at all, of course, and Malfoy huffed before looking back at the station and reluctantly casting a Disillusionment Charm around the both of them. 

They walked on in silence for a moment, her considering how much to divulge to Malfoy and him seemingly struggling with what to try and pry out of her next.

“Alright Malfoy, you don’t need my help. I’m still going to try and give you as much information as I can over the course of your mission, so you can make the right choices.” Hermione was nothing if not persistent. Malfoy himself had told her they’d met throughout the whole year. It was mad to suppose she’d be able to change his mind in the first few conversations. 

He grimaced. “I’m getting the feeling that I don’t have a say in the matter.”

She gave him her most shining smile. “That’s right. And I’m not above a Full Body Bind, if you were getting any ideas about avoiding what I have to offer.”

“Charmed.” Malfoy finally looked over at her. “It appears that your lack of wand won’t hinder your plans to immobilise me while you tirade about the future.”

“Afraid not.” Though, truthfully, Hermione was a little afraid to be going head to head regularly with Malfoy while basically defenceless. Their earlier spat had nearly drained her entire magical well, and her chest ached painfully.

He turned towards her slightly more as they walked, with a shred of honest curiosity in his countenance that Hermione had never seen before. “Where did you learn how to cast wandless spells?” 

She didn’t quite have a concrete answer to that. Or, not one she could divulge the full truth of to him. ‘My future self is harnessing the protective magic of Hogwarts,’ seemed to come off a little too forthright. 

“At Hogwarts,” Hermione fibbed instead. It contained part of the truth, at least.

He snorted. “Bollocks. They don’t even teach wandless magic to seventh years. You’re barking if you think I believe that.”

Suddenly, he stopped short. She turned back to him as his face went through several emotions at once. 

“You’re not…” Malfoy started, then narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re not wearing house robes and you perform wandless magic instead of carrying a wand. You can’t be a student. You’re not the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor?”

“No!” 

“You’re not a professor or a student then. I should have you thrown out for trespassing. How did you even get on the Hogwarts Express?”

“Listen, Malfoy, there are some questions I can answer, and some I can’t.” Hermione searched for the right words, avoiding his stare and studying the grounds instead. “I’m… sorry that I can’t be more forthright with you. But it’s really important that I try my best to guide your actions.” 

He immediately made her regret the first and last apology she’d ever give to him for trying to save his stupid life. “I don’t want your help! What’s the point if you can’t answer a simple question?” 

Hermione whirled around to face him, staring him down from below in as menacing a manner as she could. “I don’t care if you don’t want it. I have valuable insight that you need to hear, when the time is right. The circumstances around why I’m helping you and how I know what I do are dangerous for you to know. You’ll just have to trust me.”  

Malfoy only sneered back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Trust you? Give me one good reason why I should trust you. How am I supposed to believe you know anything about my future?” 

Her mind spun, trying to think of something she could say to prove that she knew what would happen over the next year without seeming like a time traveller. “Um… in a few minutes you’ll go into the Great Hall and Snape will be announced as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. How would I know that without having been up to Hogwarts yet?”

Malfoy brushed past her with eyebrows drawn and mouth set tight. “That’s not necessarily knowing the future; that’s just information. You could have found that out already somehow.”

“Fine!” She jogged to catch up with his longer strides. “In the first Potions class of the year, Harry Potter will brew the best potion and be awarded a bottle of Felix Felicis as a prize. Happy now?”

Saying Harry Potter out loud sent a wave of nausea through her. She hadn’t said his name since he was alive. 

He tossed her a rogue glance. “Now you really are mad. Pothead couldn’t brew the best potion in class if the book walked up to him and brewed it for him.”

Remembering the shelves teeming with life at Vittoria’s, Hermione briefly thought that there might have been books that do walk up and brew the potion for you. 

Malfoy was still talking when they reached the doors to Hogwarts’ entrance hall. “—and anyway, it’s not like I need a free handout of Felix Felicis to help me in exams like Potter might. My father could easily procure a vial for me if I asked, not that I would since I already achieve high marks—”

If saving his stupid, privileged life wasn’t supposedly the key to winning the war, she’d kill him herself for that comment. He was such a rich twat. It made her blood boil knowing the real reason Harry had used the potion, the dire mission the trio would embark on in the next year, and all Malfoy could focus on was cheating on exams and ragging on Harry! 

She had to do this, for Harry and Ron’s lives. And everyone else’s. But Malfoy was making it so damn difficult.

“I didn’t think school would be the reason you’re in need of some extra luck,” Hermione deadpanned, tossing him a look. 

He fell silent immediately. After a pause, Malfoy turned jerkily towards her and gave her a steely glare. “Whatever you meant by that, witch, you’ll regret it. Accio textbook!”

The Clatteringshaws book lept out of Hermione’s arms and glided into his waiting hand. He snatched only the cover as the rest hung down.

“Hey! Give that back! Don’t hold it like that, you’ll ruin the binding!” she shrieked, trying and failing to gather enough magic for another summons of her own. 

Malfoy’s hard gaze was replaced by smirk. “If you really know so much about the future, what am I about to do with this book?” 

Her legs took her towards him of their own accord. “That’s not fair! Whatever I say, you’ll just do something else to prove me wrong! That’s not how knowing the future works, Malfoy!”

He stepped back and held the book high, pages fluttering wildly, and waved it around as she reached for it. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Malfoy teased, in a false air of concern. “This is but a simple test, Gray. Don’t you want me to trust you?”

He was taller than her, but not by an extreme amount. The book was easily out of her grasp. But what he hadn’t accounted for was Hermione’s quick thinking. Instead of jumping for the book or trying her depleted magic supply again, she kicked him in the shin.

“Ow!” Malfoy crumpled to grab his leg. He tossed the book on his way down and it fell in the dust at the doors to the entrance hall.

She sprinted towards it, nearly blind with fear at losing one of her two possessions, but Malfoy whipped his wand towards the doors and shouted “Wingardium Leviosa! ” The book danced above her yet again. 

“You’re such an arse,” Hermione panted, slightly winded. 

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “I’m not the one who introduced full contact to this fight, witch. That hurt.”

“That’s my book. Thieves get a kick to the shin at minimum. Now let it down.” 

He caught back up with her in a few strides, still levitating the textbook. “Thieves may get a kick to the shin, but potential conwomen aren’t privy to my trust until they’ve earned it. Let’s see you try to get this back once I’m at the feast.” His stupid smug smirk was the last thing she saw as he plucked the book out of the air and disappeared inside the doors.  

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕

Hermione stepped towards the entrance to follow him, but instead found herself groggily opening her eyes to the familiar sight of the dungeon ceiling. 

In a head-pounding haze, she sat up and rubbed her temple, closing her eyes again as if it would stop any tears from falling. She’d lost the Clatteringshaws book. Not like last time when it had been simply left behind—this time the volume seemed truly out of her grasp. She stifled a sob.

Hermione opened her mouth to try and channel her anger into something besides crying, perhaps scolding Snape for bringing her back to this time when he didn’t know if she was alone, risking someone seeing, but a different voice spoke first. 

“Has the little bird had a restful nap?” 

Bellatrix and Snape were watching her from outside the cell.

Chapter Text

Hermione spent the next few days mostly horizontal. The ache of the Cruciatius seemed to cling to her bones no matter what pain-easing spell she half-heartedly attempted. The plates of fruit and stale pastries piled up as they materialised in her cell one after another, largely going untouched. 

It had been about two months in the dungeon. She could have looked under the cot to count the collected burn salve vials, but sitting up at all made her head swim and empty stomach lurch, so she remained on the thin cot and flitted in and out of restless sleep. 

Of course Snape would have to torture her further if someone was watching. As stoic as he was when they were alone practising the Trance, it would be safer for them both if no one suspected him of trying to help Hermione. But… that didn’t make the Cruciatus hurt any less. 

He didn’t return to the dungeon for several days. Even when Hermione was able to sit up and pick at the food placed under stasis and her muscles finally started to feel like they were repairing themselves, Snape didn’t come to continue their task. 

If it was simply because he didn’t have time, or because he was staying away to give Hermione time to recover, she couldn’t tell. And either way, she didn’t trust herself to look him in the eye and calmly sit at the end of his wand after the last experience she had under it. 

Once she had finished the last of the orange slices and felt strong enough to pace her cell, she tried placing her palm on the damp wall again to let the magic in Hogwarts flow through her internal well. Actually using a wand was leaps and bounds better, but the warmth she felt in her hand was more than nothing.

There it was. A slight tug in her chest, a small release in her tensed shoulders, and Hermione could feel the magic that lived inside her. It was depleted and fragile, but it was there.

Snape could stay away for another week if he wanted. She’d find a way to invoke the Turnback Trance on herself with the magic she had. 

Laying on the cot, Hermione closed her eyes and thought about her next memory of Malfoy to travel back to. It was around October she’d noticed him skipping class more often. Or was it closer to December? 

“Adducturum Pertempus,” she said quietly, mimicking Snape’s pronunciation from the countless repetitions she’d heard. 

She saw the familiar blue glow through her closed eyes, but the feeling of boiling water down her spine never came. 

Hermione opened her eyes, intending to pace a little more before her second attempt, but instead of the dungeon ceiling, she saw a Gryffindor common room packed with people dressed in red and gold. 

The cacophony of students yelling, laughing, and cheering distorted and warped in her head. The air was hot and smelled like butterbeer, and people seemed to crush her from all sides. There was Harry in his Quidditch kit. Harry. Her heart jumped at seeing his face again, alive and alight with laughter. He looked so different than she last remembered seeing him, even before the final battle. He looked happy. 

Ron and Ginny pushed through the crowd behind him, hoisting their brooms aloft in joy. Hermione’s breath nearly stopped. Seeing them up close, seeing them smiling, seeing them alive forced tears to prick at her eyes.

Harry gleefully reached through the crowd to clap her on the back. “Alright, Hermione?” 

She gave a weak smile and looked down as her face grew hot with emotion. 

She meant to catch her breath and congratulate the rest of the team, but when she looked up again Ron was kissing Lavender and Ginny was whooping and Harry was glancing at her with a questioning look, just like before, and she couldn’t stop the tears from falling, just like before, though this time it seemed to feel like grief instead of jealousy. 

Pushing her way out to the hallway, dodging questions and concern from more dead friends, Hermione found herself running to the hospital wing. 

There was no thought of the Trance, no thought of Malfoy’s mission, only a cascading wave of hurt. It was like her first days in the dungeon all over again. Unwanted images of student soldiers bravely facing the biggest evil of their time only to be brought down with a green beam of light, over and over again. 

Malfoy was there again, only he wasn’t in the hospital wing then—Harry hadn’t cast Sectumsempra until spring—but Hermione had lost the thread of time somewhere in the common room and didn’t care when it was. 

“There you are, Cordelia. I was wondering when I’d get my hospital visit from you.” There he was holding her hand again like he had before, or like he would later, or whenever it was, and rubbing her thumb affectionately as she sobbed next to his bed. 

The words wouldn’t come out to explain why she was crying, which was good because they’d probably break several cardinal rules of time travel, and Malfoy was sounding far away as he spoke, “You’re this overcome about our past meetings? I really must make quite an impression.” 

She was nodding then, still trying to wipe tears off her face as more kept coming, and she was remembering her lost book and her futile attempts to help Malfoy do the right thing and how useless it all felt, knowing her body was lying supine on a cot in a dungeon somewhere else in the fabric of time, trapped and tortured for her heritage that couldn’t be helped, and she was sobbing harder now. 

“Cordelia, I’m okay. You’re not losing me this easily.” Malfoy positioned himself upright and drew his left arm out of the bedclothes to comfort or embrace her. 

Hermione gasped, at the sight of it. His whole left hand was black, snakes and skulls overlapping haphazardly up his forearm, front and back. It was like a hundred Dark Marks had been burned into his skin, one after another. 

He laughed, following her gaze. “Oh, this little thing? It’s my reward for killing Dumbledore.” 

She woke up from the nightmare with a start and hoped with every fibre that her half-cast Trance hadn’t made any changes she couldn’t undo.

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 

It felt like midday the next day when Snape graced the dungeon with his presence again, though the light filtering through the cracked door was dim. 

Hermione was awake and using what warmth she could conjure to ease the last of the Crucatius ache from her muscles. She didn’t turn to acknowledge his arrival and instead focused doggedly on alternating her palm from the wall to her joints.

“Are you prepared to continue with the Trance?” Snape asked at last, sounding like he might cast the spell no matter the answer. 

“Not yet.” 

He didn’t respond to that, just looked down at her from outside the cell. 

“Not without a proper apology.” Hermione finally turned to face him. 

He held her gaze steadily. “It was necessary to prove to Bellatrix that I am performing my duty as instructed.”

She dropped her hand from the wall finally and leaned back on both. “I know that. I also know that apologies usually include the phrase ‘I’m sorry.’ I’m a prisoner, sure, but I’m also your last resort, Snape.”

He finally broke his eyes away to look down the empty hallway. “I apologise.” 

“Thank you. I hope Bellatrix is sufficiently assured of my continued misery.” Hermione pushed herself up to move to the cot. “She didn’t recognize the Trance?”

“She was intrigued that I kept you under stasis in my absence to prevent recovery.”

“Merlin, you lot are evil.” She lay back on the cot as before and closed her eyes. “Fire at will.”

After a blue glow and a piercingly hot shudder down the spine, Hermione opened her eyes to the hallways of Hogwarts. 

She stood outside the closed doors to the Charms classroom where her past self was currently residing. The same class, she’d noted, that Malfoy should have been in, but wasn’t.

Turning right, Hermione made her way to a seldom-used back stairway that would deposit her on the seventh floor near a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. If Malfoy wasn’t in the Room of Requirement already, he’d be there soon. 

As she climbed the stairs, she realised with a sinking feeling that she was absentmindedly thinking of ways to get the Clatteringshaws book from the prat. It was probably tossed at the bottom of his trunk by now, once he saw it had nothing to do with sixth year’s curriculum. She ached to have it back, even knowing it was effectively useless when it came to information on the Turnback Trance. 

There was no way she’d be able to retrieve it now though. To Malfoy, she’d gotten angry about the book’s theft, but didn’t bother following him into Hogwarts. If she demanded it back now, it would raise questions about why she’d left so suddenly without going after it. Better to stay on the safe side. Time is a fickle thing. 

She’d just have to act like she didn’t care about the book. What book?

Merlin, she wanted to slap him.

Perfect. He was pacing towards her outside the Room of Requirement. As far as she could tell, both of his hands were still pale; no black hand had befallen him yet.

Malfoy caught sight of her and visibly exhaled with frustration. As Hermione approached, he stopped walking and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Afternoon, Gray. So it seems as though you can enter these enchanted walls after all. What’s the matter, too put out you couldn’t reach your textbook? Sore loser?” A ghost of a smirk crossed his face. 

Merlin, she wanted to slap him!

Hermione replied, with effort, “What book? Oh, right. Your little prank last time we spoke.” She hoped it was the last time, at least. “I decided it wasn’t worth my time to bicker with petty imbeciles.” 

Malfoy’s smile faltered as she came closer and his eyebrows drew together. “What’s got you so slatternly?”

“Resorting to jabs at my appearance? That’s very mature, Mal—” 

“Not that. You’re covered in filth.”

Looking down, her transfigured robes still appeared okay, not her best work to be sure, but her hands, arms, and no doubt her face were covered in earth from writhing around on the dungeon floor. It was all starting to look normal back there, but in the cleaner, cheerily lit upper hallways of Hogwarts, Hermione did indeed look worse for wear. 

“I…” she faltered, looking at her hands. What possible lie would suffice this time?

He rolled his eyes. “Dangerous for me to know, I’m sure. Scourgify.” With a whoosh of fresh air, she felt clean for the first time in a long time. 

“And while I’m at it… Multicorfors.” A shower of emerald sparks flew from Malfoy’s wand, and when they cleared, Hermione’s robes sported the Hogwarts crest and a green and silver tie. 

“What was that for? My robes were fine.”

“Not if someone besides me sees. You really will be thrown out for trespassing, then.”

She huffed. “Must you put me in Slytherin?” 

He shrugged, looking like he was trying not to laugh. “My wand only does it in Slytherin colours. Sorry. Do I hear a thank you…?”

“I could have cleaned up myself. But… thanks.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

He made a motion to turn away from her and reached in his robes to pull out a decorative box. “Will that be all? I have lessons to skive.”

After a moment to compose herself, Hermione looked back up. “Sure, I only came all the way here to get a quick washing up from you and I’ll be on my way now. Is that the cursed necklace?”

Malfoy looked disconcerted. “...Perhaps.”

“You might want to give up on that strategy ahead of time. It won’t reach Dumbledore.”

Down the corridor, a group of students’ voices echoed as their class let out. 

He cursed as he twisted his head towards the sound. “I should have gone in by now. They all use the back stairwell to smoke after Arithmancy. Over here.” 

Hermione found herself being shepherded towards an alcove entrance which Malfoy Disillusioned and silenced behind them. 

“Why won’t the necklace get to Dumbledore? I’ve practically perfected the sequence.” He rubbed his forehead with several fingers, putting the box on a shallow table and eyeing it warily. 

“It’s a shoddy plan at best,” Hermione said. He shot her a glare. “Too many degrees of separation to hand off. A student will get cursed, levitated, and sent to St. Mungo’s for months. You’d be lucky not to accidentally kill her.”

“Who levitates?” he asked, almost smirking as he imagined it, no doubt. 

Katie probably wouldn’t even matter as collateral damage to him. “Your friend Parkinson,” Hermione lied. 

He frowned. “Pansy? She has nothing to do with the plan.”

“I told you it was shoddy.” 

Malfoy turned back to her and crossed his arms again, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. “Why should I listen to you? What’s stopping me from trying with the necklace anyway? Pansy can handle a little curse.” 

“I said you’d be lucky not to kill her. I don’t know everything about the future, Malfoy. Just bits and pieces. Is that really a risk you want to take?” Hermione stepped forward, the half truths propelling her to speak faster.

“I’m still not convinced you know anything about the future, witch.” 

“Harry won the bottle of Felix in class, right? Isn’t that enough to prove I know what I’m talking about?”

“I don’t know. I skipped it.” He looked away, through the rippling sheen of the Disillusionment charm.

“You skipped the first day of Potions class?”

Malfoy didn’t reply, just tightened his mouth and brought a hand to the back of his head, avoiding her eyes. 

Hermione sat at the stone windowsill, a smirk on her face for once instead of his. “I see. Your pride is wounded. Either because you know I was right or because you tried extra hard to brew a better potion than Harry and still failed. Or both.”

“Pansy getting cursed doesn’t make sense,” Malfoy went on, pivoting slowly in thought. “She won’t be anywhere near the situation, I already made sure of it. What goes wrong? Can’t you tell me that too? Then I’ll fix the plan’s error and she’ll be out of harm’s way.” 

Already the lies were mucking this up. She added another to the pile: “You can’t just ask any question you want; that’s not how it works.”

“Fine, no cursed necklace. Do you know how I can fix the Vanishing Cabinet? It’s a pain in my arse and I’d like to sooner rather than later.” He paced back and forth in the small alcove, barely getting two strides in before turning around, seemingly following a slippery train of thought. 

“Erm, not sure,” she replied. That was the truth.

“Okay, let’s think broader. What is the outcome of my mission? Will I be successful?”

Should she lie and tell him he won’t end up killing Dumbledore? Maybe then he’d stop trying? She considered her answer carefully as he stopped walking and looked at her expectantly.

“You won’t kill him,” Hermione said, with finality. 

“Now I really don’t believe you,” Malfoy said, exhaling a quiet laugh. He sat on the sill beside her, looking at the flagstone floor with a serious expression. “The punishment would be too great of a risk. I have to succeed. It’s… my only option.” 

Hermione didn’t know how to answer that, thinking of her own punishment, her own fate, that would follow if her mission didn’t succeed. The New Domain’s first public execution. Potter’s Mudblood struck down for society to watch. 

He spoke again, still staring bitterly downward. “Well, Gray. I think it’s about time for some of your valuable insight. Either help me find a method that will work, or stop trying to intervene.”

Morgana. 

She didn’t know what to say. He thought she was offering help on how to complete his mission. To be fair, she hadn’t really been too terribly specific so far—

Malfoy stood abruptly and looked out through the distorted barrier enclosing them in. “That’s what I thought.”

“Listen, Malfoy.” She wasn’t quite sure where her words were taking her. “I was telling the truth about the necklace. It won’t kill Dumbledore. But… I’m not sure I’ve been completely transparent about why I’m here.”

“Altogether opaque, in fact,” he replied brusquely. “Terribly unhelpful thus far.”

Hermione took a breath and a leap of faith. “I’m here to convince you not to go through with the mission.” 

After a long pause, he turned around to pin her with a stunned glare. “Did you hear what I just said? If I don’t kill him, I’ll be punished by the Dark Lord. You do know what that entails, right? Whatever you’re thinking, multiply it by a hundred. That’s what I’ll have waiting for me if I don’t complete this mission.”

She jumped up in an attempt to stop him from towering over her in his anger. It didn’t work very well. “I know it seems like that—”

“And wouldn’t I know better than you!?” Malfoy took a few steps forward, boxing her in. “Or does he pop ‘round your house for tea as well?”

Her words died in her mouth. 

When she didn’t respond, his shoulders fell and he turned away once more. “You’re working for the Order, then.”

Not the Order of this time. For a shattered and near-extinct version of it, maybe.

“Not exactly.” It was all she could come up with.

“I don’t see how someone trying to keep Dumbledore alive wouldn’t be working with the Order.” Malfoy picked the decorative box up again and leaned back against the wall. 

Hermione strode towards him, using Snape’s words to buy more time. “I’m not trying to keep Dumbledore alive. I’m trying to make sure you don’t kill him. There’s a subtle difference. That’s probably just another thing that doesn’t make sense to you, but it’s important.” 

He exhaled and shook his head, then met her eyes again. “When are you going to start making sense?”

“I told you. Some things are dangerous for you to know. I’m trying…” She sighed, rubbing a hand over her wrist, feeling the scar hidden under long sleeves. “I’m trying to protect you, Malfoy.”

He broke her gaze, then stood. “I better start working on the cabinet again. The sooner I kill Dumbledore, the sooner you’ll leave me alone.”

“Malfoy—” His eyes flashed back to her in alarming fury and he yanked his arm back from her grasp. Too late, she realised she’d gone for his left forearm, and he was clutching at it as if her grip had burned. Maybe it had; she wouldn’t put it past Voldemort to include that kind of reaction in the Dark Mark from the touch of a Muggleborn. 

“Seize me like that again and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.” Malfoy stepped through the rippling barrier and was gone.

Chapter Text

A week later, Hermione headed back to November 1996 hoping dearly that no curse—or death—had befallen Pansy or Katie or anyone else since the last time she’d seen Malfoy. 

The scalding pain of the Trance hadn’t gotten any easier, but it passed quickly as she opened her eyes; the dim light and damp peat smell of the dungeon giving way to a bright white, cloudy sky and the bite of cold wind. Distressingly, she was still clad in the Slytherin uniform that Malfoy had put her in, but Hermione didn’t want to waste her internal magic changing it. Green and silver would have to do.

The Quidditch match had ended, and students streamed from the grounds back towards the warmth of the castle, noses red and hands pocketed against the chill. Hermione confirmed that her past self was walking up ahead with Neville and Luna and that no one had seen her present self materialise behind the base of the Hufflepuff stands. 

This was the day she’d had that odd nightmare about as she attempted to cast the Trance on herself. She’d been pondering it a little more in the days between travelling, and came to the conclusion that it probably hadn’t affected the course of time, considering there was no way that the Felix Felicis Quidditch match and the Sectumsempra curse would have happened on the same day. At least, that’s what Hermione hoped. 

The man of the hour trudged forward through a few grey snowdrifts ahead, one of the last students still on the grounds. Hermione ran after him, clutching her robes together against the wind.

“Hey!” 

Malfoy didn’t appear to have heard her. 

“Malfoy!” That got his attention.

“Merlin, Gray, must you call as much attention to yourself as possible? You’re still trespassing. This is supposed to be a secure campus, witch,” he hissed, glancing around to see if any stragglers had heard her and quickening his pace. 

He wasn’t making it very enjoyable to help him, the bastard. 

“How secure can it be if I can still pop around whenever I want?” she retorted, bobbing along next to him.

He groaned in frustration. “You couldn’t wait until I was back inside, could you? No, I suppose we’ll just have another chat in the freezing cold.” 

“I wanted to catch you before your captain had a chance to scold you on another loss.” 

Malfoy’s face was steely as he opened the flap to the empty Ravenclaw stands and motioned her inside. “Do I look like I just finished playing the match?”

Oops. He wasn’t wearing a Quidditch kit, and Hermione remembered too late that he hadn’t played that year. 

“Oh. I forgot you weren’t on the team.” 

“...You forgot?”

She shut her mouth before more nonsensical statements came tumbling out. He was looking at her oddly already, but simply rolled his eyes and cast a warming charm on them both. 

“I happen to have other priorities this year,” Malfoy finally muttered, looking to the top of the stands. 

Determined to stop seeming like she knew a suspicious amount about him already, Hermione reverted to asking questions instead. 

“That’s a shame. Do you like flying?” She had never really considered that he must have a love of flying, only having ever thought about his Quidditch skills in opposition to the Gryffindor team, or else just another way to demonstrate superiority over other students with expensive gear. 

He kept studying the wooden stairway. “...Yeah.” 

“What do you like about it?” she asked tentatively.

Malfoy huffed and tossed his arms in frustration. “Is this really necessary information? You need to perform some psychoanalysis of all my likes and dislikes to try and manipulate me into doing what you want?”

It was her turn to look conspicuously elsewhere, turned halfway from him. “Just asking.”

He sighed and leaned on the side of the ascending stairway, putting them into a long silence.

Finally, Malfoy spoke again. “I like feeling free.” 

Hermione couldn’t relate to the feeling of freedom coming from being on a broom necessarily, but the strained way his words came out reminded her of how desperately she awaited each new opportunity to use the Trance, to come to the past, to escape imprisonment, even just for an hour.

“Me, too.”

He looked at her incredulously. “You like flying?” 

“No! I like…” She glanced at her hands, then over to him, just for a moment. “The feeling of freedom. That’s why I’m making these visits to you.”

The spell of mutual understanding snapped and Malfoy was back on his defensive. “This again. Have you got a reliable method I can use for my mission or you’re just here to preach to me again? Life isn’t all rainbows and sunshine, Gray.”

“I told you, you won’t succeed at the mission.” Hermione needed to make him understand, make him change his mind, something. 

He rubbed a temple in an annoyingly upper class manner. “And I told my mother that I didn’t want any Seers interfering!” 

“I’m not a Seer!” It came out before she could stop it. 

“You...” Malfoy was at once standing and looking aghast, eyes wide. 

“I’m not a Seer. I never said I was.” Technically, allowing him to believe an assumption without correcting it wasn’t a lie, was it? 

“The Felix Felicis…”

“I know… some future events. I wouldn’t be here trying to help you if I didn’t. But I’m not a Seer. It’s different than that.” She sat on the bottom steps, suddenly weary.

Malfoy approached her cautiously and she saw him eyeing the Fiendfyre burn out of the corner of her eye. “Does it have anything to do with this?” His voice was quiet. 

He reached the back of his hand towards her neck, as if he was going to touch it. She jerked away, covering the mark with her own hand and glanced sidelong at him. “In a way. I… don’t really want to talk about it.”

The raised divots and whirls of her scar felt familiar under her hands from applying the burn salve, day after day. But Hermione’s reflection wasn’t accessible in the dungeons, and she only had a vague idea of what it must look like. With no shield of curly hair to curtain her from his enrapt gaze, there was nothing else to hide behind. She might have enjoyed the benefit of Burke answering her questions promptly once he saw it, but she hated feeling Malfoy’s stare. 

She’d half expected him to be cruelly harassing her about the mark from the moment Hermione started her mission, but this question was his first broach of the topic. It was oddly compassionate. She banished the thought of Malfoy being kind about anything before she got any other illogical or groundless ideas. 

His eyes lingered a moment more before he scoffed and turned away. “Dangerous for me to know, right? Typical.”

“Not this time. I don’t want to talk about a near death experience that’s left me scarred for life, if you can believe it,” she shot back. The nerve of this sodding wizard. 

“Does surviving Fiendfyre give you prophetic powers or something?” 

“I said I didn’t want to talk about it!” Her voice got shrill, but he didn’t seem to react. 

Malfoy rubbed his forehead. “Well if you’re not a Seer, what are you? If you know anything about the future, I want to know everything.”

She couldn’t tell him the truth, that was for sure. But there was no convenient lie about how Hermione knew what she knew. It would be safer for them both if she kept the source vague. 

“I can’t tell you everything, it’s too—”

He rounded on her. “It can’t be any more dangerous than what I’m already doing, can it?”

She had been about to say fickle, but dangerous worked just as well. All this back and forth about the source of her predictions was eating into valuable time she could have spent actually working towards the goal. “Unbelievably, it can. Some things are bigger than just you, Malfoy.”

He stared at her for a beat, expression unreadable, and swallowed hard. “Oh yes, I must think it’s all about me, mustn’t I? This mission is a death wish whatever way it turns out. Not just for me, but for my whole family. Don’t you insinuate for a second that I only care about how it turns out for me.”

Her mission was seeming like a death wish right at this very moment as well. Malfoy’s words dripped with animosity, and his wand, which he had taken out at some point beyond her notice, threatened to snap in his grasp.

Hermione chose her next words carefully. “Bigger than you and your family then. If you kill Dumbledore, it could be the catalyst for the rest of the war.”

At the word war, he stood up straighter and a quick wave of alarm crossed his face, just for a second. Then it was back to the familiar mask of irritation. 

“It could be? Don’t you know, future teller? Is it, or isn’t it?” 

She let out a huff. “Fine. It is. You must not complete the mission. It’s integral. Essential. It goes further than you could know.”

Malfoy started pacing forcefully. “You say that a lot, about what I don’t know.” He clenched his hands into fists aimlessly as he walked. “It’s been pissing me off. You have the power to let me know, if you’d just tell me what’s supposed to happen!”

Hermione jumped up to join him in standing. “I can’t! That’s not how this works! If I let you know too much, it could affect the likelihood of anything I tell you. It’s too fragile. It’s too… fickle.”

He stopped and looked down his nose at her. “I think you just like keeping me in the dark, witch.”

“It’s not keeping you in the dark to tell you that you absolutely shouldn’t kill Dumbledore. Please. I know you probably want to live your pureblooded life in Voldemort’s idyllic New Domain after all the Muggleborns and lesser-thans are publicly executed, but you can’t.” Hermione fought not to break eye contact. Her voice wavered, and she didn’t sound so assured anymore, but she needed to make him understand. “Please. That’s what I’m here to do. Just please. I’m just… asking you nicely at this point. Please, Malfoy.” Please make a choice that will save my life. Our lives.

Malfoy sighed heavily, and turned away to the stands’ entrance. Her stomach fell, and her hand seemed to jump towards him of its own accord, but he only opened the flap and stared out at the grounds as a smattering of rain tried to wash away the lingering snowdrifts. 

After a moment punctuated only by the sound of November drizzle against the stands’ sides, he turned his head and spoke to her, though his eyes were trained on the ground. “You have to realise the impossible position I’m in, don’t you?”

Hermione didn’t say anything, half afraid she was about to start feeling sympathetic. 

Malfoy continued, voice low in volume but no less emphatic: “If I complete the mission, my parents think we’ll be safe, that’s a given. But… this whole task, it’s only a punishment to my father. I’m being used as a pawn. My parents… they put me in this position. They may not have offered up their only child to do his dirty work, but they had to have known. One fuck up and I’d be the one on the gallows. He likes doing that—he likes using someone’s innocent kid as leverage. As punishment. And despite all that, I want them to be safe. I know… I should hate them. And I think some part of me does. But they’re my parents. I just want us to be out of this mess. 

“If I... if I manage to kill Dumbledore, I’ll only be embroiling us further into his ranks. And as evidenced by this sodding mission, that’s anything but safe. I don’t want his blood on my hands. I don’t want his reward. It’s too dangerous. I wish… I wish I had realised it sooner. I wish my parents would realise it. That they put us here just for talk of ‘tradition’ and ‘culture’.

“But if I fail the mission, we’ll all be punished. I’ll be… tortured. Beyond what you can imagine. Something terrible. And the kicker is, it’ll all still be seen as a punishment to my father. When I’m the one going through it. It’s… not even about me. He’ll be the one with a… failure—for a son. I’ll be fucked up for the rest of my short life, and it’s not even about me.”

He dropped the flap and turned to face her as his words hung in the still air. His chest was rising and falling fast, as if powered by adrenaline. 

She wasn’t sure if she should tell him about his impending death by snake if the mission was completed. On one hand, it was probably very compelling. On the other, he’d still be walking straight into getting tortured by the darkest wizard alive, and neither option sounded very appetising. 

Instead, Hermione bowed her head slightly, at least to acknowledge that she had heard his fears. “Yes. It’s a difficult decision.” Malfoy didn’t move. “Well… one thing I can tell you is that you’re right. You are a pawn in this situation. Most of us are. We’re all child soldiers.”

He cocked his head, eyes flicking to the scar once more. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen, but that’s not relevant. We’ve been fighting this for a long time, haven’t we?” 

Malfoy’s mouth twisted, and he looked at the ground once more. 

Hermione continued, finding her confidence: “I’m being careful about what I can tell you without potentially impacting anything too badly. That said: if you complete the mission, you’ll only become a pawn pushed to taking more dangerous moves. The mission to kill Dumbledore won’t be your last, and as a result, you’ll… be forced to procure a powerful tool for Voldemort.”—His head jerked up, eyes wild—“And that mission could end your life.”

He seemed to be calculating his future in his head, weighing the options. “What are my odds? What’s the tool?”

She shot him a look. “It doesn’t matter, Malfoy, because you won’t be doing it. Not if I have anything to say about it.” 

He was silent for a moment, then gave a resigned nod and moved back to the entrance. “Well… as much as I never thought I’d say this, you’ve at least given me more to think about. See you next month.”

Next month? A guess? Or did Malfoy know more than he let on?

Chapter Text

Malfoy’s words were still echoing in Hermione’s head when she opened her eyes to the dungeon ceiling. The tunnel vision faded, but the pounding headache that came with every trip to the past remained.

With effort, she sat up on the cot and closed her eyes again, massaging her temples in vain. The ache in her skull was magical, and came from deep within. It could only be assuaged with time, as she’d come to learn.

Snape was still in the dungeon; she could hear his robes moving over the flagstones as he shifted in place. 

“I’d like an update on your efforts. Is Mr. Malfoy still planning to go through with the killing?” he asked, apparently ignoring Hermione’s present pain. 

She moved to try and syphon a little more magic from the castle wall that might help her head. “Um… I need a moment. My head aches quite a lot once I come back.” 

“Leniens,” Snape incanted, and most of the pain was slowly numbed as the spell took effect. Nevermind the countless times he’d left the dungeon without doing anything at all to help her pain, no, this time he wanted answers and could now find it in his cold, slimy heart somewhere to actually help her. Joy. 

“Give me a better place to sit and I’ll talk. But you have to stay until I fully recover this time.” The days of weakness from being Crucio’d hadn’t been easily forgotten. 

Snape’s voice betrayed no sympathy: “If I must.” With a wave, he conjured two chairs, one in her cell and one outside the bars. They were unpadded with tall, straight backs; and reminded her of the chairs populating the Hogwarts library.

If Dumbledore had still been Headmaster, they’d have been velveteen peacock chairs with frilly turquoise cushions. But if Dumbledore had still been Headmaster, she probably wouldn’t be in the dungeons at all. 

They both sat, and Hermione suddenly felt very silly for even requesting the chairs. With Snape standing in the dungeon hallway and her sitting or standing in the cell, her situation was crystal clear. Now that they were on the same level, the chairs almost facing each other at a shallow diagonal, all they needed was a table in between and they could have been out for a friendly lunch.

Snape’s pained expression seemed to betray the same awkwardness, but he continued without mentioning it. “Did Mr. Malfoy carry on with the cursed necklace plan?” 

“Blast! I forgot to ask,” she replied, internally chiding herself. What was wrong with her? Malfoy shows a vulnerable side one time and she forgets all else? 

Snape shot her an icy look. “What did you manage to speak to him about, Miss Granger?” 

Yes, what had they talked about? It was only a moment ago she’d been watching Malfoy stare out at the rain, but the lingering headache was still clouding her head. “He… he seems very disillusioned with Voldemort, and with his mission. Neither option seems appealing. I haven’t mentioned that his death is basically guaranteed if he goes through with it, of course.”

“And Mr. Malfoy divulged this to you directly, did he?” Snape asked, a tone of surprise overtaking his usual ire. 

“Why did you bother saving my life if you thought I’d be so rubbish at this?” Hermione shot back testily, but Snape didn’t react. “Yes, he did. He went on quite the fervent monologue, in fact. He recognizes the danger to his and his family’s lives by being in close contact with Voldemort, but he’s also terrified of the torture that would come with a failure of the task—with a possibility of lifelong effects. It’s not an easy position to be in.”

Harry and Ron would be dumbfounded if they could hear… what inexplicably seemed to be a defence of Malfoy leaving her mouth. But they weren’t here. And if she needed to save that tosser’s stupid life to get them back, she would. 

Snape nodded slightly, gazing down the dungeon hallway in thought. “He would have been acquainted with the Cruciatus at this point. It’s… unpleasant, but doesn’t usually result in lifelong problems.” 

“How sad, that a young person of not even twenty would be so familiar with torture under the Cruciatus.” She gave Snape a pointed look which he pretended not to notice. “What about the Longbottoms’ lifelong problems?”

“The Dark Lord would not drive a former follower to that point. Bad optics. Potential to spill sensitive information in their delirium. Easier to just dispose of them. Though Mr. Malfoy seems to be sure that won’t be the case?” 

Hermione sighed heavily and continued rubbing her temples. This conversation was not helping the headache. The chairs either. 

“You lot are so incredibly evil. Sometimes I wonder if this is some kind of convoluted punishment; to force me to take on an impossible task with the most hateful sod in Wizarding Britain. As if I can change his bloody mind after years.” 

“What of the fervent monologue?” Snape replied, intertwining his fingers casually as if merely discussing the weather. “Mr. Malfoy revealed his misgivings about his mission with you, a near stranger. He’s considering both options. Perhaps he’ll be relinquishing his title to some other sod.”

She scoffed in response. “What, like a change of heart? He’s going to start advocating for Muggle Studies to be mandatory? I’m not trying to influence his values; that’s the real impossible task. I just need to convince him not to kill Dumbledore.” 

“Indeed,” Snape only said in response.

Hermione sighed again. “I don’t want to think about Malfoy anymore. Tell me about your lot’s heinous doings and deeds now that Voldemort’s won, so as to soothe my frazzled head.”

Her words dripped with sarcastic malice. She wanted him to feel guilty—she wanted to hurt him. Snape may have been her only hope to change the fate of the war, but damn if Hermione didn’t hate him despite that fact.

Her former professor didn’t give her icy request a second thought before replying: “I’ve been collaborating with the Hogwarts’ governors to find an acceptable curriculum for the upcoming school year.” 

Hermione didn’t prompt him to continue, instead stewing in an angry silence and taking great interest in the flagstoned ground. He went on anyway, “Voldemort has selected several Death Eaters to fill out the staff. Alecto Carrow is continuing with True Muggle History, while professor placements are still in ongoing discussion for Study of the Dark Arts, Use of Magical Creatures, and Potions.”

Snape’s countenance was stoney, but she couldn’t quite make out any decipherable emotions beyond his usual acidity. He could have very well been enjoying every second of the assault on Hogwarts’ curriculum. 

“I won’t be making decisions about the staff. The rest of the class programs are still in progress, and that has been my task when I’m not in this mildewed hovel,” he finished. 

“Imagine being imprisoned somewhere like this mildewed hovel; I couldn’t take it,” Hermione replied sourly. “What a plight you’re in, Severus. Forced to plan out the study of evil for magical society’s most impressionable minds. I don’t know how you do it.” 

“Voldemort was an ambitious student in his time. He has made it clear that the New Domain’s next generation will not be brought up on anecdotes or half truths.”

“Then I imagine True Muggle History won’t last until Halloween before it’s removed from study.” 

“To the contrary; there’s no shortage of published books that distort history in Voldemort’s favour.”

Her bad mood and headache worsened. Hermione was never requesting Snape stay and make conversation ever again. 

“What is Lucius Malfoy teaching? I’m sure he’s back in Voldemort’s high rankings after he sacrificed his only son for the cause.” She’d never known of a subject Malfoy’s father took particular interest in, and Malfoy had never mentioned such. Perhaps Political Influence for the Ultra-Wealthy would be a fitting course for the patriarch to instruct. Or House Elf Abuse Tactics. Could be HEAT, for short.

Snape sighed, a rarity from him. “Lucius and Narcissa aren’t with us anymore.”

“They were killed , after their son practically guaranteed—?” 

“Not to my knowledge. It’s not evident what became of them. If they’ve left Britain, Voldemort could still locate Lucius with the Dark Mark. Either they found a way to evade that, or… something less pleasant. I tried to speak with them afterwards, once his body was found. They… loved Draco dearly.” As he spoke of the elder Malfoys, his face finally betrayed a shred of grief. 

Hermione felt more hopeless every second. The more Snape revealed about the New Domain and its actions in the last few weeks, the more she itched to get back to Malfoy and shake sense into him. To scream, ‘You and your family will die horrifically and painfully if you don’t listen to me!’ To beg, to plead with him to make the right choice and save countless lives. But she couldn’t just tell him the truth outright—everything was too damn fickle.

A silent tear escaped down her cheek as she tried not to think about the consequences of failing her mission. Would she and Malfoy and everyone else blink out of existence in a temporal paradox, or be doomed to repeat the mission on and on forever? 

Her voice was shaky as she asked Snape, “Why haven’t you just given up on this plan already? Why are you still fighting for the Order?”

She couldn’t understand why a bitter blood purist like him wouldn’t have just forgotten the Order and conformed after Voldemort’s victory. Wasn’t that the whole reason he’d been playing both sides? To pose as a hero regardless of who triumphed?

Snape stood suddenly and gestured for her to do the same before vanishing the chairs. “He killed the woman I loved. She was Muggleborn.”

It had never occurred to her that Snape was even capable of love, let alone of loving someone raised by Muggles, who he seemed to have the utmost contempt for.

“I want to do right by her, for once,” he said, a shadow of pain crossing his face. “And after seeing the amount of magical blood spilled, it’s obvious Voldemort doesn’t value blood purity—it’s nothing but a convenient divide to exploit. He himself is not even pureblood.” 

Hermione huffed. “So you’d support him if he was pureblood? How very sympathetic to your Muggleborn girlfr—”

Snape’s nostrils flared as he fixed a steely gaze on her. “That’s enough. There is no universe in which she is murdered that I remain loyal.” And before she could say more, he was gone from the dungeon.

