Chapter Text
2 weeks later
She was fine.
A week had passed since Hermione’s release from St. Mungo's, yet the antiseptic scent seemed embedded in her skin, following her through the Ministry's Atrium. As she navigated through the bustling morning crowds, her gaze fixed on the spot near the far corner. It was there, amidst the chaos, that she had left Cormac McLaggen, his face contorted in anger as she ran away from him at the Wizarding Gala. Now, the memory of his death flashed in her mind, replaying until she could walk no further.
A sharp bump against her shoulder, followed by a mumbled apology, snapped her back to the present. Her body screamed in protest with every movement, a painful reminder of her week confined to a healer’s bed as they had attempted to unravel the mystery of her magical core. Despite the pain, she pressed on, knowing there was work to be done. A mountain of it she imagined.
At last, she reached the elevator, a crowded space filled with unfamiliar faces. The journey upwards was a slow, stop-start affair, as people disembarked at various levels, until the doors finally opened at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
As she exited the elevator, she was met with the curious stares of her colleagues, their eyes following her every move from their cubicles. She quickly began walking towards her office when a breathless voice called out, "Auror Granger!"
She slowed and turned, finding a young man she didn't recall meeting. "Hello," she said politely, extending her hand. "Have we met before?"
He took a moment to compose himself, shaking her hand with a slightly nervous grip. "No," he said, finally catching his breath. "I'm Fergal Anderson, the new Auror trainee."
Hermione froze, her mind suddenly adrift in a sea of painful memories. Margaux’s face flickered before her eyes, blurring and shifting, morphing into Astoria’s, then back again, a horrifying loop she couldn’t escape. Shaking her head, she tried to force herself into the present, to focus on the person in front of her.
She forced a smile, a tight, strained expression that barely reached her eyes. “Fantastic,” she said, her voice a little too eager, as she shook his hand. “You can call me Hermione.”
Fergal beamed, his enthusiasm contagious, his smile radiating sincerity. “Well, in that case, you can call me Fergal,” he said.
Hermione stood there, waiting for him to continue, her body tense with anticipation, her eyes fixed on his face.
“Oh, sorry,” he started, a slight flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “Auror Harry wants to speak with you in his office.”
She cleared her throat, a nervous flutter in her stomach, her bag feeling heavy on her aching shoulders. “Right, I’ll just drop my things into my office and then go meet him,” she said as she started in the direction towards her office.
“Wait,” Fergal called behind her, his voice slightly raised, stopping her in her tracks. “I think he wants to see you now,” he said, emphasizing the last word somewhat awkwardly.
A look of surprise, momentarily disrupting her composure, spread across her face, her eyebrows furrowing slightly as she tried to adjust to the sudden shift in plans. “Oh, okay,” she said. “I suppose I can go there now.”
A smile returned to Fergal’s face. “I assume you know your way there,” he asked sincerely.
“I do,” Hermione responded. “Thank you, Fergal.”
She started towards Harry’s office, her steps faltering slightly as she watched Fergal settle into Margaux’s old seat, his movements casual, his expression relaxed. A pang went through her heart, a sharp, piercing pain, as the memory of Margaux, imprisoned and suffering, flooded her mind.
She was fine.
Without even realizing it, her feet had carried her to Harry’s door, her mind still replaying the jarring image of Fergal in Margaux’s chair. She stood outside, her hand hovering just inches from the polished wood.
Just as she was about to knock, Harry opened the door as if he had been anticipating her arrival. His eyes landed on Hermione’s face, and a look of concern crossed his features. “Hermione. Come in,” he said, his voice gentle, as he stood aside and ushered her inside.
“Hi, Harry,” she said, her voice a little softer than usual, a sigh of relief escaping her lips as she settled into the chair across from him, finally able to put down her bag.
He closed the door, the sound a quiet thud, and slowly crossed the room to take his seat behind his desk. The easygoing warmth that usually characterized his demeanor was absent, replaced by a stiff formality. His posture was rigid, his arms crossing tightly across his chest.
“What is it?” she asked.
His eyes widened in shock, a look of genuine confusion clouding his features. “What is it?” he echoed back to her.
“Why did you call me here, Harry?” she clarified.
He ran his hands down his face in frustration, a sigh escaping his lips, “I don’t know what you expect me to say to you, Hermione,” he began, his voice strained. “I told you to rest. Why are you back here?”
