Chapter Text
Hermione sighs, just as she drops the last box onto the floor of her new place. She blows a stray curl out of her face and brushes away the perspiration at her brow, glancing at the simple but spacious surroundings she’d now call home. The place is littered with taped boxes marked on all sides with black sharpie so she has some inkling as to their contents, but she’d soon make this disorganized chaos into something liveable. She smiles to herself, relishing the idea of a fresh start away from the harrowing memories of her old life, most specifically those of the last wizarding war.
Deciding to get a head start, Hermione bends down and opens up the box she’d just brought in, carefully removing its contents. The first thing she touches is a wooden picture frame, worn with age, holding a captured memory of her, Harry and Ron embracing at the end of their second year at Hogwarts. She runs her thumb tenderly along the base of the frame, almost like a caress; idly, she wonders what Harry is doing at the present.
Has it been that long? she asks herself, trying to think back to the last time she’d seen her friend before she made the decision to move and relocate herself. Vague memories of a conversation with Ginny come to mind, and she can still see the ginger witch’s eyes bright with mirth as she spoke of her future plans with their mutual friend.
A sliver of melancholy coils around Hermione’s heart as her thoughts drift to her friends, and for the first moment since she’d made her grand decision, she pauses and wonders if she’d truly made the right decision. Lifting her gaze to a large window at the far end of the room, she can just make out the black speck of a solitary crow crossing the silvered gray sky. The sight sends a shiver crawling down her spine.
How many crows had there been there that morning, picking away at the corpses of the fallen?
Her heart accelerates, even as the weighted memories bear down on her mind, permeated with the dreaded emotions she’d fought for months now. She shakes her head, waving the darkness away when a knock at the door draws her attention. Surprised since she’s not expecting any visitors, Hermione quickly crosses the room and rises on her tip-toes to peer through the peephole. The sight of the blond wizard standing on the other side of the door is enough to send her reeling back in shock.
Her hand flies to her mouth, and it’s all she can do not to make any further audible noise as she jerks away, striking the wall with a soft thump and slides down to the floor.
“Granger?” His voice forms her name, but she finds not even the slightest hint of the self-confident pretentiousness he used to adopt.
Draco Malfoy .
What the hell is Draco Malfoy doing here? How does he even know where I live?
“There’s no use hiding, swot,” Malfoy tries again. “Your arrival was impossible to miss. A skulking erumpent would have made less noise. I know you’re there. Why you haven’t the decency to open the door, Salazar knows, but you’ve left a box out here.”
Hermione remains in place, brows furrowing as she processes his statement. Had she left a box outside? Her eyes slide to the one she’d just opened, and her frown deepens in confusion. She could have sworn that she’d brought the last box in already. Perhaps she left it on the stairs down below? Nonetheless, she resolves not to move until he leaves.
A few moments pass before the tired sigh on the other side of the door is followed by departing footsteps that fade away as he retreats. Then, and only then, Hermione creeps carefully toward the door. Risking another glance through the peephole, she sees the hallway vacated and cautiously opens the door. As Malfoy had said, she finds a box at her feet. Upon inspection, she recognizes it, nodding with the realization that she had indeed left this at the foot of the stairs.
The epiphany sets her wondering– what moved Malfoy to bring this all the way up the stairs and bother to bring it to her attention? She doesn’t remember him displaying any remotely chivalrous qualities during their time at Hogwarts, and struggles to piece together why he’d bend to such a menial task, for her of all people. Which leads to her the questioning burning at the forefront of her mind?
Why is Draco Malfoy here?
A lock clicking into place pulls her from her thoughts, then, and as she bends down to retrieve the box, she looks up, across the way. To her great dismay, she catches sight of the wizard closing a door behind him before tapping the knob a few times with his wand. He turns on a heel, pocketing the hawthorn wand and chances a glance in her direction. They share only seconds of eye contact before Hermione swiftly averts her gaze, cursing under her breath. Before she looks away, however, she can swear she notices his lips curving in a smug smile.
He disappears down the stairs, leaving Hermione standing there, blinking several times and racking her brain as she tries to understand the situation she finds herself in.
The weeks go by more swiftly than Hermione wants them to, and despite the fact that she’s finally settled down into her new place, she still finds herself faced with a distinct feeling that something isn’t quite right.
The strange intuition nags at her mind one particular evening as she returns from a visit to a library, arms full of books. She’s barely taken a step to mount the stairs when a dog’s solitary howl cuts through the silence of the evening. She freezes, stiffening when the sound reaches her ears. Her blood runs cold, and a cold shiver slides down her spine. The sound evokes dark memories she has, up to now, fought so hard to keep at bay. Try as hard as she might, she is defenceless against them, striking out blindly at the darkness surrounding her like a swarm of Dementors.