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕

A few days later, Hermione faced Snape again to travel more than a year to the past. The day in question was 6 December, 1996. 

The heat of the Trance was wearing off and Hermione found herself at the edge of the Forbidden Forest with the Hogwarts grounds blanketed in a thick sheet of snow. She almost wished for the searing pain back as it dissipated into frigid cold. Herbology class was still in session in the greenhouses several meters from where she stood, the glass walls opaque with condensation. While she waited for class to let out, Hermione contemplated the new information garnered from Snape.

One, Voldemort allegedly valued power over blood purity. Two, Lucius and Narcissa would most likely not survive the death of their son. Three, that Snape himself thought it possible that Malfoy had it in him to step down from his illustrious title (of most hateful sod in Wizarding Britain). 

The first tidbit might be persuasive to Malfoy, but it wouldn’t be possible to try and disclose his and his parents’ imminent deaths in order to help him abdicate his position (of most hateful sod in Wizarding Britain). However, thinking back to Snape’s pained admission about a slain past love, Hermione devised a new strategy for her mission. And it wasn’t going to be easy—in fact, it might just be the hardest thing she’d ever do. 

She was going to be kind to Malfoy. No matter how nasty he got, no matter how pompous he acted… Hermione would acknowledge the pressure he was under and do her best to relieve it. 

She nearly gagged thinking about it. 

A stream of students poured from the humid greenhouses at that moment, red and green scarves wrapped around necks and ears against the cold. Hermione patiently waited for her past self, Harry, and Ron to turn up the path back to the castle, then scanned for Malfoy’s blond head. 

He was one of the last to exit the greenhouse, languidly walking along as if the snow didn’t affect him at all, while his Herbology partner Theo Nott stopped every few meters to melt the packed snow off of his boots. 

They were headed away from Hermione. She couldn’t yell his name this time, or too many others would see her and worse, start asking questions. Malfoy, who’s that gnarled-looking witch calling your name from the Forbidden Forest?

“Malfoy—” She whisper-yelled to herself anyway, weakly raising a hand halfway as if he could somehow hear her. 

She certainly couldn’t just walk up to him, even if she was wearing a Hogwarts uniform—the other Slytherins would immediately realise she wasn’t one of them. The class block was made up of Gryffindors and Slytherins, so maybe a student from another house might be stranger enough to go unnoticed? If it wasn’t too odd that Malfoy was speaking to a Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, that was.

What was the blasted spell Malfoy had used on her clothes last time?

“Multicorfors,” Hermione incanted to her tie, waving her hand at it in an approximation of the movement he’d done. Of all the stupid spells to wish she’d learned, this frivolous ninny had been a favourite of Lavender and Parvati’s when discussing what to wear on a potential Hogsmeade date, and Hermione had not paid attention on principle. 

“Multicorfors! ” The tie remained stubbornly green and silver. In fact, it started to look even greener than before, somehow. 

She huffed in frustration and rubbed her hands together, trying to use the warmth in her palm as actual warmth for a moment, instead of magic. 

Finally, on the fifth or sixth try, the tie transformed into a passable Ravenclaw-coloured version, if not a little more teal than blue. 

“Ha!” She exclaimed, feeling not at all silly for draining most of her internal well on the colour of a tie. Glancing back out of the forest, the group of students was nowhere to be found, and the Hogwarts grounds were back to the quiet stillness of winter. 

The crunch of snow sounded from behind her, and Hermione whirled around with a hand raised and ready to cast an actual useful spell, if she could muster anything.

Her heart leapt to her throat as a beam of light sliced through a few snow-laden branches and they tumbled to the ground in a great shower of white. Drawing from her well as much as she could, her palm burned brighter, ready to strike.

Chapter Text

“What are you doing here? You nearly frightened me to death!” Hermione shrieked, wishing that she hadn’t just made a decision to be kind to Malfoy just now, otherwise she’d pick up a chunk of snow and throw it at his smug face. 

“I could ask you the same thing. You do seem to enjoy showing up uninvited,” Malfoy drawled, appearing unaffected and uninterested, as if he was already slicing through the Forbidden Forest for some other reason and happened to run into Hermione by accident. 

“How’d you even find me? I mean, I’m here to speak with you, so it’s appreciated, but I just got here and hadn’t even…” 

She trailed off as Malfoy eyed her chest. 

He broke into a sly grin. “That looks wrong. Multicorfors.” 

The blasted tie was back to a gleaming green. 

Hermione groaned. “Fine; the Slytherin tie stays if you at least give me a scarf while you’re at it. I’m freezing!” 

“You’re the one who keeps showing up and demanding to speak to me in the bloody cold,” Malfoy retorted. He was unwinding his own scarf and handing it to her. “Fine. Here.”

She had definitely meant for him to transfigure a scarf for her, but now realised she should probably stick with coming off as an expert on wandless magic who never got drained just from changing the colour of a bloody tie. Hermione placed the thick woollen scarf around her neck as Malfoy cast a warming charm. They both helped immensely.

The scarf smelled vaguely cedary, not at all like the hair gel or cigarettes or something equally revolting she assumed all Malfoy’s possessions smelled like. Though, he didn’t seem to be slicking his hair back as severely any more. 

“How did you find me? How did you even know I was here?” Hermione repeated.

“I walked out of class and… just had a feeling, I suppose.” He was suddenly very interested in looking at the wych elm next to her. “Told Theo I left my gloves in the greenhouse and found you with Homenum Revelio.”

They looked at each other without saying anything for several moments. He seemed to be waiting for her to start her usual tirade. 

“Well, um…” Hermione started helpfully, swallowing a lump in her throat. “I guess I just wanted to start by saying thank you for sharing—well, sharing what you did last time we spoke. It’s a challenge to be forthcoming like that a lot of the time. And… I just wanted to acknowledge that you’re under a lot of pressure, and it must be very difficult.” 

It was her turn to look at some point in the distance while Malfoy stared at her incredulously.

“Are you feeling alright? Something’s wrong—you’re not spitting fire from the first moment you see me today.”

It was that obvious, then. 

“You just gave me a lot to think about last time, is all.” Malfoy regarded her with a sort of open curiosity but only inclined his head in response. She felt herself blush despite the chill. 

“I was hoping you could tell me about your family’s past with Voldemort. Your father was involved in the First Wizarding War, correct?” Hermione asked, hoping he’d tell her something she didn’t already know.

Instead of answering the question, he replied, “You know, ‘first’ usually implies there’s a second one afterwards. Is that correct?” 

So he’d get one tidbit of information from her. What was the harm in one tidbit? She raised her chin and fought not to look away again. “It will be. The second hasn’t started yet. It won’t start until you kill Dumbledore. And if you don’t, I’m sure it will go on anyway. The start of it seems unavoidable, unfortunately. I’m here to try and fix the ending.” 

Malfoy nodded and began pacing as he normally did, hands stuffed into his robes. His cheeks were pink from the cold, but it suited him.

Merlin, after she finished saving his sodding life she’d have to go to a Mind Healer for that thought alone.

“My father was a great asset to Voldemort in the war, as I’m told. Nothing surprising for the head of such a pure lineage, to be sure.”

The blood purity rears its ugly head, she thought, Damn his rosy cheeks to hell.

He continued: “However, I managed to get quite a few improper conversations in with several family portraits at Malfoy Manor last summer, and beyond my deranged grandfather Abraxas Malfoy, the rest of the lineage seem perfectly content marrying their first-born sons to half-blood witches of any kind, as long as they come from money.”

Hermione was nearly speechless at such a casually-dropped admonition of his own revered ancestors, the same cause that had Malfoy tormenting her for years. She found her voice finally, and tried to make it behave normally: “And your mother? The Blacks have had a documented hatred of Muggles for centuries.” 

“She’d be content to gossip about Muggleborns over tea and make snide comments. She never took the Mark.” He recast the warming charm over the both of them and continued pacing while Hermione stood daftly in the snow.

He stopped to look at her, evidently expecting a reply. When she spoke, it was nearly a whisper.

“And you?”

Malfoy barked a laugh and shook his head. “We’ve been over this. I’m fucked either way.”

“What if you had a chance though? To change your mind?” 

“I’m dead, that’s what. My parents, too.”

She crossed her arms. “Humour me. If you could get out now, and… I don’t know, go into hiding and survive the war…?”

“And go against everything my parents taught me to believe?” He asked brusquely, turning in place to face her. But he didn’t look as angry as he sounded, he looked… scared.

Hermione only nodded, half-afraid of what he was about to say.

“I’d… have a lot of apologies to write. Probably run out of quills. Father would go ballistic. I’d likely be facing disownment from him. Mother…” He stopped to consider thoughtfully. “If I survived the war, and survived everything Voldemort will do to me if I refuse to kill Dumbledore… I think she would just want me to be happy. She’d do anything to keep our family together.” 

That sounded nothing like the Narcissa Hermione had encountered before, but she supposed Malfoy knew his own mother better than she did. 

“Does your father know that Voldemort himself is a half-blood? His father was a Muggle.”

Malfoy shook his head, mouth in a thin line and face unreadable. 

“He’d wipe out magical blood families if they didn’t comply. Does that sound like someone who prioritises blood purity?” She took a few tentative steps towards him, as if they were emphasising her point. 

Furrowing his brow in some strong emotion (Hermione couldn’t tell which), he laughed bitterly. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It’s not meant to make you feel one way or the other. It’s meant to emphasise the point that Voldemort is only after power. He doesn’t value blood purity—it’s just a convenient divide to exploit.” She let out a breath and stepped back. Be kind. Be understanding. It was only getting harder!

“Then my father’s bias was taken advantage of in pursuit of another’s power. He’ll be furious to know,” Malfoy mused sourly. 

Hermione ventured further, “Would you stick to Voldemort’s side if he was pureblood?” 

He answered after the barest of pauses. “Not after what he’s done to me. What he’s threatened to do.” His hand absently touched his left arm over the sleeve of his robe and she wondered if Malfoy had taken the Mark willingly or was held down to receive it. It didn’t seem like the type of magic that could be forced—one likely had to pledge their allegiance to Voldemort as part of the ritual. He must have gotten it not more than six months ago, yet he was already lamenting the oath?

Perhaps Malfoy also lost a loved one or someone important to him, like Snape had. They certainly spoke equally morosely. Or maybe someone’s life was threatened if Malfoy didn’t comply? He had been awfully vague about what the punishment would be. Besides the Cruciatius, of course. That was a given. 

“Did you attempt the cursed necklace plan? I haven’t heard anything about… Parkinson,” Hermione went on. Best to get them back on track, instead of whinging about the freedom of flying and other such nonsense.

He rolled his eyes. “No, no necklace. I sold it back to Borgin.”

“What about the Vanishing Cabinet?”

“It’s still broken. Bloody thing is imbued with so many mistranslated runes and half-cast spells… It's been a real pain in the arse. And I like runes,” Malfoy sighed and rubbed his forehead, glancing down at Hermione from behind his hand.

“And… are there any other plans you have in the works?” she asked tentatively.

“No. Alright? No, I don’t have any other ideas. Is that what you want to hear?” he shot back, agitated. 

“Malfoy…” Hermione started, and he let out a groan as he twisted to the side, apparently uneasy about what might come next. “By your own account, you don’t have any plans to kill Dumbledore, your own mother wouldn’t disown you, and you’ve investigated your ancestor’s alleged blood supremacy ideals… I don’t think you’ve made a very good Death Eater.”

His nostrils flared but he didn’t reply nor look at her. 

She lowered her voice, took a half step closer to his rigid form, and hoped to some higher power that she’d survive the following sentence: “In fact, I don’t think you want to be a Death Eater at all.” 

Malfoy closed his eyes for a moment before turning to pin her in an intense stare. “You know I can’t just go around saying that. I’ve never even been allowed to think it.”

Not with a Dark Mark you can’t, thought Hermione. He’d probably be lumped in with the Death Eaters because of it for the rest of his life, unless someone could find a way to get it off. 

“You don’t have to do that. Not yet. Just don’t kill Dumbledore,” she practically begged. 

He graced her with an immensely pathetic look at the mention of that mission. “You seem awfully eager to volunteer me for guaranteed punishment, the likes of which, might I remind you, I have not even disclosed.”

“Okay, fine. We’re not there yet. Forget the mission for a moment.” Her mind whirled. This was closer than they’d ever gotten before. “Colluding with Voldemort poses a clear and present danger to your life. That’s our starting point. Might I remind you of the highly dangerous and likely fatal tool procurement mission?”

“No need.”

“It’s mortally perilous to work for Voldemort, that much is obvious. But do you believe in his movement?” The question had simply slipped out of her mouth on its own; she hadn’t actually meant to directly address his beliefs on blood purity. But it hung in the silent, cold air between them, and she couldn’t take it back.

He blinked at her. “The movement to put him in power no matter who has to die for it?” 

She felt bolder now. “No. That Muggleborns and lesser-thans should be rounded up and exterminated.”

“Oh. That movement.” He looked back at the Hogwarts grounds and twisted his mouth guiltily. 

Hermione’s heart jumped to her throat again. How foolish to actually believe Malfoy might have changed his mind on blood supremacy. After all those years of vile threats and comments, why had she felt a tiny spark of hope that anything was different now?

“Well… there’s a clear and present danger from Muggles, also,” he finally answered. 

She sighed heavily. “And what danger is that, Malfoy?”

“You know, the witch burning.” He looked at her as if she was an idiot. 

The urge to slap him had returned with a vengeance. She gracefully refrained and focused again on kindness, no matter how much it vexed her.

“The witch burning ended almost three hundred years ago. No Muggle in today’s age would be a remote threat to you, I promise.”

His eyebrows drew together and he stared at his hands, seeming to turn over that thought in his head quite fervently. 

With a quick glance at her, he only asked, “You’re sure?”

Incredibly, Malfoy seemed to be looking to her to try and understand the truth instead of just spouting pureblood nonsense. What’s more, he seemed to be taking everything Hermione said into consideration instead of immediately dismissing it. Had that all been to her influence? Or had something else happened to him that caused him to act so differently?

She briefly wondered if he’d act as such had he known her real identity. More likely, he’d probably immediately undermine her and call her a slur to boot.

“I am refraining from making a rude comment on your ignorance, but yes, I’m sure,” Hermione finally replied, crossing her arms and pinching herself in order to do so. 

Malfoy sneered. “Well pardon my ignorance, Miss Supreme Mugwump. You really think I’d take Muggle Studies?”

Hermione did not dignify that apparent regression with a response.

As if realising what he’d just said, he ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “Fuck. I’d make a shite Order member. I don’t know if I can do this.”

“No one is asking you to join the Order. You’re nowhere near ready for that, anyway. But maybe you should read a Muggle Studies textbook. Information is power, you know.” She was getting more acerbic by the second. 

“Not sure I’ll be rearranging my class schedule this late in the year. You’ll have to lord your O in Muggle Studies over someone else, I’m afraid.” Malfoy had clearly picked up on her change in tone and was responding in kind, narrowing his eyes and returning to a scowl.

Hermione never completed Muggle Studies. She’d never needed to. Malfoy’s default was still to assume she’d known she was magical her whole life—that she wasn’t Muggleborn.

“See you next time, Malfoy.” Hermione left his sight and returned to the present before she let her emotions get the best of her.

Chapter Text

Hermione had nearly mastered the conjuration of a glimmering letter H that hung in the air for a few seconds before vanishing in a wisp of smoke after the last three days spent in the dungeon. She could feel her magical well getting… well, deeper (to continue the metaphor, she supposed) with each new day that she practised wandless magic. It still left her fatigued after too long, but seeing this new type of magic finally materialise in physical, observable conjurations was intoxicating. 

Despite that advancement, she still reached for a nonexistent wand each morning as she awoke in the dark room, and her hand still twitched to find some method of channelling her spells once she worked herself too hard. Even so, the full Hermione might be spelled out by the time Malfoy might be convinced not to carry out his mission. 

The burn salve was only getting delivered every other day now. From touch, Hermione’s large scar felt pretty well healed. At least, the skin had healed over and there was no scabbing left; she was sure it was still an obvious marking on her right side, and the whole of it was raised in odd feeling lumps. She was glad there was no mirror in her cell. 

As if on cue, just as Hermione was musing about burn healing times vs. how long it took to organise one measly little public execution, Snape joined her in the desolate dungeon at a slightly faster-paced clip than usual. 

“What’s gotten you in a tizzy?” she barely managed to jab before he rounded on her with his wand out in such an intense manner that she expected yet another Cruciatus Curse to come out.

“On the cot, Miss Granger.” When she only looked at him in confusion, Snape continued, “For the Trance.” 

“I figured that much. What’s got you so bent out of shape?” Hermione queried, moving nonetheless to the uncomfortable bed. 

“I’ve just gotten word that legislation passed this morning to start the process of your upcoming execution. It won’t be long now. We don’t have much time left—maybe a matter of weeks.” There was a rare lilt of actual emotion in Snape’s usually lifeless voice; at least, an emotion that wasn’t disgust.

“What legislation? He’s going through the Ministry?” She knew the Ministry had fallen to Voldemort’s influence but didn’t expect his New Domain to keep it around, much less enact its brutality through that avenue. 

“The Mudblood Invalidation, Nullification of Generations, & Eradication Act. Don’t request the details; I’m not privy to them yet.”

“...Pity about the odd acronym.” 

Snape’s mouth tightened to a thin line the way it used to when a rude drawing had found its way to his chalkboard in Potions, but only said, “Lay down, Miss Granger, or I shall cast the Trance and will not be held liable for what happens to your head.” 

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Hermione materialised in the Hogwarts dungeons in 1997, albeit not quite in the deepest depths that her present (future?) self was confined to, but in a secluded alcove off the Potions corridor. It was evident that a Potions class had just let out, but her past self was nowhere to be seen. Instead it had been a shared class of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and the group shuffled towards the stairs out of the dungeons, tittering about Slughorn’s Christmas party. 

Odd. She’d normally travelled back to a place near her past self, and was accustomed to searching for that Hermione in order to avoid her as much as possible. It wasn’t hard; the barely-tamed tangle of brown curls was simultaneously easy to spot and easy to recoil away from in bitter envy. Hermione still missed her longer hair dearly. 

She was trying to make sense of the difference in Hermione Time Travel Proximity when the alcove was rudely intruded upon. 

Malfoy rushed around the corner and flattened himself against the wall, not noticing her as he peered back around and down the hallway. He was slightly out of breath. 

“Who are you hiding from?” she asked, putting up a halfway decent Disillusionment charm herself, though it took considerable effort. 

“Merlin, witch, you scared me!” he scolded, patting his robes back into place from his escapade. “How did you sneak up on me like that?”

She scoffed. “I was already here, you just didn’t notice.”

“Do you normally just hang around in private snogging niches waiting for me?” Malfoy waggled his eyebrows at her, then seemed to reconsider and went back to looking for whomever he was hiding from through the rippling boundary. 

Hermione crossed her arms at him even though he was not even looking. “This is not a snogging niche and I was not waiting for you.” It was and she had been. But not for that! “And anyway, who are you hiding from?”

“Daphne Greengrass keeps insinuating we’d be the perfect pureblooded power couple,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I got the sense she was about to ask me to Slughorn’s Christmas party, so I found an exit from the conversation.” 

That was so completely not what Hermione had been expecting in any sense. The apparent mundanity of normal life at Hogwarts—parties, crushes, and chatter—had her craving the past even more. A twinge of jealousy sparked in her stomach; of who or what she could not tell. She stupidly replied, “I thought you wanted to go to the Christmas party.” 

Malfoy gave her a quizzical look. “When have we ever discussed my going or not going to any party, Gray?” Hermione’s cheeks coloured as he caught her in yet another mistake. “Don’t tell me you now prefer idle schoolgirl gossip over your typical conspiracies about the war and the future and life or death situations?” 

What she’d give to tell him about the MINGE Act—what a conspiracy that would sound like. Instead, she focused on what she knew about this particular day from the last time she’d lived it. “Fine. Snape is going to offer you help with your mission. Don’t take it. And don’t tell him about me, whatever you do. Just… make something up if you have to.”

“Should I refuse his help as if I don’t want to carry out the mission or as if I do?” Malfoy had given up looking through the Disillusionment charm and was turned back to her, an oddly open and honest expression gracing his pale face. 

Hermione suddenly had a hard time keeping eye contact. Without his signature disgusted sneer or smug smirk, he almost looked… handsome. Coupled with the fact that he seemed to be genuinely asking for—and most likely abiding—her guidance was so uncharacteristic she almost wanted to demand he answer a question to prove he was really Malfoy. 

“Whatever you decide to do, it would probably be prudent to act like you want to go through with it to Snape,” she finally replied. Time was a fickle thing. Best not to change too much, even if Snape had turned out to be somewhat trustworthy. 

“Do you want to carry out the mission?” she continued tentatively, not sure if she should be afraid of the answer or not.

“I’m still considering my options.” His cheeks coloured as if he was ashamed to admit it. “The consequences for both routes are… compelling, to say the least.” 

She thought back to their last meeting: ‘Well… there’s a clear and present danger from Muggles, also.’ He was such an ignorant prat.

Understanding and kindness, Hermione, understanding and kindness. 

Malfoy probably hadn’t picked up a Muggle Studies textbook at all like she’d recommended. He most likely avoided that section of the library like the plague. Surely any pureblood heir would want to keep up literary appearances to his Slytherin friends. 

Then again, the Hogwarts library had only the barest of texts on Muggle Studies. The ones assigned for her brief stint in the course had covered the basics, sure, but were woefully out of date; they’d only just begun covering the invention of the telephone at the time of publication. She’d had much better luck at Flourish & Blotts with a title picked for personal study… 

Hermione stepped forward, grabbing at Malfoy’s arm. He jerked back, surprised at the sudden movement, but she didn’t let go. “You can apparate, right? I have an idea.” 

“Not from within Hogwarts,” he answered, using his other hand to delicately remove hers from his arm. “Can you not apparate?”

“I can, but one needs a wand, obviously,” she said, mind moving faster. It was December 20, before the end of classes, yes, they’d probably have time… “We can apparate from Hogsmeade, I know a passageway.”

Hermione removed the Disillusionment charm from the alcove and hurried up the stairs, tugging Malfoy along behind her and ignoring his protests: “I’m not going anywhere with you until you explain how in Merlin’s name you even get here without apparition! Do you have a personal Floo connection with Dumbledore or something?!” 

“Never mind that!” She didn’t even bother coming up with an excuse this time; too busy working through the steps to get where she wanted to go relative to what time she was in. 

Malfoy finally began striding quickly beside her but strangely didn’t let go of her hand—until a group of Slytherins appeared on the other side of a corner they were rounding. 

“Ha!” Theo Nott stood straight up and pointed rudely at Malfoy, who immediately stepped in front of Hermione, shielding her from the group’s view. 

“I knew it! You’re acting all strange because you’re messing around with some bird!” Theo continued, trying to peer around Malfoy’s body. The rest followed suit, a cacophony of Slytherin laughter piercing her for an entirely different reason than Hermione was used to. 

Crabbe and Goyle seemed to be in attendance as well, as she could hear them both making obscene kissing noises and oohing and aahing in falsetto. 

“Ooh, Draco, you’re soooo good at Quidditch…” 

“Draco, tell me again how much gold you’ll receive in your inheritance! Mmm, and what kind of gems and jeweller—” 

“You all are completely insufferable,” Malfoy interrupted evenly, steering Hermione deftly towards the staircase they had been headed towards. “Pedenax.” 

They hurried up the steps and she could still hear the disappointed shouts of her former (current?) schoolmates as Malfoy walked close at her shoulder until they had rounded another corner. 

“I’m sorry about that, Gray.” He spoke first once they had reached the next floor, but kept staring straight ahead. “I don’t think anyone got a good look at you.”

Hermione finally exhaled a breath she forgot she was holding. “Thank you,” she only replied. Malfoy couldn’t realise the true reason she was grateful. One of them might have recognized her, so it was lucky he had the wherewithal to try and hide her visage.

“That Sticky Footed Hex will keep the lot there for the next hour at least.” Malfoy still refused to look at her, but kept pace as she led them to the statue of the one-eyed witch. “Are you going to inform me where it is we’re going?”

“No. If I did, you might refuse to go,” she replied, finally seeing the statue. 

Malfoy stopped walking immediately, and in doing so Hermione’s arm was wrenched backwards. How had they clasped bloody hands again at some point without her noticing?

“Malfoy!” she chided, glancing about to see if they were in view of any other students ready to make far-fetched assumptions about two teenagers simply holding hands, as if that really meant anything? 

His smirk was back, the bastard. “I’m not taking another step until you tell me where we’re going.”

“That’s very unadventurous of you,” Hermione tried, with no luck. 

“Fuck adventure, I’m no Gryffindor. Tell me where we’re going, or there’s another Sticky Footed Hex incoming, and it’ll be self-inflicted.” Malfoy hadn’t let go of her, and in fact pulled her closer than before, as he spoke lower: “Do you want me to trust you or not, witch?” 

Hermione hadn’t quite figured out her answer to that question yet. She avoided his direct gaze and instead fixed her eyes on the snowy window just to the right of Malfoy’s head as she answered, “We’re going to my house.”

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After attempting to describe the street her parents lived on in enough detail for Malfoy to apparate, then relaying the address and trying to convey the general location of it within greater London, Hermione finally had to snatch his wand and apparate them from the Honeydukes’ cellar herself. 

“You could have asked!” Malfoy’s voice was warbled and warped as they were both stretched thin by the apparition and unceremoniously deposited on the sidewalk in front of Hermione’s childhood home. 

He brushed off his robes before slowly turning, taking in the surroundings with an unchanging expression. Hermione held her breath and waited for the impending outrage at having brought him to an obviously Muggle community. When he finally faced her again, he was at first still unreadable—until his face cracked into an impressed smile. 

“Apparating in broad daylight to the middle of a Muggle street? What, has the Statute of Secrecy been overturned and I’m just now hearing about it?” 

Oops. Hermione had grown used to the Turnback Trance placing her in a convenient alcove or stairwell, away from prying eyes. Glancing around, the street was mercifully devoid of passersby, and most of the inhabitants were probably at work. Her parents definitely were. 

Her parents. She’d not thought the plan through this far. Of course, she wouldn’t be intruding while they were at home, but there was no telling what the house itself would bring up for her. Hermione felt the characteristic hotness of incoming tears begin to flush her face, but fought them off. 

The house looked the same as it always had. Brick, two storeys, unruly front garden giving way to a much neater path to the front door. Her father’s hedge trimmers were leaned up against the wrought-iron fence encasing the garden. Their neon yellow handles were the brightest thing on the block—but the pop of colour didn’t stand a chance against the heavy grey sky that threatened to unleash a December downpour at any moment. 

“You must have known I’d never be able to resist finally getting a look into you, after months of my personal life being mysteriously on display. Shame on me—I actually believed we were going to visit your place,” Malfoy teased. 

He had the nerve to look disappointed, while Hermione at once felt nauseous. Time is a fickle thing, Snape’s voice echoed in her head, and here she’d gone and brought Malfoy to her parents’ house as if bringing him home for dinner! Merlin, how had she been so careless? 

Apparently unperturbed by being the only one to speak in the last minute, Malfoy continued, “Clearly a lie, thinking back on it. Maybe you have some Slytherin in you yet, Gray.” 

She rounded on him. “This is my place, you stinking idiot.” Kindness, understanding! cautioned a distant recess of her mind. Malfoy’s smirk went nowhere, and his expression appeared as if people called him much worse on the daily. “I find that enchanting it with the appearance of a Muggle house to be the most securely protected. If that is sufficient to satisfy your protestations, stay here, and I’ll be right back.”

Hermione made to walk towards the garden gate, but Malfoy stepped in front to block her way. “Stay here? And miss all the fun? No, no, I’m coming in.”

“No, you’re staying. I’m not rekeying the wards just to have you poke around my belongings.” Plus, it was most certainly a Muggle household on the inside as well as the outside, and nowhere near being anything close to the residence of Cordelia Gray. And anyway, even if she did rekey the wards, which she certainly wasn’t about to do, the other Hermione would be alerted and that was a paradoxical mess this Hermione didn’t wish to uncover. 

She pushed past him, as if keeping this visit under ten minutes might minimise the potential time travel related ripple effects, but he deftly slipped his own wand out of her hand before she managed to open the gate: “I’ll take this back now.”

“I need it. Sorry, but I won’t be able to duplicate the books without a wand…” And before Hermione was able to delve into the specifics of conjuring a copied book, the fact that the outside would look perfect but the pages blank, or worse, full of gibberish, thus one really needed to concentrate—Malfoy cocked his head to the side and let out a slight chuckle.

“You brought me all the way here to… copy a few books?” he asked incredulously. 

“I needed you to help me apparate. Or, your wand, at least, and for the duplication spell as well…” That made it sound worse. 

“Oh, I see.” He was getting sour. “You brought my wand all the way here to copy a few books. My mistake.” 

“Malfoy, I didn’t mean it like—”

“Your mistake, however, was believing I’d be left alone without it for even a second in a Muggle neighbourhood.” He deposited it in his robes without another word and turned to lean upon the fence with arms crossed, observing the empty street. 

“That’s not what I meant, Malfoy,” Hermione protested quietly. “I brought you here to copy a few books for you.”

He shifted his gaze to meet hers then, his eyes the exact colour of the gloomy sky bearing down on them. 

“I’ll only be a minute with your wand, I promise. And you’ll be perfectly safe here—no witch trials.” She didn’t look away this time, instead allowing herself, for one little moment, the pleasure of taking in his sharply hewn cheekbones and their perfectly pink tinge from the chilly air. 

“Fine; you win,” Malfoy finally replied, rolling his eyes and pressing the hawthorn wand into her hand. “But make it quick.”

The task was henceforth made quick. Hermione ran up the stairs to her bedroom, trying not to take in too much of the interior of a house she thought she’d never see again. It was filled with mementos of daily life; things that once seemed mundane became painful reminders of two loving parents who now had no idea who she was. The mail on the kitchen counter, the old Guinness ashtray filled with loose change, the newspaper unfolded to a half-finished crossword puzzle.

Even the smell of the place was achingly familiar and forlorn, and before long she found silent tears flowing down her cheeks as she performed the duplication spells. 

With another scurry through the entryway of the house, Hermione stood in the front garden, still within the confines of the protective wards that prevented anyone magical (beyond herself, Harry, and Ron) from seeing in. Malfoy could see the house, of course, but no human activity—just one of the protective enchantments she’d placed on the property the moment she could. She paused for a moment to take several deep breaths and Scourgify her tear-tracked face. With a start, she remembered the Incantorium in her robes and quickly used Malfoy’s wand to cast a Patronus inside, just in case. 

The sound of Malfoy’s laughter (at least a previously unheard of, non-mocking variant) drew her closer to the front gate. At first, she assumed the Sticky Foot Hex had worn off on the Slytherins from earlier and Malfoy was making it clear he hadn’t really been in a sordid tryst with Hermione, or Cordelia, or whoever she was, but clearly that was impossible as they wouldn’t have been able to follow them to a Muggle suburb. 

No, instead, a giant schnauzer was licking Malfoy’s face as he knelt to pet it, while its shorter-than-average owner was making polite conversation with the formerly most hateful sod in Wizarding Britain. 

“Estelle and I have never run into you on our walks before, are you visiting?”

“Yes, from Wiltshire.”

“Ah, and what’s brought you to Hampstead Garden?”

“Just visiting a friend.” 

“Lovely—down, Estelle, you have better manners than that—have a grand day!”

She waited another moment for Estelle and her owner to turn a corner, lest he be some forgotten neighbour of her parents who would immediately burst into saying ‘Hermione! I didn’t know you were home for the Christmas holidays yet!’ and ruin the whole operation. Once they were sufficiently out of sight, she exited the wards and offered Malfoy’s wand and the stack of books to him. 

“Five books? You know I have classes until June, don’t you?” But he took them nonetheless. 

“I thought you could use some extracurricular reading, of course,” she replied, omitting that this, too, might be a factor in saving his life. “They’re mostly Muggle—don’t give me that look, you need a crash course, badly—and fictional. I thought you could start with Pride and Prejudice—”

“A little on the nose—” 

“—since it was written before most modern Muggle technology and might get you accustomed easier, then The Outsiders, then Charlotte’s Web, and if you need to look anything up, I’ve also brought you Oxford’s Dictionary and The Pocket Guide to Muggles for cross referencing the Muggle and magical information. The Pocket Guide is much more up to date than anything in the Hogwarts library, I assure you, so it would be good reading on its own as well,” she finished in a huff, ready for any response from him; outrage to disgust to annoyance. 

Malfoy stared at her with an unreadable expression, but it seemed to be bordering on some kind of contentedness. “Gray, I hope you realise there is no pocket on Morgana’s green Earth big enough to fit The Pocket Guide to Muggles.”

Chapter Text

After an uneventful few days wasting away in the dungeons, contrary to the incoming force Snape had implied, what with the passing of the MINGE Act and all, Hermione once again attempted to cast the Turnback Trance on herself. 

Unlike the first and previous attempt, this time she held a clear memory of Malfoy in her head, as if cradling the thought close to her soul. It had been an afternoon of Gryffindor and Slytherin double potions in February 1997, a bleak setting at the best of times, and Hermione had witnessed Malfoy sullenly stirring his Dreamless Sleep with such jerky force, and in the wrong direction besides, that it turned a dark, murky charcoal instead of a shimmering purple. 

All round, it was an innocuous memory, and one that she was surprised had lingered this long considering its mundanity. Nevertheless, she concentrated on that particular moment in time and willed herself to be placed there as she murmured the incantation. The blue glow and sharp burn of the spell seemed consistent with what she had grown used to thus far, and beyond a slight delay in feeling it all subside, the spell seemed to have been cast correctly. 

At least, it would have been if she’d found herself nearby that same double potions block, inhaling the musky fumes of the class’ various Dreamless Sleep Draughts, yet Hermione opened her eyes to a completely different part of the castle. The flagstoned hallways were darkened by an inky night sky slipping through the windows, and, although no one was around, each door and archway was cheerfully decorated with twinkling pink and red streamers. Tiny glittering hearts gently drifted downwards from each bundle of decorations, disappearing midway to the floor, and she stood in front of one such doorway. 

Of course. The afternoon in question had been Valentine’s Day, no matter how hard the Hermione of before tried to ignore it. Pansy Parkinson had gleefully suggested they brew Amortentia in honour of the holiday, which Slughorn had outright denied with a declaration so resolute it gave the impression that he was avoiding responsibility for any potential teenage infatuation. 

With that in mind, she had travelled to the correct day—if it was indeed 1997. Hermione took a deep breath, and decided that she felt perfectly normal (as normal as the situation allowed, at least) and that it was much more likely that the Turnback Trance would deposit her into time simply a few hours and floors off, rather than on the correct day in the wrong year. 

She opened the door in front of her and found her hypothesis to be correct. Malfoy—the one from 1997, if she went by how charmingly (eugh) his hair was falling into his eyes—was alone in the classroom, leaning on a desk and sullenly arranging glowing symbols through the air in front of him. They weren’t runes, rather a few triangles, an X, and some other simple shapes and letters. 

Malfoy hadn’t noticed her yet. He let out a soft groan of frustration and vanished the symbols, before shaking his head and conjuring them again, lined up in a row, and continued moving them around with a flick of his wand at quick, steady intervals. 

Oh, Merlin. He was plotting. Malfoy was planning again. He was planning his next strategy for assassinating the greatest wizard of their time, and everything she’d done to prevent it so far had been for naught. Against her will, Hermione felt tears prick at her eyes—damn him, the sodding bastard—and she heard her own voice before she even knew she was speaking. 

“Malfoy!” He jumped at the shout of his name, vanishing the symbols once more. “I can’t believe you! After all I’ve done, you’re still—” It was at this point Hermione realised the volume at which she was speaking, and the words tumbling out of her mouth were immediately stoppered, choosing instead to trill forth at nonsensical intervals. 

“You’re still… You’re planning it, aren’t you? Mal—Malfoy, it’s a death sentence, I swear—” He strode towards her and clasped both her shoulders in his hands, speaking himself, but she could barely hear him over the pounding thoughts in her own head, Time is a fickle thing. Time is a fickle thing. Perhaps he’d always be fated to kill Dumbledore and her efforts would continually go to waste and she’d end up imprisoned yet again all to get execu—

“It’s not that!” Malfoy finally managed to get through to her. “It’s not that, Gray. It’s only Quidditch strategies.” 

“Is it? You’re not even on the team this year!” Hermione shot back, in need of further convincing.

“Harper came down with Black Cat Flu and I told the team I’d join back up.” He hadn’t let go of her shoulders, and in fact squeezed them as if to enunciate his next statement. “I’m a little more available now that I don’t have to spend all my time trying to fix that Vanishing Cabinet.” 

She met his eyes, her tears mercifully unfallen (how silly would she have looked if she’d burst into tears over a simple Quidditch move?) and Malfoy had the nerve to look concerned for her. “They wanted six new ideas to make up for my absence this year. I’m not planning anything else, I swear.”

“Alright… I believe you,” Hermione replied quietly. And surprisingly, she did. 

I’m a little more available now that I don’t have to spend all my time trying to fix that Vanishing Cabinet.

She let out a shaky exhale as Malfoy awkwardly dropped his hands from her shoulders and pressed his mouth into a thin line, still studying her. 

“I suppose I’m relieved, really,” Hermione intoned, looking at the floor. “That cabinet is a death sentence. You could get yourself killed.” Technically, it would be the events that followed that would kill him, but she was still unsure about sharing the full truth of that little detail. 

“I’m relieved as well,” Malfoy agreed, stepping back to the desk and picking up his wand again. “It’s… nice to be back on the team.” She hadn’t expected anything else from someone who once described flying as freedom, no matter how much she disagreed with that particular sentiment. 

However… with Malfoy back on his broom with the Slytherin Quidditch team, Hermione couldn’t help but worry over just another change to the timeline. Who knew what potential time-related ramifications that drastic change to his schedule could produce. Time… well, time was a bloody fickle thing.

With her outburst quelled, Malfoy had returned to strategizing on potential plays for the upcoming match. The glowing symbols rearranged themselves deftly through the air, occasionally colliding and cycling through several colours as they did. What the colours represented, Hermione had no idea. An X flew alongside a square before crashing into it, and they both turned red at the impact. Perhaps it was the player’s predicted reaction? Or denoted an illegal move?

“You’re here at the perfect time, Gray,” he said, oblivious to the capriciousness of time. “You’ve got to help me predict the efficacy of these ideas. Urquhart will froth at the mouth if I tell him I figured out how well they’d work with the help of a Seer. I know, I know, you’re not a Seer—a… future-oriented person, I suppose. He doesn’t have to know that, though.” 

That was not how this worked in any sense, and he should have known that by now. Hermione specifically remembered telling Malfoy that he couldn’t just ask any question he wanted, possibly on multiple occasions. Nevertheless, she situated herself against the blackboard across from him and let him continue. It was purely out of understanding and kindness, and not at all due to the genuine smile and fire suddenly lit in Malfoy’s pale eyes as he jumped into describing each action.

“This one,” the shapes arranged themselves into a new formation at his command, “is a variation on the Wronski Feint, which I’m sure you’re familiar with—don’t know a soul who isn’t—but with the Chasers instead of the Seeker. Vaisey and Urquhart will be passing the Quaffle back and forth on their way to the goalposts and accidentally-on-purpose let it slip, while Brickner is flying below and can swoop down, hopefully getting the Ravenclaw Chasers to follow and crash while Brickner catches it right before the ground and gets it back to the hoops.” 

The symbols performed the actions as he described, with the triangles representing the Chasers, complete with the triangle representing Leah Brickner apparently celebrating her goal at the end with several loops around the goalposts. 

It was difficult to predict how the strategy might end up for many reasons; the least of which being that she knew little of Quidditch beyond the basic player objectives, and the greatest of which being that Hermione could not actually see the future in the manner Malfoy wanted to believe she could. She took her time considering the move, with a great deal of Mmmm-ing, Inner Eye, guide me-ing, and dramatically placing her fingers to her temples, which he laughed heartily at, before simply asking, “What if the other Chasers are too close in their pursuit? Won’t they be able to intercept?”

“It’s a possibility.” Malfoy nodded, giving his wand another wave and having the symbols act out what she’d just suggested. “I suppose it does depend heavily on the other Chasers’ positions. The next one, then–”

The next one consisted of a complex flying formation between the two Beaters and a Chaser, ending with some kind of elaborate pass to the Keeper, that Hermione found difficult to follow even with the live diagram.  

“Erm… My Inner Eye is saying that this strategy is too complicated,” she offered unhelpfully. 

“Well, sod the tactics, can you just tell me if we’ll win the upcoming match? Ravenclaw isn’t our top contender this year, what with their new pair of Beaters mucking up every play they make, but it’d be nice to know,” Malfoy queried.

“What if I say you’ll lose? That wouldn’t be very nice to know,” she retorted, having absolutely no way to tell one way or the other. 

“That’d be even better, just so I can prove you wrong.” He sent a cheeky grin Hermione’s way, but it was gone before she even registered the way it made her stomach flip. 

“What about the match against Hufflepuff in May? Their Keeper is the best they’ve had in years, even I’ll admit.”

“I really don’t have the answers to your Quidditch questions, Malfoy.” Before she had the sense to stop it, a real prediction was finding its way out of her mouth: “All I know about May is when I meet you in the infirmary.”

He stood up from the desk at once. “I’ll be in the infirmary? For what?”

“I don't know,” she lied quickly. Outright saying ‘Harry will hit you with a curse that will make you lose a litre of blood and probably leave you scarred for life,’ seemed a bit dark for the present moment. Hermione felt a twinge of guilt, knowing she could warn him. But she was already meddling so much just to alter the course of one night on the Astronomy tower, and couldn't risk more timeline changes just to save Malfoy from a curse she knew he would survive anyway.

“Probably a nasty accident during the game,” Malfoy replied after a moment, his mouth twisting. He was likely imagining the chocolates and concerned letters he'd receive from mum the second he dismounted his broom a little too hard.

Hermione didn’t respond, internally chiding herself for letting another tidbit slip. 

“You’ll visit me while I’m infirm?” Malfoy questioned, a lilt to his voice that made it obvious a sneering jab was following. “How doting.”

“Don’t get any ideas. I won’t be fawning over you or anything.” Best to clear the air now, even if it meant a few more tidbits might be revealed. If the theory of predestination had any merit… He’d expected her visit, hadn’t he? 

He smirked. “Won’t you? ‘Oh, Malfoy, are you hurt? I told you not to mess with that cabinet!’ I can hear you now, Gray. Don’t make me prove you wrong again.” 

She stood from her spot on the blackboard now too, feeling a spark of internal fire. “Don’t mess with the cabinet, Malfoy. And I’m telling you, don’t expect me to be concerned about whatever will put you in that bed. I’ll be under a Memory Slipping Jinx and won’t remember a thing we’ve talked about.” 

He smiled even wider now. “This just keeps getting better. You’ll be the one in the dark, and I get to lord it over you?”