“I’m ready,” she said simply.
“It’s barely been two weeks since you woke up from a three-week coma, Hermione,” he said, stopping her in her tracks. “How can you expect me to believe that?”
“Harry, I’m fine,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I’m perfectly capable of returning to work.”
"Perfectly capable?" he retorted, his voice rising, laced with a raw, almost desperate concern. "You were nearly killed, Hermione! You lost your magic."
"I don't need magic to file papers, Harry," she replied, her tone sharp. "And I'm not going to sit around doing nothing."
Harry sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “Hermione, you know I love you,” he said, his voice soft, almost pleading, his eyes locked onto hers, searching for understanding. “And you know that I would do anything, and I really mean anything, to make you happy.”
She felt a lump forming in her throat. “I know,” she whispered.
“Then you know that I shouldn’t let you back here,” he said, his lips pursing, a hint of regret in his voice.
“Please, Harry,” she said, her voice trembling slightly as she tried to maintain her composure. “I need to do something, anything.”
Harry looked away from her, his jaw tightening, his shoulders slumping, unable to look at her. He shook his head. “Hermione, I can’t—”
“Harry, I promise I can still do this job,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, her eyes filled with a fierce determination. “Even without magic, I can still work as an Auror behind the scenes. I—”
“This isn’t about you being capable of doing your job,” he interrupted her, gently holding up his hand to stop her, a sincere look in his eyes. “I have never doubted that for a second.”
“Then what is it?” she said, her tone desperate, almost pleading, her eyes searching his for answers.
He closed his eyes for a second, biting his lip hesitantly. "I'm worried it's too much for you," he said quietly.
"I'm ready, Harry," she said, holding his gaze. "I wouldn't be here otherwise."
He looked at her for a long moment, his expression softening, but the worry lines remained etched on his face. “Fine,” he sighed reluctantly. “But I’m denying you access to anything related to the Astoria Greengrass and Marcus Belby cases. Is that clear? No files, no evidence, nothing.”
"Understood," she said, nodding.
Harry stood up to let her out of the office, the gesture a subtle attempt to shift the atmosphere, to move away from the tense conversation they had just had. “The Weasleys will be having dinner at the Burrow this weekend. You should join,” he said, his voice warm, a gentle invitation.
“That sounds lovely,” she said, smiling half-heartedly.
Just as she was about to walk past him, Harry enveloped her in a warm hug. “We’ve all been so worried about you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
She hugged him back even tighter, her arms clinging to him, words failing her, overwhelmed by the rush of emotions that flooded her senses.
He slowly released her, a small, almost casual smile gracing his features, as if he were asking a simple, innocuous question. “Does Draco know you’re back?” he said.
Hearing the sound of Draco’s name threw her back to the last time they had spoken.
1 week previously
The late-night quiet of St. Mungo's was broken only by the rustle of pages as Hermione read, alone in her hospital bed. The book, a gift from Draco, was a small comfort. Then, the door creaked open, revealing his silhouette against the dim hallway. He stood there, a figure etched in shadows, his shoulders slumped, and the lines of exhaustion deeply etched into his face.
"Draco? Shouldn't you be sleeping?" Hermione asked, her voice a softly.
He crossed the room and settled on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath him. His eyes, usually sharp and observant, were dull, shadowed with fatigue. "I'd rather be here," he murmured, his voice rough.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the faded gold lettering on the book's spine.
He hesitated, his gaze drifting to the floor, a flicker of unease crossing his features. "I'm not sure you're ready to hear about it," he said.
"I’ll be fine," she insisted, her voice barely a whisper.
He looked up, his grey eyes, usually so steady, filled with a weariness that mirrored her own. "We met Margaux's parents today," he said, the words hanging in the air.
The air seemed to thicken, the room shrinking, the walls closing in around Hermione, the sterile white suddenly suffocating. Her breath hitched, and a silent gasp caught in her throat. She wasn’t fine.
"Hermione?" Draco said, a flicker of concern in his eyes. He paused, realizing he had overstepped. “Do you want me to stop?”
"Yes," she breathed, the word a fragile wisp of sound, a desperate attempt to stem the tide of overwhelming grief that was consuming her.
She swallowed, her throat tight, the muscles constricting, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. She could feel the pressure behind her eyes, a burning sensation that warned of impending tears. She couldn't bear him seeing her like this, vulnerable.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asked, his voice low, as he reached his hand out towards her.
