Work Text:
~
The First Law of Hermiodynamics:
Hermione’s energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transferred or converted from one form to another.
~
She is… puttering. Again.
Around she goes, adorning the common room in a whirlwind of unmitigated decorating frenzy. Admittedly, the result, though rustic, is… quaint. She has managed to incorporate each House’s colours and mascots to garish albeit charming effect, adhering to the McGonagall’s theme of unity and befitting her station as Head Girl.
I wouldn’t call it tasteful by any metric, having been raised in the house of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy decorated by Narcissa Malfoy nee Black with all the pristine, frigid austerity for which their stations call and their bloodlines bred. But there's a charm and ineffable warmth invited forth by the hand knit stuffies donning smaller yet knit sweaters (or in the Slytherin serpents’ case, emerald green and silver socks) she has enchanted to prowl and fly and scamper and slither about until they meet, at which point they tussle, cavort, or cuddle if it were the later evening. She has spent each moment in class and the library, managing to knit these things all the while paying rapt attention to the lectures or studying through the assigned texts. She has not stopped knitting, moving, this entire semester, and I would know because I’ve been watching.
It is fascinating.
When she's not knitting, she helps first years with their homework and the seventh years with their tears and fears, groups where they speak about their experiences with The War. Tirelessly, she rebuilds the student populace and the castle itself, restoring the library and its texts. Hermione Granger has finally found the people who appreciate, unlike Scarhead and Weasley of yore, her special brand of and unfathomable capacity of overbearing, unrelenting love.
She has not stopped going, moving, burning.
I remember seeing her tear away from the still smoldering Room of Requirement to run off save the world that midnight in May, only seven months but also an eternity ago. I was frozen despite the flames just beyond the sealed walls of the Room.
And just hours later, I remember seeing her just standing there. Backlit by the frosty first light of early morning, she heaved a single great breath and screamed out Scarhead’s name as he was born aloft, lifeless (but not actually of fucking course), by the great oaf. I had watched steam rise from her skin and waft out in pulses synced with her scream, and I remember knowing two things for certain:
First, the Dark Lord never stood a chance.
Second, Hermione Granger could destroy me, she simply has never been bothered.
~
The Second Law of Hermiodynamics:
The entropy of an isolated Hermione-Draco system always increases over time; the universe arcs towards disorder and heat.
~
It is good, then, that I take care not to be isolated system with Hermione. I cannot incur her wrath if I do not invite interaction. Insulated, she cannot thaw me. And if I am not thawed, then I cannot burn.
I will be cold, but polite. Unapproachable, but gracious. I will be orderly, rigid, but unimpugnable. I am here to finish my education, to fulfill the requirements of parole so to remain out of Azkaban, to rebuild the Malfoy name, to fulfil my family’s expectations, to uphold Pureblood tradition-
Well, not that last bit, that’s all a bit gauche.
It is all gauche. It is all rubbish.
Nothing tarnished Pureblood society as much as Lord Dark Stain. Dozens of families not to mention hundreds of perfectly good witches and wizards or just men and women and children destroyed, for what? A narcissistic Half-blood goon who couldn’t take out a baby? Or a first year?
Yes, yes, I’m aware, love, greatest force in the world, but Merlin above and Morgana below, take a hint after the second time and let it go.
Not to mention Hermione Granger waiting in the wings anyhow and people seem to forget that September was once the seventh month. With all the (idiotic) bravery of a Gryffindor, the discernment of a Ravenclaw, the indomitable will of my own house, the world should thank any and all divinities that when Hermione Granger was crafted, they had the good sense to include the Hufflepuff penchant for kindness to swing her will to goodness rather than domination. And, I suppose, more importantly, not just be and want goodness, but the burning willpower and capability to make it happen.
Hermione, decorating the Eighth year common room for holidays she won’t even spend.
Hermione, rebuilding this school and the greater wizarding world at large.
Hermione, uncommonly frosty but thawed the minute you choked out your inadequate thanks and apologies.
Hermione, radiant and fervid as she fulminated the Wizengamot for “heaping on fallacious charges on a boy whom was exploited and coerced by one of the greatest wizards that had every last one of you lot cowering and was then utterly ignored and failed by the other greatest wizard the Ministry and this very august body elevate to be a beacon against Dark Magic – (she inhales sharply here) – while every last one of you failed to act, shame on every last one of you, you don’t get to sit on your hands and shake fists, you cannot point with the same fingers in your ears.”
Utterly incandescent
I couldn’t watch.
I couldn’t look away.
That there is my constant refrain; frozen, caught, stuck. Forever weighing the options for the path of self-preservation with the greater good barely even a thumbprint on the scale. And to say nothing of the inability to act should the scales ever tilt away from self-interest, because making a decision would mean taking responsibility for the outcome and why would I do that if I can instead just complain? My favorite pastime, self-pitying whinging.