“Shove it, Malfoy,” Hermione retorted, even as she felt a slight smile on her own face. 

“Only friends and family can visit students in the infirmary. Am I to believe you’ll really go to Pomfrey and tell her you’re a close, personal friend of Draco Malfoy?” He stepped closer, now that the air between them was clear of Quidditch notation. Hermione’s heart beat faster. There was something slightly thrilling about this. It must be the rush of actually divulging information about the future so candidly. Yes, that was the thrilling part. 

She broke out into an outright grin now; she was going to savour this next moment for the rest of her life. “Even worse. I said I was your cousin.” 

Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up and he seemed to search her face, considering her words carefully. “A Malfoy?”

Hermione shook her head. “Black.” 

He nodded sagely. “You won’t even have to come up with a fake name.”

She cocked her head, slightly concerned about the completely unfounded connection made between Cordelia Gray and the general concept of an alias, before he clarified, “The innermost moon of Uranus? You’ll fit right in with the astronomically-minded side of my family.” 

Of course he would give her some stupid space name like that. Nothing less for the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. 

Before Hermione could formulate a response, there was a great commotion at the door. Two vaguely Theo Nott and Pansy Parkinson sounding voices could be heard arguing over which classroom Malfoy might be hiding in, and Malfoy himself immediately and with much noise ushered her into the classroom’s supply closet. 

“Are you out of your—” 

“Shh!” The closet wasn’t more than two feet wide, and Malfoy’s face was dangerously close to hers. He looked down at her, his expression somehow openly genuine and not at all smirky or smarmy. His hands hadn’t moved from Hermione’s shoulders this time, and the cramped space meant they couldn’t without knocking something off the shelves or hitting the door, which hung open by an inch.

“I swear to Saint Germain he said the sixth floor extra Runes classroom.” Pansy’s voice was much too close for comfort now. The two had most definitely entered the sixth floor extra Runes classroom and now stood only a matter of feet from Hermione and Malfoy. 

“I still think that excuse about the Quidditch strategies was a crock of shite. It’s Valentine’s Day, he’s got to be off snogging his mystery bird,” Theo replied, evidently kicking at a desk by the thud that emanated. 

Hermione narrowed her eyes at Malfoy in the near darkness, while he pursed his mouth and made a half shrugging motion, as if going, What do you want me to say?

“Always off somewhere with a convenient excuse,” Pansy seemed to agree. “It’s got to be about that girl who was wearing his scarf.”

She stopped breathing. She felt colossally stupid. She’d been wearing Malfoy’s green striped scarf in the past ever since he’d offhandedly given it to her. Hermione broke the eye contact they’d been holding to look doggedly at Malfoy’s neck, his shoulder, anywhere but his piercing eyes. 

“Homenum Revelio.” The supply closet instantly filled with a shimmer of magic and with a squeak, Hermione clutched at Mafloy’s robes to hide her face, just as the door was wrenched open. 

“Ha!” It was Pansy who exclaimed this time, just as Malfoy barked, “Do you two mind?” 

“You told us where you were, mate, we just showed up!” Theo was gleefully saying, while Pansy cackled, “Who’s your secret girlfriend, Draco? We’ve all been dying to find out!”

“If I tell you, then it won’t be a secret anymore, will it?” Malfoy’s words dripped with ire. Hermione could only imagine how quietly angry he must look, considering her face was still buried in his robes. “I wouldn’t want to do you the disservice of dispelling your favourite pastime, lest you resort to actually attending class or Merlin forbid, writing your own essays, instead of speculating about my bloody personal life.”

Further uproar emitted from the two intruders, to which Malfoy apparently cast a Knockback Jinx based on the jostling of his arm, a loud bang, “Ow! Draco!” and “For fuck’s sake, mate.” He continued forcefully: “Remember the secrets I’m keeping for you—yes, both of you—and just let me have this.” 

“You’re no fun anymore,” Pansy complained, but after a few seconds of scrabbling to their feet and continued grumbling, Hermione and Malfoy were once again alone.

She immediately disentangled herself from his robes and arms, flushed at the close contact and the fact that he hadn’t even seemed to mind it, and exited the supply closet. Those blasted storage nooks had to be breaking some kind of wizarding regulation; they were much too cramped. Yes, it was the closets that were illegally small, and not the fault of the full grown witches and wizards shoving themselves in two at a time. Hermione would be writing to the Department of Magical Structure and Building Enchantment when she had the time, she decided, as she held the back of her hand to her cheeks to attempt to cool them down. 

“I’m sorry about that, Gray,” Malfoy repeated. Sneaking a glance, he seemed almost as ruffled as she was, with his robes askew from where she’d grabbed at them. “They’re harmless, really, but…”

Just let me have this. He’d sounded so forlorn—he had been nearly begging. Just let me have this. Hermione wanted to whirl around and shove him back in the sodding closet, and interrogate him, and yell, ‘Just what the hell do you think ‘this’ is?’

Instead, she unwound the scarf from around her neck and placed it on a desk. “Your secret girlfriend, Malfoy? Really?” He dropped his hands to his sides and opened his mouth, brows furrowed, but said nothing. “It’s just a scarf. Tell your friends not to jump to outlandish conclusions.” 

She made to walk towards the door and leave this conversation in the past where it belonged, but he blocked her way, the scarf in hand.

“Outlandish? I’m sorry, but I beg to differ.” He jabbed an accusing finger at her, an uncharacteristic shade of frustrated confusion on his face. “You went out of your way to wear it last time you came to see me, without so much as a comment, as if it was the most natural thing in the world… yes, girlfriend is a step too far—that’s all Pansy’s drivel—but what was I supposed to think?” 

Hermione’s face grew hot again. She’d grown accustomed to the warmth and cedar scent on her last visit and almost completely forgotten that it was Malfoy’s Slytherin scarf. But she hadn’t gone out of her way to wear it! It was just… still there when she materialised into the past again. A completely futile excuse, since she couldn’t use it at all.

Nothing made sense anymore. The Turnback Trance had distorted everything she thought she knew—about Malfoy, about the war, about herself, about the fabric of time—as if she was looking at the past through a crown glass bullseye.

“Fine. I won’t borrow it again, so you won’t get any ideas. Happy?” He looked anything but. “Trading coloured scarves might be the height of gossip at school, Malfoy, but as previously discussed, I’m meeting with you regarding a slightly more serious situation. Let’s try to stay on topic next time.” Hermione heard her own hollow voice speaking the words and hoped to Godric Gryffindor this wouldn’t end up undoing all the progress she’d made.

Malfoy’s nostrils flared and his face settled into a deftly-composed mask as he looked down at her. With effort, he only replied, “Fine. See you next time, then.”

Chapter Text

Despite Hermione’s newfound skill in casting the Trance on herself, she was unable to travel back to the past with the frequency she would have liked. Her first solo trip had been a success, but subsequent attempts only resulted in a headache and brain fog that rivalled the pain of waking up after a completed session. It was soon apparent that Snape’s long absences in between each Trance were likely unrelated to his schedule and more about giving Hermione time to recover. 

After three failed attempts that left her temples pounding and vision nearly blacked out, she resolved to give it a few days before trying again; the odd nightmare resulting from an improperly cast Trance not the least of her worries. 

In the unfortunate lull between February and March 1997 (the lull itself taking place in August 1998), Hermione had the regrettable experience of contemplating. Mulling over, pondering, considering… However you put it, the act was deplorable. She turned over her last meeting with Malfoy in her head a thousand times, replaying his words and trying to make sense of them. 

At first she’d only been reproachful of him inventing stories to explain their meetings to his friends. Assumed it was just another way for him to get under Hermione’s skin, something he had proved himself an expert at time and time again. But once Pansy and Theo had left, he’d… kept it up. Nearly shouted, ‘What was I supposed to think?’

What was he supposed to think? Bloody hell, what was she supposed to think? All over a sodding scarf? She sighed, her breath stirring the curls on her forehead. Hermione almost didn’t want to admit it to herself, but when considering all the facts, it might not just have been all over a sodding scarf. 

Just as she was starting to contemplate a very disturbing thought, Snape had the good graces to interrupt. 

She jumped to her feet, immediately rattling off how she’d been able to cast the Trance on herself and what her last meeting with Malfoy had entailed. At least, mentioning the key details as they pertained to the mission at hand. Which, now that she was saying it out loud, were woefully little. 

“I’ve tried to cast it again a few times after I got back, but it’s been difficult. The recovery time is much longer than I anticipated,” Hermione said as she sat on the cot. 

“You’ll improve at both casting and receiving it with practice. With resolve and your sheer amount of free time, it should get easier,” he replied flatly.

She cocked her head. “I’m not sure if that was a compliment or a dig. Regardless, it has got to get easier quickly, otherwise I don’t know how I’ll manage once I stay in the past for good. That is the intention, correct?”

Snape’s face pinched slightly. Hermione got the sense that he wasn’t quite sure of this part. “Yes. It’s possible that once Mr. Malfoy goes through the Battle of the Astronomy Tower without killing Dumbledore, this future will cease to exist or otherwise become too unstable to return.”

She didn’t respond, adding that to the contemplation pile. 

“I assume you’d also rather remove yourself from your current situation. Impending execution and all.”

“Don’t remind me. How are you planning on getting back to the past, once it’s time?” Hermione wasn’t sure if Snape could just hold on as she materialised in the past, as a kind of Side-Along Turnback Trance, or if he’d be able to cast it on himself and meet her there. 

“Just focus on your mission, Miss Granger.” With that, he motioned her to lay down and prepare for the spell.

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Finally in March 1997 again, Hermione found Malfoy almost immediately. She’d materialised in the same alcove on the 7th floor they’d once used to hide from the group of Arithmancy students months before. Peering out to the hallway, he was conveniently approaching quickly but had not noticed her, as he was sullenly watching the portraits pass by on the opposite wall. 

“Malfoy,” she called, once determining that the hall was devoid of anyone else.

He approached the alcove but didn’t enter, his face betraying nothing. “What is it, Gray? I have somewhere to be.”

Hermione couldn’t for the life of her remember where he was going or what today held. Some future-teller she was turning into. Instead of worrying about that, she put on a brave face and simply asked, “...Alright?” 

And by that, she hoped he understood that she meant, ‘Are you or are you not going through with the mission? Tell me this instant.’

He grimaced visibly. “Fine.”

Okay, so they were going literal. “Any updates on your mission?”

“No,” Malfoy clipped, turning to gaze back at the portraits, who were chatting amongst themselves, oblivious. “Will that be all?”

“No, that will not be all! What’s the matter with you?” Hermione fought the urge to pull him inside the alcove, cast another Disillusionment, and… do something drastic. 

Malfoy turned back to her, his face behind that composed mask again. “Let’s not get off topic, Gray. Will that be all?”

“You’re upset about last time, aren’t you?” She felt a lump in her throat. It had been nearly a month for him, and he was still angry. 

His mouth tightened before he looked away again. “Unless you have more to say regarding my miss—” Malfoy abruptly stopped talking and looked towards the stairwell. 

A few voices were echoing up from the floors below, and Hermione could just barely make a few bits out.

“—map’s never been wrong before—”

“—that’s impossible, I’m right here—”

“—knew Malfoy was up to something—”

In one fluid movement, he’d snatched Hermione’s arm, yanked her out of the alcove, and quickly paced back and forth in a familiar spot as she protested in a wild whisper, “Let go of me, Malfoy!” 

He neglected to let her go until the doors of the Room of Hidden Things had closed behind them and, as far she could deduce, the past versions of herself, Harry, and Ron were left scratching their heads in an empty hallway. 

Malfoy finally dropped his hand from Hermione’s arm, looking bewildered that he’d even grabbed it in the first place. “Sorry. You probably didn’t want to hide in here with me. Just wait a while before you leave—Potter has been on my arse especially hard lately and I can’t let him see this place.” 

“Malfoy, if anyone needs to stay hidden from those three, it’s me,” she replied, only slightly out of breath. “I’ll stay here as long as it takes.”

The room was just as grandiose as the last time she’d seen it—before it had been destroyed forever. The piles of junk spanned stories, and likely told stories of their own. Abandoned brooms, candelabras, books, birdcages, tapestries, and a rolled up Oriental rug were to Hermione’s immediate left, while a teetering stack of terracotta pots with long dead plants stood at her right. 

Malfoy was looking at her again, the mask dropped in favour of a bitter stare. “I didn’t know Pothead had it in him.”

“What?”

“No one was surprised about him and Chang, but you too?” He turned away and started walking down the narrow pathways between piles of junk.

“Malfoy, what are you talking about? Speak plainly for once.” Hermione made to follow him but he’d already disappeared. 

His voice sounded from around another stack. “Hiding from your ex-boyfriend with Death Eater Malfoy, what would he think?”

“Harry is not my ex-boyfriend, you dolt.” Ron wasn’t either, technically. He’d never officially asked her. She finally found Malfoy next to a coat rack that sported Hogwarts uniforms from at least a century prior. “None of them know about my mission. It’s supposed to be a secret. It… would be better if those three don’t get a glimpse of me while I’m here.”

He snorted. “Your mission?”

“Yes, Malfoy, my mission.” Hermione clapped her hands to her sides, exasperated. “My mission to convince you not to assassinate Dumbledore. Which I seem to have profusely bungled up, if your mood today is anything to go by. Please tell me we’re not on the way to a fixed Vanishing Cabinet.”

“We’re not on our way to anything, Gray,” he sulked.

This was clearly not about the returning of a simple scarf. Malfoy was completely unwilling to collaborate with her, and it was bringing out the worst in him. Well… maybe not the worst, considering he was just in a dour mood and not currently hurling slurs or spells at her.

“You’re upset about last time,” she repeated, but it wasn’t a question anymore. 

He sighed heavily. “So what if I am? I have a right to be upset, considering every single person in my life is only there to demand something from me.” 

“Well, I’m sorry to be so demanding,” Hermione retorted back, tears pricking at her eyes. It wasn’t the first time she’d been called demanding, or obnoxious, or annoying, or self-righteous, or—

“You could have at least been up front about it, instead of stringing me along this whole time.” He stepped towards her, but she didn’t back down. 

“I wasn’t stringing you along, Malfoy.” When had she ever lied to him, even? Okay, when had she ever lied to him about her intentions, not about her time travel abilities? “I meant what I said, all of it. I want to guide you on your mission. It’s mortally dangerous to complete it. I want to fix the end of the war, and ensuring you don’t kill Dumbledore is the beg—”

“And what about everything besides that?” he challenged.

Everything besides that? She had no idea what he was referring to. Surely not the holding of hands, the bringing to her house, the copying of books. Surely he’d never noticed how often she caught herself admiring his expression when he was deep in thought, or blushing whenever he came close enough to catch the scent of cedar. 

At her silence, Malfoy soured further. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Hermione felt her face getting hot. “Enlighten me.”

He took another step, boxing her in against a shelf of disfigured textbooks. His countenance was a mix of hurt and stormy anger. “I’m sorry I assumed that it meant something when you copied five Muggle books from your personal collection for me. That you were going out of your way to… to…” He gestured wildly. “I don’t know, okay? It just felt like you actually gave a shite about what’s in my best interest, instead of just asking something of me, like everyone else.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” she replied, dizzy at the closeness of him. “I don’t know why I did that. You don’t have to read them. I do care about your best interest, Malfoy. I do. If all I cared about was stopping you from assassinating Dumbledore, I’d show up a second beforehand and stun you. But I’m not doing that, am I?”

No, she wasn’t. Hermione was traipsing around holding hands with him, and jumping into storage closets next to him, and hoping he’d read a recommended book or five, and he was Draco Malfoy, and she was savouring each of these moments like a tiny jewel in her mind, thinking through it over and over in the darkness of her cell just to survive until the next time she’d see him.

She was starting to feel a little lightheaded as the disturbing thought from earlier finally made itself known: she might have developed a troublesome little… soft spot for her childhood bully. Worse, he seemed to have one for her too, even though he had no idea that she was really Hermione Granger. It just wouldn’t do. Soft spot aside, it would never work. Malfoy and she could never be anything. Would never be anything. Not as Hermione, not as Cordelia, never. 

“You’re right,” she continued, unsure of where her voice was going with this. “I’ve… I’ve been very demanding of you. And I seemed to have… delved too far into familiarity. I’m sorry. I’ll be nothing but professional from now on.”

Even as Hermione was saying it, her voice cracked and a tear found its way down her cheek. The thought of going through the Trance and escaping total imprisonment for a five minute check in with a distant Malfoy (You killing Dumbledore today? No? Okay, see you next time) almost sounded worse than what Voldemort’s New Domain had it store for her. 

“Gray…” Malfoy intoned, moving to brush the tear away. 

“I can’t…” Hermione choked out, wiping her face herself. “I’m sorry, but I can’t just be total strangers. You have no idea what it’s like, down there, Malfoy—you’re the only thing I have to look forward to, the only moment of freedom; I’m sorry, really, I want to tell you everything, but I can’t yet. Just… don’t pull away from me like this.” Her chest was rising and falling quickly, surprised as she was at her own words.

He caught his breath, grey eyes round in surprise, but to his credit, didn’t comment on the myriad of new concepts she’d just let slip. Instead of responding, Malfoy took her shoulders in his hands slowly, as if giving her a moment to rebuff, and pulled her close; as close as they’d been in the storage room. 

Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut as she let out a ragged breath. Malfoy’s hands were at her back now, and she could feel his heart pounding, and suddenly her head was on his chest and he was holding her and saying softly, “I’m sorry, Gray. Nothing has to change between us.” 

His chest was warm, and arms secure around her, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d truly been touched.

As she sobbed, she could just hear Harry and Ron’s outraged cries, saying ‘How could you, Hermione, it’s Malfoy!’ to which she mentally responded, ‘You’re both dead and I’m trying to bring you back, so shut up.’

Perhaps as a way to move forward without prying out any answers about what she’d just said, she felt his chin move on the top of her head as Malfoy said, “By the way, I’m insulted you felt the need to loan me a children’s book.”

Hermione gave a watery laugh, smiling in spite of the last of her tears. “Have you read the children’s book in question?”

“Of course I read it.” He was still holding her, and kept rubbing circles into the small of her back.

She put her arms tentatively around his torso as well, savouring how it felt. He was broad and solid, and smelled of cedar and slightly herbal, like Dreamless Sleep. “And just how many words did you have to look up in the Pocket Guide?”

Malfoy stiffened almost imperceptibly. “…A few.”

Hermione pulled back to look up at his pale face. “I told you to start with Pride and Prejudice . The pre-electricity setting might have helped eas—”

“Oh, sod off. I wasn’t in the mood for any more lectures on the prejudice my revered parents may or may not have instilled in me from a young age and its evils and lechery, et al.” He was peering down at her now, and brought a thumb up to dispel the last traces of tears on her cheeks, brows furrowed together.

“That’s not what it’s about, you dolt. It’s a love story,” she found herself saying, without the usual embarrassed breaking of eye contact. Whenever she caught Malfoy off guard like that, and he wasn’t ranting about his impending torture or meddling friends, he looked… quite handsome. 

“Oh,” he simply said, and his cheeks once again got that perfect pink tinge, and Hermione couldn’t look away. 

After a despicable ten or more seconds of looking balefully into each other's eyes, Hermione dropped her head back to his chest, moderately scared of what might happen if any more eye contact was allowed to continue unchecked. She couldn’t imagine snogging Malfoy in the Room of Requirement; it was too much, too soon. Not like they’d ever snog, really… the two concepts of who he had been and who he seemed to be now clashed something awful—

There. Across the way. Past a broken suit of armour and a portrait of nothing but an empty sitting room, lay Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. 

Hermione stood straight up and practically jumped out of Malfoy’s embrace. Seeing the silver band with its clouded blue sapphire had sent a jolt through her like a lightning strike. 

If only she could pluck it up and deliver it to Harry, likely still outside the door to the Room of Hidden Things. But how? She couldn’t reveal herself to the other Hermione, but if they never had to come back to the room, the room would never succumb to Crabbe’s Fiendfyre. Any chance of avoiding another brush with the enchanted flame was a plus, considering how close it came to ending her life. 

She strode over to pick it up, mind spinning. Could she destroy it now? One less Horcrux to search for? If Malfoy and she could even find their way into the Chamber of Secrets, she wouldn’t be able to meaningfully let Harry know. Could Malfoy tell him? ‘We took care of one Horcrux for you, mate.’ Harry would regard that with nothing but suspicion. The burnt out shell of the diadem wouldn’t even do as proof, considering their personal feelings towards each other; Harry would never believe him at this point in time. Perhaps after Malfoy hesitated to identify them in Malfoy Manor, but not before then…

“I never took you for a tiara type, Gray.” Malfoy had followed her over. 

The diadem felt heavy in Hermione’s hand as she turned it over, thinking through possibilities. She had to do something with it. Something that would get it to the three of them during their Horcrux hunt, and keep it out of the Room of Requirement. Something that would save the room from being burned. 

“It’s a diadem, not a tiara…” she trailed off. Whipping around to face him, she thrust it into his hands. “Can you take it with you? It’s important.”

“Why?” He barely disguised a sneer at the diadem’s tarnished surface and missing gems.

Hermione sighed, wishing she could convey just how important it was to him. “It’ll become an important artefact in the war. You need to give it to Harry Potter.”

“And what will Potter do with it? Crown himself Prince of Light?” Malfoy moved to place it on his own head, as if he was about to perform a Harry impression with it. 

“Don’t! Don’t put it on. It’s dangerous,” Hermione pleaded, jumping towards him. “You… you need to give it to Harry in Malfoy Manor after he's been hit with a Stinging Jinx.”

She could only hope that the trio would still end up in Malfoy Manor via Snatchers. The ugly scar on her left arm still hurt bitterly, but Hermione would gladly go through that torture again if it meant a chance to destroy the diadem a little earlier. If it meant a chance to destroy Voldemort.

Malfoy held it at arm’s length now, regarding the diadem a little more suspiciously. “So, I have to jinx Potter and then toss him the crown?”

“No, no, no. You won't be the one jinxing him.” Merlin, she was sounding more cryptic by the day. “Just remember, when you see him in a post-stinging state, that's your chance to give him the diadem.”

He seemed to search her face and evidently found nothing. “I'm tired of being kept in the dark about all this. You have to realise that I'm blindly trusting your word, non-Seer, at potential risk to my life.”

Hermione chewed her lip, working through what she could tell him without going too far. “Harry will need to destroy the diadem in order to kill Voldemort. He’ll know what to do with it once you get it to him in that post-stinging state. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.” 

That seemed to be a good enough answer for Malfoy, as he resignedly placed the diadem in his robes, even though he rolled his eyes at the same time. “Fine. The tiara goes to Potter after a Stinging Jinx. But only because you asked me, Gray.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, half relieved that the magic of the Room of Requirement might be saved, and half terrified that each new change might lead to something even worse.

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Hermione had spent the rest of the hour next to Malfoy, always holding contact, through the sides of their hands, or their knees gravitating together, or his palm resting on the small of her back, as if she was filled with helium and might float away at any second. They avoided heavy topics like Voldemort, torture, missions of any kind, and instead argued about the practical applications of Ancient Runes. As he left for Potions, he’d taken hold of her hand and squeezed twice, like a heartbeat. She hadn’t known what to make of the swirling mix of giddiness and guilt that churned in her core. 

As she woke from the Trance, she couldn’t help the silly smile on her face, despite the headache. 

In the dungeon, Snape was holding a few pieces of parchment. Her smile dropped once she saw the look on his face. “They’ve set a date for your execution. It’s Sunday, at Malfoy Manor.”

Hermione let out a bitter exhale. “And what day is today?”

He dropped the parchment into her cell, expression stonily cold. “Wednesday.”

They had four days.

Chapter Text

By Friday, Hermione had read the parchment so many times she could recite each by heart. The larger was a formal invitation that sported an unflattering moving photograph of herself from fourth year at the top, with a few short paragraphs underneath:

As a dignified member of the Dark Lord’s prestigious New Domain, you are cordially invited to The Eradication Gala on 16 August, 1998. This celebratory event will mark the renewal of true magickind in Great Britain: Hermione Granger, Undesirable no. 1, a nefarious figurehead of Mudbloods, Blood Traitors, and Halfbreeds, will stand trial under the newly-passed MINGE Act (revised name forthcoming). 

Dress robes required. Refreshments provided. Failure to attend may result in disciplinary action.

The other was a note in a revoltingly flowery script that Hermione recognized from blackboards of past; it had no doubt been penned by Umbridge:

Have the Mudblood at the Manor by 1 p.m. The Floo will be open. The Dark Lord prefers that she remain conscious and under a silencing charm until the ritual.

By her estimation, they had maybe two more chances to travel backwards in time, if she could recover quickly enough. Two more chances to convince Malfoy not to carry out his mission. She had spent the last 48 hours trying to puzzle through any remaining information available to help with the convincing, along with a bit of morbid brainstorming about what ‘ritual’ the New Domain had planned for Sunday. 

The result was a terribly scatterbrained and overwhelming morning in which Hermione was continuing with the most difficult magic she’d ever encountered, all without a wand. After her fourth unsuccessful attempt by herself, Snape had joined her below Hogwarts and Hermione finally managed to receive the spell on his second cast. 

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This time, Hermione materialised within the Room of Hidden Things. Handy, because she wasn’t sure she’d be able to get in if Malfoy was already there. Peering around a thatch of broken brooms, she spotted him reading, languidly perched on a green threadbare chaise lounge. Beyond the patches of wear on the sofa, and the cacophony of discarded items surrounding him, it was the picture of a perfect aristocratic afternoon. 

Hmming for a moment, he placed the book upside down with pages splayed on the arm of the lounge, revealing it to be Pride and Prejudice, which gave Hermione’s stomach a slight flutter despite the lack of proper book-handling etiquette. Malfoy then summoned her duplicate of The Pocket Guide to Muggles and began flipping through to the index in the back. 

As she approached the sofa, Malfoy jumped, turning with eyes narrowed. “Oh, it’s just you,” he exhaled, and turned back to the Pocket Guide. 

“What are you looking up?” Hermione asked, settling herself on the end as he bent his long legs haphazardly to make space for her. 

He turned the giant book and showed the index page to her, and pointed to the line Regiment – See Military, page 784. 

“Oh, you’ve met Mr. Wickham, then,” she intoned, and for the first time in her life wished they’d skip the book talk and get right to the tough conversation. 

“I don’t like that bloke,” Malfoy replied, flipping to page 784. “I thought you said this was a love story.”

Hermione fixed her gaze on a broken Pensieve across the way and let out a shaky breath. “Malfoy, if you kill Dumbledore,”—he stilled beside her—“you won’t survive the war. The two events are completely intertwined. If you want to live past seventeen, you have to fail your mission.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him slowly close the Pocket Guide to Muggles and stare sullenly at the cover. “How do you know?” he nearly whispered. 

“I saw you die.” She had seen him die. Whether she had seen it in the past or in some kind of Seer-adjacent vision, he didn’t need to know. She had heard his hoarse scream as Nagini tore into him. She had smelled the coppery stench of his blood as it pooled.

She continued, “The tool that Voldemort wants… he’ll need you to die to be able to use it. I don’t want to get too specific—”

“You’ve known this whole time, then.” He turned to look at her, but he didn’t look as furious as she’d anticipated. More mildly irked and sadly resigned. It made her want to climb into his lap and sob into his chest for a reason she couldn’t place. 

Hermione met his eyes. “Yes.” No more skirting the truth. He needed to know. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner. I wasn’t sure how much I could divulge, without…”

“Without what?” Malfoy’s eyes burned with barely-contained disappointment. “Didn’t I deserve to know?” 

“Of course you did, Malfoy.” She reached out to put her hand over his. “But when you only know bits and pieces about the future, it’s… a little more fickle than that.”

His hand didn’t move under hers, though he was looking at it bitterly. She gave it a squeeze before taking the Pocket Guide and placing it on her own lap. “Have you ever heard of Oedipus?” 

“I haven’t read that tome cover to cover like you, so no.” 

Placing her palm on the book, Hermione closed her eyes and forced the heat from her hand into it, searching for a single phrase. After several more seconds than the finder spell would take on a typical book, one passage floated up from the cover:

Page 575
…such a legend referenced by Muggles hails from Greek mythology: Oedipus, who ran from…

She flipped to page 575 and handed the book back to Malfoy, who read the passage silently. 

“Oedipus hears of a prophecy that he will kill his father and marry his mother, and travels to Thebes to avoid it. What he doesn’t know is that his true parents are the king and queen of Thebes, and he ends up killing his father and marrying his mother anyway, then blinds himself out of shame,” Hermione summarised. 

A tiny smile found its way to his mouth. “Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same if I accidentally married my mother.”

“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you right away,” she continued, picking up Pride and Prejudice from the chaise and conjuring a bookmark for it. “When you mess with… the future, the steps we take to avoid certain things can end up bringing about exactly what we were trying to evade.” 

He shot a smirk at her. “That was awfully insightful for someone who claims to not be a Seer.”

Hermione grimaced. “I’m not a Seer.” 

After a moment, Malfoy twisted his mouth and looked back at the book in his hands. “I don’t think I would have believed you before, anyway.” 

She sat back on the chaise, staring into her own lap and marvelling at a boy who once made her life a living hell for the fun of it, and the sheer amount of growth displayed by one little comment. I wouldn’t have believed you before, but I do now.

He continued: “What changed?” 

Hermione could have asked him the same thing. What had changed Malfoy so profoundly? He was still spiteful, and pompous, and abrasive at times, but… he’d read the Muggle books she recommended. He’d listened to and heeded her ambiguous warnings. He’d wiped her tears away and rubbed circles into her back. 

It was all extremely vexing. 

“What do you mean?” she managed to get out.

“What changed? If it was so tenuous for me to know, why are you telling me now?” 

She turned and met his eyes. He looked sombre, fingers tapping nervous patterns onto the book’s cover. They’re throwing an Eradication Gala in my name. If I don’t convince you now, my execution will be the main event. “I… don’t have much time left to convince you. It was a last ditch effort.”

He nodded slightly, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Consider your mission a success then. You have my word.”

Hermione could have wept with joy. With a flush to her face, she felt the tears threaten to make themselves known. She turned back to stare hard at the Pensieve and brushed them away, with a trembling exhale. “Thank you, Malfoy. You have no idea how much this will help. Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

The tears were flowing freely now, and he silently bundled her into his arms and lay back, putting her head on his chest as she sobbed. Hermione hadn’t meant to, really, but it was as if the last several months of fighting and war and torture and imprisonment were pouring out of her through her tear ducts of their own volition. 

She had succeeded. She had done the impossible. She had convinced the most hateful sod in Wizarding Britain to abandon his mission, at risk of certain torture beyond understanding, at risk of losing his family and friends, at risk of everything. Against all odds, she’d managed to tug a thread that unravelled the hateful, pureblooded prick and somehow found a decent man within. A man she realised she trusted—Malfoy had given his word, and she knew he meant it.

Hermione’s sobs lulled, and she felt as if a giant weight was finally lifted off her. Malfoy’s arms enveloped her, his embrace effortlessly gentle, and he was softly rubbing one of her shoulders—three inches higher, and he’d be feeling the pocked texture of the Fiendfyre burn that was still evident through layers of robes. As if reading her mind, his hand never reached the burn in its ministrations. 

He took a deep breath, and her head followed the rise of his broad chest. After clearing his throat, he tentatively asked, “If I fail my mission, what will happen to me?”

Recalling several vague references to a torture most certain, she thickly replied, “Didn’t you have a pretty good idea? I seem to remember you mentioning—”

“Beyond the punishment,” Malfoy said tensely. “Is the Order going to find me and… recruit me, or something? My father would butcher me himself if he found out his precious son was conspiring with the enemy.”

He was rambling, staring at the ceiling as his hands moved in their routine on her shoulder, her back, her elbow.

“Voldemort won’t trust me with any information after I fail this mission, and Potter wouldn’t trust me as far as he can throw me. The only person who knows what’s going on is… you, Gray.” He finally looked back down at Hermione on his chest. “You’re the not-Seer. What do I do now?” 

“You don’t need to join the Order.” Of that she was certain—his instinct about Harry was likely correct. “You don’t need to be a spy for them. Just keep yourself alive.”

Of course, if Malfoy did not assassinate Dumbledore, then his death would not pass the Elder Wand to Voldemort. Really, as long as Malfoy’s mission failed, his death wouldn’t have any great significance on the war at large. No powerful tools exchanged as a result, no dark wizards made infinitely more dangerous. Even so, Hermione’s gut wrenched at the idea.

She’d already seen Malfoy die once, back when she’d detested the very idea of him, and it had still turned her stomach. Having to witness it all again, now knowing that he smelled like cedar, that his hands were soft and strong, that his cheeks pinked perfectly in the cold, and above all, that he was capable of change… Hermione made a promise to herself: no, he would not die this time. 

If it was a promise made out of selfishness, then so be it. But it wouldn't hurt to minimise any additional changes to the timeline, either.

At his silence, she went on: “You seem confident that you won’t be killed after failing your mission. Whatever punishment awaits you, I command you to stay alive.”

He paled visibly, Adam’s apple bobbing hard as he swallowed, but nodded.

“After that, just do what you can to fly under the radar and out of direct action. If the Order wins, I’ll make sure everyone knows what part you played in that victory. Just get through to the end of the war.” It was easier said than done, but her voice didn’t betray any doubt.

“Under the radar?” 

The Pocket Guide was once again summoned and a few pages read, and when all were sufficiently up to date on relevant turns of phrase, Malfoy did something unexpected. 

They were both halfway sitting at that point, difficult as it was to manoeuvre the heavy book, and the moment it was shrunken and deposited back into his bag, Malfoy twisted towards her, deftly cupped Hermione’s face and pressed his lips against hers. 

It took several seconds for her to register that the pathetic sound of surprise that resulted had originated from her. Her eyes had closed on instinct, and his mouth was warm and soft and still. His hand, gently placed at the junction between neck and cheek slowly pulled her closer, drawing their chests to face one another. 

Her heart was beating at triple speed and her head felt like it was going to float away. It was odd, knowing she was kissing Malfoy, of all people, but it was even more odd realising she liked it.

He slowly moved his mouth against hers and she eagerly followed suit, now doing her part to lean into him. As their kiss deepened, his hand snaked down to her collarbone, slowly moving the neckline of her robes and rubbing small circles into her skin. Malfoy's kissing me. Malfoy's kissing me. It seemed to be the only thought her brain could think.

Just as he broke the connection between their mouths to press his against her neck, the delightful notion turned sour. Of course Malfoy wasn't kissing her. He was kissing Cordelia. If he knew her true identity, he'd likely toss her down and rinse out his mouth; aforementioned radical change notwithstanding.

Twin sensations of the exciting thrill his mouth was currently delivering, and the deep shame of the many lies she’d woven over the past months finally culminated in her chest, and it was all she could do to push Malfoy roughly away, just as an unintentional sigh escaped her throat.

"What's wrong?" He looked concerned, back on the other side of the chaise. "Did I do something off?”

Hermione jumped up in an effort to quell the rising panic in her core. "No, it's not that. I liked the kiss. I liked kissing you. It’s just—" She searched for another lie to cover up the thousands more. "I can't... I can't just go on like this, I feel so—"

The lies weren't coming, she had nothing. "I'm... I'm—" I'm Hermione Granger. I'm Hermione Granger!

"I'm... Muggleborn," she finally finished. A half-truth was better than nothing.

"You're Muggleborn?" Malfoy repeated, bewildered. His face went through several emotions at once. Hermione braced for the disgust she half-suspected was coming.

Her heart was in her throat. She was a stupid, stupid girl. How on earth had she really thought there could be anything between them, between her and Draco Malfoy, a Death Eater—

"You've somehow snuck into the most heavily secured school on the continent, risked life and limb to prevent my potential death, and you did it all believing I thought people like you don't belong because of who your parents are?" he scoffed, his eyes bitter. "Merlin, you're such a bloody martyr. If anyone should be ashamed of the parents they ended up with, it should be me.” 

Her heart nearly stilled at his words and she feared Malfoy might have to revive her if it fluctuated any more today. She sank back onto the lounge, speechless. 

He didn’t kiss her again, and Hermione couldn’t figure out if she was relieved or dismayed. But he offered his hand as before, and she took it. 

“Cordelia—”

It wasn’t her first name, but it was one, and Hermione nearly jumped at the familiarity.

“—I’m sorry for subjecting you to my narrow-minded comments on blood status.” Merlin, he was looking down sorrowfully. Either Malfoy was an excellent actor with some unknown motivation, or he was actually giving a wholehearted apology. “Knowing now that you yourself are Muggleborn, it must have been very hurtful to hear such drivel from someone that you were going out of your way to help.” 

“It was.” Hermione finally found her words. “I appreciate your apology.”

They sat in silence for a long time after that. His eyes searched her face, and she wasn’t sure what he’d find. She didn’t know what to feel. 

Every logical thought process to begin making sense of Malfoy at this moment seemed to evaporate before any conclusion could be made. Reading a Muggle book was one thing, but he seemed to have gone through leaps and bounds of unlearning overnight; seemed to feel no disgust after kissing a Muggleborn but instead polite embarrassment at his own past behaviour. 

Had Charlotte’s Web and Pride and Prejudice done all that?

Chapter Text

Saturday seemed to pass lethargically, like a wound that wouldn’t heal. Hermione had no way to tell time in her cell at all while she’d been there, but 15th August crept by with each minute feeling like an hour or more. She was lost in thought, wandering through timelines, pouring over possibilities, dreading her upcoming execution with all the cells in her body, and more than anything, trying not to dwell on the feeling of Malfoy’s lips when he’d kissed her. 

She was supposed to be recovering from her most recent trip to 1997, and preparing for the next and final foray into the past, but she was preoccupied in overthinking, trying to quell the stubborn ache in her chest when she remembered the multitude of ways everything could go wrong, and all the ways they already had.

Hermione had never set out to convince Malfoy that people like her were worthy and deserving of his respect. All she’d wanted to do was convince him not to kill Dumbledore. Somewhere along the way, in between the pages of her favourite romance novel, of all places, he seemed to come around on his own. If they ended up winning the war, she’d need a Pensieve and several hours with Harry and Ron for them to believe her—she could barely believe it herself.

It made the guilt that much worse. 

Malfoy had come leaps and bounds, and what had Hermione done in return? Donned an alias, lied to him about everything she knew, and somehow got all mushy in the end. He’d kissed her, without knowing who she really was. Without knowing she was Hermione Granger. 

She would have never convinced him to abandon his mission if she had been forthcoming about who she really was. And with the other Hermione sitting across the classroom from him every week, it would have involved breaking a cardinal rule of time travel, besides. But the kiss still made her feel like some kind of… degenerate. Especially because she’d liked it so much. 

With Saturday’s potential time travel recovery and preparation lost to a constant queasiness regarding Hermione’s own falsehoods and trickery, Sunday 16th August made itself known with terrible news. 

She woke with the customary ache of her neck from the stiff cot and despair of reality setting back in, and stared glumly at the ceiling for an agonisingly long stretch of time before Snape joined her in the dungeon. 

“Thank Merlin you’re here. I slept awfully. I’ll definitely need your help to—”

“It’s almost one,” he interrupted. “The Manor’s Floo is open.”

Hermione sat up, suddenly wide awake. “We’re actually going to the Gala?”

“Unfortunately.” Snape looked grim, though he usually did. “You need to make an appearance there before your final journey to the past.”

“Are you joking? I’m not setting foot in that—” She didn’t bother to finish the sentence before she was back on the cot and chanting, “Adducturum Pertempus, Adducturum Pertempus.”

Hermione stayed infuriatingly in the present, owing to her frazzled head, as Snape effortlessly vanished the bars to her cell. 

“They’re going to kill me, Snape,” she intoned sadly, gazing at the familiar dungeon ceiling. 

“Yes, they are. But you’ll be in the past before they do.” 

“How are you going to get back to the same day, same timeline? Turnback Trance Side-Along?” Hermione wanted to make sure the plan was solid before leaving the dungeon and facing the cruel outside world of her own timeline for the first time in months. 

He gestured towards the door with his wand. “Just focus on your spell. The castle won’t be able to help this time.”

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After a humiliating Floo trip with Snape’s wand poking into her back in the facsimile of a threat, they arrived in the travel parlour of a cold Malfoy Manor. It and no doubt the rest of the giant residence had been decorated with bundles of roses, sweet peas, and foxgloves, which teemed with enchanted butterflies that fluttered to and fro. Every surface sparkled with polish or a subtle Shining Charm. A six or seven piece string ensemble was tuning their instruments somewhere in the distance, echoing through empty hallways.

After the darkness of the dungeon and the relatively safe hiding spots afforded by the Trance, the brightness of golden sunlight streaming through windows and the oppressiveness of such a wide open, hateful space made Hermione squeeze her eyes shut and be simply pulled to wherever it was she needed to go by Snape’s tight grip on her elbow. 

It seemed to be a dressing room or a closet, where she ended up, based on the dress robes floating in the air and full-length mirror that Hermione avoided looking at. A pink toad was waiting there for the last two remaining members of the Order.

The pink toad was Dolores Umbridge, of course, and she was delighted to see what Snape had done to Hermione’s hair. 

“Oh, Severus, that’s perfect. I was worried that dressing her up in Narcissa’s old robes would be too much, you know, it might look like you were treating her too well, what with how Bellatrix talks and all, but of course, her most recognizable trait, chopped off for all to see—”

Hermione began her measured breathing of eight counts in and eight counts out in order the extinguish the drone of Umbridge’s repulsive gushing, and before she knew it Snape was ushered out of the room, the door locked and warded, and her last shred of hope was disintegrated. 

In for eight, out for eight. In for eight, out for eight.

The robes—none pink, thank Morgana—were magicked on to her as Umbridge hemmed and hawed, trying to strike the right balance of ‘disgusting Mudblood who deserves to die’ and ‘appropriately dressed for a gala at Malfoy Manor.’ Hermione stared at the wall steadfastly, concentrating on her breathing and not looking in the mirror to gawk at a tortured prisoner wearing a dead woman’s clothes. 

“Hm… we’re nearly there,” the vile woman commented, turning Hermione’s head towards the mirror and taking liberties with the scrunching of small curls and mussing of hair. “You look particularly inferior in the dark blue.”

It was true. Before she’d been able to shut her eyes again, she’d glimpsed an absolutely outraged, wild-haired girl swaddled in the finest midnight silk that money could buy. Against her skin, lighter than it had ever been from the months underground, the deep blue overwhelmed her, bringing out an unflattering flush to her cheeks that she’d never noticed and hoped she never would again.

“Needs a bit more…” Umbridge looked round the room, apparently searching for the perfect accessory. Instead of picking from the hats and gloves and jewellery laid out on a nearby table, she picked up her wand and pointed it at Hermione’s chest. With a great ripping sound, the robes refashioned themselves into the lowest-cut pair she’d ever seen. They had stayed loosely flowing, so with the wrong step sideways, the cowl neckline would show much more than Hermione had bargained for. Plus, her ugly scar was on display as it rippled down her shoulder and neck, delving down below the silk on the right side. She looked like she’d been dragged behind a motorcycle on her way to the Yule Ball. 