She pulled away quickly, shaking her head, the movement almost frantic. He couldn't see her like this, broken. She needed to protect him from it.
He rose, his movements slow and deliberate, a silent promise of departure. His hand rested on the metal handle of the door. "Are you sure, Hermione?"
Tears streamed down her face, unchecked now, silent trails of grief. "Just leave me, Draco," she choked out, her voice a broken plea, a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of control. The sobs were threatening to break through, and she couldn't bear for him to witness her unravelling.
The sound of the door closing sealed her isolation, and a shuddering sob ripped through her as her head fell into her hands.
Present
Hermione’s mouth formed a thin line, and she avoided Harry's eyes. She'd consciously kept herself apart from Draco since then, wanting to spare him her inner turmoil, to prevent him from feeling responsible.
She cleared her throat, a small, almost involuntary sound, “No. I haven’t told Draco I’m back yet.”
"I thought you two had been speaking," Harry said, his eyebrows furrowed.
She swallowed hard, her throat tight. “I um… I think he’s been quite busy recently,” she said softly.
Harry just looked at her, his piercing green eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of skepticism in their depths. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.
She was fine.
She nodded, a small, almost weary movement, “Mhm,” she said, her voice quiet. “I’ll just be on my way. Talk to you soon.”
She turned and left without another word, the echoes of their conversation reverberating in her mind as she walked towards her and Draco’s office. With each step she took closer to it, her heart started pumping harder, a frantic rhythm that mirrored the growing tension within her, and she was uncertain of what awaited her.
Finally, she reached the door and quietly pushed it open, stepping inside. There Draco was, hunched over his work, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Does no one here knock anymore?” he said, his voice clipped.
She found herself at a loss for words, her mind racing, searching for the right thing to say. "Hi," she said hesitantly.
Draco’s head shot up, his eyes instantly finding hers, a look of disbelieving shock spreading across his face. “Hermione,” he breathed.
She smiled shyly, a hesitant, almost fragile smile, her eyes searching his, unsure of what was about to unfold.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice slightly abrupt, a clear attempt to regain his composure, as he stood up, his movements quick.
For a moment, she tensed up, her guard instinctively rising as he neared her, anticipating a confrontation, only to realize that he was there to take her jacket off, and then her bag, his hands brushing against hers, a fleeting, almost electric touch that sent a shiver down her spine. “I work here,” she tried to joke, her voice a little stiff.
There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he hung them up. “Go figure, so do I?” he responded, dryly.
Draco then slowly turned to face her, his eyes holding hers, their gaze intense, unwavering. He let out a long sigh, the sound heavy, and a serious expression settled on his face. After a long pause, he opened his mouth to speak.
“Draco, I’m sorry I—” she interrupted, the words tumbling from her before she could stop herself.
“Just wait, Hermione,” he said, his voice soft, almost soothing, slowing down her rush. “Before you say anything, you have nothing to apologize for. I shouldn’t have pushed you that day.”
"No,” she said, quickly shaking her head. "You did nothing wrong. I… I just wasn't ready."
Draco went silent, his gaze sweeping over her, taking her in. “I’ve been worried about you,” he said, his voice low.
Hermione laughed slightly, a nervous tremor in her voice. “You can get in line with everyone else,” she said, her tone light, almost dismissive.
His lips pursed slightly, a subtle tightening of his mouth, as if he wanted to laugh, to join in her attempt at levity, but couldn’t find it in him to find that humorous.
“I considered showing up at your apartment once you were released from St. Mungo’s,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Her eyebrows raised slightly, her breath catching in her throat, a wave of anticipation washing over her. “Why didn’t you?” she breathed.
He held her gaze, his jaw tightening slightly, a moment of careful consideration, as he weighed the consequences of his words. “I didn’t think you wanted me there.”
Hermione exhaled and shook her head slightly as she averted her gaze, unable to look at him. Her heart was breaking into a million pieces. “I thought about owling you. Every day, I would just sit there, frozen, deciding whether I should owl you.”
Draco took a tentative step towards her, his body leaning forward slightly, as if he were fighting the urge to move closer to her. “I would have come.”
She felt her eyes starting to sting, and she smiled softly. “I know you would have.”
“Then why didn’t you?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.