My least favourite memory, one that haunts me many nights, most nights, in random daydreams during class, and each time I do too poor a job of skirting the periphery of her vision and she smiles -beams- at me like I deserve it: Hermione Granger, screaming, crying, bleeding on my drawing room floor. She blazed then as well, and I was barely a footnote, so inconsequential to the entire disaster.
I couldn’t watch.
A million different things to save her, to free Scarhead and Weasel, to stun Aunt Bella, to cause a distraction, to do anything—
I weighed them all.
And found each unsuitably risky.
I wanted to help still, and had settled on sneaking her a pain potion, healing salves, and maybe a broad-spectrum antidote for whatever Bella’s knife was steeped in.
But she was there being carved up and through the screaming and the tears – she was looking straight at me.
And I couldn’t look away.
~
The Third Law of Hermiodynamics:
As Draco approaches absolute zero temperature, his entropy reaches a constant minimum; perfect order, even at absolute zero, is impossible.
~
She is right in front of me, waving a hand before my eyes. I start.
“Draco? Hello, are you alright? Can I join you?”
She plops down into the neighbouring wingback and pulls a mountain of fine wool yarn and knitting needles out from a suspiciously small beaded bag, barely settled when she knits at haste, stabbing in, looping around, and pulling out and off.
“What are you doing here? I thought you would’ve left for the Weasley hovel.”
In, around, out, and off.
“First, that’s rude and uncalled for. Second, I ended things with Ron a few weeks back; he’s still sore about it, so I’m giving him space and leaving the Weasleys be for Christmas.”
In, around, out, and off.
“And you are… knitting them a circus tent?”
She huffs a small laugh without pausing her knitting, fingers a blur as they added line after line.
In, around, out, and off.
“Molly is still grieving. All of them are, but she hasn’t made any Christmas sweaters this year... I’ve had practice and I thought I could step up and send the sweaters over, for some semblance of normalcy…”
In, around, out, and off.
“You’re knitting sweaters for a family who’s Christmas celebrations you have banished yourself from?”
In, around, out, and off.
“I’m not doing anything else at this time, I’m all caught up on my Holiday correspondence, my parents are… not yet reachable, the Wizengamot has recessed until January.”
“What, are you slacking on your N.E.W.T. revisions?”
“I’ve been told that being four months ahead on the material is overzealous and that I should enjoy the holidays, indulge in a hobby, hence-” Hermione sniffs, waggling her knitting.
In, around, out, and off.
“There are spells to automate this sort of thing.”
“I find it relaxing.”
I snort at this.
“Granger, I’m surprised it hasn’t caught fire from how fast you’re going. For Merlin’s sake, you have calluses. You’re knitting, what, a dozen sweaters without magic for Christmas which is in two days. What heinous guilt trip did the Weasel lay on you, why doesn’t he pick up the mantle of creating hideous knitwear? You don’t need to do everything.”
In, around, out, and off.
In, around, out, and off.
“You do not speak ill of Ron. We may not be together, Merlin knows the only thing we had in common was keeping Harry alive, but Ron is a good wizard and an even better man. He taught me the most important lesson and he taught it early.”
I am chastened, so I remain quiet, tilting my head to allow for her to catch her breath to continue. Fire needs air to breathe after all.
“I was a little snot first year, I’m sure you remember. Nose stuck in a book, hand in the air in class, I was smart, talented, and had a hippogriff sized Muggleborn chip on my shoulder. And all of that meant nothing because I would freeze. When the troll got into the dungeon, it was Ron and Harry who sprung into action to save me, because I froze. Later when we were drowning in Devil’s Snare and I had the wand and the ability to wield it and the answers, always the answers, but I still could not put it all together.”
In, around, out, and off.
“Not until Ron, buried and half choked, asked, ‘Are you a witch or not?’”
In, around, out, and off.
“So I do. I knit. Maybe I’m a under a bit of a time crunch now, but it was calming, having something to do with my hands. I would just… shake otherwise. My wandwork has been sloppy, imprecise, ever since…”
Curious how trailing whispers can cut, a reminder of my failure to act, holding my self-interest and comfort paramount. I stare at her hands, still a blur, and the cuff of her sleeve, from where scars still peek.
I cannot look, squeeze my eyes shut, but I hear the clacking of the needles yet.
In, around, out, and off.
She does so much, being so good, giving everyone ever last bit of her. But the brightest, hottest fires burn out the fastest, and I am beset by visions of a world where her warmth has burnt away and all that remains of Hermione Granger's hearth are cold ashes, never again able to warm the soul or light the way. Someone needs to preserve her, because she will not save herself.
In, around, out, and off.
I cannot walk away.
After one breath, a second, another, and then uncounted more, I reach for her hand and Hermione Granger finally pauses, a tremble running through like a fever. I think of the pain potions and antidotes and healing salves that might not be too late as I pull away the knitting and then hold her hands in mine.
It takes a moment, it takes an eternity, but she releases a shaky breath and one lone tear, both held for far too long, and then, for the first time in memory, she is finally still.