She managed to disguise her gasp of horror as simply an inhale, and Umbridge didn’t seem to detect anything out of the ordinary with her Silenced victim. 

The toad was standing behind her and beaming into the mirror now. “It’s terribly crass. And Narcissa would never approve. But they’re here for a show, dear. Not that it’s any different than what you’re used to, I’m sure.”

Hermione grit her teeth together and refrained from strangling the woman with her bare hands; only because it would probably earn her a restraint of some sort, and she needed her hands free for the best chance of casting the Trance.

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There was no reason for Hermione to show up at 1 p.m. It must have been nearly two when Umbridge pronounced her ready for debut, and she had henceforth been confined to a marigold-coloured sitting room for the last several hours with her keeper and another Death Eater—Mulciber?—who saw fit to speak only to Snape. The content of his conversation, however, left much to be desired.

The door was again locked and warded, and Snape sat to Hermione’s right, his wand trained on her, while Mulciber paced somewhere behind them. 

“She put up a good fight?”

“I suppose.”

“Yeah, I bet she did. Feisty one. Not surprised she’s the only one that stuck around.”

Snape didn’t respond to that, likely due to the fact that he was the sole reason that Hermione had ‘stuck around.’

“What I would have given to be the one who got your job, mate,”—by the way his eyes flashed, she didn’t think anyone had called Snape their mate in his life—“Who doesn’t love hearing a woman scream like that?”

Hermione much preferred Umbridge to Mulciber. 

Snape had the decency to reply with, “I performed my duty out of service to the Dark Lord.”

“Come on, Snape… I know you get your thrills from it, just like the rest of us. Even if attendance wasn’t mandatory, it would be a full house out there today.” 

Hermione had nearly opened her mouth to retort, ‘I’m sure torture is the only way you can get a woman to scream, you filthy pig,’ just as Snape pointedly cleared his throat and met her eyes for a moment. Instead, she clenched her jaw even tighter and squeezed the arm of her chair until her knuckles were white.

***

“Having a beautiful woman at the end of your wand, totally at your mercy… even with that nasty mark, you have to admit she’s not bad looking.” Mulciber had made his way around to ogle her from the front. “And with that hair out of the way, you can really see—” 

***

Something snapped inside Hermione, like a violin string tuned too tight, and the crystal chandelier hanging above Mulciber was suddenly removed from its hook, crashing elegantly onto his head in a glittering, raucous display. Snape’s wand made a quick deviation towards Mulciber as he yelped in pain, and the Death Eater was limp before he hit the ground. 

Hermione jumped up, ready to run, cast, do anything, but the door was swiftly unlocked and two more Death Eaters stormed in. “What’s going on in here, Severus?” one shouted as the other demanded, “Explain yourself, Mudblood!”

She could do no such thing, considering she was supposed to be Silenced, but Snape cooly replied, “Mulciber took it upon himself to carry out the Mudblood’s punishment himself, instead of allowing the Dark Lord to perform the ritual. Such infringement on our lord’s authority could not go without punishment—and the Mudblood must be alive to stand trial.”

The two new additions—Rookwood and Yaxley, she thought—seemed to accept that explanation without much protest, and didn’t even think to check Mulciber’s wand for the last spell he’d cast, which had been a Shining Charm on his shoes nearly an hour ago. 

Umbridge graced them with her toady presence then, and after getting up to speed on why Mulciber was lying dead in a pile of crystals with the chandelier, announced to the room that the gala was ready for the guest of honour. 

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Hermione did her best to appear downtrodden, feeble, and overall compliant, in spite of the veritable rage boiling in her stomach. The group escorted her to the front of a grand ballroom packed with pureblooded wizardkind. She could barely hear her own thoughts—eight in, eight out—over the roar of the already alcohol-loosened crowd. Cheering, booing, hissing, and the crackle of red sparks in the air reverberated off the vaulted ceiling and threatened to break any mental concentration she had left. 

Once shoved unceremoniously in a lone chair on a slightly raised circular dais, white-hot magical binds immediately snaking out of the armrests to pin her wrists down, Hermione finally got a glimpse of the crowd. All of Voldemort’s most devoted were currently pointing and jeering, dressed in their summer finest and spilling champagne as the din of the party grew ever louder.

The Lestranges were front and centre, a Carrow and Crabbe Sr. nearby, and many other Slytherin parents were heartily cheering for her demise. Notably, only one person from her own generation was present from Hermione’s viewpoint: Pansy Parkinson stood next to a smirking Dolohov, a giant diamond on her left hand. Though her black bob was still perfectly coiffed, her pinched face betrayed only nausea, and she shrank away from her husband’s tight grip on her shoulder with every drunken wobble he took.

Hermione had made her appearance. They’d seen the Mudblood and were now demanding her death. She squeezed her eyes shut again and concentrated on her breath, invoking Adducturum Pertempus with every exhale. Her right hand twitched under its binding in want of a wand. The flicker of internal magic inside her didn’t feel strong enough, and threatened to blow out with every taunting shout from the crowd.

Adducturum Pertempus.

Adducturum Pertempus.

Adducturum Pertempus.

It was one thing to perform a full time travel spell on oneself without a wand, but it was something else entirely to do the same without a wand and non-verbally. Her forehead beaded sweat with effort, and yet she stayed in the present. 

Snape was right—there was no help here. The Manor itself thrummed with magic, especially filled with so many magical guests, and she could nearly taste it in the air. But this magic was hateful, and offered no aid to a filthy Mudblood like her. The concentrated animosity bubbling over seemed to taint every attempt at the Trance, quelling the spell just when it might have taken her away.

The crowd quieted, and the air grew cold again. Hermione looked up to see Voldemort himself had entered, and was slowly making his way to the front of the room. His followers dutifully cast their eyes down as he passed by, until the evil wizard was standing at the front of the room and looking down at her. She held his stare from her place in the chair, and refused to look away. 

Her chest burned with fury; maybe if her internal magic hadn’t wasted itself on the unhooking of a chandelier, she would have had enough to strike Voldemort dead in front of his own devotees. 

After a beat of silence, he began announcing a list of what Hermione realised must have been her crimes against the New Domain. She barely listened, instead focusing on the Trance. Adducturum Pertempus. Adducturum Pertempus.

He’d taken the Elder Wand out of his robes now, and was pointing it at her languidly. The Trance wasn’t working, she was about to be killed—

“Finite Incantatem. ” That must have been for the Silencing Charm she was meant to be under. “How do you plead, Mudblood?”

“Adducturum Pertempus! ” she yelled, willing the spell to take hold. A small spark ignited in her chest, and Hermione tried to chase its source. Nothing happened. 

“Tsk, tsk. I should have known you would have no respect for this sacred ritual.” The crowd tittered with laughter. “I asked, how do you plead?” 

Hermione hung her head and shut out the room. “Adducturum Pertempus,” she whispered, over and over. 

“Severus,” Voldemort crooned.

“The Dark Lord asked you a question, Mudblood,” the voice of her former professor oozed darkly, every shred of allyship gone.

If she must plead, she would. With one last defiant stare at Voldemort, Hermione uttered, “Guilty.” 

“Peccata Patris,” his slimy voice intoned, and the edge of the dais began to emit a vertical golden light that obscured the ballroom. There was a searing hot ripping sensation in her chest, and Hermione could barely contain the scream that threatened to escape as two tendrils of white smoke poured out of her mouth to pool on the platform before her. 

When the intense heat had subsided and the golden light dissipated, though she was still panting with exhaustion, the smoke had formed into two ghostly bodies. She recognized them.

They were her parents. 

Frank and Jean Granger stood before her, slightly transparent and unmoving. The rest of the ritual was lost to her, even as the both of them were somehow magically verified as Muggles. Tears streamed freely down her face, and Hermione desperately tried to leave this timeline for good.

The figures were vanished, and Voldemort turned his attention back to her. She was hiccupping, head heavy and feeling as though it was full of cotton, and an endless stream of Trance incantations fell from her mouth of their own volition.

“Severus, control your prisoner,” Voldemort commanded again, and Snape’s hand clapped her shoulder, pinning her upright to the back of the chair. 

“Help me, Snape,” Hermione pleaded, trying to nurse the flame of magic in her chest and failing. “Help me, please.”

This was the wrong thing to say, as the crowd began murmuring in delight. A camera bulb flashed.

Pansy caught her eye, off to the left of the ballroom. Dolohov was looking murderously overjoyed next to her, waving his wand drunkenly, but Pansy was still. As if in slow motion, she seemed to mouth the words, ‘Do something.’

Hermione’s shoulder was growing warm from where Snape’s hand still lingered. Voldemort delivered a few more ceremonious lines, and raised the Elder Wand towards her once again. She searched desperately for a memory of Malfoy to go back to. But no such memory existed—he had completed the mission in her timeline. What was a memory of something that hadn’t happened? A hope? A prediction? 

With one last bout of exertion, Hermione pictured a version of Malfoy that had stopped fixing the Vanishing Cabinet. One that never let any Death Eaters into Hogwarts. One that purposefully failed his mission, all because she asked him to. She clung onto that thought with all her might, and bit down hard. She thought of a time and place that she wanted to be in, more than anything. Pinpointed it in the fabric of space. Reached through and attached herself to Malfoy, this Malfoy, her Malfoy, and incanted, “Adducturum Pertempus. ” 

The blue glow ignited, and her spine burned with a pain deeper than it had ever been, and Hermione finally collapsed.

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 

When she materialised back on the threadbare chaise lounge where Malfoy had first kissed her, Hermione expected Snape to still be grasping her shoulder. If she’d apparated, he would have been dragged along with her. Apparently the Turnback Trance didn’t work like that.

What would he have done instead? Cast the Trance on himself once she’d managed to do so, collapsing on the ballroom’s dais? It was worrying, considering she’d been waiting in the past for fifteen minutes already, getting out the last of her panicked dry heaves, and he was nowhere to be found. Since he hadn’t done any travelling previously, maybe he was struggling with pinpointing where to go, and how to get there? 

As Hermione wandered the Room of Hidden Things, drying her tears and waiting for Snape to follow her, she half-expected him to be around every new corner. In the rush to head to the Gala, Hermione hadn’t had the sense to comment on how far they had come in the mission. Hadn’t had a chance to thank him for saving her life. After nearly an hour, she concluded she was alone in the giant room.

It was the day of the Battle of the Astronomy Tower, Hermione could feel it. This day had always been the final memory to return to. It was clear the event was already turning out differently than it had in her time, as the Vanishing Cabinet was still broken. The relief at finally being here was palpable in the air around her and the absence of ache in her chest. She’d finally done it. 

Before she’d even had a chance to step outside the room and look for him, Malfoy had entered and found her, halfway through an emotional catalyst of his own. 

“I hope you’ve gained your memory back, Cordelia. It’s done. I failed my mission. Now show me my death so I know it was worth it,” he growled, grasping her roughly and spinning her round until they were fixing not a Vanishing Cabinet, but a Pensieve. 

It was fixed with a single Reparo (honestly, whoever dumped it there couldn’t have been very bright) and Hermione used Malfoy’s wand to extract the memory of his death, feeling like it happened a decade ago. Once he’d surfaced from the grisly scene, looking pale, he finally sat back on the chaise and agreed to tell her what happened. 

“I’d been arguing with Snape. I know you told me to act like I still wanted to go through with my mission, but it’s halfway through June. I was running out of reasons why I hadn’t finished it yet.

“He saw right through me, and went straight to Dumbledore. He was at the top of the Astronomy Tower, looking a mess, I’m not sure why—Snape yanked me up, nearly pointed my wand at Dumbledore himself—” Malfoy said, getting hoarser the more he talked, his expression near shell shocked.  

“I disarmed him, that was all I could do. I never wanted to finish it. And Snape… Snape just… hit him with the Killing Curse himself,” Malfoy finished quickly, opening and closing his wand hand as if preparing to go back in time himself and fix what had come to pass.

Snape had killed Dumbledore. The man who had saved her life, put in motion the whole plan to reverse the fate of the war, who had just lent her enough magic for a last-second escape… had assassinated the greatest wizard who had ever lived.

“All this, and he still died.” He was listlessly staring into space. “Everything we did, and he’s still dead.”

‘The mission is not regarding Dumbledore’s life,' Snape had said. The war was always going to swing into action pivoting off of this event; off of Dumbledore’s death. “He was going to die no matter what,” Hermione heard her own hollow voice say.

“You couldn’t have thought to tell me that, Cordelia?” Malfoy said, eyes lit with emotion as he turned to her. “You knew? You knew Snape would kill him?” 

She hadn’t known for sure, not really. Snape had never mentioned finishing the mission for Malfoy. But he had been so sure that the Elder Wand would not get to Voldemort, and Hermione had trusted him. Even so, she flushed and only replied, “I didn’t know it would be Snape—he never told me he would step in.”

Malfoy’s nostrils flared as he stared at her for several seconds. “He. Never. Told you? You’ve been conspiring with Snape this whole time?” There was a tight pressure on her knee, hard enough to bruise, and when she glanced down, Hermione realised it was Malfoy’s hand, gripping her like a lifeline.

Her breath hitched. “No!” Not with this Snape. “Well, yes, sort of—”

“Cordelia—”

“I wasn’t conspiring with him,” She jumped out of the spot next to him, knowing she’d been doing just that. “Snape knew about my mission, that’s all—”

“I can’t believe you. This whole time?” He’d jumped up too, now, and was advancing dangerously. 

Hermione desperately wished she could explain everything to Malfoy—the Turnback Trace, the Gala, the mission. This wasn’t how she’d imagined her first permanent visit to the past would go. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you!” One of many upcoming apologies regarding her various secrets and lies, she could tell. “But you’ve done it—the war is as good as won now that you didn’t kill Dumbledore.”

“The war may be as good as won, but the man is dead, and I have a lifetime of pain ahead of me, Cordelia.” His voice was low and dead serious, and he was reaching a hand towards hers.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that,” Hermione replied quietly, and Malfoy couldn’t have known how many different ways that statement rang true. She ducked around a corner and thought of the future.

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 

Meanwhile, in another timeline…

Inaugural MINGE Act Trial a Reticent Success
By Rita Skeeter

16 August 1998 marks the beginning of a new and glorious age in Wizarding Britain! After tirelessly working to pass the first of many new laws outlining the advancement of full-blooded magickind, the first MINGE Act (revised name forthcoming) trial commenced with a newly-spelled ritual on Sunday afternoon. The Dark Lord graced the halls and visitors to Malfoy Manor in a rare appearance since the fall of the Order of the Phoenix.

Hermione Granger, Undesirable no. 1, was tried for her many crimes, including Impersonation of a Magical Person, Theft of Magical Powers, Aiding and Abetting Known Undesirables, and Flagrant Fraternizing Above One’s Station (See page 23 for the full list). As the trial commenced, she brazenly began appealing to the keeper of her imprisonment, Severus Snape, appearing as a last-ditch acceptance of her inferiority. This author was not fooled so easily, however! Miss Granger was known for her immodest entanglements with many a wizard during her school days (See page 18 for first-hand accounts of her sordid trysts); perhaps she believed that the batting of large eyes and displaying of heavy bosom would inspire sympathy in her former potions professor—a hypothesis that was proven wrong as Snape, loyal servant of the Dark Lord, did not respond to her pleas.

The power and might of the New Domain then seemed to overwhelm Undesirable No. 1 to such an extent that she fell unconscious and did not respond to any efforts (magical or otherwise) to wake.

(“There’s a pulse—she’s still alive, my lord. Rennervate.”

“The Mudblood must face her punishment. Wake her!”

“Rennervate!”

“Is she faking?”

“I wanted to hear her scream.”)

The trial continued, and the accused was condemned to death. Revered guests expressed their dismay at the lack of hysterics, but the Dark Lord nevertheless carried out the sentence with an expertly-cast Killing Curse. Anyone publicly criticising the lack of excitement during the ritual may face charges up to three weeks in Azkaban.

Chapter Text

Hermione opened her eyes sometime in Malfoy’s future and her past, and found the tranquillity of a summer garden waiting for her. The spell, heat wearing off, had placed her on a pebbled path that wound through trellises wound with vines, around raised beds teeming with flora, and past bubbling water fountains filled with naked little stone angels swimming jubilantly and letting out tinkling little laughs.

Off to her right, fat hydrangeas bobbed their heads in the cool breeze, which carried the scent of sweet pea and lavender in its course. Just beyond, the garden pathway wove between several fruit trees, branches heavy with their summer bounty, down a grassy, hedgerowed hill, and woodland beyond. It must have been east, or west, because the sun was rising, or setting, and dappling the oak and ash trees on the horizon with its honeyed light. 

The power of the Turnback Trance, when used in the opposite direction, was immense. It had taken Hermione to a place she’d never been, to a time that she hadn’t specified, within a timeline that she had no memory of. What had brought her to this place at this time, she didn’t know. But compared to the trauma of the Eradication Gala and the tense confrontation afterwards, it was a welcome respite. 

She took a shaky breath in, for eight, and out. A mix of joy and dread roiled in her stomach. On one hand, Hermione’s mission had been a success; Malfoy had not killed Dumbledore. According to Snape, that alone was a strong step towards defeating Voldemort. She was one step closer to saving countless lives—including her own. 

On the other hand, the perfumed air still carried the subtle foreboding of a war not yet won. If Snape had stepped in for Malfoy’s task, could Voldemort kill Snape in his quest for the Elder Wand? He’d seemed confident that wasn’t the case, confident that with Malfoy’s action out of the picture, the threat of the Elder Wand’s power was negligible. But that didn’t stop Hermione from worrying about it. 

A wrought iron bench appeared around the path’s corner, settled next to a bush of yellow roses. Hermione sat on it lightly, taking solace in the cooling night air. The sun had been setting after all, and as the daylight left the garden, fairy lights began twinkling in each bed of blooms. She barely took notice, and instead continued fretting about Snape’s absence in this timeline, whenever it was.

Now that she’d jumped forward again, it would likely be even harder to reconvene with her former professor. There was no friendship there, considering what she’d been subjected to both in Snape’s classes and at the end of his wand, but after months of focused effort on such a difficult and complicated task, and how he’d casually snuffed out a Death Eater for jeering at her before the Gala—Hermione felt a sort of… comradeship with the man, and desperately wished he was here to shed some light on what she might do next. Perhaps Snape would be waiting at the Battle of Hogwarts whenever she got there. 

Or had she jumped forward so far it had already passed? She wasn’t sure. What had been the reason the Trance deposited her here? Hermione decided that there must have been something around that the spell had latched on to, some reason for her to visit this garden at this specific time. Once her chest had loosened sufficiently, she endeavoured to find out what (or who, as she had a sneaking suspicion) that something was. 

Hermione continued down the winding path, leaving the rose bush behind and delving further into the garden, under lattices of glowing lantern flowers, trailing tendrils of willows, and past produce beds that overflowed with ripened harvest. The path twisted and turned, and Hermione expected to see another person beyond every corner, but only plants greeted her. Never the same variety twice; every type of flower, fruit, or vegetable able to thrive in Britain must be growing in the garden, and many that couldn’t were surrounded by shimmering green barriers that seemed to be adjusting the temperature or humidity within. Whoever tended the garden must have quite the green thumb. Her dad and his hedge trimmers would have loved it.

Around the next bend, beyond a patch of sunflowers that towered over her, stood a greenhouse. Its wrought iron joints held together great sheets of glass, each corner ending in a sculpted filigree, and it glowed slightly orange from within, a shadow dancing across the fogged windows. 

Hermione had a pretty good idea of who was inside, but the bigger question was what he was up to—he’d only ever been passable at Herbology. 

The door opened at the smallest of touches, swinging silently ajar. The greenhouse was lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, and Hermione could feel her hair get ever frizzier with the humidity. Magical plants, mostly potion ingredients, spilled from the shelves, some under stasis, others outfitted with glimmering stakes that held them upright, others still sat inside the same glowing barrier she’d seen before. Soil and mulch mingled underfoot, and the air was heavy with the hot smell of earth and foliage. Just as Hermione suspected, Malfoy was standing over the workbench, leaning over several trays of purple-budded stems and prodding his wand to the soil to water each sprout. He hadn’t heard her come in, and his face was serious from where she could see his profile, as if watering those flowers was life or death. 

Hoping he was in a better mood than last time they’d spoken, but knowing he probably wasn’t, Hermione simply started with, “Hi.”

Malfoy whipped around, pointing his wand at her, on edge, eyes stormy. Seeing Hermione, he lowered his wand, but didn’t seem to relax at all. “Don’t do that again, Cordelia,” he said with an exhale, turning back to the trays of plants and staring at them despondently. 

“Do what? Sneak up on you?” The spell always placed her around a corner or down a walkway from any prying eyes—she’d always shown up out of sight and found him looking away.

“I failed the Dark Lord’s mission and you stopped round for a ten minute chat before disappearing for another month? I could have used a little more advice, non-Seer—don’t leave me to flounder like that again!” He stood from the stool he had leaned against, and put that vertical distance between them once again, the sprouts forgotten.

She took a step back, steading herself on a shelf of dittany. “I’m not sure my non-Seeing abilities are going to be of much more use, Malfoy. My mission is finished.”

“You could at least respond to my letters. What, you’re incapable of corresponding in any form other than in person?” His quiet anger wasn’t scary, but it hurt her heart to see.

“You wrote me letters?”

“Of course I did. I even went round your house to try and see you there, but your wards are like nothing else.” His nostrils flared with a heavy exhale, and his left hand flexed towards her, seemingly of its own accord. 

“You went to my house? Merlin, Malfoy…” Hermione was thankful the wards had held—and hoped the other Hermione hadn’t been notified of any attempted intrusion. That definitely wouldn’t do much to sway public influence of Malfoy’s apparent defect away from Voldemort’s followers. But Malfoy must have been desperate if he’d gone back to her parents house. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to bring him in the first place. 

Malfoy splayed his hands out in frustration before massaging his brow. “It’s been a tough month, alright?” It must have been July, then. “Or did you forget I purposefully failed my mission? Nothing like a good old refusal to act to get on the Dark Lord’s good side.” 

Hermione was finally silent again, for a moment. Her mission had been a success, yes, but that meant Malfoy had failed at his own. Failed the Dark Lord’s special mission, failed the assignment meant to induct him into Voldemort’s top ranks, failed at assassinating the greatest wizard of their time, and failed at deserving his Dark Mark. As his burning gaze, she eked out, “...What did he do to you?”

Malfoy turned back to the sprouts. ‘The usual.” He picked his wand back up and began watering them again. “The real torture hasn’t come to pass yet. But you said a full war would commence when Dumbledore died…”

“That’s right.” The war seemed so nebulous, so powerful, so far-reaching, that even a bout of time travel wouldn't be able to divert its course. 

“Am I just supposed to just sit back and stay out of the way? Just head back to Hogwarts like nothing is happening?” The stems had all been drenched, but Malfoy continued staring daggers into them and steadfastly avoiding eye contact. 

“I don’t know, really,” Hermione intoned, suddenly nervous about meddling with the past any more than she already had. “Like I said, I don’t really know much more about the future, not after… What happened last time.” Any memories of the past she had would be close to useless anyway—she had no idea what else might change based on what she’d done already; she had only the vaguest ideas of what the future might hold, and had no idea if any of it would actually come to pass.

He met her eyes again. “Your prophetic sight’s gone blind? If you’re not a Seer, what the hell are you, Cordelia?”

Hermione hated the layers of falsehoods—the lies of omission, the small mistruths, the direct contradictions. It might have been necessary as a cardinal rule of time travel, to keep one’s origin from the past or future hidden, but it was also a cardinal rule of time travel to not make large changes. And she’d done that already; she’d made a massive change. She had made the initial journey all to meddle with time, hadn’t she? Wasn’t that what this was all about? Breaking the rules of time travel?

Why shouldn’t she tell the truth to Malfoy, finally? He’d given her his word, and kept it, and failed his mission, and been tortured for it, and Hermione hadn’t even given him the decency of the truth about how she’d come to be there, begging him to make a change. 

She took a few steps towards him, stomach jumping to her throat with nerves, and put her palm on the workbench next to his, gazing at their two hands, thumbs nearly touching, and refusing to look away or blink just in case her next confession happened to break the fabric of space and time.

When she spoke, her voice barely broke a whisper. “I’m a time traveller.”

Malfoy followed her gaze to their hands, and sighed, quieting his own voice to match: “I know.”

“You know?” She whipped around to face him, half relieved that no temporal paradoxes or time disasters seemed to form and half relieved that she wouldn’t have to convince him of anything as outrageous as being a time traveller. 

“You weren’t so sly last time you left me. Rhursus Praesenti. I looked it up.” He looked infuriatingly pleased with himself. 

Her words tumbled out half on their own. “You looked it up? It’s an illegal spell, I couldn’t find a single book that mentioned the incantation itself. What book—?” 

“My family’s library is extensive and historied.” His smirk grew, the bastard. What she wouldn’t give to see that library after she wrung Malfoy’s neck. It must have been the size of a Quidditch pitch, or larger. The library, that was. 

Without Snape’s meagre information about the spell, any information would help her move forward in a timeline that was not her own. “Did it say anything about Barnaby Puckland the Second?” 

“No—it was just an old spell almanack. Just said it was related to time travel. Your mentor, I assume?” Malfoy sat back on his stool and seemed to appraise her, perhaps turning over their interactions with newfound confirmation about why she was there.

“No, no, just wondering. I only know a bit about the spell, but I wish I knew more. I don’t know anything about how I’m supposed to stay in this timeline, or if it’s even possible—” Hermione was rambling, she could tell, but her mind was moving a mile a minute.  “Will I have to avoid my past self at all costs, like a Time Turner? I can’t go back to the old timeline, Snape said it would be too unstable, and anyway my future self, or past self, depending on how you look at it, was just—”

“Ah, ah,” Malfoy interrupted, snatching her hands out of the air where they had been gesticulating wildly. “You just told me you’re a bloody time traveller. It’s my turn to ask questions.”

Hermione let her hands slow, savouring how soft his were yet again, and let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She’d been dreading the potential of admitting to time travel, but Malfoy had softened the blow by miraculously already knowing. The least she could do was answer some questions (Maybe… not all of them, she thought queasily), even with the adrenaline of confession still coursing through her. “Alright, Malfoy. Ask away.”

“What happened that necessitated time travel to fix the end of the war?” Malfoy didn’t let go of her hands, but drew them closer to him so she stepped forward again, as if sensing that answering might be difficult. 

She drew a shaky breath, unable to look away from his questioning eyes, and how openly curious he looked, and how deliciously warm and woody he smelled all mingled with the scent of the greenhouse, and simply said, “You killed Dumbledore.”

He laughed, a bright Ha!, but clarified, “I gathered that. I meant afterwards.”

“Well…” She wasn’t sure how much she could say about the Elder Wand itself, considering the war was still in progress, but decided in the end that she just wouldn’t name it or mention the search for the other Deathly Hallows; “Vol… You-Know-Who wanted Dumbledore’s wand. And because you were the one who killed Dumbledore, he killed you to gain the wands’ allegiance. That was the powerful tool I was trying to warn you about before.” Malfoy looked contemplative, at that. “With Dumbledore’s wand, he was powerful enough to defeat Harry and win the war. That’s why I had to go back and make sure you failed your mission.”

He nodded sagely, considering everything she’d just said. “What happened in between the war and your time travelling? You were working with Snape?”

“Yes—the Snape of my timeline, not yours. Snape…” Her right hand dropped his and flew to her neck, where the skin was mottled and thick. “...saved my life. Just so I could go back in time and prevent it all from happening.”

“I wouldn’t have expected that from him.” Of course. This Malfoy hadn’t known that Snape was on the Order’s side. Neither had she, to be fair. “Were you… under cover, or something?”

“Something like that.” Hermione was more undercover in this timeline than she was in the other.

Malfoy cocked his head, raised his brows, and said nothing, indicating she should elaborate on that inadequate answer. Their legs were tangled together now, him leaning on the stool and her stood in front of him, their faces level. Part of Hermione was frazzled, not knowing where to put her hands, and another part wanted nothing more than to put them around his shoulders and hold him there for a long time.

“Snape was more undercover than I was in that timeline. After You-Know-Who won, I was a prisoner, and Snape was acting as if he was torturing me, when he was really helping cast the Trance on me and facilitating… everything, really.” Even still, the breadth of Snape’s involvement in reversing the fate of the war was remarkable.

“The Trance?” 

“The Turnback Trance. Rhursus Praesenti and all that.” 

“Did he know you were Muggleborn?”

“Yes.”

“He really was on the Order’s side all along then. How did he know? You told him?”

Hermione swallowed. A lie or two might come back into play right about now, but telling the truth felt too good after months of deception. “He knew about my blood status from before the war.”

“So you knew him before he saved your life.”

“...Yes.”

“Did you know me?”

She glanced back at Malfoy’s pale face from where she had been abashedly looking at the slope of his arm and wishing it was around her waist. That question had caught her off guard, and her mouth opened uselessly. This was the part she had been dreading.

He pressed his eyebrows back down and murmured, “You did. I know you did.”

And how the hell would he know that!?

As if reading her mind, Malfoy continued, “You knew too much about me to be a complete stranger. Too many odd little details." He smirked. He was loving this. Lording it all over her yet again, just like their first meeting in the hospital wing.

Without waiting for a response that wasn’t coming, he finished, “That only leaves one question left. Who are you, really, Cordelia Gray?”

There was no way Hermione could tell him the truth. Even if he seemed to, against all odds, not mind that she was Muggleborn all too terribly anymore, it was an altogether separate route of acceptance for her to be Hermione Granger. Telling him her real identity was walking into a bear’s den. A bear she had thoroughly enjoyed snogging, yes, but one she wasn’t sure wouldn’t spare her this time. Malfoy was annoyingly handsome, well-read, intelligent, newly tolerant through a stroke of luck and meddlesome time travel, kind when he wanted to be, and he did want to be kind to her, to Cordelia—but she had no idea if the same standard held for Hermione. No, it was too risky to tell him. Too… fickle. 

She absolutely hated herself for the base desire to continue with this ruse, if only just to syphon affection from him that would no doubt be extinguished by the truth. It was an ugly realisation: Hermione Granger had feelings for Draco Malfoy, and she was afraid of rejection. If not for being Muggleborn, then for simply being Hermione Granger. 

The tray of stems and their purple buds finally connected to an almost-forgotten Potions lesson in her brain, and she blurted out, “‘Why are you growing—?”

Just as quick as she’d darted her hand to the plants, Malfoy snatched her wrist out of the air and held it there. “Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast, Cordelia. What’s your real name?”

As if he could sense Hermione’s inner turmoil regarding her feelings for him, Malfoy used their point of contact to pull her even closer and placed his other hand at the small of her back, practically dragging her onto the stool with him, a mischievous smile on his face. Despite the circumstances, he was still trying to get under her skin.

She fought not to break eye contact, their noses only an inch apart now. Another lie would be useless, so she went with the truth again, “I’m not sure I want to tell you that yet.”

His eyes flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “Come on, what’s the problem?”

“I…” She could only guess what he might do if he ever found out who she really was. “Malfoy—”

“No, I Malfoy. Pleased to meet you. And you are?” He smiled, eyebrows raised, goading her on.

“I don’t know if that’s—”

"And why not?” The smile was gone. “There's clearly something between us, and you won't even tell me who you really are? I've trusted your, frankly, insane, maddening, contradictory advice for the last year , Cor-de-li-a," he articulated each syllable at her, his grip on her wrist tightening. "Who cares if you know bugger-all about the future now. At least tell me your real identity.” 

"I can't. I'm not ready.” 

"It’s been a year," Malfoy snapped, "and I'm tired of being lied to. Either you tell me who really convinced me to abandon my mission, or I toss that bloody tiara in the ocean.”

"I can't," Hermione repeated uselessly. "I... you'll hate me.”

"No, I won't.” He softened almost imperceptibly, and dropped her hand, though his palm on her back remained, and she hoped it wouldn’t fall away too. “You saved my life. I won't hate you.”

"What if he finds out? If he knew you were working with me this whole time, he'd surely kill you. Please, it's for your own safety,” she begged, not even believing it herself.

Malfoy huffed, rolling his eyes. "Oh, please, Gray. After a year of meddling with my plans, and only now you're concerned that the Dark Lord will find out about your involvement? Are you daft? I'm a natural Occlumens. I've been hiding your visits from him this whole time. He thinks I'm an incompetent child who can't even fix a Vanishing Cabinet.”

"Please," Hermione begged, squeezing her eyes shut to avoid his fervent gaze. "Please don't do anything with the diadem. I shouldn't have even had you steal it. I'm not ready to tell you. I'm... I'm afraid to tell you. Please. Please just let me do it when I'm ready. I need..." she trailed off.

With a sigh, Malfoy said, “What do you need, Gray?”

"I need more time with you before you find out. I'm afraid it'll ruin everything. I... don't want to lose you. Not yet.”

His nostrils flared as he exhaled, and Malfoy finally relented with a shake of his head. “Oh, alright. Stay Cordelia for now, then. But one day I’ll take you on a real date, after the war is over, and I hope by then, at least, I’ll know who you really are.” And with that he pressed his lips to hers again, tentatively, giving her space to draw back, and when Hermione eagerly reciprocated, melting into him, it was as if nothing even mattered.

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕

Only after the workbench stool had been Transfigured into a wingback chair, not nearly big enough for the both of them unless Hermione sat on Malfoy’s lap, which she didn’t mind doing at all, and the two of them had thoroughly defiled the chair with about an hour of snogging, and no further (there was a war going on, after all, and shagging Malfoy in the middle of it seemed like a good way to bring about a temporal paradox or some such), did she bring up the purple flowers again.

“Why are you growing aconite?”

Malfoy turned to look at the tray, absentmindedly rubbing circles into Hermione’s back, and was silent for a moment, before resolutely replying, “Potions.”

That was a vague answer. Hermione prodded on, “I mean, for which potions? Do you foresee the need to regrow any bones in the near future?”

He nodded, pulling her a little closer by her legs. “One should always be prepared for such possibilities.”

“You’re cultivating quite a lot.” She ignored his obvious cue to get back to snogging. “Unless you’re planning on regrowing several skeletons, I don’t see that being the case.”

Malfoy only shrugged.

“Maybe it’s the roots you’re after? Wideye Potion?” Hermione tried to calm her heart, which beat faster at every new ghosting of his hands on her legs, her waist, her back. 

He shook his head, which was now buried in her neck, the good side. “No use for it—I sleep like shite nowadays.”

His mouth moving against her skin was incredibly distracting, but it was too odd to overlook—to be growing that much aconite compared to the other quantities of potion ingredients scattered through the greenhouse. “Maybe the stems? Brewing Doxycide? Though I didn’t see any Doxies on my walk here, and there are really much more humane ways to deal with them…”

Malfoy didn’t grant that guess a reply.

“Oh! You’ll grind the stems into a paste and add it to your stewed Mandrakes for an extra kick of physical relief in a Draught of Peace.”

He chuckled, muffled by her shoulder. “Your knowledge of potion recipes is excellent. I’ll take that into account when contemplating your real identity. Almost thought you were Salvatore under those glamours.”

She scoffed. Chiara Salvatore might be half decent at reading tea leaves and looking into crystal balls according to Harry and Ron, but her Potions skills left much to be desired, and Hermione seriously doubted Chiara could pull off anything close to the Turnback Trance. “She’s only a half-blood,” Hermione replied instead, before turning and kissing Malfoy again.

She hadn’t brought up the most obvious use of aconite yet. Pulling away, Hermione whispered, “Are you brewing Wolfsbane?”

The lifetime of torture, the punishment of a follower’s child, the intense sense of failure, it would all fit—

In response, Malfoy only looked up at the full moon, beaming its pale light through the greenhouse roof.

Chapter Text

The full moon had witnessed another hour or so of unabashed snogging on the transfigured armchair before Hermione had bid Malfoy goodbye and left him to his aconite sprouts, without any more answers about why he was cultivating them. 

He’d asked to watch her make her exit this time, and considering he had already figured out the true nature of her visits, she let him. His grey eyes were the last thing she saw of him that night, their soft gaze holding her in place as the Trance distorted air, matter, and finally her own presence into a wavering, echoing sear of heat, and placed her somewhere else entirely. 

Hermione’s vision swam as the spell faded away, leaving her with the characteristic pounding head. It was nearly a minute before she even had the wherewithal to try and determine where she’d ended up this time. 

The Trance, in this direction, was nothing remotely similar to a Time Turner, beyond the basic concept of travelling through time. With a Turner, one knew exactly where one was going to end up, in terms of both time and location. Travelling backwards with the Trance produced a similar result, most of the time, as it seemed to be connected to the traveller’s memories. But going forward? The spell placed her when and wherever it seemed to fancy. She supposed that concept made sense—it was unpredictable, as the future typically was. 

The tunnel vision was finally fading, and an achingly familiar smell was greeting her. The Trance had deposited Hermione in one of her favourite places: the Restricted section of the Hogwarts library—no phoney excuse or invisibility cloak needed. Simply depositing her at the end of the war might have been a little more useful, but the sight of the tall stacks was very comforting, despite the pain of getting there. 

It was again a twilight hour, based on the weak light and glimpses of an orange sky from the windows. Hermione took a deep breath in, savouring the rich scent of old books and parchment. If her last few experiences with the Trance had taught her anything, it was that Malfoy had to be somewhere nearby. She wondered what book he might be looking for. 

She took a step forward, testing the floor for any squeaky boards. Old habits die hard, after all. But the floorboards betrayed no sound, and the characteristic shuffle of Madame Pince’s robes was nowhere to be heard. Hermione began making her way down the centre aisle, looking for him. 

She found him, of course. Malfoy was folded up into a tangle of long legs and atrocious posture on the ground, leaning intently over a book in his lap, with a neat stack of textbooks to his left and a decidedly less tidy pile to his right. His pale hair fell into his eyes as they roamed the pages of the book, and it looked like he hadn’t slept in days: skin more pallid, with deeper shadows than the last time she’d seen him.

A floorboard under her foot finally made its presence known, and Malfoy glanced up to meet her eyes, face unreadable.

“Looking up more nefarious uses for all your aconite?” Hermione teased, her curiosity still unsated. 

His Adam’s apple bobbed sharply, and his expression turned to a scowl. 

The smile slipped from her own face posthaste. Had Hermione said something wrong? They’d been joking about it just an hour ago, for her. “Erm, sorry—”

He didn’t let her get another word in before answering the original question, still radiating irritation. “No.” He dropped the book he had been reading onto the dishevelled pile with a frustrated exhale and picked up another.

Hermione stepped forward to take a glance at the title of the discarded volume: Matters of Mortality by Roan Q. Riverwells. It had been one she examined herself during her sixth year; terribly unhelpful and had no information about Horcruxes at all, just ancient funeral rituals and their supposed magical effect on the deceased beyond the grave.

“Need any help?” Malfoy was clearly trying to figure out the significance of the diadem. Pity her past self had cleared the castle of any relevant texts at the end of last year.

“No.” Of course, he was too proud to ask. Plus, he knew she probably wouldn’t tell him. 

“Are you alright?” she asked softly. It was hard to tell with how he was sitting, but he looked skinnier too—thin wrists and the lines of his neck jutting out to an unnatural degree. 

His jaw flexed before he answered. “Just grand. Let me get through the last of these, will you?” 

“Malfoy…”

“I’m alright, I promise.” He’d finally softened by the time he glanced back at her, even though he still wasn’t smiling. But his eyes no longer bore through her in barely-disguised pain. “It’s good to see you again. But I really need to look through the last of these before Pince starts her rounds for the day.”

“What time is it?” she asked. 

He opened the next book on the stack and replied, “A time traveller who doesn’t know the time. Tsk tsk.” Hermione made a face until he finally answered, “It’s almost six in the morning,” and went back to the book. 

She picked his wand up from where it sat on the floor next to him, after he’d nodded and waved her off. She made a beeline to the Time section she’d spent a few hours wandering back in third year, and Hermione found herself again facing dear old Eunice Weatherington.

The copy of The Battle of Clatteringshaws: What We Know in the Hogwarts library had not been abridged, and it showed. The volume was two inches wider, but considering the meagre footnote in her other copy, Hermione wasn’t too confident that any of that additional information had anything to do with Barnaby Puckland II or the Trance. She slid the large book off the shelf to place it on a nearby table for the finder spell. 

Searching for ‘Puckland’ returned only the same footnote as before, with a new sentence at the end:

⁷³⁸ The suggestion to simply relocate the creatures affected by the dam came from one Barnaby Puckland II. Puckland claimed to have travelled from a ‘doomed’ timeline in which the fairy and creature armies had devastated the wizard side in rage, destroying Roskeld and killing most of the inhabitants. See his published manuscript snippets for a more detailed synopsis. 

Please, Eunice, no need to mention the title of the manuscript, or where it was published. That might make things too easy.

Malfoy’s wand only gave a sad little wiggle when she tried to use a Point Me spell to locate anything in the library by Barnaby Puckland. Perfect.

Comfort from the familiar setting of the Hogwarts library notwithstanding, this was starting to get old. And Hermione was starting to feel however many hours she’d been awake starting to catch up to her. When was she supposed to sleep? 

“Accio Turnback Trance books,” she incanted with Malfoy’s wand. It worked for Horcruxes back then and it worked again for the Trance. Only two books removed themselves from the shelf, but at least it was two she hadn’t seen before. 

Coleridge-Furnivall’s Spell Almanack, Revised 1763 (with Foreword by Madame Polly-Anna Trench) was an even bigger tome than the unabridged Clatteringshaws book, but not quite as massive as The Pocket Guide to Muggles.

“A happy medium,” Hermione said out loud. If they were here, Harry and Ron would have never stopped taking the piss out of that comment. 

The other volume was a slim book titled Notable British Hearings of 1764 with no author listed, just an illustration of the Wizengamot courtroom. 

She began with the almanack, confident it was the same that Malfoy had mentioned from his family’s personal library. Her finder spell gave her the right page to turn to, which had only the incantations she already knew listed and a few sentences of description:

Used for time travel. Be advised to cast with caution due to upcoming Wizengamot session—legality is subject to change.

That explained the second book. Hermione blew a layer of dust off the cover and opened it gently, not bothering with the finder spell this time. The table of contents listed only three hearings of note that year: Poggsworth v. Clarke, Grenville v. Black, Black, & Black, and Nettlebrooke v. Ministry of Magic.

Considering the hearing she was in search of resulted in the outlawing of an entire spell, Hermione guessed that it must have been the hearing against the Ministry that she was looking for. Once flipped to the back third of the book, she found herself proven right. 

The story of Nettlebrooke v. Ministry of Magic was one of great theatrics. It involved an outraged father of six (Nolan Nettlebrooke) who’s wife (Beatrice Nettlebrooke) had grown tired of motherhood, used the Turnback Trance to go back in time and prevent herself from ever meeting Nolan, created a split timeline in the process, and disappeared into it. The romantic and familial drama wasn’t of much interest to Hermione, considering the main reason for Nolan’s outrage was that he was unable to obtain a divorce and would have to raise the children himself. 