She let the question hang in the air for a few long, agonizing seconds, the silence thick, and her hand fidgeted nervously with her sleeve. “I… I know that I said all those things when I woke up from my coma. But I… I just feel like I’m a different person than I was then,” she quietly confessed, the words an admission of her shattered self.
Draco looked at her, his gaze filled with a fragile tenderness, as though he was scared to approach her, scared to break her already delicate composure. He let out a deep sigh, a clear attempt to undo the tension that was building, to create a space for them to breathe. “I think it might be best to save this conversation for another time. Have you spoken to Harry yet?”
She nodded slowly, grateful for the change in topic. “I’m banned from anything relating to our cases.”
He let out a small, slightly sarcastic laugh. “Well, I suppose that leaves you with old paperwork then?”
She started walking towards her desk, ready to collapse into her chair. “I suppose it does.”
Without another word, Draco used his wand, the subtle flick of his wrist sending files soaring from the shelves around them, stacking themselves neatly on her desk. Hermione was grateful that at least this time he avoided hitting her with the files as their paths went around her, a small act of consideration, however a deep sorrow rang through her as she remembered that she couldn’t do that anymore. She was just a Muggle now.
Finally reaching her side of the room, she sank into her chair, the familiar seat welcoming her weary body. Across from her, Draco appeared to be throwing himself back into his work, his quill fervently scratching across the pages.
“What are you working on?” she asked, her voice professional, as she opened up the first file in an attempt to normalize the situation.
His quill stuttered mid-stroke, a dark smudge marring the parchment. He flicked his gaze up. "Just tying up some loose ends," he mumbled before returning to his work.
She parted her lips, the words already forming, a question poised on the edge of her tongue. She wanted to know, needed to know, but the words wouldn't come. Her gaze lingered on Draco's bent head for a moment longer, then she deliberately lowered her eyes to the file, the question retreating into the back of her mind.
The time passed in quiet concentration, neither speaking much. But throughout, Hermione noticed subtle shifts in her environment. The stack of parchment beside her elbow, perpetually threatening to topple, seemed to right itself. A misplaced quill, which had rolled under a pile of files, reappeared at the edge of her desk, neatly aligned with her other writing implements. The clock on the wall seemed to quiet its relentless ticking, giving her a momentary sense of breathing room.
As the day finally drew to a close, Hermione stood, feeling the weight of exhaustion in her aching muscles. "I'm going to head home," she announced.
Draco looked up, a tight smile masking his worry. "Are you sure you'll be alright?" he asked, his eyes betraying his concern.
She gave him a reassuring smile as she reached for her jacket. "I will be fine."
She felt the weight of his gaze watching her as she put it on, a sensation that she didn’t know how to feel about. She didn’t know how to feel about anything anymore. Flustered, she knocked over the stack of files on her desk, and quickly bent down to pick them up. Almost instantly, Draco's wand flicked, and the files were levitating back in place.
A surge of rage, threatened to consume her, and though she knew Draco was not the true cause of it, she was certain that he was about to be its target.
She turned to him, frustration clear in her voice. "I don't need you to fix everything, Draco."
“I was just trying to help,” he said gently.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed, her gaze burning into him. "Maybe I don't want it," she spat, her hands flying up in a gesture of frustrated surrender. "Maybe I don't need constant reminders that I have no fucking magic!"
Hermione almost physically flinched, the force of her own outburst shocking her into a stunned stillness. She took a hasty step back, putting a desperate few feet between them. Across the room, Draco's face had become a mask, every flicker of emotion erased.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice breathy, her head shaking. "I... I need to leave." Fear danced in her eyes as she glanced back at Draco, and then she quickly fled.
"Hermione, wait!" she heard him call, his voice urgent, a desperate plea echoing behind her as she rushed out the door, her footsteps heavy.
She didn't wait. She couldn't. The words, still ringing in her ears, propelled her forward, a desperate need to escape the confines of the office, and the weight of her own outburst.
Hermione shivered alone in her old apartment, a damp, bone-deep cold mirrored the icy feeling spreading through her veins. The threadbare armchair offered no comfort, only a stark reminder of her isolation. Crumpled on the worn fabric, she saw the new issue of the Daily Prophet, its headline screaming at her: ‘Hermione Granger's Hospitalization Linked to Cormac McLaggen's Mysterious Demise!’
The words blurred, her vision swimming.
She was not fine.