A scream tearing into the night registers in her mind, but she isn’t entirely sure if it’s someone else or her own. The scream blends with others, among them she recognizes Lavender Brown’s. Hermione jerks, releasing the books which tumble into a pile at her feet, and clasps her hands to her ears in an attempt to block out the harrowing cries.
“No, no, NO!” she shouts, shaking her head violently. The darkness stifles her, and she finds herself gasping desperately for breath. Unbidden, the scene that has haunted her nightmares replays in her mind’s eye.
Numerous green and red flashes fly past her as she weaves and dodges her fellow students, some fleeing for their lives, others grappling bravely with the Death Eaters assaulting the castle. She’s made it nearly completely down the stairs when she catches sight of a figure crouched over another on the ground, at the far end of the room she is entering. When she alights and risks a careful approach, her eyes widen as she recognizes Lavender’s dusky blonde curls splayed wildly beneath her on the floor. She thrashes, weakly, and the cold light of fear gleams in her wide eyes. Above her, the dark massive shape turns, lifting a head to peer at Hermione.
In that moment, Hermione stills, the blood chilling in her veins. She recognizes the monster immediately; Greyback the werewolf. The lycan regards her beneath low, thick brows, and a wicked smile curves his lips. Hermione lifts a trembling arm, to point her wand at him and even as a repelling curse forms on her lips, the beast abandons the other witch and stalks toward her, growling.
Hermione whimpers, shaking violently. Cold fear pierces her, gripping her lungs like a vice and twining around her heart like Devil’s Snare. “Please, don’t…d-don’t…no, no!”
“Granger! Granger? Breathe.” She stills when strong hands grasp her shoulders, steadying her, grounding her. A soft voice whispers her names, beseeches her to take a breath, to remember where she is.
To open her eyes.
She shakes her head, adamantly refusing. If she opens her eyes, she will see it again. The battle, the darkness–, death. All of it, again.
“Come on, Granger. It’s over. Where are you? Open your eyes. Can you do that for me?”
Her brows furrow; this voice is familiar, but with the familiarity of half-remembered dreams or long-forgotten memories. Whose is it? Where has she heard it before?
“Open your eyes,” he tries again. She realizes belatedly the voice belongs to a man. His hands hold her shoulders in a firm, but harmless grasp. He shifts them to her hands, running his thumbs along the back of her hands in a gesture intended to soothe her. It does nothing to still the rapid hammering of her heart.
Hermione hesitates only a moment longer before she risks opening her eyes. When she does, she finds herself in an ungraceful heap on the sidewalk. In one hand, she grasps a set of keys, and in the other hand, her wand. As she stares at her hands in quiet confusion, she notices his. His long slender fingers gently clasp her hands, his thumbs smoothing calming strokes across the back of her hands. Her eyes drift up his arms until they reach his face. Grey eyes, silvered like storm clouds on the open sea, watch her with thinly-veiled concern. His lips are set in a determined line. She does not miss the flicker of a muscle in his jaw. Too quickly, he releases her hands, lifting one hand to run it through his mussed blond hair. Hermione’s frown deepens; this, too, seems familiar. She has seen it before.
Nonetheless, she is certain of one thing– if she once knew the name of the man kneeling beside her, any memory of it is gone. If someone asked her to identify the man peering at her through dark-rimmed glasses, rubbing almost anxiously at the stubble on his jaw, she has nothing to offer.
“Where are you, Granger?” he asks her.
He knows my name. He knows me. How does he know me? She asks herself.
“Remember.” An emotion she cannot name flickers in his gaze.
“You know who I am,” she mumbles, failing to answer his question. He sighs, reaching up to slide his glasses off and pinch the bridge of his nose wearily. He shuts his eyes tight, drawing his hand slowly down the rest of his face and mumbles something unintelligible under his breath.
“I like to think I do,” he answers. “Tell you what, why don’t we talk about this inside? I’ll put a kettle on.” A soft voice in the back of her mind warns her of interacting with strangers, but she brushes it away. This man must be someone she once knew, and thus, not a complete stranger. He rises slowly, extending a hand to help her up. When she tentatively clasps his hand, he draws her gently to her feet. “I’ve got a theory. This way, now.” He leads her up the short steps into the apartment complex. “It’s up two flights of stairs. You haven’t got a concussion, have you?” He pauses, as though considering how to receive confirmation from the question he’s just put to her, but surrenders, confounded.
Hermione arches one dark brow, unsure why she feels the inclination to smile at the confusion on his face. She shakes her head.
“I don’t think I hit my head,” she remarks. “There’s no pain, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’d offer to Apparate you, but if your mind isn’t entirely here, you’ll splinch.”
She stills, considering the implications of his statement. “You’re a wizard?”