The specifics of the Trance, when the courtroom delved into them, were what she was really after. There weren’t many— the spell seemed to have been a relatively well-known process that didn’t require much explanation ('The Battle of Clatteringshaws was not won on the first try' seemed to be repeated throughout the trial as a poor substitute for any real information that might have been useful to Hermione), though not many had a reason to undergo the difficulty of the Trance. It was on this basis that Nolan Nettlebrooke was proposing the spell be outlawed, since, in his words, it ‘brought about only pain and suffering, especially onto the male sex.’ 

What a tosser. A dark pit of anger was brewing in her stomach towards Nolan, since he seemed to be the sole reason why all knowledge of the Trance had been lost in the centuries between his dodging of fatherly responsibilities and the spell being the last remaining way to defeat something much more monstrous than one's six children.

What Hermione was able to learn, however, confirmed the theory she had been brewing with her experience under the Trance:

The Turnback Trance is an imperfect method of time travel, due to its conflation of time with the personal connection, rather than the physical. Instead of the common pairing of ‘time and place’, the Trance posits that ‘time and person’ is more worthwhile. When utilising memories to travel, a small change in action anywhere in time can result in the caster materialising in places totally unrelated to that memory, even completely overshadowing the connection they hold with their past selves. When travelling to any time without a specific memory attached, casters find themselves in unknown, unpredictable and oftentimes dangerous settings. Overall, the Trance’s imprecise nature leads any rational witch or wizard to agree that it should only be practised by a trained professional, for the sole purposes of research and refinement. 

That meant that as her relationship (her heart gave a little jump against her will as she thought that word) with Malfoy progressed, the Trance started recognising him as a strong personal connection, even stronger than the one she had with her past self—which explained why she’d started showing up in strange places. It was a truly remarkable spell. 

“Hmm… so that means your original self must have been nearby quite often. Good to know,” Malfoy mused, reading over her shoulder. He’d managed to sneak over in total silence, and Hermione jumped at his voice. 

Malfoy squeezed her shoulder in apology, and continued, “Pince is about to start patrolling. We’d better get out of here. Take the books, if you want—”

“Already read the relevant parts,” Hermione replied with much regret, closing Notable British Hearings and sending the three books she had pulled back in their places. They’d still be waiting once she was done with all this mess, and had time to find out why Grenville had been prosecuting Black, Black, & Black. She turned back to Malfoy. “Where are we going?”

He finally managed a smile from behind his tired eyes, dropping his hand to take hers, and said only, “I know a place.”

🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑  

This time when Hermione and Malfoy exited the seventh floor corridor through a door that materialised out of the wall, it wasn’t the Room of Hidden Things that greeted them. Malfoy had apparently been requesting something along the lines of, ‘I need a place to knock about with Cordelia,’ and the room had decided that a giant chamber full of discarded junk wasn’t the best environment.

Instead, they walked into a much smaller accommodation. Apparently sensing that Hermione and Malfoy hailed from differing houses, the Room of Requirement had created a fifth house’s common room, decked out in purple and copper. A friendly blaze crackled in the fireplace, and overstuffed armchairs were pulled round it, a match of Exploding Snap on the floor between. The threadbare chaise lounge was back, violet now, stuffed in between two towering bookshelves that spilled their contents out to stacks on the floor. A trophy case stood on the other side wall, the doors a bit crooked and unable to shut all the way, with duelling tournament medals, academic achievement plaques, and even a Quidditch Cup lining the shelves. Glasses of pumpkin juice and mugs of tea—still steaming—were scattered about on side tables here and there, and several bookbags lay at the feet of armchairs and stools, homework half-finished. It was as if a whole house of students had got up and walked out just a minute ago. 

Above the mantle, which itself was littered with personal trinkets and misplaced wizard chess pieces, hung the house’s emblem. Hermione guffawed out loud when she saw it. In violet-scaled glory, with its eye gazing lifelessly out at the room, was a mounted trout. 

Hermione smiled, feeling some of the ache in her chest dissipate. The common room, though it wasn’t the one she grew up in, had such an air of comfort that she sighed in spite of herself. “It’s perfect.” She took to an armchair immediately, melting into it and finding that the cup of tea next to her was prepared just the way she liked.

“And we spent all that time in a cavern of refuse,” Malfoy grumbled, sitting across from her, “When we could have been lounging about in… what do you suppose the name of this house is?” 

She thought for a moment, then suggested, “Sturgeonfin? Home of Hogwarts’ best swimmers?”

“Brinedepths,” he countered, “For those who excel under pressure.”

“Riverstream—free-thinkers who go against the current for their principles!”

“No, no. We’re sitting in the house where only the smelliest students are sorted… Lowtidal.”

Unable to contain herself, Hermione had to set the teacup down and breathe precariously through her nose to avoid choking with laughter. Malfoy chuckled heartily, and some of the colour returned to his face. The room seemed to think that funny as well, and a line of ornate lettering appeared beneath the purple trout that read Lowtidal House, Est. 1997.

Once their snickering had quieted, and the crackling of the fire was the only sound in the room, they again shared a bout of salacious eye contact. Malfoy looked rather content in the big armchair, a slight smile still on his lips as he gazed at Hermione. How he was able to look at her like that, as if seeing right through her into her very soul, without knowing who she really was, made her stomach churn again. She looked into the fire as a means of dodging the usual guilt that his piercing gaze delivered.

As if reading her mind, Malfoy quietly said, “I apologise for needling you so much about your real identity last time we spoke.”

Though she appreciated the apology, it didn’t help much. It was overly gracious; he should be shaking her by the shoulders and demanding a name. That’s what Hermione likely would have done in this situation—it felt so unfair to him. 

He saw the tremble of her lip and continued, “Really, Cordelia, take as much time as you need.”

“Why the change in heart?” Hermione asked, focusing on the teacup, which never seemed to empty. 

Malfoy tasted the mug next to his chair, and seemed to find it acceptable. “I haven’t seen you in two months; I had a lot of time to think about what I’d say when you showed up again.”

“I wish I had the same privilege. We were in your greenhouse only a few hours ago, for me.” Every new jump to the future, he was waiting around a corner or behind a door. There seemed to be no moment without Malfoy nearby, and his mood when he saw her was as unpredictable as the spell itself. Now that she wasn’t making regular stops back in the dungeon (she stopped at that thought for a moment of thanks that she wasn’t, in fact, imprisoned anymore), there was no time to consider any new developments in their tangled… connection.

“Not sure why you’d desire any time away from yours truly, to be honest,” he said loftily, and she snorted into her tea. 

That wasn’t something she wanted to discuss at the moment, as it was verging a little too close to her current inner turmoil. She changed the subject to a decidedly more dreary one: “I hope you’re not being mistreated too badly with the Carrows in charge.” 

Maybe that was why he looked so poorly. Of course, she had little frame of reference for what he’d looked like during most of his seventh year in the first place, so this could have been business as usual, as far as timelines were concerned. But the more she tried to convince herself that the shadows under his eyes and gaunt cheekbones were probably nothing to worry about, the more she knew that wasn’t the case. He hadn’t looked like this when they’d been taken to Malfoy Manor over Easter holidays. 

He sighed, looking over the mug into the fire. “Hogwarts is a madhouse these days, but I’ll get through it one way or another. As far as anyone important is concerned, I’m just a failed assassin, not a blood traitor. Under the radar, remember?” At that, he winked at her, smirking. 

Hermione felt herself smile a bit more. “That’s right. Under the radar.”

“Failing my mission isn’t exactly on the same level as explicitly denouncing the Dark Lord or anything. I’m not too high in the pecking order anymore, though. I’m just trying to stay out of the way.” He frowned again, studying the tea as if the full cup had any leaves to read. “It doesn’t feel like enough, but… after what he’s already done to me, I think any more insubordination might result in him going after my parents.”

Ignoring the opposing forces that both wanted to shout ‘Stand up to the Carrows, fight them, protect the younger students!’ and ‘Just stay alive until the end of the war, just stay alive!’ Hermione instead asked tentatively, “What did he do to you?”

Malfoy set the teacup down with a clink, but didn’t take his slender fingers or his eyes off of it. “...Torture, obviously.”

“If you don’t want to tell me—”

He shook his head. “You have your secrets, let me have mine.” 

Well, nothing she could say to counter that. Not as Cordelia, anyway.

After some consideration of the past/future, or more accurately, Hermione’s previously lived and anticipated experiences, both of which happened to be 1998 simultaneously, she returned to the topic of getting through a Carrows-led seventh year. “Snape never told me I needed to convert you to the Order’s side. Just that you shouldn’t kill Dumbledore. With that in mind, defecting too early may cause unwanted timeline effects, of which we don’t know the outcome.” He only shrugged in response. “Once the Battle of Hogwarts starts, however, defect all you want. We’ll need as many wands on our side as we can get.”

She was looking off into the distance, lost in thought and only halfway taking in the Go Lowtidal! Quidditch banner posted on the wall behind Malfoy. That’s why she didn’t realise for several seconds that he was staring at her in shock.

“The what of Hogwarts?”

Hermione felt her face heat. “Forget I said anything.” It was harder and harder to not share giant, potentially timeline-altering tidbits with him. Just because he knew she was a time traveller didn’t mean it was safe to disclose absolutely everything. She needed to be more careful.

He rolled his eyes, then stood and picked up his book bag. “I’ll do no such thing, witch. It’ll be something worthwhile to contemplate in History of Magic. See you next time.” Before she knew it, he’d bent and kissed her quickly, and when he pulled away there was more colour in his cheeks than had been all day. 

“You’re going to class? Just skip and stay with me a bit longer.” Hermione never thought she’d say such a thing, but reasoned that a History of Magic class with curriculum written by Amycus Carrow was next to useless anyway. 

Malfoy shook his head. “Stay here for a bit and have some time to think without me.” And before she could protest any further, he’d given another wink and left the Lowtidal common room. 

🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 

Hermione left the armchair and retired to the chaise lounge, staring at the ceiling, which was charmed to look like the surface of a calm sea from below.

It wasn’t difficult to come to several conclusions, as they were glaringly obvious:

Conclusion No. 1: She had feelings for Malfoy. She had feelings for Draco Malfoy. 

Conclusion No. 2: She hated that she had to hide her true identity from Malfoy. It felt like trying to hide her blood status—almost physically uncomfortable. Her mother would have told her to be proud of who she was, of everything that made her Hermione. She was not doing Jean Granger proud at the moment.

Conclusion No. 3: Hiding her true identity might have been the only reason why her task was successful.

Conclusion No. 4: Regardless of any personal growth he’d managed over the last year, Malfoy would never, not in a million years, want Hermione in the way he wanted Cordelia. 

Conclusion No. 5: He deserved to know anyway. 

Hermione let out a deep breath at the last one. Malfoy did deserve to know. It would be the right thing to do, to tell him who she really was.

She moved her fingertips to rest on her lips, where he’d kissed her before he left. It would likely be their last kiss, she realised. Somehow, just as she drifted off into a well-deserved slumber, she began to find peace in that fact.

(Conclusion No. 6: Driving him away, with the wedge of confession, would really be for the best. Their amorous entanglement was built on half-truths and wartime proximity, nothing more.)

Chapter Text

The repetitive susurration of waves, over and over in their gentle murmuring, roused Hermione from a deeper sleep than she’d experienced in ages. She opened her eyes to the violet common room and felt a moment of confusion, as one sometimes does after waking from a much-needed rest in an unfamiliar place. After a second, the reality came rushing back—her previous meeting with Malfoy, his altered appearance, and above all, Hermione’s last-minute decision to finally tell him who she really was, regardless of how it might affect his feelings towards her. 

Malfoy had told her to take her time, but Hermione was done doing so. The guilt at how long she’d been hiding her identity was becoming too much to bear. If she had found herself in Malfoy’s position, Hermione wasn’t sure she’d be able to display the same grace that he had so far. Considering Malfoy’s general attitude wasn’t one normally associated with grace, she wasn’t sure if that notion said more about how much he’d changed or just how obstinate she was. 

Staring at the soft waves cascading over the ceiling of the common room, now appearing much shallower, Hermione sighed. Malfoy’s reaction could be anywhere from a grudging, ‘Thanks for saving my life, Granger, but it’s best we part ways,’ to full-on outrage—at being deceived, at being manipulated, at having snogged one Hermione Granger.

If anything, telling Malfoy her real identity would be a litmus test to determine just how accepting he’d become along the way. Sure, maybe meddling, future-revealing, half-desperate Cordelia Gray was one of the Good Ones, just because she’d saved his life, but what about annoying, know-it-all, six-years-of-hatred-and-petty-rivalry Hermione Granger?

She’d find out soon enough.

Today would include an additional experiment, of sorts. She turned to sit up on the chaise and surveyed the Lowtidal common room, considering the measly knowledge the Hogwarts library had supplied on the long-outlawed spell she’d been utilising for the past several months. Hermione wanted to approach the Trance in a slightly different way than Snape had instructed, this time. (Though he’d never even provided instruction for travelling the direction she was currently headed, so just how valuable was his original instruction at this point?)

Ever since she started travelling to the future, she’d been applying the same technique used to go to the past: picture a memory, recite the spell, open your eyes and after a brief migraine, you’re there! However, as Hermione had questioned so many times before, what was a memory of something that hasn’t happened yet? Moreover, she wasn’t actually a Seer, so how was she supposed to know what would happen in order to picture it? The spell had worked, but was beginning to take a much heavier toll. There must have been a more nuanced approach when travelling forward.

Instead of trying to conjure an image of something that might feasibly happen, Hermione closed her eyes and murmured the Trance incantation with concentrated intent. Once she could make out the blue glow behind her eyelids, she quietly spoke, as if conversing privately with someone sat next to her on the sofa, “Take me to the day that I tell Malfoy who I really am.”

Unsure if she was trying to ask the Turnback Trance as a sort of sentient spell, or speaking directly with Time Itself, Hermione almost thought that her idea hadn’t worked. The blue glow dissipated, there was a slight pressure over her skull that shuddered its way down her neck, and when she opened her eyes, the purple common room was gone, its warmth at once sucked out of her body; she wasn’t even sitting anymore but hadn’t felt any change in position, and the backside of the Three Broomsticks was in front of her like it was nothing.

She was finally learning to work with the Trance, instead of against it. Hermione could have sobbed with joy, and only held back as she wasn’t sure what time of night it was, or who might be within earshot.

Peering out from her vantage point into the main thoroughfare of Hogsmeade made it evident that it was sometime in October. A few jack o’lanterns glimmered feebly from shop windows here and there, and fallen leaves had congregated in corners and underfoot. A cold wind found its way into her robe sleeves and made the skin of her arms into gooseflesh, and a slivered moon in the middle of a clear, black sky only barely lit the street ahead. 

She paused, remembering the Caterwauling Charm that had been over the village last time she’d visited it. Either it hadn’t been cast yet in October 1997, or the Trance had somehow circumvented it. Either way, Hermione knew that caution was of the utmost importance at this point in the war. The meagre holiday cheer, clearly reigned in compared to past years, made that much obvious. 

Before Hermione had a chance to wander anywhere in search of an errant Malfoy, his presence was made known with a screech that clearly emanated from Madame Rosmerta and of which only “—not in my establishment as long as I run it!” was clearly understandable. The front door was shut loudly and several locking spells were cast, and when all was said and done, Malfoy was standing languidly in front of Hermione in her hiding spot. 

He sidled up to her, smelling like alcohol and smiling in a much more lopsided manner than usual. Leaning close, though she tried to playfully-not-so-payfully direct him elsewhere, Malfoy at first puckered his lips as if to plant one on her, then out of nowhere sucked in his cheeks, making a face like a fish.

It was gone with an audible pop from his mouth, and Hermione could only stare in disbelief. The content smile was back as he wavered on his feet a little, and at her silence he simply said, “Why hello, my fishy housemate.”

Malfoy must have been pissed. 

“You look like you’ve had a good night,” Hermione ventured, looking up at him as ‘By the way, I’m Hermione Granger’ died in her throat.

“Better now that you’re here,” he said in a low voice, which would have been moderately sexy if he wasn’t having trouble focusing his eyes and totally flushed from his patronage at the Three Broomsticks. “Though you could have said goodbye.”

“I fell asleep and didn’t know what time it was when I woke up.” And I need to tell you who I really am before I lose my nerve again, she finished in her head.

Malfoy leaned against the side of the building and pulled her with him. “And here I thought you were a time traveller.”

Hermione let herself be pulled and wrinkled her nose at him, chiding, “Not the first time you’ve made that comment. You must be absolutely badgered.”

“If you had to attend this cock-up of a year, you would be too,” he retorted with a lazy eye roll. 

Malfoy made to snatch her hand too, but she wiggled it out of his grasp, avoiding his eyes. If the spell had put her here, it must have been the day she’d tell him, but did he have to be drunk?

“Cordelia…” he started, but didn’t continue, instead leaning his head back as well and closing his eyes.

“Dizzy?”

“Yes, witch.”

“I wanted to tell you who I really am tonight, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea while you’re in this state.” Hermione spoke at his chest, internally grateful that he was the one inhibiting eye contact at this point.

He breathed quickly through his nose but didn’t move otherwise. “I assure you, I am perfectly amenable to that conversation regardless of my personal sobriety.” Posh bastard.

Taking a final inhale of his cedary scent, she stepped away, preparing. “I rather thought you'd be on your way to the pub afterwards, not beforehand...”

"Oh, come off it, Cor-de-li-a," Malfoy incanted the name like he was attempting a spell for the first time. He was looking at her again, grey eyes piercing through her even now. "I'm halfway convinced I already know your sodding identity, so just tell me already.”

She hesitated still, and Malfoy’s face fell drastically. “Unless… shite, are you my mother in disguise and this really is some Oedipus situation…?”

“No!” she gasped.

He gave an exaggerated exhale of relief. “Then whatever you say won’t be nearly as bad.”

After quick consideration, Hermione decided that immediately after that horrifying idea would probably be the best moment for the only-slightly-less-horrifying truth of the matter. 

With a final deep breath and a silent plea that he might not do anything too drastic, she held her hand out for his wand, to which Malfoy responded by patting his trouser pockets in search of it for several seconds before finally fishing the wand out and pressing it into her palm. At least with his wand in her hand, he wouldn’t be able to cast anything too powerful once the truth had been revealed.

And revealed it was. With a few simple glamours, the giant scar was passably covered and her hair was back to its normal length for a few moments. No need to say anything—she was clearly Hermione Granger. 

It was obvious from the way the colour drained from Malfoy’s previously flushed face. It was obvious from the slight choking noise he made as if trying to clear his throat and failing. It was obvious how his arm immediately fell from its position where he’d been reaching out to her for some reason. 

Hermione clutched the hawthorn wand tighter as the glamours faded and the slight shimmer of magic between them dissipated, leaving only empty air and a painful silence. As if the universe itself sensed the chilly tension, it began to snow, so lightly that the flakes didn’t even stick to the ground once they hit.

Without even taking his wand back, Malfoy slowly turned around and began to walk away, turning the corner of the building towards the main thoroughfare. 

Not a reaction Hermione had prepared for. 

She stood, staring at the space he’d just left in front of her, breath misting in the air, and felt supremely stupid. She hated herself just a little for feeling a pang of sadness. It was her own fault, really. Hermione really had no business mixing up potential romances with former schoolyard tormentors in the middle of trying to change the fate of the whole war. It was silly to even suppose there was even a chance for anything to develop between them now Malfoy knew her real identity. Utter fantasy, really. It was for the best that this entanglement, this tryst, this embroilment, got nipped in the bud before it caused a catastrophic temporal para—

That awful train of thought was interrupted by a pleasant repetitive sound. As she tried to identify its source, Hermione realised it was the sound of Malfoy laughing. And it didn’t even sound like he was laughing at her, even. 

He rounded the other corner of the pub, behind her. Before she could even get another word out, Malfoy had taken his wand out of her hand and simply replied, “Granger, if anyone was fated to go on this death-wish of a time travel mission, it was you.”

“You’re not angry? I thought you’d be—well, I didn’t know what to expect,” she admitted, now that everything was on the table.

“Angry? No. If anything, I feel much more sober. But I almost certainly knew who you were already.” He smirked, the same way he would if he’d figured out a particularly tough Potions recipe before she had. 

Now that was a reaction Hermione definitely hadn’t prepared for. “You knew? This whole time?”

He went back to leaning on the wall, facing her now. “Not this whole time. But I had my suspicions. You weren’t nearly as sneaky as you seem to think you were, Granger.”

Every time he said her surname, her real surname, a spark of joy ignited in Hermione’s stomach. Another weight off her shoulders—it was intoxicating.

She barely managed to keep up conversation for want of jumping into his arms, but figured that might want to wait until she was sure they were still on the same page. “Oh, really? And what tipped you off?” 

Malfoy clicked his tongue and exaggeratedly stroked his chin. “Where to begin? I certainly had an inkling as soon as you said you were Muggleborn. How many other uppity, curly-haired, know-it-all Muggleborns are there in the world?”

Hermione shot him a look.

“Hopefully few,” he finished with another teasing smile.

“That’s all?” 

He raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. What else? You constantly refer to my classmates by surname, but Potter and Weasley by first name. You threw a fit over having a dry history textbook relieved off your person. The very way you pouted when I put you in Slytherin colours. If anyone could master wandless casting in their spare time it would probably be you—”

She scoffed. “Okay, point taken.” As if her imprisonment could be considered idle spare time!  

“—and, really, it seemed like you almost wanted me to figure it out, Granger,” Malfoy continued, spinning his wand around in an impressive display of dexterity that he hadn’t seemed to possess five minutes ago. “You gave me a book with handwritten notes in the margins. I went from the chapter on Muggle spaceflight and reading your cheeky comment that wizardkind could have easily achieved the same feat if only they cared about exploring the moon rather than just looking at it through a telescope, to marking over your Astronomy essay on lunar phases affecting potion potency. The handwriting was strangely recognizable…”

“I said point taken, Malfoy,” Hermione countered. “You didn’t mention any of this to the other Hermione, did you?”

The wand twirling stopped immediately. “The other Granger? I assumed there was only one—and that she’d stop throwing me nasty looks over her cauldron at some point after losing a duel with a pair of scissors.” He tugged on one of the short, errant curls left by Snape’s handiwork.

She scoffed. “This isn’t your run of the mill Time-Turner situation. We’re both Hermione, but not the same Hermione.” That was about as close as she could both understand and explain it. “If you so much as mentioned anything to her—”

He looked offended, brushing a few snowflakes off his robes. “I did no such thing. I have the wherewithal to only approach when you look like this, not like her.”

“—it could ruin everything. I still have no idea if any contact between us will result in a temporal paradox. Eunice Weatherington wasn’t any help, and I couldn’t find any Puckland manuscripts in the Hogwarts library, which could be the key to learning more about this mess I’ve found myself in—”

“I’ll look through the Malfoy archives if you’d like. Barney Puckland?” Malfoy asked, and if she could get any more grateful about how much he’d changed, she did at the mention of his ancestral library. 

“Barnaby Puckland the Second,” she clarified, and after a beat added, “Thank you, Malfoy.”

“Anytime, Hermione.”

He was still leaning sideways against the back of the pub, that slight blush back as he realised what he’d just said, but Malfoy didn’t look away, and Hermione didn’t want him to.

She very nearly said ‘I’d prefer Granger for now, thanks’ but decided against it, and Malfoy (or Draco, she supposed?) changed the subject as if avoiding the obvious tension.

“Is this all a glamour, too?” He moved his hand to the scar at the side of her neck, but didn’t touch her skin. “Or real? Your hair?”

“It’s all real.” Hermione grasped his hand out the air before she had even registered the action. It felt natural, and Malfoy didn’t protest, thankfully. “Don’t make me go into specifics, but the war ended very, very badly in the you-killed-Dumbledore timeline.”

He pulled her a step closer and replied, “If the Order resorted to sending a teenage witch on a time travel mission with no instructions other than ‘convince Draco not to kill Dumbledore,’ it must have been fairly hopeless.”

“Quite hopeless,” Hermione agreed, tilting her head up as she got closer to him, heart racing. “But they seem to be sending teenage witches and wizards on death-wish missions fairly often these days.”

Malfoy exhaled sharply but only added, “Are they ever.”

She wanted to pull him close and find out how different it felt to kiss him as Hermione, for once, but she refrained, unsure of where exactly they stood (beyond ‘in the alley behind the Three Broomsticks,’ of course.)

Snowflakes were finally sticking to where they fell, and as if reading her mind, Malfoy suddenly swept her into a hug, pressing her close to his chest, and said into her hair, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Hermione melted into the embrace, internally sighing at finally being in his arms again after being convinced she never would again. “Malfoy—”

“Hermione, I was beyond rotten to you. The fact that you’re still standing here is a testament to your forgiveness and patience, and it’s so much more than I deserve after how I used to treat you,” he continued, clearly having thought about this moment for a while. 

“You’ve changed,” she responded. They were still embracing, as if a face to face conversation of this content would be too difficult. “I don’t know how, or if it was all my doing, but you’ve changed, and that alone is deserving of forgiveness.”

“You saved my life, after everything I put you through,” Malfoy said, his voice catching. “I’m not sure I even deserved that, but thank you. Really, thank you. A hundred apologies won’t be enough to repay that.”

Hermione only nodded, her head still in the crook of his shoulder. 

In a total change of topic and tone, Malfoy took a deep breath and continued in a notably lower voice, “You smell so good, Hermione. Like almond and ginger and apricot.”

Ignoring how specific that was, she awkwardly replied, “You smell like Firewhiskey.”

A crack of apparition sounded from the main street of Hogsmeade, and the last thing Hermione saw before invoking the Trance was Malfoy’s grey eyes and cautiously drawn wand. In the space between two times, she realised that he’d never divulged his own secret—but she had a feeling she already knew what it was.

Chapter Text

Hermione hadn’t given a specific command to the Trance, beyond a vague ‘I need to be somewhere safe,’ so the jump forward left her head throbbing and vision blurred with pain yet again. As the spell’s hold slackened, Hermione took a steadying breath, looked around at the room she’d been placed in, and realised she had been there before.

It was the travel parlour at Malfoy Manor. Octagonal, three fireplaces and an ostentatious double door dotted alternate walls, with cathedral windows overlooking grey, snow-covered courtyards between. The ceiling was vaulted, and each step she took echoed. The bundles of roses, sweet peas, and foxgloves that had adorned every mantle at the Eradication Gala were gone, replaced by a sad bit of holly, nary an enchanted butterfly in sight. 

Just as her headache had gone, and the tall windows had begun to draw her attention as a means of deducing what time of day it might be, there was a clearing of throat near the door, and Malfoy was again taking in the sight of her, this time stick-straight and sober. 

“You alerted the wards. You’re lucky father is away on business and mother is on a social call,” he intoned, face near unreadable.

Hermione didn’t know what to say. “Guess so,” she finally replied, internally thanking the Trance for depositing her in Malfoy Manor at a time that wouldn’t cause a ward-related uproar. 

Malfoy hadn’t moved from his spot at the doorway. “Hermione, I apologise for my indecency last time we spoke. I was quite inebriated.”

“Oh. Erm… that’s okay.” Hermione didn’t quite know what the proper response was to such a posh apology. Really, his hug, though unexpected, had been the best part of the night. 

He motioned for her to come closer. “Mother would be remiss if I didn’t offer a tour of the Manor to my houseguest.”

This stiff, proper Malfoy was a little unnerving, but she followed his lead anyway. The travel parlour opened into a grand entry hall with a staircase that swerved elegantly into the centre of the room. She could just imagine the pureblood rejoicing and Death Eater merrymaking that had taken (or would take?) place there at the Gala, but pushed the thought from her mind. 

Slightly monotone, Malfoy showcased each giant tapestry that hung in between ever more cathedral windows, whose embroidered animals jumped to and fro in excitement at having someone look at them. Waxwings, fieldfares, and starlings fluttered from branch to branch in a snowy triptych that put the outside world to shame in wintertime cheer. Fawns, does, and enormous eighteen-pointed bucks regarded Hermione coolly from their meadow scene, swaying their heads to watch her go by. Underwater, a sturgeon thrashed about, surrounded by abundant cod and haddock. 

Malfoy had stopped talking and stood, watching her. Hermione caught his eye and realised it might have been her turn to say something on the tour evidently scripted by Narcissa Malfoy. “They’re beautiful. How long have these been in your family?”

That was apparently not why he’d stopped with the narration, as he replied, “It was only a shopkeeper. In Hogsmeade. You didn’t have to leave.”

Most of the hunting dogs in the forested tapestry had gathered in the foreground near her, sniffing for treats, before Hermione quietly replied, “You know I can’t stay very long each time.” 

“Why not? You slept in the Come and Go Room.” He didn’t look angry, just blank. 

Hermione thought of Beatrice Nettlebrooke, who disappeared into a new timeline without her husband. Surely it wasn’t impossible to stop jumping forward in time, to just stay where she’d landed. Living arrangements could be made, aliases could be reforged so she wouldn’t have to hide her face, potential relationships could blossom… but the nagging fear of Changing Too Much and Trying To Survive The Worst Of It kept her from considering that option. 

No, it would be better to minimise the time spent in this timeline, now that the main change had taken place, until the war was won and it was clear her mission had been a success. At that point, she’d confront the much more abstract, underlying fear of having to totally abandon her identity and become Cordelia Gray, first of her name: the beginning of a sad, sad family line. Or perhaps worse… keep living on simply as Hermione 2. 

“You’re lucky I’m not just jumping to the Battle of Hogwarts instead.” And depending on how their visit went this time, now that he wasn’t happily drunk, she wasn’t above doing just that.

“I’m assuming you won’t tell me when this so-called battle will take place?” he asked, turning to inspect the sturgeon.

“No,” Hermione replied concisely, and turned back to the hunting dogs. 

“At least you get to skip right to the end. Now that I know there’s some big final battle at Hogwarts, I jump every time someone puts their quill down a little too hard.” There was the Malfoy she knew, not the stiff and rehearsed tour guide. 

He had joined her at the forest scene and reached out to scratch it on each of the dog’s little woven heads, which made them start running around the composition gleefully, tails wagging. 

Hermione watched them as an excuse not to look at Malfoy. “I only get to skip it because I already lived through it once. And trust me, a seventh year at Hogwarts is a piece of cake compared to what I was getting up to. Don’t make me do it all again just to spend time with you.”

“Make you—?”

“I want to, but I can't. It was hard enough the first time,” she rushed out, focusing hard on the tapestry. 

“You want to?”

At her forlorn glance, Malfoy, surprised, said, “Let’s find somewhere to sit down.”

The drawing room was resolutely rejected by Hermione for reasons she couldn’t tell him (“Not there, I’m not going in there,”) and after only a bit of ill-placed encouragement from Malfoy (“It’s just a heap of stuffy furniture, Granger. No giant snakes anymore,”) it was decided that they would sit in the upstairs parlour, but not without comment from Hermione about how dreadfully sad it was that some households only had one parlour, and on the ground floor besides, to which Malfoy only made a face in response.

Once they were settled in the marigold-coloured room that Mulciber had met (or would meet?) his end in, which was a much nicer memory of Malfoy Manor for Hermione, though she avoided sitting in the armchair from before (or later?), Malfoy spoke. “Again, I apologise for accosting you a few months back. Drunkenness aside, it’s important to me that you know how sorry I am for mistreating you… before.”

“I understand. Thank you.” Then, she had her own apology to make: “I apologise for lying to you about my identity. I feel horrid. You didn’t deserve that—you must feel so deceived.” 

“All is forgiven.” With a wave of his hand, he dismissed it as if she was apologising for being a few minutes late.

There was a beat of silence as she gazed at the fateful crystal chandelier, Hermione’s voice came out quieter than she meant it: “You don’t hate me?” 

He paused for a moment, looked at her as if they were sharing a private joke, then replied, “No.”

Really, with the frequency and tenderness he’d been using Hermione, like it was his new favourite word, it wasn’t a surprise that he didn’t. This new Malfoy, or Draco even, sometimes surly and dry though he could be, seemed as if he didn’t have a drop of malice for her left in his body. 

He went on: “You don’t hate me?”

“No.” It came out before she even thought about the answer, automatic. Of course she didn’t hate him. She wasn’t even sure she had ever hated him, even when he had been a rude, spiteful, gloating, rich bully. Back then, Hermione might have disliked, resented, or pitied him, but not hated. Especially not now.

The two of them looked at each other in half-surprise, saying nothing. There was a pleasant sense of air finally being cleared, confessions being made between lines, and tenuous bonds being strengthened. 

More reassurances tumbled out of Hermione’s mouth on their own: “I already told you, I wasn’t leading you on. Beyond what I had to conceal out of necessity’s sake, everything between us was genuine.”

His mouth turned up into a smirk. “I know.”

Ignoring that bit of arrogance, she continued, “And there’s no way you would have been open to my ideas if I was truthful from the beginning.”

The smirk was gone, replaced by a more contemplative look that would have had even the most house-proud Gryffindor girl swooning. “Sadly, I think that’s accurate. I understand the need for an alias.”

She looked away, face heated. “Still, I’m sorry for being deceitful, Draco.”

There was a quiet intake of breath beside her, before he cleared his throat and repeated, “Forgiven.” He adjusted his perfectly pressed shirt, then cleared his throat again. “You saved my life. In this case, the ends justify the means, I think.”

Their eyes met again. The yellow walls were reflecting off his white-blonde hair, making it seem brighter than it was. His face was still pale, paler than it had been in school, and faint shadows marked under his eyes, but nothing like how unhealthy he’d seemed in the Hogwarts library. Just as Hermione was about to ask the question that had been burning on her tongue for their last few visits, Draco took her hand on the settee between them. 

Like always, his hand was soft, and warm, and grasped hers with derision. “Is this okay?” he asked, intently searching her face as if he’d find the answer there. 

Hermione smiled in spite of herself. “More than okay.”

Draco smiled right back. “And this?”

Before he’d even leaned all the way over to her, she’d met him in the middle for a long, still kiss. Their first kiss as Hermione and Draco—Cordelia forgotten. 

He smelled like cedar and chamomile tea, and radiated warmth. As the kiss was broken, and they pulled apart like shy preteens, she half-suspected he could hear how fast her heart was beating. 

“Absolutely okay,” she answered. “Even better now that I’m not lying to you about my identity.”

Draco squeezed her hand where it still lay in his. Twice, like a heartbeat. “Good.”

“Your turn.” Hermione said.

He cocked his head. “For…?”

“Your secret. I finally shared mine, now it’s your turn.”

He slid his hand away, and turned to stare hard at the double doors they’d entered through. “Oh. That.” Nostrils flaring with barely-contained emotion, he only furrowed his brows together. “I don’t know if…”

He’d have to confess himself, even if Hermione was 95% sure she knew what he was about to say, so she said nothing and only nodded in encouragement. 

“I haven’t even said it out loud yet.” Draco mused, as if speaking to himself. “But I suppose that’s not exactly tenable.”

At her silence, he started, “Back when my father was put in Azkaban, the Dark Lord wanted to use me in his place. Killing Dumbledore was the first test of my loyalty and fortitude, as you know.” 

Draco paused, the hand that drew away from hers opening and closing into a fist, thumb roughly rubbing over fingers. His Adam’s apple bobbed harshly before he continued. “That’s when he gave me my mark. Not the Dark Mark. Worse.” 

With shaking hands, he slowly began to roll up the sleeve of his left arm. Where Hermione had long ago expected to see a burned and blackened tattoo, instead lay the raised red scars of a barbaric animal bite. A werewolf bite. 

“It was just a warning. It wasn’t on a full moon. ‘Don’t fuck it up like your father, or the next one will be,’” he said quietly, that fist still opening and closing. He turned back to her, as if it was easier to look at her than at his own arm. His expression was distraught, like it was the first time he’d really seen the mark. 

“It was hard enough with the first bite. The full moon still affects you—horrible cravings that nothing satiates, insomnia, or hours of nightmares if you manage to get to sleep. Then you came along,” he added, as if her arrival had made anything better in that regard. “You can see why I was… let’s say, resistant to abandoning my task.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione breathed. It was a miracle she’d even convinced him in the first place.

“Not only would I be this… this… monster,” Draco forced out, shutting his eyes tight, “I’d be totally on my own once my father disowned me for it. I thought he’d rather die with no heirs and end the family line than have a—a werewolf for a son.” 

“You’re not a monster,” she intoned, “And clearly your parents didn’t disown you.” Considering they were sitting in the upstairs parlour of the manor. 

“No,” he turned to face her again. “Actually, that’s only because of you.” 

“Really?” A warning pang of panic rose in her chest at the idea that Malfoy had mentioned her in any form to his parents.

He turned his arm so the scar was less visible. “Really. When it was ‘kill Dumbledore or become a werewolf’, the choice was easy. No matter how I personally felt about the Headmaster or my henceforth initiation into the organisation that landed my own father in jail, headed for the Kiss, that choice was an easy one to make. Once you started bothering me consistently,” he glanced back at her, “I started to doubt that organisation a bit. Just enough to give me pause. Then, the choice changed to ‘become a werewolf or die painfully, guaranteed, no outs.’ That gave me a lot more pause.

“And despite my parents’ dutiful education on this matter, how good little purebloods shouldn’t want anything to do with a half-breed, how anyone of our status would rather die than associate with one of them, let alone become one, I found out that when faced with the actual, incoming, real life consequences that amounted to, ‘werewolf or death,’ I decided, obviously, on the former.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared into the Turkish carpet.

“And your parents sympathised with that?” 

“Mother has always trusted Seers.”

“Draco—”

“I know, I know, you’re not a Seer.” He huffed out a little laugh. “But they don’t know that. You showed me your memory of my death in the Pensieve. A little adjustment of my memory of seeing it then, changing the background to a Ministry office, dressing you up with a bit of ‘Inner eye, guide me,’ and all that nonsense—I showed that to my parents and they both begrudgingly agreed that, yes, they’d rather have a werewolf for a son than a dead one. And that vision, memory, whatever you want to call it, solidified that I hadn’t failed the mission out of disloyalty to the Dark Lord, or personal convictions about Dumbledore. As far as they’re concerned, it was simply out of self-preservation.”

She found herself smiling at the thought. Narcissa Malfoy, trusting Hermione Granger’s prophecies. “Not what I would have expected from them.”

“Hah. I know. But apparently the lack of additional heirs is quite compelling,” he joked, rolling his sleeve back down. “They aren’t happy. Especially Father. Family dinner is tense, to say the least. Forbid me from telling anyone. The first few months, writing, ‘Draco, if your affliction is distressing you again, the summer house is ready.’ Now, five moons in, they just leave me to handle it. Better to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Hermione sighed in sympathy. “Easy for them to do.”

Draco nodded absently. “Less for me.”

“Five moons in?” She quickly counted the months, or her best approximation of them. “You were bitten on the full moon in July? In the gardens, while you were tending that aconite?”

Another bitter chuckle. “Yes. After you’d left. After you’d correctly guessed why I had been growing it.”

“Why did they wait so long? After Dumbledore was killed in… what, May? June?” It was becoming hard to keep the timeline straight. “And so late into the night?”

“I think he just got his kicks, letting me think for a moment he was going to spare me. He enjoys doing things like that,” Draco replied, his voice so forlorn and ragged that Hermione wanted to cry. They were both just child soldiers in a war that had begun before they were born.

He let out a deep breath, closed his eyes momentarily, then turned to her again. “Felt good to finally tell someone.”

She smiled sadly. “Good.”

Tentatively taking her hand again, his face fell as he asked softly, “Is this still okay? Now that I’m—”

“Yes,” she replied, squeezing his back. “I already knew, anyway.”

Draco’s mouth fell open. “You knew?”

Oh, how good it felt to finally return that punishing shock! Hermione laughed at his surprise, and replied, “Not this whole time. But I had my suspicions. You weren’t nearly as sneaky as you seem to think you were, Draco.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “That was uncalled for, witch.” But he was smiling in spite of himself. “I don’t suppose you want to share your findings? The elder Malfoys would be grateful so I don’t accidentally let the secret slip and sully the family name.”

“You must have referenced your life-changing, worse than death, terror-inducing, father-shaming punishment a hundred times,” she teased, “and the most obvious use for aconite is Wolfsbane—you don’t need to be a Seer to put two and two together.” 

“Fair. Not many other people nag me so regularly about how I better not assassinate Dumbledore, or else, so I feel like we’re in the clear on secret slippage going forward.” 

“As for Professor Lupin—as long as Snape isn’t personally brewing your Wolfsbane and making a huge stink about it in public, and no boggarts expose your worst fear to be the full moon, you’ll be fine,” Hermione finished, internally proud of doubling her personal Werewolf Detection best. 

“Ah, yes, Professor Lupin.” Draco coloured and sank back into himself. “Been meaning to write to him. Mother and Father had to be two of the biggest reasons he was fired—I need to apologise for that.”

“Maybe he’d have some advice for you, as well.” She couldn’t imagine a heartfelt apology from Draco, with the obvious restitution that he’d joined Lupin in unwilling lycanthropy, wouldn’t inspire some sympathy and perhaps a sort of mentorship. She wanted that for Draco, at least, and Lupin was a kind man. 

He looked away. “Maybe.” Before she could respond, he’d risen and moved on: “Let’s continue the tour, Hermione. This parlour isn’t even the most richly decorated, and I know you can’t wait to deliver more cutting jabs about the others.”

🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 

Hermione’s favourite place on Narcissa’s tour of the manor thus far was the portrait hall, and not just because Draco had steered her down it with a steady hand on her back. Leading from Ground Floor Parlour to Formal Dining Room, and flanking both Distinguished Guest Suites, the hall was filled on both sides by white-blonde, pointy-cheeked Malfoys of yore on the day they came of age or married. Each gilded frame included a nameplate on the bottom, with dates of birth and death, not dissimilar to the Black family tapestry, which she knew Malfoy also appeared on. 

Starting with the oldest portraits first, their residents spoke in difficult-to-understand Old English, or sometimes French, as far as she could tell. But all of his ancestors, language barrier notwithstanding, seemed delighted to see Draco, and greeted Hermione with the much pomp and circumstance, to be expected of their high standing. 

“This is about when they started speaking understandable English,” her guide mentioned, as they approached a span of three sisters, named Marguerite, Matilda, and Magdelena. 

“Cousin Draco!” They chorused, all rosy-cheeked and jewellery-clad. 

“How lovely to see thee!”

“Thou lookest well.”

“Thou hast not visited in ages.”

“This is my friend, Hermione,” he introduced her, and after sufficient hellos and how-doth-thee-fares were exchanged, he continued, “Tell me, cousins, what qualities must a potential Malfoy spouse possess?” 

An easy question, apparently. The three sisters must have been extensively schooled in how to choose the best mate. 

“Well-connected and -read.”

“Rich in knowledge and influence.”

“Versed in the management of a large estate.”

“Educated and skilled in magic—all kinds.”

“Respectful, pliant, and compromising.”

“Uncannily handsome.” And that sent the three of them into a round of polite giggles.

“And what of their blood status?” he questioned.