The man beside her was turning to ascend the steps, but pauses, glancing over his shoulder. His jaw clenches, but he takes a few moments before speaking. “You truly don’t remember me, Granger? Salazar, whatever happened to you must have…Nevermind. Stairs are safer.”
Hermione desperately wants to ply him with further questions, but the tense set of his shoulders warns her against it. Instead, she follows him quietly up the stairs and to a door with a bronze 24 fastened to it.
“This is my place,” he says softly. Jerking a thumb behind him, to the door across the hall, he adds, “That’s yours, but given the way I found you moments ago, it won’t seem very familiar to you. Make yourself comfortable, I’ll put tea on.” Hermione only nods in response, striding past him. She steps inside, slowly taking in the space. Soon enough, her eyes find a soft, inviting couch a few feet away. She drops into the deep cushions, releasing a sigh.
He proceeds to what she presumes is his kitchen, and she contents herself to wait quietly, fiddling idly with the corner of a throw blanket. She can hear him rummaging through cabinets, and barely hides a smile when a loud thump breaks the quiet followed by a loud curse. After some time, the kettle he’s put on whistles a shrill tune.
Hermione relaxes deeper into the cushions, twiddling her thumbs. Her gaze drifts over the minimalist decor before settling on a shelf full of books adjacent to the hearth. It piques her interest, and she moves to investigate them, when his approaching footsteps stop her. He approaches with two mugs in hand, full of freshly brewed tea and offers her one. She tentatively accepts it, curling her fingers around the steaming mug and lifts it to her lips. Before she takes a sip, however, she sniffs at hot liquid, smiling softly at the whiff of peach with a bit of honey. She sips at it, brows furrowing slightly when she realizes it’s prepared just the way she likes it.
“It’s peach,” she says quietly, with some degree of surprise. He nods.
“Just the way you–” He breaks off, something flickering in his gaze, and shakes his head. “Right, about that. I said I’d explain some things, didn’t I?” Hermione watches him and takes another sip of her tea. He clears his throat. “Starting at the beginning then. You most certainly have no recollection of who I am. Let’s start with that. I’m Draco, Draco Malfoy. You always called me ‘Malfoy’ in our school years.”
Hermione purses her lips thoughtfully, unsure of how to answer Draco’s statement. It sets a thousand questions running through her mind. “We went to school together? I remember, it was magical. Candles. There was a lot of water.” Her frown deepens; Draco shifts, eyeing her as though he expects another attack.
The thought crosses his mind that if she thinks too hard about Hogwarts, it could trigger another attack. He chooses not to risk it and makes an attempt to shift her attention. “We did. You were top of the class, always. I came in just behind. They called you the Brightest Witch of your age,” Draco remarks with a wistful smile. “We had a bit of a…rough history.”
She arches a brow and peers at him behind her mug. Draco swallows thickly, struggling to form his next words. “You haven’t forgotten the details about your own life, have you? You’re–”
She shakes her head firmly. “I know who I am. I’m Hermione Granger, I’m a Muggleborn witch. I was sorted into Gryffindor. I–I think I am remembering some things, Draco.” His heart skips a beat when his given name falls from her lips. “You weren’t very kind in school.”
“To say the least,” Draco adds. “The Malfoys are one of the families listed among the Sacred 28, Purebloods. I was raised to look down on anyone who didn’t claim a pureblooded wizarding lineage, and so, I said and did terrible things to you. I used to tell myself I hated you, but I’ve come to realize now that this had never really been the truth.” He drops his gaze, fixating on the soft rug beneath their feet. A muscle in his jaw flickers. “I intend to apologize for that, while we’re on the subject.”
Hermione stills, listening very carefully to him. Slowly, the fragments of her memories fractured by the onset of the last PTSD attack begin to reformulate themselves. She catches bits and pieces, jumbled in her mind. Draco sneering some demeaning insult, herself throwing a punch that sends him tumbling to the ground. “I don’t recall what it was that you said, and we might as well take this as a new start. So, I’ll say it’s behind us now. I don’t imagine that I ever got angry enough with you to fight about it. At least, it doesn’t come to my memory.”
“You weren’t,” Draco confirms. “That’s one of the reasons I admired you. Such a Gryffindor. Strong and unshakeable, always.”
Hermione smiles gently. “That’s settled then. So, we went to school together, you might have been a bit of a bully. What then?”
He lifts a hand to the back of his neck, racking his brain for a solution– for an answer to her question that wouldn’t set off another attack.
“A lot of things, but perhaps later. You lost your memories because, or so I believe, something triggered an unpleasant memory. You’re most likely wondering how I know this.” He dips his head in a conceding nod. “My mother suffered from the same condition. She’ll see or hear things, and it will cause her to recall things she’d much rather forget. The episodes often leave her somewhat confused, and a few times, she’d come to without any memories of how she’d got where she was. I have reason to believe that this is what’s happened to you.”
Hermione takes another sip of tea and considers. “You mean why I found myself on the sidewalk, at a loss for how I got there and trying to remember why you looked strangely, impossibly familiar?”
Draco nods. “And you wonder why they call you the Brightest Witch.” He continues. “You’ve been living here for about two weeks. I’ve no idea why you moved in, but I think we’re both fairly surprised to find the other in the same building. I’m not complaining.” He lifts his hand almost defensively, and she chuckles at the sight.
“I probably needed a change of scenery,” Hermione suggests. “Your mother wanted to forget those things. Maybe I had a past I was running from.”
Draco shakes his head. “Not your past you were running from, but there were certain…marked events that have affected many of us. I think it was a sound decision, nonetheless.”
Hermione lets a not entirely uncomfortable silence fall between them before she downs the last of her tea. Pointing one slender finger at the empty mug, she asks, “The tea. How did you know how I take it?”
Draco seems to curl in on himself then, and Hermione wonders if it’s a trick of the light or if there really is a rosy flush in his cheeks.
“I might have noticed the way you took it in school. You weren’t the only one in the library, you know.”
Hermione opens her mouth to speak but a knock at the door catches their attention. Draco stiffens, throwing a glare toward the closed door. “Strange. I don’t get visitors. Wait here, will you?”
“Where else will I go?” Hermione quips and relaxes back into the sofa. Draco stalks toward the door, pulling it open just a crack. Hermione watches him from her vantage point and notes the way his posture stiffens with tension. Part of her wonders who it is on the other side of the door.
“What’s got your knickers in a bunch, Weasel?” Draco growls and steps outside, closing the door behind him. It’s the last thing Hermione hears before the lock clicks. Moments later, raised, muffled voices sound in the hallway. Slightly concerned, she keeps her gaze on the door, curious but hesitant to get caught in the crossfire of the fight happening just outside. Five minutes pass before Draco storms inside and slams the door behind him hard enough to shake its frame. “Wanker,” he spits.
“Who was that?”
“Ron Weasley. Sound familiar? You two used to be…” Draco works his jaw, balling his hands into fists as he fights to get the words out. “You were very close years ago.”
“Close like…there was a thing?” Hermione pushes herself into a sitting position, brows knit together in confusion. “Was I his girlfriend?” Draco’s terse nod gives her more of an answer than any spoken word. “I’m terribly sorry, I don’t remember him.”
“Better. That tosser never deserved you.” She does not miss the distinctive notes of jealousy in his tone and files that information for further consideration later.
“What did he want?”
This elicits a scoff from Draco. “Just happened to stumble by and wanted to rekindle things, as he put it. I don’t doubt that he was entirely sloshed, I’ll admit. I really wouldn’t give it any serious thought, Granger.”
“Hermione,” she corrects. Draco stills, staring at her, confused.
“What?”
“My name is Hermione,” she corrects him again. “You only use last names when…well, it’s more of a cold, stiff…professional idea. I don’t like it.”
“Hermione, then,” Draco concedes. “Don’t give it to him, for Salazar’s sake.” Hermione sets her empty mug on the table beside the sofa and pulls her knees up to her chest, resting her head on her chin.
“I’m not entirely sure, but when you said his name just now…I just had this gut feeling– like when you’re about to step into more trouble than you can handle? You know the feeling? Anticipation, but the nervous, regretful kind.”
“Dread, you mean.”
“The very same. I don’t really think I want to rekindle whatever it is he thinks we had.”
Draco turns to look at her then, and his heart skips a beat. He can hardly believe what he hears.
“I would say that’s another excellent decision, but slight conflict of interest from my end, undoubtedly,” he remarks, mumbling the last half of that sentence. An idea presents itself to his mind, and he weighs it, considering. Wondering whether she’d accept it or thoroughly refuse. He reasons it’s a good solution to deliver her from the misfortune of involvement with the Weasel and an effective way of none too gently expelling the ginger from her life. He tilts his head to the side slightly, a wry smile on his lips. “I have an idea.”
Hermione lifts her chin and stares at him beneath half-lidded eyes. She lifts a hand, gesturing for him to continue. “Weaselbee barged in here demanding to talk to you, to strike up a relationship with you. As I recall, you two ended things just over a year ago. You’ve just admitted to me that you don’t entirely desire to enter into another such relationship, isn’t that right?”
“It is,” Hermione affirms.
“As of right now, he has no idea you’re here,” Draco begins. “ But , I’m certain that if he is under the impression that you’ve already moved on….that you’ve found someone else, it just might deter him from bothering you about this any more than you want him to. And you don’t want him to.”
Hermione wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “Not really, no.”
Draco inclines his head, offering her a smug smile. He’d expected as much. “I might have the necessary solution.”