The three blondes went quiet, looking amongst themselves. Then the beauty clad in royal purple, Magdalena, spoke up, “We come from a very pure lineage… but Grandmere Cécile weren a Muggle, and father betrothed mother only six days after their first meeting.” 

Draco turned back to Hermione. “See? It barely even registered at the time. Of course, some relatives have their own personal thoughts on blood status, and some really live up to the modern Malfoy name, but as far as I’ve been able to tell, Grandfather Abraxas was the keystone. He made it his personal mission to embody the worst of Salazar Slytherin’s convictions and aimed to drag the rest of the family with him. Don’t talk to him, he’s the one who looks insane as well as acting it.” 

“How can it be that all your family had been sorted into Slytherin then? If your ancestors put so much less significance on blood purity?”

They continued to wander the generations, bidding the three sisters farewell, as Draco answered, “Well, I’m not sure if a Muggle themselves has ever married into the family, at least not in any of the portraits I’ve seen… like Maggie said, their mother was a half-blood. If we only married full purebloods, we’d be as inbred as the Gaunts.”

“I suppose.”

“But that doesn’t mean those ancient Malfoys were totally separated from Muggles. You remember the tapestries in the great hall?”

“The hunting dogs liked you, too,” Hermione replied.

He smirked. “All the artwork likes me. Those tapestries are all Muggle animals, if you noticed. Apparently, we used to mingle, trade, and cavort all over the place with high-class Muggles before the Statute of Secrecy. But Abraxas and father would deny, deny, deny that ever happening.”

“Why? Just a walk through your portrait hall would disprove anything they’d said.” 

With a shrug, he replied. “There’s a reason it’s off limits during social events. I used to think my mother was just embarrassed of her wedding portrait.”

They came to a gnarled great uncle or some such whose nameplate read Horatio Malfoy. “Good evening, young Draco,” the portrait said, voice gravelly and stiff. 

“Oh, my,” Hermione breathed, feeling like the air had just been sucked out of her chest. Horatio’s left leg was a gilded, jewelled facsimile from the hip down, artfully showcased by the portrait’s framing, and his left hand where it exited the richly embroidered sleeve was badly burnt. The divots and whirls of the damaged skin, silvery-white where the scar was thickest, looked exactly like her own scar. 

“Fiendfyre,” Horatio explained, noticing where her eyes landed. “Mine own brother, curse him, missed the Manticore on the first cast and got me instead.” 

“I’m so sorry,” she said, and tentatively turned her head so he could see. “Me too.”

Horatio nodded sagely. “It takes a strong will to survive.” 

“Yes, it does,” she agreed, nodding back as Draco ushered her along. She’d needed a strong will to survive the actual imprisonment and literal execution, but Hermione supposed the Fiendfyre burn had been difficult, too. 

“That’s how I recognized your scar way back when,” he intoned, waving at another relative with ease. “In Diagon Alley, before first year. That was you, wasn’t it?” 

Hermione stopped short. “You remember that!?”

He laughed, and she could hear the similarities to Marguerite’s. “Of course I do. I spent the first few years of my life asking Horatio to retell the story. I’d never seen a real person with that burn, only portraits. It scared the hell out of me. Once I found out you were a time traveller, it made a lot more sense. For a few years I thought you had been a premonition, or something. A harbinger. Turns out it was something much worse.”

“Hey!”

They’d reached the end of the hall, and two portraits remained. First, the aforementioned marriage portrait of Lucius and Narcissa, in which Lucius was in the most ostentatious pointed cap and furred robes, while Narcissa stood to his left in a billowing meadow-green gown, her long blonde hair loose and cascading, their hands delicately intertwined. Springtime light filtered in from a western window, and a four poster loomed behind, dressed in scarlett. A grand crystal chandelier, not unlike the one that had fallen on Mulciber, visually interrupted their gazes, and neither subject looked at the other, choosing instead to gaze off at portrait occupants nearby. 

“April, 1980,” Draco read from the nameplate, “Union of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy and Ophiuchus Narcissus Black.” 

Hermione read the nameplate of the last portrait (stiff, resigned look in the subjects’ eye, now knowing that it had been painted on the day he came of age, shortly before the failure of his mission and the night that would change his life forever): “Draco Lucius Malfoy, born 5 June 1980.”

They made eye contact, and Draco chuckled, “Another few reasons the portrait hall is usually off-limits.”

Chapter Text

The remaining tour of the manor, in which Draco surreptitiously shooed Hermione away from the enormous library doors (“You’ll see it eventually, but we both know we don’t have time for that today. And don’t even think about making another split timeline just to go read.”), through cold winding hallways & countless empty, undecorated parlours, past hedge garden paintings devoid of any distant ancestors (whether they were meant to be that way, or the occupants had left their frames, she didn’t know), ended in what Draco casually called, ‘the Heir Apparent Wing,’ as if that was a totally normal and everyday part of anyone’s house. 

“Does that mean there’s an Heir Presumptive Wing?” Hermione asked, only half joking.

“Yes,” Draco replied in all sincerity, “And it’s a miracle Father didn’t stick me there after recent… developments.”

Despite the hoity-toity name, the Heir Apparent Wing seemed to be more of an extravagant suite, it's only winglike attribute being that it branched off the main building at a diagonal, affording a beautiful view of the garden greenhouse in which tiny purple-flowered stems could be seen even from the grand bay window that stood opposite the double doors to Draco’s wing. The suite was wallpapered in a handsome dark violet, the ceiling sporting crown moulding and carved medallions rich with detail, and each piece of filigreed furniture was a deep, elegant mahogany fit for a palace. 

The entry was a sitting room of sorts, but the settee and armchairs on which the Heir Apparent was meant to sit had been moved to the back wall, and the main space had been repurposed into a well-stocked potion-brewing workstation. The worktop, in the same mahogany, sat in the middle of the room, its lower level stacked with carefully labelled jars of the most common and widely used ingredients, while shelves of everything else, even ingredients Hermione had only read about in books many levels above the one she had been learning at the time, stretched to the ceiling on every wallspace that didn’t have a door or window. 

A fitting centrepiece was the set of three brass cauldrons, all simmering happily underneath their stasis charms. The combined scent of the herbal Dreamless Sleep and acrid Wolfsbane was nearly enough to overtake the intensely personal, somehow almost embarrassingly familiar smell of cedar. Of Draco. 

What made it worse was the sight of the richly adorned four-poster through the open northern door. Hermione hadn’t been expecting the tour to lead them right to Draco’s personal quarters, and she felt herself blush uselessly. As much as she wanted nothing more than to explore Draco and Hermione, and forget about the awkward obstruction of Cordelia, she did feel quite physically worn, probably due to the dungeon, torture, and execution that had so recently come to pass. She sank into a discarded armchair and did not have the fortitude to rise and make an excuse to leave again.

Eyes closed, Hermione listened to the pleasant stirring and rummaging noises of Draco checking on his potions. As the quiet of the stasis charm returned, she let out a deep breath and ventured, “The Heir Apparent Wing is beautiful. If I lived here I’d never leave.”

He looked gratified, but only replied, “It’s quite convenient for brewing,” as he settled on the sofa next to her. 

“Might I have some water?” Hermione asked, as if the long-awaited feeling of a safe place to rest suddenly awoke the more inconvenient feelings of continued existence from their survival mode; namely hunger, thirst, and fatigue.

Wordlessly, Draco conjured a glass and filled it with water for her, then seeing how fast Hermione drank, replenished it and asked, “Would you like something to eat as well?” She only nodded, and he stood. “I’ll surprise you.”

Words were exchanged in the hallway that only served to sour Hermione’s mood considerably, and not just because her last meal had been only a bowl of rice pudding, days ago.

“Just hiding something doesn’t make it better, you know,” she said from her seat in the corner once he’d returned. 

Draco’s face was unreadable. “I wasn’t hiding anything. Vitsy doesn’t like talking with company—it was for her sake.”

She stood despite her weariness. “It’s not right. They deserve a living wage, not enslavement.”

He rolled his eyes, the git. “They’re not slaves, Hermione.”

“They can’t leave unless you free them. I think that’s the very definition of a slave, Young Master Malfoy.”

“Then you take that up with my father. I’ve already been solidly placed on his bad side as the family disappointment for the rest of my life. And you’ve ruined the surprise.” 

Indeed she had, but at that moment the steaming platter of boeuf bourguignon, Camembert with wild mushroom fricassee, and cauliflower gratin that Hermione had overheard Draco requesting of the house-elf appeared on the potions worktop, expertly avoiding the bubbling cauldrons, and she decided to revisit the topic at a later date. But it would be revisited. 

Ever the gentleman, Draco offered and poured her a glass of nymph-made Red Burgundy to pair, and she nearly cried with happiness. The dungeon meals were paltry rations compared to the sumptuous meal before her. Thankfully, Draco also poured himself a glass of wine, and politely ate a few bites as well, as if to not call attention to her appetite. 

“That was delicious. Please pass on my compliments,” Hermione said once the meal was finished, deciding that she would personally thank the elves of Malfoy Manor at the first chance she got, and revisit the topic of their livelihood once the war had been solidly won. If anything, that notion only added to the determination to win the damn thing. 

“I will,” Draco replied, vanishing the platter but keeping the bottle. “Vitsy is very well-versed in French cuisine. You should try her Sunday morning crêpes.” 

At his glance, Hermione’s heart raced as if she was fourteen and getting to whatever base with a boy for the first time again. The sliver of Draco’s bed visible through the door, the second glass of wine she was pouring herself, the mention of Sunday morning crêpes. She felt an odd sort of emotional mixture, half curious for more and half out of her depth, and the way he was holding the stem of the wine glass, his effortless flick to light the candelabras as the sun left them in late afternoon darkness, the slight wine-stain on his lips, all did nothing to help the situation. 

“I don’t suppose I could take a bath?” The question left her mouth before she had a chance to consider the implications. In an effort to remedy that, Hermione added, “Considering the last time I had a chance was sometime next year. Three months in a dungeon really leaves the hair a bit lacklustre…” 

He stood, poured the last of the wine into his own glass, and gestured to the bathroom door. “By all means, make yourself comfortable. Towels are in the armoire.” He was an infuriatingly good host, but she saw the self-satisfied smirk on his face before he turned away. 

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Hermione helped herself to a fluffy white robe folded alongside the towels after her bath, not yet wanting to get back into the overly-Transfigured clothes that she’d once been burned half to death in, but made sure the waist tie was double-knotted and secure before exiting the luxurious ensuite. 

She crossed the sitting/potions room to the other door, and collapsed on the four-poster next to Draco where he sat on top of the covers, reading The Newe Werwulf’s Guide to Accept-ance. 

“Thanks for your hospitality,” she ventured, still not sure where she wanted the night to lead.

He placed the book pages-down on the nightstand, and leaned over Hermione, placing a long, slow kiss on her lips. He broke the kiss, pulled back and breathed, “Anytime, Granger.”

Wined, dined, scrubbed, and shampooed, she was out of concrete excuses as to why she shouldn’t sleep with Draco. Even still, that queasy feeling still coiled in her stomach, nearly spoiling the boeuf bourguignon. 

He said nothing, just pinned her in place with his stare, as if he knew exactly what she looked like under the robe. Half of her wanted to show him, but…

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m ready to…” she trailed off and tried to convey the rest through nothing.

“Are you a… ?” he started, without a shred of mockery.

“Erm, no, actually. Just—a lot going on. In the middle of a war my past self didn’t survive and all.” She caught Draco’s hand and squeezed it, as if it might help the messed up situation she found herself in.

He looked mildly surprised, “No? Don’t tell me—Potter!?” 

“Maybe I’ll tell you one day, Draco,” she stifled a yawn, “but today is not that day.”

He cocked his head with a huff. “Not Weasley.” 

“Malfoy…” Hermione warned.

“Malfoy!? Now that would be a timeline I haven’t heard about yet,” he teased, leaning down again to press their lips together. This time when Draco pulled back, he brushed her cheek with a thumb and said, “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Hermione.”

She smiled. “Okay.”

“Did you just say your past self didn’t survive?”

At that, she laughed out loud and nearly rolled out of his arms. “It’s a long story.”

Draco looked at the clock. It wasn’t even six. “We’ve got time.”

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Draco’s bed was even more luxurious than it appeared once she was in it. With the bathrobe forgotten and a pair of Draco’s piping-trimmed silk pyjamas shrunk to fit, Hermione sunk between feather-soft pillows and the overstuffed duvet that was undoubtedly charmed to keep the bed’s occupants at just the right temperature—warm against the December chill but not sweating from the fireplace that lit on its own once night fell. 

As for the occupants themselves, Hermione had never really slept overnight in the same bed as a romantic partner, and apparently neither had Draco: once the intricacies of Hermione’s mission had been shared and both of their voices were raspy from the conversation, there was some awkward adjusting and shifting to get into a comfortable position, and she had felt his heart hammering against her back for a long time until they’d both fallen asleep. 

She awoke even more well-rested than after her nap in the Lowtidal common room, and took several seconds to enjoy the smooth, soft sheets and heavy blankets cocooning her there. Morning light was shining into the room, and softly-falling snowflakes cast their fuzzy shadows on the opposite wall and over the gleaming floorboards. 

Shifting to greet her host, and possibly inquire about those Sunday morning crêpes, instead Hermione’s heart fell to see that the other side of the bed was unoccupied, and the grand wardrobe had been thrown open and rummaged around in, as if Draco had dressed in a hurry. She picked up a scrap of parchment that sat on the nightstand next to the empty side of the bed:

Good morning, Granger

I forgot to inform you that today was the first day back at Hogwarts for the new term, so by the time you read this I will probably be on the train back to that prison. Your lot is free to start that battle anytime now, because I don’t think anyone can take much more of the Carrows.

I’ve warded my wing against my parents for the day, so you should be undisturbed there if you wish to stay a while. The brewing setup is also available in case you want to catch up on any curriculum you’ve missed while correcting the timeline of the entire wizarding world.

I enjoyed your company last night immensely. Looking forward to the next time you decide to find me (months for me, hours for you, can’t say I’m not a little envious…)

Draco

The crêpes would not be happening today, as it appeared to be Monday, actually, and Hermione was only slightly disappointed.

She rose, stretched, and began making her way to the main room, pondering what types of potions she’d be able to brew without a wand and what it might mean for her internal magic, when a pop sounded from next to the bed. A house-elf had appeared, wearing an embroidered pillow sham and apparently as surprised by Hermione as she was surprised by it. 

“Are you Vitsy? I’m sorry for my disturbance—” she began, remembering that Vitsy didn’t like speaking with company.

The elf replied, “Vitsy is managing the kitchen, Toddy is doing the sheets. And you is?”

“Oh, Toddy then… I’m a guest of Draco’s.” Hermione started, hoping the discarded bathrobe on the ground and Draco’s pyjamas on her body didn’t imply anything about what type of guest she was. “I know this is probably a big ask, but do you mind not telling Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy that I was here? I’m sorry, I wish I could help you…”

Toddy began stripping the bed sheets half magically and half manually, shoving them into a large, already filled hamper that appeared. “Master and Mistress Malfoy are not knowing everything that makes the Manor run anymore, Toddy is. And Vitsy is.”

“You won’t have to tell them I was here?”

“Not unless they asking directly.” 

“Erm… okay. I appreciate your discretion, Toddy. Thank you,” she said. “And please tell Vitsy that the meal last night was wonderful.”

Toddy had finished removing, and was now focused on remaking the bed. “Young Master Malfoy is not often having overnight guests. Is Miss coming back again? The Manor does want for company.”

Hermione hadn’t considered that yet and didn’t want to think about it at the moment. “Maybe. Draco did mention how great the Sunday morning crêpes are. If I do, I’ll be sure to say hello, Toddy.”

Toddy gave a shy smile back and popped away with the hamper, leaving Hermione alone again. However much she’d wanted to brew what she could, just in case, the elf’s appearance had spooked her into continuing the Trance-enabled slog towards her second Battle of Hogwarts. In the bathroom, her Transfigured Slytherin uniform had been rejuvenated, probably with more elf magic, and was now laundered and crisply pressed, instead of threatening to revert back to its original pink jumper and jeans. 

Dressed and as ready as she could be with no wand, she returned to the main room to take a few potion ingredients, as if having a sprig of dittany or asphodel on her person might be enough to channel her magic a bit better. Instead, she found a plate of crêpes, topped with strawberries and melted chocolate, waiting on the worktop. 

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The Turnback Trance diligently placed Hermione sometime in the future at her request ( ‘Take me to the next time I see Draco’ seemed to be solid, if vague—but the Trance, or Time itself perhaps, seemed to know exactly when that might be.) This time, she’d been transported back to the Hogwarts library; not in the Restricted section as before but in a study alcove where Draco sat at a table with several books spread open before him. The cathedral windows showcased the frigid grounds, where a blue, cloudless sky and brilliant sun made the remaining snow drifts sparkle with light and become difficult to look at. It was a perfect reflection of what Hogwarts had become: an eerie quiet with constant tension that could snap at any moment.

Draco was back to looking worse for wear (due to the full moon or the Carrows, unclear which), but he smiled when she materialised and gestured for her to sit, picking up some books to clear the table. 

She did, across from him, with her back to the bright windows, and asked, “What day is it?” 

He selected a few volumes to push them in front of her, and replied, “29th of February.” 

Her mood immediately fell, even though she was well-rested and full of delicious crêpes. “Oh.”

He cocked his head. “Not a fan of leap years?”

“No, it’s not that.” Hermione swallowed, trying and failing to find a mental filing cabinet for the despair that was bubbling up inside. “Tomorrow is Ron’s birthday.”

When he only raised an eyebrow, she continued, “I watched Greyback kill him.” 

Draco’s eyes widened as he paled considerably, making the shadows of his face stick out even more. “I’m sorry,” he coughed out, before schooling his expression into a practised calm.

“Oh—” she started, chastising herself. “I shouldn’t have brought him up, after what you’ve—”

“No. It’s alright.” Draco waved his hand. “He was important to you.”

“I meant bringing up Greyback.” 

“I know, Granger,” he corrected, shaking his head. “I meant, Weasley was important to you, so you should talk about what happened if it helps.”

“Oh.” Hermione wasn’t sure if she could. Ron and Harry’s deaths had been carefully avoided outside of the subconscious—Ron’s, because it was too painful, and Harry’s, because it had happened after she had been taken down by the Fiendfyre, and trying to brainstorm what might have killed him was an exercise in self-harm more than anything else. 

“I’m not sure I need to go over it, really,” she continued, finally finding a place to put that memory for later. “I’m just terrified of seeing it happen again because what I’ve done to fix everything wasn’t enough.”

Draco closed his book. “I’m sure that won’t be the case. You must have done enough.”

“I know, but—”

“Hermione, you convinced me not to assassinate Dumbledore. The Dark Lord is not getting that wand.”

She busied herself flipping through the pages of the books in front of her to calm the quiet fear of not doing enough, or of doing too much. “I know.”

“Potter and Weasley are not dying this time. You have made sure of that.” He reached over the polished oak to take her hand and rubbed his thumb over hers. 

“I thought there was something between us—between me and Ron,” she said quietly, the first time she’d even admitted it to herself. 

Draco’s expression was still, but a corner of his mouth twitched. “Oh. And do you still…?” 

Hermione let out a deep breath. “No. I had to compartmentalise it away. How can ‘something’ survive death?” 

“Indeed,” he agreed placidly.

“Even if everything works out, and he does survive, I’m terrified he’ll want to pick up where we left off.” The fears were rolling out of her now, fears she hadn’t even been able to put into words before.

At Draco’s stilled hand, she looked back up at him. “Which I don’t want to do, Draco.” 

He exhaled strongly. “Alright.” 

Even just voicing that worry had lifted a bit of weight off. Ron might be upset that Hermione had gotten closer to Draco, but that bridge would be crossed when they got to it. She let out a little chuckle. “The Monday morning crêpes made sure of that.” 

With a lopsided smile, he complained, “Vitsy never makes them for me on any other day but Sunday. You’re lucky.” Finally back to a mischievous expression, he ventured, “Then it was Weasley who took your…?”

Hermione lightly slapped his hand and drew hers away. “No. And no one took anything—that’s so misogynistic. It was a sexual debut.”

In all honesty, her sexual debut had been with the son of her parents’ friends over the summer between fifth and sixth year. Ever the prepared one, Hermione had wanted to get it out of the way and get some practise in for what she thought might be a year full of new ventures like flirtatiously sharing the password to the prefect’s bathroom or sneaking into the boys’ dorm after hours. 

“Fine. But I’m dying of curiosity here. Krum?” 

“No!” she exclaimed, though her time with Viktor had also prepared her well in the snogging department. “Let’s change the subject, Malfoy.”

“Alright, alright.” Draco pointed to the books he’d placed in front of her. “I finally found your Barnaby Puckland here. It takes ages to search through the Malfoy library, since it has anti-magic charms around the perimeter—you have to look through the books manually.”

“Anti-magic charms in the Malfoy library?” 

“Installed a few centuries ago after a displeased Macmillan destroyed half the family records when his marriage proposal was denied. Information is power, you know.” He wagged a finger at her the way she might have done to him several months ago.

“Anyway,” Draco continued, closing a volume so she could see the cover, “Once you mentioned his name it was easier to find some material. It doesn’t mention specifics of the Clatteringshaws battle, but seems like it’s the bloke’s personal diaries.”

Indeed it was. She could kiss him. He’d casually brought her the Puckland manuscript snippets that the Hogwarts library had been missing: Notes on Tyme. Hermione opened the pages and began reading feverishly. 

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Apparently, Barnaby Puckland II was called that because he was the second Barnaby Puckland in the winning Clatteringshaws line, i.e. the one who had come from the ‘doomed’ timeline, had done the time travelling, and then stuck around hanging out with Barnaby Puckland I, the original Barnaby.

Hermione was much relieved to know that once the Battle of Hogwarts was won, on the second try, that she wouldn’t disappear into a puff of smoke with the destruction of her original timeline. That is, if the original timeline was even destroyed, as Snape had once insinuated might be the case. It wasn’t clear if Puckland referred to his original timeline as ‘doomed’ because it actually ceased to exist once he went back in time to aid in the Clatteringshaws dam negotiation, or because the havoc of the water creature armies was so great that wizarding life in Britain became undesirable, inhospitable, or otherwise dangerous.

Of course, Hermione had wondered if Beatrice Nettlebrooke, who had left this timeline for one where she’d already existed, was effectively living with a copy of herself (though husband- and child-free)? Or had she perhaps… been absorbed into the other Beatrice’s existence? That instance was more difficult to understand, considering that Beatrice hadn’t written any memoirs, at least not in this timeline. And moreover, Beatrice’s original timeline hadn’t been destroyed–Beatrice’s abandoned timeline was in fact, Hermione’s current timeline, which was doing just fine, thanks very much.

All that to say, Hermione was looking forward to sticking around once the final battle ended differently, and whether or not her old timeline stuck around as well was of little importance, considering she was never going back and not even sure she could, since her old self was dead. Really, when you think about it, she was more like a Hermione 1.5—she clearly wasn’t the original Hermione in this timeline (who was busy hunting Horcruxes at the moment), while Hermione 2 had been executed months ago (or months in the future, if you cared about calendar dates—she found herself caring less and less.) 

The newly pressed Hogwarts uniform felt leagues better than what she’d been wearing before, and thankfully still had the Incantorium in an inner pocket. As she read on through the Puckland manuscripts, glossing over records of the weather that day or what amusing jest Barnaby I had made over lunch, Hermione took out the trinket and rolled it between her fingers, the way she used to with a sealed inkwell when she was concentrating. 

“Accio Incantorium,” Draco murmured, and caught it to look closer. “I’ve always wanted one of these.”

“You could have asked,” Hermione replied thornily, not quite over the last time he’d summoned something of hers. “What’s stopping you from buying one, Young Master Malfoy?”

“Only a few were ever made. I didn’t think there were any left in Britain.” He rolled it over in his hands, inspecting the craftsmanship. “Where’d you find it?” 

Thinking back to Vittoria’s willingness to part with the trinket, she hadn’t made it seem especially valuable. Why hadn’t she said so? “...It was a gift.”

He took a final look before handing it back over. “What have you got in there? Another Turnback Trance?”

“Patronus,” she said, securing the Incantorium deep in her robes and wanting to get back to the book but sensing this interruption wasn’t over.

Draco considered her with another glance. “Corporeal? That’s advanced magic.”

“Yes. The whole Order uses them to communicate quickly. Without a wand, it’s good to be prepared.”

“Fascinating. What kind of memory do you use?”

She smiled slightly and lied, “Slapping you in Care of Magical Creatures.”

He glowered. “No, you don’t.” 

A passage caught her eye. “Hold on—look at this.”

Editor’s note: Barnaby Puckland (I & II) never completed the second component of the Trance (reincorporating selfhood). They are the only pair in recorded history to stay separate, finding it useful in potion brewing, duelling, and lovemaking. 

“Reincorporating selfhood…” he muttered, eyebrows drawn together.

They made eye contact over the open book. “Does that mean I can… combine myself with the other Hermione when this is all over?”

Then, Draco’s expression changed to boyish shock as he finished the footnote and half-stifled a laugh. “They found it useful in lovemaking? So you’ll both be joining me in bed next time?”

“No. No, no, no,” Hermione stammered out, rereading the passage. “That is not happening.”

He laughed harder, barely getting his next sentence out: "Hey, maybe one can stay with Weasley and one can come home with me." 

“I will not be one of two Hermiones. I refuse,” she bit out.

Turning back to the manuscript, Draco folded the corner of the page down, much to Hermione’s chagrin. “At least now you know you don’t have to.”

“Yeah…” she trailed off, turning to the next page and finding no more information on the subject. “But now I don’t know if I’ll even remember what happened—or if I’ll just get… reabsorbed into someone who never went through what I did.”

Chapter Text

With no more interesting information in Notes on Tyme, and a cheeky bit of snogging that reigned in before anything drastic took place in the library, of all places, Hermione jumped forward before Madame Pince or the Carrows had a chance to find them. Or worse, recognise her. 

Unfortunately, with ‘Take me to the next time I see Draco,’ the Trance placed her in a much more volatile point in history. 

The spell’s tunnel vision and pressure faded easily this time, revealing the recognizable interior of the Heir Apparent Wing. But instead of a cheery fire crackling in the hearth and lazy snowflakes gathering on the windowsill, as she’d left the place, Hermione could immediately tell that this time, something was very, very wrong. Frantic, anonymous footsteps were beating past the door, the air itself was heavy with tension and the smell of blood, and a chilling, enraged wail that she would have recognized from the grave echoed through the portrait-lined hallways of the Manor. 

It was Bellatrix screaming, and Hermione was frozen to the spot. Bellatrix in Malfoy Manor, Draco in Malfoy Manor, sometime after February 29, the smell of what she now knew was her own blood—every ounce of pain that had been inflicted on this day came rushing back, and there was no amount of newspaper that could pack it away in her mind. Her left forearm burned as if recalling, and even though Draco’s room had been a warm refuge last time she’d seen it, all that progress was gone with the piercing, rambling ire of Bellatrix.

She was in the middle of her eight counts in and out when the door burst open violently and the Heir Apparent sprinted in, quickly turning the latch behind him. “Hermione,” Draco panted, “We have to go. He’s on his way.”

“Go… ?” Hermione barely got out, and tried to think of a place, any place, safe enough that wasn’t Shell Cottage, Shell Cottage, Dobby, get us to Shell Cottage…

Draco was pacing quickly, alternating between tossing clothes in a suitcase from his wardrobe, haphazardly packing the cauldrons on the workbench into travelling boxes, and she hadn’t even realised he had been talking the whole time, the blood was pounding so loudly in her ears. 

“He’ll be here soon to dish out Cruciatus Curses, I'm sure of it. I can't do this again, Hermione,” that subject he’d belaboured several times: “I cannot do this again. They'll kill me for sure this time. We have to go.”

The screaming from the drawing room had finally stopped, and Hermione found her eight count breaths. Shoving every previous memory of this awful day behind a mental door and locking it tight, she took account of just the bits that was relevant, right here, right now: if all had gone according to plan (according to shoddy, shoddy plan that was not thought through whatsoever,) Draco had hopefully just delivered one Diadem of Ravenclaw to Harry Potter. 

One more Horcrux found. One more crossed off the list. One more closer to killing Voldemort. 

She interrupted his stream-of-consciousness with a derisive step into his path, and held him in place by the arm. “You are not getting killed today, Draco.” 

“You don’t know that,” he shot back, agitated. “Not after what just happened.”

“Just because you didn’t identify us? Draco, it's okay," she pleaded, gaining a second wind at how sure her words sounded. “No one knows about—”

“Aunt Bella knows something, she must.” He broke free and continued packing whatever found its way into his hands; jars of dittany, goat’s hooves, pickled essence of lye, all unceremoniously tossed into the dragon-hide suitcase. “Somehow I go from a daft prick who let someone else kill Dumbledore, to volunteering to torture for her?"

“What? What are you talking about?” Hermione spun to face him again. 

“She wanted to cut you.” He looked up, phial of mustard seed in hand, eyes roiling with stormy emotion. “I couldn't watch her do that to you, even if I knew it wasn't you–you, it was the original Granger. I stepped in. She looked at me like I was mad.”

“You stepped in? To do what?” Hermione cried, the surge of panic inside her now reactivated. “You stopped her? Why on earth would you do that?” Merlin, the timeline had to be fucked by now, they were making so many changes. “What did you say? ‘Auntie Bella, stop, that's my friend, even if she doesn't know it yet?’”

Back to the potion ingredients, he began on the next shelf. “I cast a non-verbal Tickling Jinx. Only thing I could think of. So stupid.”

“What!?”

“Thank Merlin, you caught on quick and started screaming like it was the Cruciatus. You're quite the actor, know that?” He turned and glanced back at the door, as if it would open again at any moment. “Don't know for sure who bought it. Aunt Bella looked like she wanted to kill me. Maybe she's just mad I stole her moment. Either way, we let a bunch of prisoners escape. I don’t want to be here much longer.” 

“Did you at least get the diadem to Harry?” There had to be a silver lining here. 

He paused. “Oh, yeah. That.”

“Malfoy, are you kidding me?” In a moment, Hermione’s magic had bubbled out, and a second suitcase whipped out of the wardrobe into her hand. She began on the last shelf of potion ingredients feverishly, barely feeling the strain of not having a wand. 

He rubbed his forehead in frustration. “If you simply told me more than what kind of jinx he'd be hit with, maybe something a little more useful, like, oh, I don't know, the date? I could have made sure to be carrying that crown around in my pocket.”

“You know I couldn’t just say that—” 

“That thing fucked my brain up almost as much as having the Dark Lord at my damn house eating scones in the bloody tea parlor!” Before she had a chance to reply, Draco incanted in the direction of the library, “Accio library books stacked on the north desk.”

Nothing happened, and he groaned in frustration. “I am going to snuff out the entire Macmillan line for necessitating those bloody anti-magic charms. Toddy?”

Toddy joined them with a pop and looked half frightened and half delighted to see Hermione. She smiled feebly at the elf.

“Toddy, collect the books I’ve piled on the library’s north desk and bring them to me, quickly,” Draco ordered, before throwing open a few drawers in his wardrobe and tossing some expensive-looking family heirlooms in with the potion ingredients. 

“Fine.” She summoned the diadem herself and a button-up shirt to wrap it in before packing away. “We’ll give it to them at the battle, or do you happen to have a sword infused with Basilisk venom? Or know how to reliably cast the Fiendfyre curse?”

“Passing it along will have to do. Until then, we need a safe place to stay.” Toddy had returned with the books, several of them, and away they went as well. “Unless I can Side-Along Turnback—?”

“Not how it works,” she replied curtly. No, this was not how any of this was supposed to work. There was no chivalrous, quick-thinking Malfoy that would stop Hermione from being scarred for life, no running to a safe house, none of this was meant to happen—if it did, they’d surely be in danger of making too many changes and who knows what that would result in—yet she felt a wave of… what was it? Apathy? Or perhaps a dash of reckless Gryffindor bravery? And the next thing out of her mouth was, “You can stay at my parents’ house.”

Only the briefest flicker of surprise crossed his face. “My parents too?”

“Draco,” the frustration was tangible in her voice. “I only needed you to not kill Dumbledore.”

“I know.” His hand made a frustrated motion. “I can’t just leave them—”

“They can come—if they’ll go.” She turned away so he wouldn’t see the tears welling in her eyes. Her own parents were safe in Australia. They were safe. They had to be. She’d simply open the house back up and Draco would be safe there. He had to be.

“Thank you, Hermione.” He grasped her in a hug with his chin on her shoulder. “I owe you one.”

“Yes, you do,” she bit out.

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Oh, he owed her a massive one. Not only would his posh, pureblood-supremacist parents be staying in her childhood home, looking down their noses at Frank and Jean’s Muggle things, but Hermione herself would have to convince them to do it? 

Draco Malfoy better be making her boeuf bourguignon from scratch for the rest of his life. 

He’d ordered Toddy to transfigure Hermione’s clothes yet again, as his own wand was taken in the struggle, and she now sported a silk blouse tied at the neck with a lavallière bow, goldenrod yellow, tucked into a matching accordion-pleated skirt that fell to her ankles, all covered by brown woollen travelling robes. 

“Not one person thus far has had the decency to put me in my own house colours,” she complained as Toddy finished the finer details. 

“Someone might recognize you that way, Cordelia,” Draco replied, snapping the suitcase latches shut and straightening his own shirt. “Just follow my lead.”

Draco’s lead, it would seem, involved a fully fabricated tale involving former Ministry official ‘Cordelia Gray,’ who was apparently working undercover post-termination to smuggle Dark Lord sympathisers who wished to stop fighting into safe houses where they could wait out the end of the conflict. A tale, Hermione fumed silently, that would have been best discussed with her beforehand, instead of hearing just as he introduced her as such to his bloody parents. 

Lucius sat at the desk in his study, Narcissa standing just behind. The two looked just as she remembered from this day—exhausted. Faces lightly lined, exaggerated by the curtains pulled tight in the room, neither seemed very receptive to what their son suggested.

Narcissa looked quizzically at him, standing next to Hermione across the great marble desk. “And just how long have you been planning for us to go into hiding, Draco? You've been in contact with Ms. Gray before?”

Seemingly an expert at lying to his mother, Draco quipped, “Yes—I reached out to her some months ago. Several others in my year have already put their families in hiding,” he drawled, as casually as if he was discussing the weather. “We've noticed society thinning, I'm sure that's the reason. Ms. Gray obviously can't talk about the others she's helped go into hiding, but she's an expert, I assure you. It's the safest thing for us to do at this point.”

An expert? It was like he wanted to set Hermione up for failure, the prick. How was she supposed to lie this easily when the last time she had seen his mother, in both this world and another, Narcissa was grimacing down at Hermione being tortured in the drawing room? 

Two pairs of hostile grey eyes slid in her direction then, as if just noticing she was in the room. Lucius, who had been silent thus far, raised a brow as if to say, ‘Make your case.’

Hermione took a steadying breath and channelled her own mother's assured tone. “Many sympathisers and their children have reached out to me after seeing their loved ones tortured by the Dark Lord, or else captured and interrogated by the Order. Wanting to hide and protect one's family is only a natural response to that kind of first-hand trauma. I can supply a safe house warded against intruders in a nondescript Muggle area.”

“Muggle area?” Lucius repeated, hand tightening on the filigreed cane held at his side. “I'll not have my family staying amongst that kind of filth.”

“Lucius,” Narcissa warned, but Hermione continued before she could go on.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy, that's exactly what I thought you'd say. Which means it's exactly what everyone thinks you would say. Anyone looking for you, regardless of their allegiance, would immediately write off Muggle areas of the country. Which means it truly is the safest place for you to go if you wish to avoid danger." Maybe this Ministry scheme was actually making sense after all. She glanced at Draco, who was looking hopefully at his parents.

“I see.” Lucius pressed his lips into a thin line. “And are you of magical lineage, Ms. Gray? Throwing it all away to align yourself with the Order and their loathsome cause?”

Instead of lying, or protesting that she was no different than any other magical person, Hermione simply pasted on a look of disappointment, mimicking the one Draco now wore. “Mr. Malfoy, no one is requiring you to occupy the provided safe house. It is not a summons. If you still hold views allying yourself with the Dark Lord, you are free to continue fighting.”

This time Draco spoke up, his voice strained. “Ms. Gray —you assured me you would help us go into hiding. I didn't think your services came with stipulations. What about the other families you placed? I find it hard to believe they all renounced their views.” His eyes seemed to bore into hers as if really saying ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Her voice seemed to speak on its own, and mercifully sounded assured. “I'm only willing to help place those who I am confident would not go to Azkaban after the war if the Dark Lord is, in fact, defeated. That is the stipulation. Otherwise, I would be charged with hiding fugitives and perhaps obstruction of justice. If I may speak plainly,” Hermione turned her gaze back to the elder Malfoys. “Your family is the highest ranking in the Dark Lord's following that I have been in contact with thus far. Your son was quite insistent that I speak with you. As he told you, I help place defectors from the Dark Lord in safe houses. But that means you must... defect.”

Hermione knew she was playing a dangerous game. She had promised Draco to help him save his family, even if it seemed like she was currently doing the opposite. He was still glaring daggers at her just like back in Potions class, but it felt so much more personal now.

If they renounce their views now, they'll be safe after the war, she tried to tell him in her mind, wishing she could make him understand. I'm trying to save them both now and later. Please, Draco, please understand.

Lucius’ sneer hadn’t budged a centimetre. He turned back to Draco. “You’ve just redeemed yourself, Draco, why abandon our cause? Tell the Dark Lord about seeing your little classmate today. He may reward you.” 

“Oh, yes,” Draco bit back, in a tone Hermione wouldn’t have the guts to use when arguing with her own parents, much less his. “The Dark Lord will reward me handsomely for a bit of the Cruciatus. He’ll be delighted that I finally stepped up to the plate, while we let our captives and who knows who else escape right under our fucking noses.”

“Language—” Narcissa scolded, but Draco continued on.

“I don’t want to have yet another failure beaten over our backs. I don’t want to have him forcing his way into my head, over and over. I don’t want to watch my parents beg on their hands and knees for mercy. Is that what you want for us? For me? Your only son?”

Lucius’ nostrils flared, a cool demeanour compared to Draco’s frantic spiel. His wife’s hand clutched at his shoulder ever tighter. “It is by the nature of you being my only son that you are even standing before me. I told you to remember that. Yet you want to throw away our place in the Dark Lord’s esteemed to cower in fear among Mudbloods and their ilk?”

Draco’s gaze was burning darker than Hermione had ever seen. This time, he spoke with a terrifyingly slow cadence: “If your sodding hatred of Muggleborns means that much to you, stay and get tortured. Get killed, for all I care. I thought you wanted to protect our family, this whole time. I assumed you were doing what you thought would keep the Malfoy name alive. But I suppose I was wrong about that.”

Lucius stood, the cane bearing much more of his weight than it had in previous years. “The things you are wrong about could fill fifty rolls of parchment, Draco. If you wish to degrade yourself in the Mudbloods’ nest, I will not stop you. Run to your filthy hideaway.” 

He shuffled out of the room, and Narcissa, face pinched, remained. 

She addressed Hermione first. “I apologise for that display.” 

Hermione only nodded, fearing the next half of the verbal lashing Draco was about to receive. 

Narcissa sat in the desk chair herself, and folded her hands demurely in her lap, with the menacing air of a good cop to Lucius’ bad. 

“Draco…” she only started, and he immediately sank into one of the wingbacks facing the giant desk. Hermione followed, if only to not be the sole person standing. “The direct line of fire is not a desirable place to reside. I commend your resourcefulness in procuring this opportunity.”

Draco nodded weakly, not returning Hermione’s glance. “There’s only so much more he can do to us before…” 

“I know, dear.” She positioned a strand of hair back to its place and sighed. “I don’t wish to leave your father by himself. Family is all we have right now—”

Suddenly Draco sat up straight. “Mother, Ms. Gray is also a Seer. She’s the one who showed me the vision about my mission.” At this, he finally looked back at Hermione.

Her heart dropped as the familiar lie sank back in and Narcissa’s face cheered considerably. “Ms. Gray! Yes, I recognise you now. You were with the Ministry as a Seer? Do you know Seer Huxley?”

Unable to discern any potential detail about Seer Huxley from that question, but seeing Malfoy’s eyes widen in her periphery, Hermione simply lied, “My mentor,” hoping that was what would convince Narcissa.

“Mentor? Draco, why didn’t you mention that first? Philomena is a family friend, you see.” 

She forced a smile onto her own face. “What a coincidence… Yes, Seer Huxley’s advice was fundamental in developing my own abilities…”

“What a small world,” Narcissa purred, now significantly less frosty to Hermione. “I assume you haven’t been able to See the end of this dreadful era? Everyone I’ve consulted has told me it’s too cloudy. But perhaps you’ve…?”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione replied quickly, even though she was probably the only person in the world who could pinpoint with about 90% certainty the date of the final battle. 

“No matter.” She turned back to her son, smoothed her robes and repeated, “Draco, I don’t wish to leave your father by himself.”

He only nodded again, back to defeat. Hermione’s hand twitched with how much she wanted to reach out and take his, and she was halfway to concocting a phoney prophecy of Seeing Narcissa in a Muggle safe house—

Narcissa continued, “That being said, we’ll have to make do with only Toddy. Vitsy will stay at the Manor with your father.”

Draco’s mouth opened but no sound came out. Hermione responded for him: “You’ll come to the safe house?”

“Yes,” she said, beginning to wave her wand to summon a trunk of her own, as if that had been the plan all along. “And your father has done us all a favour, just now, I hope you can see that.”

“Nearly disowning me, again?” Draco finally replied. 

“He is Marked. There is no safe house in the world he could go without the Dark Lord finding him.” Narcissa rose, and began removing several books from the shelves behind her. “And when the Dark Lord searches his memories, all he’ll find is your raucous argument, instead of a father saying goodbye to his son.”

Chapter Text

Within fifteen minutes of Narcissa’s matter-of-fact ‘Yes,’ the three of them were walking out of the manor under a cloudy sky towards the apparition point, luggage hovering behind. Once the group had reached the gatehouse at the end of the pathway, both Malfoys stopped and turned towards Hermione, expectant. 

She hadn’t thought this part through very well. 

“Erm… Mrs. Malfoy, may I use your wand to apparate us there?” she asked, in as professional a tone as she could muster, considering the impropriety of the request. 

The older woman barely contained her obvious recoil. “My wand?” 

Behind her shoulder, Draco exhaled in frustration. 

Hermione searched for any excuse as to why she, supposedly a former Ministry official, did not carry a bloody wand? “I… prefer wandless magic, but one needs a wand for apparition—especially for three people at once.”

Narcissa pressed her mouth into a thin line. “Very well,” she replied, and pressed the wand with its silver-trimmed handle into Hermione’s palm. 

This time, Hermione thought of the back alleyway a few blocks away, instead of apparating them to the middle of the street in broad daylight, and the great pressure of the spell, as the three of them were pushed through space in the blink of an eye, almost made her wish for the Trance instead. The wand was returned to Narcissa, who didn’t look too pleased at their new location, and Hermione took a few steadying breaths under the guise of looking down the alleyway for any passersby. Her stomach was churning—one wrong lie, and her alias would disintegrate. 

She shoved all those doubtful thoughts into a mental duffle bag and threw it into a dusty corner. For all intents and purposes, Hermione was now the confident, the professional, the composed Cordelia Gray: ex-Ministry employee, smuggler of defectors, safe-house preparer, bloody Seer—

“One hopes,” Narcissa was eyeing the rubbish bins and scattered litter in the alleyway, “that the accommodations are a little more hospitable than—”

With a snap, Hermione cancelled the Hovering Charm on the luggage, and it hit the ground noisily, which stopped Narcissa’s comment in its tracks. 

At her surprised stare, Hermione only replied, “No magic in public here,” and picked up one of the suitcases. Draco grabbed the handle of Narcissa’s giant trunk, still seemingly in shock that his mother was even here, and Narcissa herself only paused a beat before picking up the remaining suitcase, though she did flick her wand before returning it to her robes, and Hermione felt the case in her hands grow considerably lighter. 

As they approached where the Granger house should stand, the numbering of Heathgate street seemed to jump from 6 to 10, with no 8 to be seen. Only a young silver birch remained, growing through the rungs of the iron fence, precisely in between the two other houses. It was at this short tree that Hermione stopped and glanced around to make sure the street was devoid of any Muggles. 

She removed the Incantorium from a pocket of the woollen travelling robes that Toddy had fashioned, and tossed it to the ground at the base of the birch. The glass broke on impact, even on the soft, rain-damp earth, and her Patronus appeared out of the puff of white that was expelled. The silvery otter wound its way around the trunk of the birch tree, mingling with the new leaves of spring, and as it reached the top, 8 Heathgate was made visible nearly within the blink of an eye, with its overgrown English ivy and brick exterior, down the garden path that had sprung up out of nowhere. 

The Incantorium made a tinkling noise from its place on the ground, and was intact again before Hermione had looked down. She picked it back up and made a note to cast another Patronus within if she could use Narcissa’s wand again, or if her internal magic had grown strong enough. 

With the house opened up, the new wards from her Patronus held, and, taking their wand hands, Hermione quickly prodded the wards to accept Draco and Narcissa as well. Thank Merlin she’d had the foresight to close down the house after her parents had left—with the illusion only able to be broken by her own Patronus, there was no need for the other Hermione to be notified.

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Despite the ease with which Narcissa agreed to be carted away to a Muggle house for an indeterminate amount of time, the Malfoy matriarch had clearly not revised her views on Muggles or their magical children. The front garden earned a displeased look, the familiar creak of the door got a quiet tsk, and the home’s front entrance, with its well-worn coat hooks, patinaed leather sofa, and overflowing shelf of board games and puzzles produced an outright grimace. 

Gingerly brushing through the living room towards the archway to the kitchen, blithely unaware of Hermione’s crumbling resolve at being back in her childhood home, Narcissa called for Toddy, who popped into existence at her side, and began requesting breakfast to be served bedside during the duration of their stay, seeing as there was no formal dining room, tea to be served in the breakfast nook at three, and so on. Draco, having dropped his mothers’ trunk once over the premises, appeared at Hermione’s side and bitterly asked, “What was that?”

When she didn’t reply, he continued in a pointed whisper, “What happened to following my lead? It’s a miracle my mother is here at all, and you nearly prevented that with your ‘you must defect’ nonsense—what are you, a bloody priest?”

The question distracted her from the overwhelming sights and sounds of the house—family portraits altered to exclude her, mail left next to the key tray addressed to M. Wilkins, brochures for Sydney and Melbourne tossed on the coffee table—and Hermione managed to respond in matching ire, “Your lead was rubbish. And I thought wizards didn’t have priests.” 

For once meeting his gaze was easier than looking at her surroundings, irritable as said gaze was at the moment. “We don’t. But if that little improvisation resulted in my mother staying at the Manor, you’d need one, Granger.” 

“It was a necessary evil, Malfoy. Now if the Order wins, your mother will be a defector. That’s ten times more redeemable than a Death Eater’s wife.” She stepped closer. The two of them had better be grateful for all this once they’d avoided Azkaban. 

His mouth twisted. “Fine. Will we always need to cast a Patronus to enter?”

“No. That was only to remove my cloaking enchantment. Though I don’t think you should be leaving your safehouse very often… isn’t that the whole point?” 

His eyes darted to the board games. “I suppose.”

“Afraid of a little Muggle Backgammon?” 

“No,” Draco replied defensively. “Just not sure how long we’ll need to—”

“You’re welcome, Malfoy.” Her lip trembled, and Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as if removing the visuals would take away the devastating feeling of home—of a home lost. 

He sighed, then relented: “Thank you, Granger.” He wound their hands together and wiped the stray tear that found its way down her face. “You’ve probably just saved my life again.”

She heaved a great sigh and pulled all the terrible thoughts of home behind a mental curtain to be examined later. After a pause, in which he sympathetically squeezed her shoulder, she finally replied, “Probably,” in a watery voice.

“Draco—” Narcissa’s voice sounded throughout the still room. The two of them jumped apart, and Hermione straightened her back in a hopefully ex-Ministry Seer-smuggler manner, swallowing her anxiety. Narcissa paused, eyeing ‘Cordelia,’ before continuing, “Will you check if any rooms upstairs have an ensuite?” 

“The master bedroom does,” Hermione responded before Draco could give the affirmative, and in order to remove herself from the situation, continued, “I can bring your things up, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“Thank you, Ms. Gray. Do search for a candelabra while you’re there—the kitchen is as dark as night.” And before she could get another word in, Narcissa had gathered up the potions from Draco’s luggage, still under their stasis charms, and swept back out of the room. 

Hermione picked up the large trunk, still magically light in weight, and directed Draco, “You did read the chapter on electricity, right? Go teach your mother about light switches.” 

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The master suite was another terrible mistake in the long, long line of Hermione’s history of terrible mistakes. It smelled achingly familiar, like days spent lounging on her parents' bed while Dad read books to her, or sneaking into the stuffed-full closet to snoop on what Mum had gotten her for Christmas. Whatever delusion she had been under to think that this room could have been a respite from seeing Narcissa take over the kitchen or nearly blowing Cordelia’s cover vanished as soon as she stepped foot through the door. She placed the trunk at the foot of the bed and swiftly returned, away from the blank frames in her parents’ bedroom where her childhood drawings had once been displayed. 

Back downstairs, every light switch on the ground floor had been flipped on. From the kitchen blared a staticky mess of radio waves, switching haphazardly from station to station. 

—I just want you to know who I am—kssssst—Mama tells me I shouldn’t bother—kssssst—If I could turn back time—kssssst—Howling in shadows, living in a lunar spell—kssssst—

Finally joining the other two in the kitchen, Hermione reached out to turn the radio dial to Off. “Don’t use magic on electronics in the house—it makes them go haywire,” she instructed Narcissa, who returned her wand to her robes with pursed lips; still no opportunity to fill the Incantorium.

“There’s a guide around here to Muggle things I can loan you so you can make your way around,” she added. The Pocket Guide to Muggles was summoned, despite Narcissa’s polite refusal, and the book diligently made its way out of a dragon-hide suitcase monogrammed DLM. Draco, lounging at the island counter, watched it float gently towards his mother, who pinned him in an expectant look. 

“Just… preparing for our time here,” he ventured tentatively. “Who knows how long we might have to stay in hid—”

“Of course,” she frostily interrupted. “How felicitous of you, Draco.”

Toddy broke the tensioned air by prodding Hermione’s leg and asking, “Would Miss be liking crêpes for breakfast again?”

“Oh, um… I won’t be staying here,” she responded quickly, hoping to Morgana that Narcissa hadn’t heard the ‘again’ part of that question. “Though I’m sure your crêpes are delicious, Toddy.” 

The older woman’s eyes had narrowed considerably when Hermione snuck a glance back at her. “Going into hiding is no cause for celebration, Toddy. Blinis with smoked salmon will do for tomorrow.” 

The elf nodded, appearing only slightly confused, and began rummaging through the kitchen, pulling spices from here and there to toss away, replacing cherished chipped dishes with fine china out of thin air, and making an overall ruckus with frequent pops back to the Manor for supplies. With a wave of her hand, the silver-trimmed wand still securely tucked away, Narcissa silenced the noise and, sighing demurely, slid into Jean Granger’s place at the table. 

She remained there, contemplative, no doubt considering her family’s new living situation, her son’s apparent change in ideals, and the necessary distance from her husband, still bodily chained to a madman hellbent on domination. Narcissa wore an expression so unreadable and complex that Hermione was nearly forced to recall her own mother, in the same chair, waiting for her on the day she had come home from primary school on her eleventh birthday to a strange letter in the post. 

The rearranging of the kitchen, the mug she’d painted in primary school to say ‘I Love My Dad’ discarded, and Draco’s mother sitting in the place where her own should have been all conspired together to file away at Hermione’s last nerve. She felt her face heat rapidly, and looked to the ceiling to quell any tears. It didn’t help. She was breaking down.

“Draco,” she said loudly, as if to ask him for help. When both Malfoys turned their heads, Hermione quickly added, “Let me show you to your room—” and she turned away before even he had a chance to respond. 

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The downstairs guest room was suitably low on personal effects of the Wilkins, and the memories there were few—just a slight cringe at Aunt Barbara coming home a bit too badgered from Girl’s Night with Mum during her last visit—yet Hermione could barely contain her sobs once they’d reached the threshold, suitcases in tow. They clattered to the floor in a pile, discarded, as Draco sat Hermione on the bed and wrapped her in an embrace. 

“I’m sorry—” she sobbed, “It’s hard being here again—”

“It’s alright,” he replied, rubbing her shoulder, “Completely understandable. You’re a complete angel for letting us come here, Hermione.”

She tried to say more, but couldn’t get another word out through the heaving sobs that wracked her body. Mum and Dad are alright, she told herself uselessly, they are alive and that is enough. It had to be enough. Draco’s warm arms enveloped her, even as his sleeves grew wet with her tears and each sob became uglier than the last. 

“Do you want to…” he began, once she’d run out of tears and sat in his arms, breathing heavily, “Do you want to talk about them? About what happened?” 

Hermione sniffed, trying to fend off another round. “I happened. I drove them away.” 

Draco stayed silent, still patiently rubbing her shoulder. 

She swallowed hard, and continued, “I erased my own parents’ memories. Made them think they were other people—a childless couple. That they suddenly had a great urge to move to Australia. That’s where they are.” 

He let out an exhale. “So they’re alive. I was expecting the worst.” 

“Yes…” Yes, they were alive. Alive and well, and tanned, and probably got their SCUBA certifications, and had no idea that they had a daughter across the world that was missing them very much. They were alive, and Hermione hated herself even more for wishing they were here comforting her despite the imminent danger.

“You saved their lives.” Draco said. She only nodded sadly. He continued, “Here I thought willingly taking the werewolf bite was the ultimate sacrifice for my family.” 

She bit out a weak chuckle. “You’ve got nothing on me, Malfoy.”

Hermione turned to look at him through the remnants of her tears. His pale face was drawn in concern, all angles and hollows. Without a second thought, she leaned forward and planted their lips together. 

He kissed her gently, as if she might shatter at any sudden movement. Hermione needed more. She pitched forward, opening her mouth and squeezing any part of him that her hands could find. Pliant, Draco fell back onto the bed and she followed easily, climbing on top and grinding their bodies together. She needed this. She needed something to take the gnawing pain away. 

His lips were soft, as they always were, and he met her movements easily, until he didn’t. Draco broke their kiss and his hands made their way back to her shoulders, putting a few inches of space between them and catching her eyes in an unwavering gaze. His mouth was dark from the pressure of her lips.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione whispered. 

He inhaled deep, then swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, but looked no less serious. “As much as I’m enjoying this, I don’t know if it’s what you need right now. You were just crying.” 

So what if he was right? The buzz of grief was threatening to burst from inside her, and it needed somewhere, anywhere to go. 

At her silence, he went on, “We’ll have all the time in the world once the war is won.”

Hermione collapsed back onto him, this time in defeat rather than passion. Into the front of his shirt she mumbled, “Do you really think we'll win?”

“Of course you will. And I promise to take you on a real date once this is over.” Draco’s voice was rich and deep from her vantage point, and out of nowhere a fresh new wave of tears surfaced, all to ruin the rest of his shirt. 

“Just breathe. Eight in and eight out,” he said, moving to rub her back. 

With a hiccup, Hermione replied testily, “I am. It’s too overwhelming being here. I should go.” As soon as she moved to push herself up, he pulled her back to his chest. 

“Don’t leave. Stay here with me.” To her responding whine, he added, “Do you know how to Occlude?” 

“Not really.”

“I’ll teach you.”

She snorted, closing her eyes as if that would help the pounding in her head.

“I’m a natural Occlumens,” Draco added haughtily. “I can teach you.”

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Once Hermione was firmly situated on the guest bed, staring at the ceiling, their lesson began. 

“Close your eyes,” Draco instructed. “Breathe steadily.”

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you’re about to cast the Trance on me,” Hermione said, but did as he said. 

“Think of a place where you can put the memories and thoughts. Somewhere they can live—somewhere you can put them and come back to them later.”

“Like a crevice in my brain?” 

“No, like a place in your imagination. Like… in the pages of a book, in a giant library. Perfect for you, Granger. Somewhere the memories are stored in your head, secure and safe, so you don’t have to think about them all the time.” 

Hermione let her mind wander, and only found more unhelpful thoughts of Monica and Wendell. She found Draco’s hand on the bedsheets, grasped it, and asked, “What do you think of?”

He took a moment to respond. “Don’t laugh—a wine cellar.”

She laughed in spite of herself, smiling with eyes still closed. “Nothing less than the nymph-made Red Burgundy. What vintage?”

Draco’s hand tightened around hers in a mock-threat. “I said don’t laugh, witch. It’s the type of place you leave things in for years—decades, even, and you don’t go back to them until they pair perfectly. Or I suppose, until they’re needed, or relevant, or you have time to sit with them like a nice Sauternes and Roquefort.”

“Okay, okay, Sir Heir Apparent. The type of place you leave things for years…”

In the end, Hermione settled on the dusty attic of the house as the perfect place to put her unneeded thoughts—there was no better place to store unpleasant memories than next to old Christmas decorations and unused ski gear. And sitting there, in her mind, watching dust mites float lazily across slanted sun’s rays, was calming enough that sifting through the thoughts themselves didn’t cause too much distress.

“Of course you pick it up easily,” Draco muttered, “First in class just like everything else.”

The two of them were halfway through the third round of finding new nooks and crannies for such memories when a wand alarm sounded from across the house. At the sound, Draco stood, pulling Hermione with him, and grimly ordered, “You’d better go. The moon is rising soon.”

She caught his eye, and nodded solemnly. “Thank you, Draco. Best of luck tonight.” And with that, Hermione stepped back, finally asked the Trance to take her to the Battle of Hogwarts, and jumped forward for the last time. 

Chapter Text

Take me to the Battle of Hogwarts. The Trance didn’t even need to change Hermione’s location with her final use of it—she went from one iteration of the guest room (softly lit, with Draco squeezing her hand as she Occluded her fears away, lying on the neatly tucked bedspread from when the house had been occupied last) to another, far different version. A month later, the guest room had been torn apart. The sheets were ripped to shreds, the mattress fallen at an awkward angle from where the bed slats underneath had been splintered and broken, the walls gouged deep with claw marks, and the door, hanging open on only one hinge, looked like it would collapse into kindling with one more touch.

Hermione paused, blinking away the last of the spell’s effects, and listened, heart in throat, for any sign of intruders or Death Eaters. The house was quiet and still. 

“Draco…?” she called nervously, prodding the door open and taking in the living room. It looked the same as it had before, save for a smattering of candles flickering from the mantle and credenza, lighting the room in place of a lamp. A tray of dried fruit and nuts was placed on the coffee table, and an unopened letter (the sides of which looked quite warped as if someone had clutched it tightly in both hands) addressed to Mr. Draco Malfoy sat next to an abandoned game of cribbage. “Hello? Mrs. Malfoy?”

With a pop, Toddy appeared before her. “Is Miss wanting to take dinner with Young Master Malfoy?” 

“I… suppose so,” Hermione replied. She should probably eat a bit of something while she could. 

Aforementioned Young Master Malfoy was languidly enjoying his dinner in the back garden under a shimmering veil of light. The setting sun shone through the web of protection that encased the property, distorting its rays until they hit Draco’s face at odd, twisting angles. 

Toddy announced Hermione’s arrival with much more pomp and circumstance than necessary, and Draco turned to greet her, a smirk already gracing his face. 

“Hello,” she said, awkwardly waiting for Toddy to be pleased enough with the interaction that he might leave them on their own. 

“Good to see you again,” he replied, nodding the elf away. 

She took the slatted armchair next to him and nearly jumped as Toddy popped back to them with a plate of courgette & lemon risotto in hand. With Hermione’s heartfelt thanks, they were finally alone. 

The two of them ate quietly, taking in the crisp near-summer air and the bounty of the back vegetable garden, the wards still beaming their silver light down onto the plants and making their leaves seem to dance with magic. 

“Your room was quite torn up,” she ventured, unsure if this was a proper topic of conversation. 

Draco nodded. “I didn’t feel like it was worth the effort to set it to rights. No offence—” His cheeks coloured as he cut himself off. “I will once we’re not in need of a safe house anymore, of course. But if I’d just fuck it up again the next month…”

“Were you sleeping in there like that?” The bed hadn’t looked comfortable at its unnatural angle, and she couldn’t see Draco happily retiring to such a destroyed space each night. 

“No. I’ve been sleeping on the sofa instead. After one full moon, no matter where you’re trapped… your prison quickly loses its charm. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back to the summer house for a normal visit.” 

Hermione refrained from the obvious jest regarding that matter and simply took his hand in reassurance. 

“Mother didn’t bother to fix it either. Probably a reflection on her feelings about having a werewolf for a son—something ugly that can’t be fixed no matter how hard you try. Better to just leave it broken.” 

“I’m sure that’s not true. She’ll come around.” 

He only bobbed his head from side to side in response. “I’ve accepted it.”

“You once told me she would want you to be happy. That she’d do anything to keep your family together,” Hermione intoned.

He scoffed. “And look how well that’s worked out. My father could be dead by now for all I know.” 

Instead of continuing down that dark path, Hermione discarded her tableware on the ground, did the same with Draco’s and climbed into his lap. Head on his chest, she could feel each beat of his heart, and the slight gooseflesh on the back of his neck that appeared with the breeze. He moved to envelop her in his arms, and they held each other, without speaking, for a long time. 

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The quarter moon had climbed significantly into the inky sky once she finally spoke again.

“The Battle of Hogwarts is happening tonight,” Hermione murmured, just as Draco said, “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

Each of them whipped their heads up to stare in surprise at what the other had said, and sat in silence for a beat more. 

“What?” she asked, though she knew exactly what he’d said and could feel her heart nearly melt into a puddle. 

“No, no,” he replied quickly, “The fabled Battle of Hogwarts? You’re being serious?” 

She nodded and chewed her lip. “If I’ve done everything right, this time it won’t end in failure. I don’t know if it’s the end of the war, really, but—one has to hope.” 

Draco’s face was a complicated mix of joy and apprehension. “The crown—we’ll need to hand it over to Potter and your lot, won’t we?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, “And it’s a diadem.” 

“Crown,” he teased, “is only one syllable. Sixty-six percent more efficient to say. And now that there’s a battle on, time is of the essence, time-traveller.” 

He gave her a final squeeze then righted them both to standing. “You should tell Mother. If you’re right, and this really is the final battle, it’ll raise her spirits.” 

“Less than one month in a Muggle house has her that down?” 

“On the contrary—she’s taken quite spectacularly to the strategy games. I think she just misses Father.” Draco gathered their dishes and returned inside. “You stay downstairs—” he turned to stop her from climbing the first step, “—I’ll fetch her.”

Hermione acquiesced, and retired to the sofa to study the cribbage hands while she waited. The players seemed to be evenly matched, though the one who had sequestered the pile of cashews next to their hand was pulling forward with a run of five and two fifteens, including the starter card which was turned over on the top of the deck; a five of spades. The letter drew further notice, and Hermione flipped it over to see if the writer had signed a name, but found nothing. She hoped its delivery hadn’t revealed the location of the safe house.

“Ms. Gray—I’m sorry I was unavailable to receive you properly,” Narcissa’s voice cut through Hermione’s wandering thoughts. She was coming down the stairs, patting her hair into place and smoothing magenta robes, wrinkled as if she had been lying down for quite some time. 

“It’s quite alright, Mrs. Malfoy. Draco was a gracious host,” she replied politely. 

Narcissa fussed with the shoulder of Draco’s shirt, but was clearly pleased at such a commendation from former Ministry Seer Cordelia Gray. 

Hermione continued: “I’m here to update you—it’s highly likely the final battle will take place tonight.” At least, it was the last battle Hermione knew of—who knows if it would really be the final conflict? If Voldemort would truly be defeated? There were two Horcruxes left, but they were both identified and within reach…

Narcissa’s face grew serious, and she sank into the rocking chair near the fireplace. “You’ve Seen it?” she asked.

Not wanting to blatantly lie, in case she was wrong, Hermione backtracked, “Erm… it’s murky. My… Sight is… not totally clear. The Dark Lord is weak and close to being defeated—at Hogwarts.” 

Draco exchanged a glance with his mother, then she exhaled slowly and only whispered to herself, “Defeat for the Dark Lord…” before raising her head again and calling, “Vitsy!”

A second house-elf popped into the living room, clothed in a few kitchen towels stitched together and still holding a giant mixing bowl full of dough, dwarfing her tiny body. Seeing Hermione, the elf squeaked and dropped the bowl, which vanished before it hit the floor. 

“Vitsy, have you heard anything from Lucius regarding the Dark Lord? Any updates at all?” Narcissa commanded. 

From behind Draco’s legs, Vitsy warbled, “No, Ma’am… Master Malfoy called away on short notice.”

Another heavy look was shared between mother and son, before Narcissa finished, “Very well. Back to the Manor with you.”

“Thank you, Vitsy,” Hermione spoke up before the elf disappeared. She only nodded nervously before popping away again.

Before Narcissa had a chance to make whatever comment she was about to make on Hermione’s manners towards the house-elf, Draco spoke. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” The older woman stood again. “Go to battle? I am not losing my husband and son on the same day. We are not fighting with only one wand between the three of us.” 

She had a point there, actually.

“We have to.” Draco shifted his gaze to Hermione, and words weren’t needed to convey what was said. The diadem still needed to be passed on to Harry. They needed to go, number of wands notwithstanding. He strode over to his mother and placed a hand on her arm. “I want to fight. I want this to be over.” 

Narcissa only pressed her mouth into a thin line in response, then turned to observe the room without really seeing it, working something over in her head. With another heavy exhale, she finally conceded, “Alright. I won’t delude myself into thinking that there’s anything I can say that will sway you.” 

Draco looked at Hermione again, hand twitching towards the guest room.

Narcissa started back towards the stairwell, and Hermione thought she heard, “I haven’t a clue where you inherited such obstinacy…” Back at normal volume, she announced, “Give me a moment to collect myself before we Apparate.” 

“You’re coming, Mrs. Malfoy?” 

With a brisk nod, she replied matter-of-factly, “Of course I am,” and disappeared up the stairs. 

In a moment, Draco was over the sofa and Hermione had met him halfway to the guest room. The suitcases were torn open, their contents strewn about until the bulk of the diadem was found in its button-up wrapping. Once a pressed French cuff, the shirt was now stained a blotchy, inky black. 

As she reached for the bundle, Draco jerked it away. “I’m not letting you touch this thing. It’s evil.”

“Draco, I’ve touched one before. I’ll need to give it to Harry, won’t I?” she protested.

His face was unreadable. “I’ll get it to Potter.”

“Would he even trust you?” 

“Likely not. But Hermione would.” 

They stood, looking wildly at each other in the silence that followed that statement. 

“She would. I stopped Bellatrix from torturing her.” With a snap, he shrunk the blackened heap and slipped it into his pocket, then took one of her hands, furrowing brows together with how intensely he was holding her gaze. “I’ll deliver it. I’ll get it to them. I promise.” 

If Hermione knew herself, which she liked to think she did, she knew that if Draco Malfoy had personally stepped in to stop a deranged Bellatrix from certain torture, and instead delivered a harmless Tickling Jinx, at risk of being found out by his parents standing right there, and a month later he’d shown up out of nowhere with the lost Diadem of Ravenclaw, offering it up to be destroyed? Hermione might have performed one or two diagnostic spells on the diadem, just to be sure, but ultimately… yes, she would have trusted him. 

She hoped she wasn’t letting her current affection for Draco cloud that judgement. 

“Alright,” she relented. “But when you do—you should know it’s called a Horcrux.”

He smirked. “I know.”

Of course he’d say that. Bastard. “Piss off.” 

Narcissa, silky hair braided into a low bun and in a far more utilitarian pair of robes, chose that moment to join them in the guest room, but paid no mind to their clasped hands, which were pulled back a second too late. 

This was likely her last chance. “Mrs. Malfoy, may I use your wand to Appa—”

“I am perfectly capable of getting us to Hogwarts myself, Ms. Gray.” The last remaining wand stayed in her hand, and the Incantorium stayed empty. 

The three of them, with Narcissa’s palms on their shoulders, unpleasantly pressed through space together, were deposited in the blink of an eye into Hogsmeade’s main thoroughfare—with more people than it had seen in years. Magical folk were jostling Hermione in every direction, and the crowd only thickened as more apparated in—the Caterwauling Charm going haywire—from the Ministry, from the Order, from who knows where, all ready to fight for Harry Potter. 

Night had fallen, yet the sky was already hazy as the light from the casting of spells bounced off of the low-hanging cloud cover. The unlikely trio Hermione now found herself part of was pushed forward with the momentum of the crowd. Draco found and clasped both of their hands tightly and he strode forward towards the castle, brows furrowed in determination.

A quick and spitfire shout: “No, you don’t, Malfoy!” and Hermione’s heart sank. Tonk’s voice was immediately recognizable, though it had emanated from a woman who looked nothing like she usually did.

A Full-Body Bind shot expertly through the crowd, headed straight for Draco and Narcissa, and Hermione’s hand jumped out before she even had a moment to think. Her shield immediately absorbed the curse before it reached the Malfoys, and she shouted back at nearly the same volume in a strikingly Hermione-like voice, “They’re with me!”

Tonks’ second cast was stopped short, expression changing to one of bewilderment, and the crowd seemed to envelop her and separate them before any other hexes could be sent towards the two conspicuously blond heads. Before Tonks had a chance to find them again, Hermione reversed direction and dragged Draco, and by extension Narcissa, into an alleyway, casting a Disillusionment charm behind her. 

Narcissa whipped her wand out and jutted it at Draco’s head with purpose. Before he had a chance to speak, his hair changed into a bright auburn.

“Must you really, Mother?” he wailed, clutching at his head and pulling the red strands forward to look at them. “Red?”

“We were nearly cursed just for being Malfoys,” she replied evenly, “The Dark Lord has done enough damage to my son—I’ll not have the people fighting against him hurting you as well.”

It was a smart manoeuvre. With his hair changed, Draco looked like a forgotten-about Weasley cousin, albeit one much pointier in the face who had come into money recently based on the cut of his robes.

As Narcissa changed the colour of her own hair to a murky grey-brown, Hermione hoped to Morgana that simple change wouldn’t have them recognized again. 

“They’ll be somewhere in Ravenclaw tower or near the Room of Requirement,” she instructed Draco. “Get them the package. I’ll stay with—”

“We are not separating—!” the older woman protested. “Again, with a single wand between us, it’s absurd—”

“Mother,” Draco interrupted sharply. “I need to get something to Potter. It’s the only reason we’re here.” Catching Hermione’s eye, he repeated her oft-mentioned words. “It’s integral. Essential. It goes further than… any of us.”

Narcissa snatched his hand from where it stilled in the air during his explanation. “No. We are Apparating back to the Manor and waiting for this to be over. It’s too dangerous.” 

“Narcissa,” Hermione said, forgetting to address her politely. She turned back in surprise as Draco yanked his hand away. “The object needs to be destroyed before the Dark Lord can be defeated. Harry Potter has the means of destroying it. If Draco doesn’t get it there quickly, all hope is lost and the war will drag on until who knows when. He needs to go. Now.”

“Destroyed before the Dark Lord can be defeated?” Narcissa repeated.

“Yes.” Hermione looked to both Malfoys, now a mousy-haired witch and red-headed werewolf, and exhaled slowly. “And one more thing—In the same way, Nagini has to be killed before he can be. If you have the chance to kill the snake, take it.”

“Gladly,” Draco replied darkly.

Finally relenting, Narcissa sighed and pressed her wand into Draco’s hand. “Be safe above all else,” she commanded, and pulled his head close to kiss him on the forehead. “Mother loves you.” 

He stood back up significantly redder, and only nodded. With a sharp glance at Hermione, Draco gripped the wand tightly and moved towards the Disillusioned alleyway entrance. Then, so quick that it caught her completely off guard, he darted back to press a kiss on Hermione’s lips. Before it had even registered, he passed through the ward and was gone. 

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Next time Hermione saw Draco, she’d be giving him an earful. The absolute gall to plant that kiss in front of his mother, and leave her with the consequences! Narcissa had her trapped in a critical glare, and she got the impression that they would not be leaving this alleyway until she’d either approved Hermione (or Cordelia, really) as a suitable Malfoy daughter-in-law, or had them make an Unbreakable Vow that she’d never touch the Heir Apparent again. 

“You’re no Ministry worker.” Narcissa began her charge, crossing her arms delicately.

Hermione’s cheeks coloured. She wasn’t admitting to more than absolutely necessary, and there was no way there was time for a ‘I’m actually Hermione Granger’ conversation right now. She settled with a simple, “No.” 

“Who are you really, Cordelia Gray?”

Again, there was no time for the full breadth of that conversation. “…Someone who cares about your son,” she tentatively answered.

Narcissa was silent, only raising an eyebrow. 

She went on, as tactfully as she could, “The prophecy of Draco dying—I needed to prevent that from happening.”

“And the safehouse?” she questioned.

“His idea. He wanted his family safe. It’s really my parents’ house.”

Both eyebrows were raised at that part. 

Hermione continued in a rush, as if to cover up the admittance that her parents were Muggles, “I want nothing more than to make sure that Draco is alive and, when this is all over, that everyone knows how much he contributed to this. Getting us to this point. Defeating… You-Know-Who.”

The next question came like a punch in the stomach. “And your affections for him?”

No. No, no, no. She was not answering this question now, not telling his mother how she felt before she’d even really had a chance to tell Draco how she felt—

There had to be something else. Anything to interrupt this. But the Disillusionment Charm was holding strong, and Narcissa kept that expectant, critical look on her face. Hermione needed an out—

No, Cordelia needed an out. Cordelia Gray, not a former Ministry worker—but still a Seer. She’d still shown Draco the so-called vision, and Narcissa hadn’t questioned that part. Hermione schooled her face into an expression of calm, as calm as she could, and fluttered her eyes shut. She’d never been privy to so-called Seers and their so-called prophecies, but Harry had described Trewlaney’s prophecy as a sort of trance, with her voice sounding quite low and ragged, and no recollection of it happening afterward. 

Hermione did the same with her own voice, pitching it differently than normal, and even lolled her head to the side, as she whispered, “I see a witch with covered cornsilk hair…”

Narcissa gave a small gasp. Hermione took that as a sign she was going in the right direction. She needed to get Narcissa out of harm’s way, somewhere the two of them wouldn’t be in the line of fire, and far, far away from Hermione’s past self.

“Deep underground she stands… ” That was enough to put them in the dungeons, now to add a bunch of ridiculous riddles: “Weigh against a feather on fate’s scales… Answer past life’s calling… Stem the tides of blood before they drown the world…”

And for the final punch, she finished, “Ophelia… no, Ophyra… no, Ophiuchus Narcissus Malfoy…” and collapsed into Narcissa, blinking wildly as if she was just waking up. “Mrs. Malfoy—I’m sorry—What’s happened…?”

Chapter Text

Narcissa Malfoy held Hermione’s limp body up from where she had fallen, unmoving except for her lips, which silently repeated the false prophecy. She stared into Hermione’s eyes, but didn’t seem to be seeing, lost in thought. 

“Mrs. Malfoy?” she repeated, finding her footing and standing up out of her grasp. “Are you alright?” A roil of guilt churned in Hermione’s stomach—hopefully her words had been chosen carefully enough, despite how frantically she’d conjured them. They had to get out of harm’s way, and stay away from the other Hermione, at bare minimum. 

Seeming to snap out of her concentration, Narcissa nodded sharply and righted herself. “I know now why I’m needed at the battle today. You’ve just prophesied it.” 

“You do?” Hermione asked tentatively. “Erm… I did?” They weren’t supposed to be needed at the battle, that wasn’t what she’d meant—

“Yes,” was the reply, as Narcissa removed the Disillusionment Charm and strode towards the crowds. “We’re going to the Slytherin common room.”

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It wasn’t until they’d separated from the people clamouring into the main gates of Hogwarts, avoided the main conflict which hadn’t spilled out of the castle yet, and made their way through a side corridor which led to the dungeons, that Narcissa clarified her interpretation of Hermione’s words. 

“‘Deep underground’ clearly refers to the dungeons,” she began, which at least had been accurate to what Hermione was going for. “And if I’m correct… if the Slytherin students have been sent into exile there during the battle—” There was a wild look in her light eyes as Narcissa marched down hallway after hallway, boots clicking in time with various booms and crashes from above, “We’ll give them a chance to come out in a suitable position. If this really is the end… and Cordelia, I really hope it is—there’s been so much bloodshed—no innocent child is paying for their parents’ misstep.” 

“How noble of you, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione replied, struggling to follow her train of thought. 

“They’re children, really. Any one of them deserves the kindness you’ve shown Draco and I.” 

“I’m sorry—?” Hermione nearly tripped over her own feet at such a praise from the woman who had been staring daggers at her just moments ago, not to mention the warm regard for some of the most vile classmates in existence. 

“You provided an out. A chance to defect. And you’ve prophesied just the same for them. I can’t believe I didn’t conceive of it myself.” Narcissa caught her in a marginally warmer glance. “We need as many Healers as we can get. I’ll provide a rudimentary lesson on the basics, enough to patch holes and heal broken bones and the most common curse-reversals… I don’t believe there’s enough time for anything else.”

“You’re a Healer?” Hermione asked, trying to disguise the surprise in her voice. 

“Nearly,” was the reply, with a twinge of regret. “With no sons to carry on the Black name, Father wanted us girls to find places of great influence in wizarding society. Head Healer at St. Mungo’s, Headmaster of Hogwarts, and Minister for Magic. Priorities shifted when I was a year away from the final assessment.”

That must have been when she had been pregnant with Draco, Hermione thought bitterly. Narcissa’s father must have been just as pleasant as the portrait of Walburga at Grimmauld if he’d compelled his daughter to get married to Lucius instead of finishing her education. Furthermore, she wondered if Bellatrix had been destined for Headmaster or Minister. Either position sounded terrifying. 

They’d reached a corridor deep in the dungeons within hung a magnificent tapestry of a richly-adorned witch and wizard standing on either side of a table piled high with magical objects: an astronomy globe that shimmered with stars, vials of black liquid that bubbled on its own, even an Incantorium, among many other expensive- and powerful-looking possessions. 

“Password?” the witch questioned, threaded grip tightening on her embroidered wand. 

“I am Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, of House Slytherin, sorted 1966. I require entrance in protection of any students within.” 

The two woven beings shared a glance, then the wizard spoke. “And you?” His shrewd gaze, pointed toward Hermione, seemed to say, ‘We’ll know if you tell the truth—tread carefully.’

In a palpable repayment of Hermione’s similar shout earlier, Narcissa quickly clipped, “She’s with me,” and after another shared look, the two in the tapestry stepped aside, it silently tore open down the middle, and Narcissa stepped through the flagstone wall. 

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The moment that Hermione had followed Narcissa through the wall, her core filled to the brim with burning jealousy. Harry and Ron had seen the inside of the Slytherin common room in second year, but in relaying it back to her once she’d recovered from the Polyjuice incident, much had been left to desire. It was just like the two of them; the way they had so easily glossed over the giant ceilings, the soft green light tingeing every carved marble or chiselled granite alcove, the immensely heavy velvet drapes blanketing each stone archway, and the furniture! They’d been positively holding out on her, with not a single mention of how each armchair sported its own ornate oak facade even on the tiniest parts, the wooden bits just on the front of each arm, even the legs with their own carved snake scales. Every corner was rich with artefacts, just as the entrance tapestry had been—globes of every kind and size, stacks of first editions, and all manner of magical tool or trinket, gilded and filigreed and encrusted with glittering gems, were tossed on tables and footstools and mantelpieces. 

They’d stepped into an entrance hall twice as tall as it was wide, with a murky, teal-coloured light filtering down from a faceted skylight (or lake light? Since it appeared to be under the Black Lake.) Before Hermione could take in much else, or even catch her breath at the sight of the room, a voice sounded from above. Mounted on the wall which they’d just stepped through was a human-like skull, save for its pointed cheekbones. 

“Announcing Narcissa Malfoy!” The voice rang out, clearly excited about the Malfoy matriarch’s return. “And guest.” That bit sounded decidedly less excited, but at least the skull hadn’t just announced to a room full of testy Slytherins that Hermione Granger had just joined them. 

The students within were arranged into an effortless spread, as they always seemed to be, like an invisible photographer had positioned them Just So for a company photo. They all turned towards the entrance, and either stood to greet Narcissa politely, or pinned Hermione in questioning looks, which left her rooted to the spot. Even the way she had whipped around at the skull’s voice had probably revealed that she was no Slytherin herself. 

“Mrs. Malfoy—” Pansy Parkinson ran to Narcissa first, but whatever she was about to say was interrupted by a colossal explosion from above, the spell so powerful that the walls shook and the green light filtering down from the lake was momentarily changed to orange. A few first-years screamed, and Narcissa clutched Pansy where she stood and wailed, “Mrs. Malfoy, thank Merlin you’re here. What are we supposed to do!?”

“I see I was correct in guessing that you were all exiled here to wait out the battle—” Narcissa started, and a spirited round of shouts emanated from the group, some indignant and others cautious. It seemed as if the house couldn’t come to an agreement on if they should fight, and for who, or wait until the conflict had ended to decide which side they supported. 

Narcissa strode to the centre of the room, Pansy following close behind, and began a monologue that Hermione would not soon forget, as she did her best to blend into a corner and draw no attention to the non-Slytherin in the room. 

“You’ve been banished here while people shoulder the fight above us,” she began, commanding  the common room as if she’d never left Hogwarts. “Slytherins have been written off—regardless of what’s in your minds and hearts. It’s simply cruel. I want every person fighting this battle to realise just how much Slytherin house has to offer.”

At that, Pansy shared a heavy look with Theo Nott, while Blaise Zabini grasped Daphne Greengrass’ hand tightly. A murmur of agreement passed through the scattered students. 

Narcissa turned, quick as a whip, and challenged forcefully, “Who here is ready to die for the Dark Lord today?”

A few hands went up, mostly the brutish sixth and seventh years who had made Hermione’s school days a living hell. Some younger kids put their hands up as well, scared though they looked. Pansy’s hand was halfway into the air, as if she’d raised it before comprehending what Narcissa had said. Hermione's heart sank as the words sunk in.

“Really? Mr. Pike, you are willing to put your life on the line? You are ready to die today, and have your parents perform their funeral rites on their only child?” 

At her confrontation, Piers slowly lowered his hand, looking confused about where Narcissa’s speech was headed. 

Narcissa began pacing the Turkish rug in front of her captive audience. “Slytherin is a house of purity, that’s true. But Salazaar also valued cunning, and self-preservation, and resourcefulness.”

Hermione’s heart beat hard in her throat. The inherent distrust of Slytherins, the notion Hermione herself had once subscribed to, replaced her dread with shame. She’d been proven wrong over and over again by the formerly Most Hateful Sod, Snape’s tireless work to put Hermione in a place to win the war, his undercover position against Voldemort for killing the Muggleborn witch he loved, Narcissa’s reluctant acceptance of the Muggle safe house, and even Pansy Parkinson of another timeline catching the eye of an imprisoned Hermione and telling her to ‘Do something,’ even as she was the epitome of everything Pansy should have hated. Her past self could have never conceived of her newfound trust, respect, and… well, love for someone who had once wanted nothing to do with her, and made it known often. But he’d been wrong, and she’d been wrong about him, too. 

Narcissa’s impassioned speech was like a salve on a burn—her plan, once put in motion, could reduce the mass casualties that Hermione had witnessed in her first Battle of Hogwarts. As more explosions sounded and the walls of the common room shook again, showers of dust floating down from the ceiling, the former Healer continued, “People are going to perish up there. Hundreds, if not thousands of people; your friends, family, mentors. We have the opportunity to prove ourselves worthy—worthy to either side of the conflict—without putting ourselves in the same position.

“I ask again. Who is willing to die for the Dark Lord today?” Narcissa’s eyes were lit as Hermione had never seen her—if she hadn’t known it, she would have never guessed that Narcissa currently held no wand. It was as if her magic was pulsing out into the room and urging the students’ to help. “If you are willing, you are free to leave this room and do so. Go to your death.”

Crabbe, Goyle, and Pike were still as obstinate as ever. They stood, Crabbe tried to give a speech to rival Narcissa’s, one so poor in its mission that it was not even worth remembering, and the three of them had exited the room before she began again. 

Narcissa turned to the remaining Slytherins. “If you want to make yourself useful behind a truce of safety, where you won’t be at risk of being killed, come with me. And someone give me a bloody wand—preferably of hawthorn wood.” 

A first-year timidly placed his wand in her outstretched hand, before glueing himself back in an armchair, a look of faraway resignation in his eyes. Him and the other younger students were ushered to their dormitories at the urging of the older ones, and when all was said and done, a group of nearly twenty Healers-to-be was gathered by the grand mantle. 

“Ms. Gray.” Narcissa finally turned her attention back to Hermione. “Join us, please.”

She took a space on the sofa next to Pansy, who gave her a quizzical look and said, “You look familiar. Are you—?”

“Take each others’ hands,” Narcissa thankfully interrupted. “Form a chain.” 

All hands were henceforth taken, and the hawthorn wand was lowered to one such clasp in the circle. 

“Repeat after me,” she began, and a tendril of light snaked out from the wand. “I, Narcissa Malfoy…”

The group repeated tentatively with their own names, and Hemione made sure to whisper her own repetition under her breath so quietly that no one could hear her say ‘I, Hermione Granger…’ but the magic surrounding them.

“...solemnly swear by the forces of magic within me… by the sacred energy that courses through all living beings… and by the duty bestowed on me as a wielder of healing craft… for this night of May the first, and tomorrow's day of May the second, 1998, or until the battle has come to a ceasefire…”

As the chant was repeated, the tendril found its way across every pair of hands, until it had reached its own beginning and the circle of light was complete, its golden luminescence brightening each face from below. 

“I pledge to use my magic to alleviate the suffering and mend the broken… without discrimination or prejudice… be it enemy or comrade, I swear to aid in healing and protection.” 

At that, Bastien Queensbury raised his head. “And what if we don’t?”

There was a grim look on Narcissa’s face. “If you try to inflict harm, the oath will compel you to turn that harm on yourself instead.”

Bastien was stunned into silence, and put his head back down. 

The chant went on: “If I violate this sacred oath by inflicting harm without just cause… may the magic that flows within me turn against its caster... May the pain I intended for others be mirrored upon my own being… until I am compelled to seek redemption and rectify the harm I have wrought.”

Pansy’s grip on Hermione’s hand tightened, but she did not let go. 

“I take this solemn oath freely, willingly, and with a commitment to uphold the principles of healing and benevolence… My allegiance is to the greater good above all else… Sancramenta.”

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The world’s quickest course in magical healing was taught between the Slytherin common room and the hospital wing of Hogwarts—though no one knew if it was even still standing. Everywhere Hermione looked, another wall was crumbled, blasted through, or spattered with blood and the burnt embers of past curses. The battle had spilled out through the Great Hall now, and screaming, shouting, and various explosions echoed through each window and hole in the castle’s walls. By the time they’d gotten to the hospital wing, nearly every student in the group was levitating one or two fallen bodies behind, in hopes of staving off whatever curse or injury had brought them down.

Hermione felt absolutely useless, just running alongside with nothing to offer, until she spotted an unconscious Mulciber and liberated his wand off of him. Considering the oath compelled her to help him, no matter how much she’d like to finish the job (preferably with a crystal chandelier,) she begrudgingly added his body to the growing cloud following. 

Once they’d finally arrived at the hospital wing, the same one Hermione had begun this bloody mission in, this time thrice extended to accommodate more beds, it was apparent that Madame Pomfrey was in desperate need of help. Each bed was filled with an unconscious fighter, or someone who was just about there, and not a single torch in the room was lit, yet it was still bright as day from each pulsing diagnostic charm that hovered above the wounded. Every few seconds, another injured person materialised into the room, now onto the floor, seemingly transported there by the castle itself. 

The commotion of the group of Slytherins rushing into the ward, not to mention the veritable storm of additional infirm they brought along, startled Madame Pomfrey and Hannah Abbott from the bodies they’d been leaning over. 

“Poppy,” Narcissa started, rushing to the older woman as if seeing an old acquaintance. “We’ve twenty more temporary Healers, all under oath. Where would you like them?” 

All business, Pomfrey replied, “Everyone takes two beds. Confiscate wands and prioritise anyone with heavy bleeding.” 

As the students jumped into action, Hermione saw out of the corner of her eye a tight handshake, nod of understanding, and slight smile from Narcissa to her former mentor, before they too began healing. 

As disgruntled as she was considering the only concrete part of the phoney prophecy that Hermione had given was that they should stay in the dungeons and here they were above ground and potentially in the line of fire… this version of the battle could have been going worse. Neville and a young student she didn’t recognize had their wounds stitched back together under her new wand (a breathtakingly stubborn hornbeam that still felt miles better than wandless), their diagnostic charms slowly ticking over into blue light instead of red, and Pansy began sending Blood-Replenishing Potions around the room for those in need. It was clear that the hospital wing was a much better place for actual healing than the dungeons.

There was a deafening boom from the grounds, and another group of injured were delivered to the ward, most limbs at grotesque angles and some missing. Theo and Blaise ran towards the pile and began splinting the breaks. Heart jumping into her throat, she thought she saw a head of pale blond, before remembering that Draco was currently sporting auburn instead. He’d had to have delivered the diadem by now—barely even registering the action, Hermione thought of the first time he’d kissed her, and cast a Patronus. 

Her otter looked highly displeased at having been conjured by Mulciber’s wand. “Find Draco Malfoy and tell him to meet us at the hospital wing,” she commanded, and it whisked off into the corridor.

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Not two minutes later, Draco found her leaning over a masked Death Eater groaning in pain, prodding at the diagnostic to determine how to best treat him, and he pulled her away into an embrace. “It’s destroyed,” he whispered. “One less Horcrux.”

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, then pulled back. “Thank Merlin. Thank you for getting it to them. Can you take off this mask? It burns me when I try.”

“Why?” His nose wrinkled in disgust. “You’re not helping that—?”

“Your mother has us all under a temporary Healer’s Oath. Aid everyone, no matter who it is.” 

“Us…?” Draco finally looked around and found his former classmates in the midst of repairing fractured bones, stitching wounds, and undoing curses on all manner of people, be it Death Eater, pureblood, half-blood, or Muggleborn. Pansy, busy though she was at quickly brewing additional Blood-Replenishing Potions, had a look in her eye that told Hermione, ‘I know you’re that girl from the storage closet,’ though the smirk on her face betrayed that she was more amused than jealous. 

“Come on, Draco,” Hermione pleaded, and he finally relented, removing the mask to reveal a bloodied and disfigured Selwyn. As she began to perform the necessary spells to get his nose back into the right place and address the curse affecting the use of his arms, Draco continued filling her in on his absence. 

“There was a thoroughly unneeded amount of suspicion, but after half a dozen spells checking the tiara for any traps, I finally got Potter to take it. I was right—Hermione vouched for me,” he intoned quietly, looking as smug as ever.

“Episkey. Don’t run off to her now just because she’s gone soft on you,” Hermione replied. 

“Your Patronus may have also helped,” he added, taking point on an unconscious and heavily bleeding Lavender Brown, who had just materialised in front of them. 

“That was only a few minutes ago!” she exclaimed, turning back to Draco. “It took that long to find the three of them?”

“Vulnera Sanentur. No, I found them quick enough. It took that long to convince them. But Weasley got it with the fang. Just the snake now.” He glanced out the window towards the battle field, and Hermione followed his gaze. She thought she could just make out the slight distortion of the Invisibility Cloak, only because she had already lived this battle once before, and a trio headed to the Shrieking Shack. 

With Selwyn now on the mend and Lavender’s wounds closing, she clutched Draco into a tight embrace. The Shrieking Shack was where she’d seen him die in her first Battle of Hogwarts. That simply could not happen in this timeline. Hermione wouldn’t let it. 

Remus Lupin materialised into the ward just then, blood streaming down his face and looking very pale. 

“Blood Replenishing Potion, over here!” Hermione shouted to Pansy, trying to catch Lupin as he collapsed next to Selwyn’s cot. “Professor, are you conscious?”

He cleared his throat, blood splattering out as he did so, and looked past Hermione to Draco, who looked just as pale. “Mr. Malfoy… you got… my letter?”

Chapter Text

“You have fought valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste.

“Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured.

“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, the battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour.”

Voldemort’s amplified voice left an eerie silence in its wake as the fighters duelling throughout the castle, on the Hogwarts grounds, and in the forest quieted. The hospital wing, too, lulled in volume to only the bubbling of the cauldrons and a low drone of spellwork being done on those lucky enough to still be alive. 

Focused on a young Hufflepuff on the cot before her, Hermione listened for what she had heard next, in her first Battle of Hogwarts. Harry’s voice, amplified in return, rallying the Order and the Ministry and the student body, calling them to fight against the powers of darkness with everything they had.

It did not come.

As more and more wounded piled into the room, which by now had been multiplied in size several more times since they’d arrived, their names and faces became a blur. Only the pulsing diagnostic charms, glowing red or green or blue, seemed to matter. 

Narcissa’s Healer training proved indispensable. Her and Madame Pomfrey scurried about to each bed, summoning the correct antidote here or a casting rare curse-reversal there. Though despite their best efforts, several diagnostic charms went brilliant white before fizzling out, signalling a patient’s untimely death from their injuries (or timely, and completely warranted in some cases, Hermione thought, though she hoped the Healer’s Oath wouldn’t punish her for thinking those thoughts, because Mulcibler truly, truly deserved to die a painful death despite their best efforts, which he did.)

Draco spent each moment in between healing each new wave of injured at Lupin’s bedside, their voices low.

Oddly, through the haze of bodies and broken bones and blood, Hermione felt a sort of… exhalation. A sense of capability. Despite each time she had fretted over the changing of timelines, how a different decision might impact the state of the future, she had made it here. And now, with half of Slytherin House aiding the incapacitated, healing the injured, and doing all they could to ensure survival? Hermione was confident that this particular change was exactly the right choice. Less death. More survivors. More hope.

“Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Black,” Pomfrey addressed them as she reversed the Backwards Knees Hex on Seamus Finnigan’s unconscious form, “Can you lead a group out to gather any more injured on the grounds?” 

Hoping Narcissa was nowhere near to overhear how Hermione had not only lied about being Cordelia Gray, but also had the nerve to don the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black in falsehood, she quickly responded, “Of course we can.” 

The armistice passed in another blur, and the only thing she seemed to remember from it was the pallid glow of the levitation charm, carrying each added body, as the light caressed Draco’s resigned face from above. 

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Harry Potter was dead. 

Harry Potter was dead and motionless in Hagrid’s giant arms. 

Harry Potter was dead, and Voldemort had won. Him and his remaining followers swam in her vision as they marched towards the castle. 

McGonagall’s ragged scream seemed to echo in Hermione’s head, which felt as if it was filled with water, matching the tear-distorted scene in front of her. 

“Harry! HARRY!” she heard her own voice cry, though she hadn’t made a sound. She couldn’t seem to open her mouth at all, and the taste of blood from her own cheek went unnoticed until it wasn’t Hagrid her eyes were fixed on, but the patch of grass in front of her that had been stained dark from some past spell. Her right hand began to ache, as the shouts of more survivors took on a tinny quality. At some point, Hermione’s knees buckled out and it was only by her grip on Draco’s elbow that she stayed halfway upright. His hair was nearly blond again.

In every nightmare she’d endured, every sick trick her subconscious had played on her in coming up with new ways that Harry had died, the first time, he’d been bloody. Some deep gash, or his forehead freshly sliced, had done him in. This, the way he was simply crumpled at Voldemort’s feet, as if he could have been in a deep sleep, was so much worse. 

Voldemort’s cracked little mouth was moving, but she could barely hear. Hermione could only think one thing. 

I have to go back again.  

It was the only option. Draco’s sacrifice, the Eradication Gala, the safehouse… it had all been for nothing. 

“Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones?”

She would only end up in the dungeons as a prisoner again. She squeezed her eyes shut, and began tracing her steps back in each decision she’d made. 

“He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!” 

Did the timeline need more change, or less? What exactly had led to this outcome? The answers were obscured, prancing around in her brain just out of reach. She could look at nothing but Lucius Malfoy’s stony face at Voldemort’s side, Death Eater mask abandoned.

It doesn’t matter, Hermione thought. She would go back in time again and again, until the right switch was flipped that made them win the war. 

Even if that switch was not loving Draco. 

In fact, she reasoned, lip trembling, that was probably exactly the right change. Harry had been killed as nothing more than a cruel punishment from the universe. At last, she released Draco’s arm and fell to the ground, tears silently streaming down her cheeks. 

“He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds,” hissed Voldemort, “killed while trying to save himself—”

“No—!” She heard her voice, this time emanated from her own throat, a half scream and half shout, but it was enough to interrupt Voldemort’s speech. He was lying. Harry would never abandon the battle for himself. The dark figure of Tom Riddle turned towards Hermione, on hands and knees in the grass.

The Elder Wand was only halfway raised in his hand when a jolt of green light forced her eyes shut, flinching down to the bloodstained earth, bracing for the jolt of the Killing Curse in the next second. The last thing she saw was Draco Malfoy’s silhouette outlined in the glow of the battle. 

The curse did not come. Expecting to see another corpse in front of her and another round of tears pricking her eyes, Hermione instead saw Draco, wand raised and pointed towards the body of Nagini. She was curled around Voldemort, but her giant head was twisted at an unnatural angle.

Draco had killed the snake. 

“The Oath—!” Hermione exclaimed, envisioning the snake biting him just as it had before, ripping into his flesh in retribution—

But Draco had taken no such oath. 

The crowd seemed to hold their breath, unsure how to react to what had just happened. Draco Malfoy, standing up to his Dark Lord? Lucius’s face remained unchanged.

The gaunt form lowered the Elder Wand. “That was among your weaker decisions, Draco,” Voldemort crooned, not even bothering to act defensively even though Draco had just destroyed his last Horcrux. 

Hermione stood to join Draco, the spark inside her lit once again. If they could just kill Voldemort, maybe Harry’s death wouldn’t have been in vain—

“Any decision made against you is powerful, not weak. You’re nothing but a coward.” Draco’s response dripped in animosity. His voice was true, and strong, though Hermione could see his left hand tremble from her vantage point.

“Your decisions made against me have resulted in permanent lycanthropy, young Malfoy. Your family name sullied for the rest of time.” Voldemort clapped Lucius on the back with glee, as if revelling in his continued loyalty despite this. “That is not only cowardice, but idiocy.” 

There were a few murmurs from those gathered at the Great Hall’s massive doorway. Lucius still said nothing, but moved his hard gaze to his son.

Draco spoke even louder, his brows knit in concentration. This time he gripped Hermione’s shoulder, holding her back and almost pushing her behind his own body. “Lycanthropy is a badge I wear proudly as a rejection of your ideology!” It was not clear if he was speaking to Voldemort, or to his father.

Seemingly uninterested in continuing this conversion, Voldemort simply motioned to Lucius and said, “Handle your werewolf son.”

Lucius didn’t move, his eyes still fixed on Draco, expression unreadable. He did not even attempt to raise his wand before Bellatrix took on the task with a fire in her eyes and cast her own fatal spell with glee. “Fiendfyre.”

Hermione’s ragged voice screamed again: “NO!” 

No, anything but this. In a split second, half of it spent panicking and reliving the first time she’d nearly burnt to death in Bellatrix’s Fiendfyre, and other half spent reaching into her robes, Hermione saw her hand outstretched in front of her, saw the beginning of the evil flame exit Bellatrix’s wand, saw the glint of glass and gold in between the two, and in a blink the Incantorium bounced harmlessly to the ground, the Fiendfyre swirling within. 

Bellatrix’s expression went from hungrily victorious to one of total outrage. “You’ll pay for that, girl,” she growled, but the battle had jumped back into action around them, a frenzy of light and spells going in every direction, and Harry was nowhere to be found. 

In another blink, Draco had raised his mother’s wand and Stunned his aunt, her limp body finding a place near Nagini. 

Voldemort’s giants swarmed the castle now, their feet threatening to crush any being found underneath. The immense noise of people shouting their curses and screaming for aid rattled about in Hermione’s head, shooting shields whenever and wherever she could. Draco’s grip on her shoulder had not waned, pushed though they were in the roiling crowd, and in opposition to her temporary neutrality, he was shouting curses and jinxes at any Death Eater unfortunate enough to come near. His father had disappeared from Voldemort’s side.

They were somewhere near the Great Hall now, Hermione narrowly getting a shield up in time to protect Draco from a purple jet of light, so frantic and frenzied the fighters had become. Voldemort was screaming instructions to his remaining followers, hoarsely ordering them to protect him and find Potter and do who knows what else, the din of the fight reaching near ear-bursting levels of noise with each new reinforcement storming in to join the fray. House-elves from the kitchens, the parents and siblings of nearly every student still fighting, the shopkeepers of Hogsmeade, all overwhelming the remaining Death Eaters, whose bodies crumbled and were trampled by the horde. 

Antonin Dolohov, his Death Eater hood long gone, was hit by a Stun from somewhere to their left, and Voldemort, in the centre of the hall now, let out a piercing scream as his only remaining follower was defeated. 

Harry appeared in the centre as well, as alive as ever, and dropped the invisibility cloak to the ground. Hermione let out an involuntary “Oh—!” just as Draco exclaimed, “Potter’s alive!” both drowned out by cheers and screams of delight from the crowd surrounding them. 

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As the final standoff ended, Voldemort’s hollow shell of a body lying in a pool of light from the fiery sunrise lighting the Great Hall from above, Hermione collapsed to the floor in relief, heart jumping erratically in her chest in a mix of joy and regret. 

She was not a prisoner anymore. She had done it. Hermione had fixed the battle and won the war. Harry and Ron were alive, and so were hundreds more back in the hospital wing. Her mission had been a success. 

The tears streamed down her face and would not stop. She realised she was crouching close to the ground, hand splayed out on the flagstones tiles of the hall as if tying her there, as if reaching out to make sure that it was real. Draco had lowered himself to her level, and was holding her tightly as she sobbed and nonsense words about her mission tumbled out of her mouth. His robes had been singed and ripped in the foray, and the raised scar on his left arm was visible to anyone who might look. He did not make a move to cover it. 

Lucius and Narcissa both found them at the same time from different directions, and pulled their son up into a familial embrace. 

“Thank Merlin you’re alive!” Narcissa cried, holding her husband and son close, tears streaking delicately down her cheeks. “Lucius, what happened?”

Lucius did not reply at first, only pressed his family to his chest, face bowed to Narcissa’s hair, eyebrows knit together in a pained expression, and an iron grasp on his son’s shoulder, looking as if he wouldn’t be letting either go anytime soon. “In the forest—the Dark Lord ordered me to confirm if the Killing Curse succeeded. I only wanted to return to the castle so that I might find you.”

Lucius composed himself and addressed Hermione, back to his regular severity. “Thank you for keeping my wife and son safe, Ms. Gray. We are in your debt.” 

She nodded in response, still trying to accept that the battle had been won, until Draco lifted her back to standing, and murmured, quiet enough that his parents might not hear, “You saved my life, Granger.”

Hermione had. She had saved Draco from Nagini’s bite, but placed Snape in its path instead. She stood there woodenly, looking at the Malfoys but barely seeing them, as Voldemort’s voice rang in her ears from moments before, shrieking, ‘I killed Severus Snape three hours ago, and the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny is truly mine!’ 

Snape, the whole reason for her being here, was dead. His work to fix the end of the war had been the reason for this victory, and he was not even here to see it. Once she had capacity, his contribution would be recognized—she swore it to herself. She had nothing else left but to Occlude him away until there was space and time to process. Her head ached with the effort of it.

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Hermione left Draco alone with his parents, Narcissa’s grip on him still unceasing as if she would never leave her son’s side again, and found herself walking across the Great Hall towards three very familiar faces, past heaps of rubble and those mourning the dead. Even the house-elves and portraits had lost friends and comrades. 

The trio was already in heated conversation, Ron and Hermione looking equally sombre listening to what had happened when Harry ventured into the Forbidden Forest to meet Voldemort, and Hermione halfway wanted to hear more about that matter herself, but she couldn’t wait another moment and interrupted the conversation to grasp Harry and Ron into a hug, crying once again—this time with bittersweet joy. 

“You’re alive,” she choked out, any last façade of Occlusion surrounding their past deaths crumbling as the tears fell, even as they both awkwardly patted her back without an ounce of familiarity. She pulled away, uselessly repeating, “You’re alive!” Then: “Sorry—I’m Hermione, too.”

Ron immediately pointed his wand at her. “That’s Hermione. If you’re Hermione, what were you looking for the first time we met?”

“Neville’s toad,” Hermione replied as evenly as she could, drying her cheeks. She’d answer as many questions as they’d ever want—she was just happy to see them again. 

Harry whipped the Marauder’s Map out of his pocket. “Hold on—it must have been you we saw on the map in sixth year. See, just here: Hermione Granger.” He pointed to two dots in the Great Hall both labelled with her name.

Other Hermione pointed her own wand at Hermione (Her wand! She’d missed it so much!) looking ferociously mad. “I told Harry that wasn’t me. First you show up on the map with my name, then you send my Patronus? You’d better start explaining yourself.”

“I’m Hermione—from a different timeline.” 

The vine and dragon-heartstring wand was slowly lowered, but no one said a word in reply. No temporal paradoxes seemed to occur.

Hermione went on then, “In my timeline, Draco Malfoy killed Dumbledore, not Snape. Nagini killing Draco gave Voldemort access to the Elder Wand, and the battle today went much differently. Voldemort won.”

Other Hermione paled while Ron cursed. Harry kept his gaze on her, expression serious. “Voldemort’s victory might explain why you look so different.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to meet yourself when you mess with a Time-Turner?” Ron asked.

“You’re not, ” Other Hermione agreed venomously. “And you’re not supposed to stay more than five hours, so—”

“I didn’t use a Time-Turner. I used a spell. I think it’s even more powerful—it’s been illegal for centuries.” Finding a nearby bench that seemed to have been originally from the Hufflepuff table, Hermione sat in anticipation of the long story ahead.

“After Voldemort won, I was a prisoner. Snape helped me with the Trance… the time travel spell. Going into the past to change the outcome of the war seemed to be the backup plan he’d made with Dumbledore all along. It all hinged on passing the Elder Wand from Dumbledore to Snape peacefully, so its power would end. Therefore, Draco Malfoy had to be prevented from carrying out the assassination himself.” She sighed. “I’d better just start at the beginning. The scar is from Fiendfyre. Cast by Bellatrix, during the battle—this battle…”

Chapter Text

A few days after the final battle, once there was a bit of space to breathe, both Hermiones stood in the Malfoy Manor library, in awe of the sheer size of it. Easily twice the size of the Hogwarts library, a vaulted, filigreed ceiling was held up by carved marble columns, each sporting their own cloche of bookshelves at their bases, adding to the rows and rows of tall and dusty shelves that filled the room. Sunlight streamed through the cathedral windows, each featuring a stained glass serpent coiled at the top. 

True to Draco’s word, crossing the threshold of the library resulted in a physical shudder as the Anti-Magic Charms took hold of one’s internal well, which Ron and Harry were not pleased about, and had loudly made known. Hermione had been wondering if she might still be able to cast a spell, considering she was getting quite handy at wandless magic and perhaps it was the wands themselves that the charm was tied to, but she had been wrong. 

“We’d better start looking for any additional academic sources that might have a better account of the Clatteringshaws battle,” Hermione suggested, setting her copy of The Battle of Clatteringshaws: What We Know onto the nearest writing desk. 

The Other Hermione tossed her great thicket of hair over her shoulder and replied, “Wouldn’t it be better to look for a primary source or any additional manuscripts from Puckland?” 

Feeling a twinge of annoyance, she replied, “I told you, his manuscript didn’t have anything else of value—the two never recombined once the battle was over.” 

“That doesn’t mean more bits of his journal wouldn’t reference the end of the Trance. What I wouldn’t do for a summoning spell!” Other Hermione turned toward Draco: “Malfoy, does this place have any semblance of an organisational system we can go off of? Or can’t you flip a switch in your ancestral magic to let us search a little more efficiently?”

“I’m only the heir, not the family head. Until that changes, I don’t have much say over what the Manor does. I looked through this place without magic for that,”—he placed the aforementioned manuscript onto the desk—“so at least you two will have a head start. I found it by the north window, and you’re welcome, Granger.” 

Draco had been understandably frosty since the end of the battle, once Harry and Ron and Other Hermione had gotten involved, but he tossed Hermione a meaningful look before he turned away. 

“I still think an academic source would be more likely to have the information we need—” she started, to which Other Hermione’s voice joined, “Primary sources are key, I honestly can’t believe you of all people would disagree—”

Ron’s groaning interrupted her: “It is a miracle that you two aren’t staying separate—I don’t think anyone could handle the bickering.” He’d been even frostier, of course. Delivering a diadem and killing an evil snake was apparently not enough to redeem Draco in Ron’s eyes, but Hermione hoped with time they might be able to find a few things in common. Chocolate covered crêpes, for one. 

Ron and Harry had found a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages and had situated themselves at the writing desk around it, while Draco scowled. 

“I will not be one of two Hermiones. I refuse,” Other Hermione replied sharply.

“Shall I—?” Draco began to offer as Other Hermione led the charge to the north side of the library, but Hermione shook her head. She needed to talk with herself. He only inclined his head in response, then turned to busy himself in another section, turned pointedly away from Harry and Ron.

Truly, it was a miracle that Hermione would soon be reunited with her former-slash-alternate self. Not only was she relieved to not have disappeared in a puff of smoke once the battle had ended, but even more so that Other Hermione was gracious enough to consent to the returning of their two bodies into one, albeit with a few hours worth of Pensieve use, which Ron and Harry had not been allowed to observe. 

Having Other Hermione watch many intimate moments of Draco and hers, seeing how she’d invited Narcissa Malfoy into her parents’ home, and everything else, had been beyond stressful. On one hand, they were the same person, so in theory wouldn’t she have made the same choices? On the other hand… it was like having a close friend read one’s private diary. Ron and Harry might have suspected something between Draco and Hermione, but that was the extent of it. Other Hermione knew everything.

Hermione was terrified that knowing the full truth might have led to Other Hermione not consenting—knowing that she might end up with a lovesick Malfoy pining after her, but it was a double edged sword: on one hand, even though the memories might be shocking to reconcile between the Draco seen there and the Draco she knew, seeing the memories might have also given her a good idea of how and why Draco and Hermione had fallen for each other. It was possible she still didn’t want anything to do with Malfoy, but eventually agreed that it would be best if there was only one Hermione in the current timeline.

They found the north window in silence, its glassen snake writhing around the window as they approached, deep in the stacks. 

Other Hermione began sliding her finger down the rows of books, while Hermione stood next to her in awkward contemplation.

She broke the silence: “Do you think it’ll be strange for us if our memories end up getting combined along with our bodies?” 

“Not really,” her alternate self replied, sounding as if she was trying overly hard to be confident in her answer. “It'll just be like knowing two sides of the same story. I already saw everything in the Pensieve, didn’t I?”

“That part I'm not concerned about, I mean, what about Ron and Draco?”

Other Hermione stopped and turned, an unreadable expression on her unscarred face. “What about them?”

“Won’t it be strange to have… my feelings for Draco after you’ve just…” Hermione gestured back to where the boys were waiting. “Kissed Ron?”

The unreadable expression turned to one of great surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“In the Room of Hidden Things during the final battle?”

“We never needed to get to the Room of Hidden Things. Did you kiss Ron?”

She looked away, imagining her alternate self must be thinking, ‘Merlin, falling for Malfoy and kissing Ron? What a trollop.’ Hopefully Other Hermione had also had her sexual debut, or they might be in for more unpleasant surprises regarding what Hermione had been up to in her timeline.

“Just once… but it feels like a million years ago now,” she managed to get out. It was with relief Hermione remembered that with Draco handing off the diadem, the Room of Requirement had been saved from total destruction. What she hadn’t realised was that the room was, apparently, also tied to Ron and Hermione’s first—and hopefully only—kiss. “This Ron doesn’t see you… romantically?”

Other Hermione abandoned the task of reading each book's spine and turned around fully to lean against the stack, arms crossed. “I think he'd rather eat a bubotuber. My dreams about Malfoy while we were on the run probably staved off any feelings that might have developed between us.”

“You had dreams about Draco?” This, too, hadn’t been mentioned in Puckland’s manuscript. Another reason why searching for another version is fruitless, she so wanted to repeat to her other self. 

“Yes—we’d wake up and go over Harry’s dreams about Voldemort and mine about Malfoy. Nothing really concrete, just bits and pieces that didn’t make sense.” Other Hermione’s cheeks took on a slight tinge, and Hermione desperately wished she had shared the dreams during their Pensieve session. “But I couldn’t shake the feeling that he had changed somehow, even before he saved me from Bellatrix. Harry and Ron thought I was mad, of course—they’re still quite distrustful.”

“He personally saw to the destruction of the last two Horcruxes!” Hermione whisper-shouted.

“I know. That’s probably the only reason they are being halfway cordial at the moment. Until you decide to share a bit more of your memories with them—”

“We’ll see,” she interrupted quickly. If anything, Harry and Ron might get a sanitised version of any feelings between Draco and herself—if they even survived recombination. 

“Anyway, those dreams meant I ended up with an influx of confusing ideas about Malfoy. No doubt from you being in this timeline, I think, but at the time it was… very odd, to say the least.” Other Hermione’s face had become quite red by then, and she swivelled back to the shelves. 

🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑  

Hours later, after the entire north side of the library had been combed through, another journal from centuries ago now lay next to the other books on the writing desk. It was simply titled Commonplace Book with initials BP, which might have been why the offending copy was so difficult to find. 

Barnaby Puckland I’s commonplace book was filled with his favourite poem stanzas, quotes from books he’d read, and, most importantly, intriguing spells he’d jotted down for later. Less a diary, as the other Puckland had written, and more a collection of notable ideas. Some entries were in English, or something close, some in Italian, including notes on verb tenses, and the rest in Ancient Runes. Including the page helpfully titled Trance Incantations.

“Not Runes…” Harry trailed off in disappointment, as Ron agreed, “I thought I’d never have to hear about Ancient Runes again!” 

Ron stood up to stalk over to the part of the library where Quidditch Through the Ages had been found, and Harry followed, shooting Hermione a sheepish look.

“I’ll pitch in,” Draco intoned, pulling up a chair. “I can find my old Ancient Runes textbook if we need it.”

Other Hermione sat as well, but not before making deliberate eye contact with Hermione with a look that said, ‘Finally, a man who enjoys Ancient Runes!’ 

The three of them made quick work in translating the page, uncovering the incantations Hermione was already familiar with, and one more. Draco’s runes textbook was only needed for one of the letters, an especially ancient one that meant yew-tree and unlocked the third incantation at last.

Finally, after months in a dungeon, life-threatening time travel, and a battle that had nearly resulted in failure again, Hermione was about to face the end of her mission. The two of them stood back to back, as the page noted, just outside the library’s doors. Draco raised his wand, but hesitated, turning back to the commonplace book again and practising the wand movement once more.

“I’m sure you’ve got the motion by now; let’s speed this along,” Other Hermione ventured, clearly a bit anxious about what the spell might feel like based on her experience watching Hermione go through the Trance so many times. 

Draco lowered the book once more, but didn’t ready his wand. His expression was a mix of anticipation and dread. “Before I cast this, whatever happens, I promised Hermione to take her on a real date one day,” he said, directing his words to Other Hermione. “If after this, it’s just you? Will you think about letting me fulfil that promise?” 

She exhaled through her nose sharply and looked him up and down, then glanced at Hermione. “Maybe. No promises.” 

Hermione herself was also filled with dread. If everything was gone, if she simply ceased to exist? If all that was left of Draco and Hermione were memories seen through a Pensieve, instead of lived firsthand? She squeezed her eyes shut and hoped Draco would hurry it up as well. 

“Ingerego,” he incanted, and a yellow glow enveloped the two Hermiones. It felt nothing like the Trance—no boiling water feeling, no tunnel vision or headache—but a full-body rush of pleasant heat, then a feeling as if she was being pulled in every direction, like a canvas being stretched over its frame. The warmth dissipated, the yellow glow faded, and when she opened her eyes, there was only one Hermione standing in the place of two.

She quickly searched her mind, looking for the night they’d spent in the Malfoy greenhouse. It was there. The memory was fractured into pieces, as if remembering it through the facets and thrown light pockets of a crystal chandelier, but it was there. 

She remembered each touch of a purple petal, each kiss on the transfigured armchair, the feeling of the workbench under her hand as she placed it next to Draco’s and confessed her secret.

Remembered seeing the same scene in the Pensieve, feeling the twinge of something in her core to watch the way this scarred Hermione had looked at him, and watch as Malfoy already knew what she was about to say.

Remembered the strange, disconnected dream that came one summer night last year, of aconite and swimming angel sculptures and a beautiful garden with an elusive, storm-eyed wizard who seemed to disappear just beyond each corner, no matter how hard she’d tried to keep up. 

She broke into a grin. “I remember. I remember everything.” 

Draco rushed forward, catching her in an embrace. “Thank Merlin—it was hard enough convincing you about that date the first time. And I like the hair.”

Hermione conjured a mirror, absolutely overjoyed to hold her own wand again, and in its reflection saw Draco, holding a girl with a faded scar and a curly bob. The spell had simply split the difference between the appearance of the two Hermiones.

Dismissing the mirror, she pressed their lips together and felt finally at peace.

🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑  

That night, the now-combined Hermione sat in her old room at Grimmauld Place, mulling over the three timelines of the war she’d lived through: the first, which nearly got her killed, a second, just as dangerous but punctuated with odd, confusing dreams, and the one straddling somewhere in the middle. She turned the Incantorium over in her hands, since emptied in the safety of a Ministry testing room, as a final thought occurred to her. 

It was risky, and she wasn’t exactly sure how the timelines would end up with her being there again, but with a practised “Adducturum Pertempus,” it was 1996 again and she found herself in the upstairs room of Vittoria’s Villainous Volumes. At least, that’s what it looked like, based on the shelves teeming with books, the glow of the scattered nefarious copies in their stasis charms, a dangerously steep staircase leading downwards, and the bay window with the edge of the Knockturn Alley cobbles just peeking out over the stacks piled on its sill. 

Hermione didn’t have much time. Her past self (one of them) was currently reading the Clatteringshaws book for the first time downstairs, and the staircase creaked as Vittoria herself climbed up to get back to the inventory parchment lying on a trunk neatly labelled Potion-Making (Necrotic). 

“Excuse me—” Hermione half-whispered, startling the bookkeeper, whose amber eyeglasses slipped down her nose as she jolted in surprise. 

“Can I help you?” she inquired, snatching the inventory parchment from Hermione’s potentially roving eyes. “This room is off limits when I’m not present, you know.”

“Here.” Hermione held the Incantorium out in front of her. “Give this to the young lady downstairs. And let her keep the book, too.”

Vittoria’s eyes narrowed as she took in Hermione’s form. The Fiendfyre scar was no longer raised and mottled, but its outline was still faded into the skin of her face and neck, as if it was a subtle birthmark. It was the same size and shape as the young woman’s scar who had just asked for help finding information about time travel a moment ago. 

The older woman took the trinket, and examined it briefly, then sighed. “Very well. On one condition.”

“What is it?” Hermione breathed.

“Don’t come back expecting me to hand off anything else to your past self, love. Just this once.” With a small smile and a twinkle in her eye, Vittoria turned back down the stairs. 

Hermione could just overhear her voice start to say, “I’ve something for you, love…” as the glow of the Trance took her back to Grimmauld Place. Back to safety. Back to a war won.

🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑  

Ten Months Later

It was March 1999. Since the Battle of Hogwarts, as it came to be known, much had changed. Brave wizards and witches had been mourned, dark ones had been convicted and sentenced, Kingsley had become Minister for Magic, and time ticked on. 

Hermione’s faded facial mark nearly rivalled Harry’s lightning bolt in sheer recognizability once The Quibbler’s exclusive article had come out detailing exactly why some may have seen two Hermiones at the end of the battle, and exactly how a few minor changes had tweaked the outcome of the Second Wizarding War, as it came to be known, and wizardkind in perpetuity. The article made several mentions of Draco Malfoy, but only that which was pertinent to the time travel narrative, as he requested.

Yet after the Quibbler article sold out newsstands across the country, the Daily Prophet, still rebuilding its reputation, followed with an exposé on Hermione’s supposed Stockholm Syndrome, after the two of them were seen dining together at a private bistro in Colmar, France. A public statement was then required, also stubbornly published in The Quibbler only, wherein Hermione divulged minimum additional details, to the dismay of any Witch Weekly-type readers that had picked up a copy, clarifying her and Draco’s burgeoning relationship. 

The result was a heap of hate- and fan-mail to the both of them, most of which was burnt before the envelopes had even been opened. Truly, when they weren’t at the Ministry’s offices, they only had eyes for each other. 

Hermione’s time at the Ministry had been spent in the Department of Mysteries, recently remodelled so each room had a clear and concise label on the door, so at least the contents within were no mystery, though the study of love, death, space, and so on continued to mystify. Her work was in the Time Room, specifically in Office 3A, labelled Timelines, while Draco spent most of his days charming lawmakers in the Atrium, so influential he was now after his actions during the battle and the aforementioned articles.

Hermione chastised his lobbying greatly, and often told him to get an actual job within the Ministry if he wanted to influence new laws so much, but Draco would only say, “It’s not lobbying, it’s advocating, and they love speaking to me if it gets them a photo in the Prophet.” It was pure coincidence that the employees he so happened to run into, and the bills casually mentioned in passing, all happened to align with causes that Hermione had recently voiced her support of, just the week before. 

While the monthly transformations never get any easier, Draco’s correspondence with Lupin proved to be helpful, though most of his advice boiled down to ‘have some friends illegally become Animagi to help you cope every month.’ (Hermione had spent enough time in her life as half-animal, but a few of Draco’s closest seemed to unrelatedly be quite interested in acquiring mandrake leaves and crystal phials.)

Socially, Draco’s lycanthropy had no great effect on his ability to climb the ranks of casual political influence in the Ministry. Indeed, in some ways it seemed to aid in his ambition: the retelling of how Voldemort had so heinously sicced Greyback onto him in punishment, and the lamentations regarding if he couldn’t use that tragedy as a means of motivation towards helping the oppressed and deserving masses, then it would have all been for nothing!? It proved to be quite moving. 

Even Narcissa and Lucius seemed mostly content with the way the tides began turning on werewolves in the wake of the war, now that it might be seen as a symbol of their son’s perseverance and righteousness (‘Lycanthropy is a badge I wear proudly as a rejection of your ideology!’ was quoted spiritedly across multiple publications) rather than a defect. 

Conversely, Hermione’s appointment to the Ministry was a source of frustration, considering that she had been appointed there against her will, as part of an eight month sentence of community service. It was a point of great hilarity to Draco, who did not spare a single opportunity to remind Hermione that he’d gotten off scot-free, considering he hadn’t broken any laws, never took the Dark Mark, and personally facilitated the destruction of two Horcruxes, while she stood trial for the crimes of Impersonating a Ministry Official and Casting Outlawed Spells in the 2nd Degree. He loved to point out how nonsensical it was that the Ministry had pressed charges for Impersonating a Ministry Official (an official that did not exist), and requested that the punishment be a full internship at the Ministry, much less in the Department of Mysteries. Clearly, her talents as a Future-Oriented Person were in demand, and the higher-ups were not immune to hypocrisy to secure them as soon as possible, without waiting until she’d finished her NEWTs. Moreover, the Unspeakables in the Time Room were not researching the Trance itself, outlawed as it was, and Hermione had even been put under temporary magical surveillance, which directly alerted her supervisor, Philomena Huxley, if she uttered any incantations related to the the Turnback Trance at all. 

The surveillance, in normal circumstances, wouldn’t have made much of a difference in her life beyond how often Draco loved to rib her about it, but she was dearly looking forward to the day it (and the internship) would end so arrangements could be made to jump back to her old timeline, quick as a wink, and find a way to bring Severus Snape to the current timeline so he could be awarded his posthumous Order of Merlin, Second Class… prehumously. That mission would be the end of her stint with time travel, once and for all. Eight months in the Time Room will do that to a person, future-oriented or otherwise. The only upside to working at the Ministry was that it let her be closer to her parents in London while they recovered from their memory loss.

It was on the last day of her internship, sometime in March, that Draco let himself into office 3A, just as Hermione was putting the finishing touches on the crown jewel of her time in the Time Room: a stack of parchment titled Timeline Creation and Parallelities, a study from 1996–1998.  

“Hello, love.” Draco pressed a kiss to Hermione’s cheek as he fluttered through the pages. “You’re finally done servicing the community, are you?”

“Doing my time,” she replied, wise to the fact that he was likely about to start with the ‘I can’t believe I’m dating a hardened criminal’ bit. 

“That you are, and lots of it.” He’d found the pages with her carefully inked diagrams detailing exactly what had happened, timeline-wise, in her use of the Trance. “I just hope you’re ready to re-enter society following your sentence. There’s a group waiting at the Leaky Cauldron to welcome you back to the world of the law-abiding.”

“Perfect,” Hermione sighed, “I’m famished. Just let me clear out my desk and we’ll be on our way. Who’s going to be there?” The desk was henceforth cleared with a flick of her wand, stray papers, books and pens all gliding over to organise themselves within a shiny dragon-leather shoulder bag bearing her initials.

“Potter and Ginevra, Weasley and his broom bunny of the week, Blaise and Daphne, Pansy and Lovegood’s third date apparently went well so they’ll come together, but Theo can’t make it, he’s still in Florence studying paintbrushes or what-have-you and can’t get an international Portkey.” 

“Pansy and Luna, who would have thought?” Hermione mused, latching the bag shut with its contents secured inside. 

Draco chuckled. ”She is the owner of a major periodical. Pansy’s always been after prestige, you know.”

The small room, all white walls and unfinished oak shelves, the only decoration a glass-encased wall of golden Time Turners that the uncomfortable desk leaned towards, looked even bleaker than before with none of Hermione’s belongings sprawled over each surface. “I can’t wait to never come back to a Ministry office ever again.”

Draco manoeuvred her to lean up against the empty desk with a hand on each side of her hips. “No? I’ll miss seeing you for lunch in the Atrium.”

“Not like you even work here,” Hermione smiled in spite of herself, nearly captivated by Draco’s intense gaze. 

He kissed her slowly. “You wound me. I’ve helped pass the Werewolf Protection Act and House-Elf Freedom Act. So far.”

“Maybe I can get a position with Vittoria,” she continued, as he trailed more kisses down her cheek. “Get funding for research and cataloguing of dark methods instead of resorting to selling the instructions to anyone who wants them.”

“Don’t worry about your next job until we’re back from holiday. Just booked a cabin in Roskeld.” He pulled back to take in her reaction with a smirk.

"Really? Why Roskeld?”

"You don’t want to explore the site of the Battle of Clatteringshaws—comma—What We Know?”

"You read that book?”

"Some of it. Wasn’t as interesting as Pride and Prejudice.”

Hermione laughed and captured his mouth in a kiss again. Then Draco stood up a bit straighter, took his wand from its holster and incanted, “Expecto Patronum.” A white and wispy Borzoi jumped out of the end of his wand, to which he instructed, “Find Potter and tell him we’re going to be late.” The dog barked once and pranced out of the room in a flash. 

Her mouth fell open in surprise. “A corporeal Patronus! You’ve done it!” 

Draco looked immensely pleased with himself. “I managed it just today. Your instruction over the last few months was indispensable.” His expression flickered to a different emotion as an idea took hold, then she was pressed against the desk again. “In fact, since we’re already late, I think I might need another lesson right now.”

He half pulled Hermione onto the desktop, she half-jumped up, and in the fervour of clothes being unbuttoned and robes pushed off shoulders, the wall behind them made a loud crack, the glass shattered, each oak shelf collapsed leftwards, the Time Turners rolled merrily down to their doom, crashing into a great pile, until the entire raucous display rewound itself and took place again and again and again. 

With a shout, Draco had pulled Hermione off the table and vanished the broken glass, searching for any cuts to quickly heal, but she only rubbed her forehead in frustration and muttered, “That'll probably be another month of community service.”