Chapter Text
Part I: The Collision
Hermione trudged across the apparition line of the ministry, gripping the straps of her purse like a vice. The tremors had gotten worse and more sporadic over the previous few months. She tipped her head up, releasing a long sigh. She found solace in the sinking sky. It was a vibrant clash of electric violet and deep indigo blue laced with jagged ridges of rust. Wizards and witches walked past without a cursory glance, she mused that magical folk wouldn’t find the sky very interesting, unless there was a dark mark upon it.
Across the street, next to the hunkering lamppost, she caught movement, a lithe figure draped in onyx watching her. Her wand appeared in her hand.
“Expecto Patronum,” Hermione whispered.
Wisps of silver light flew out of the tip, swirling into some form, a form which was most definitely not an otter. It was mangled and blotchy like a pottery experiment gone wrong. She felt her magic pulse and the patronus ballooned violently. She ducked her head just as it burst into a huge, inky, cloud.
Her spell had failed her.
Through the misty residue she could see the figure’s steps coming rapidly. Hermione straightened her arm, loosened her wrist, and gripped her wand at a dueling angle, deadly still. She took a breadth.
The figure threw over his hood, and she saw a flash of ivory blonde.
“Malfoy?”
Her former schoolmate froze a few meters away from her, his face like a blank slate of marble. He blinked slowly, like a child waking from a fretful dream.
“Hermione.”
She lowered her wand and Malfoy closed the distance in a few short strides. She felt his long, calloused, fingers framing her face, stormy grey eyes searching intently, before he pulled her rough against his body. Instincts set in and Hermione cast a nonverbal stunning spell that sent him soaring through the air. She disparated before his body touched the ground. The last thing she felt as she appeared at Grimmauld Palace was his warmth. It lingered. How could Draco Malfoy be warm?
Harry barged into his own bedroom, wand drawn, hair perpetually mussed, like he was about to bombarda his bed linens. When he saw nothing but Hermione sprawled next to his fireplace, a butterbeer halfway to her lips, his shoulders dropped.
“I got your owl. What happened?” He asked, swatting aside one of the bluebell flames that was floating close to his face.
“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”
Harry rolled his eyes and sheathed his wand, plopping down on the rug next to her.
“I fought a basilisk, Hermione.”
Hermione leaned over and passed him a butterbeer.
“Worse,” she said, shuddering.
His glasses squished against his forehead as he pondered deeply in thought, his black hair ruffling against the frames. “A Horcrux that showed us kissing.”
“Worse, but equally disturbing,” she agreed, thoughtfully. “Malfoy hugged me.”
"Draco Malfoy?"
"No, Lucius," Hermione deadpanned. "He stepped out of Azkaban for a friendly hang. Of course, Draco."
Hermione could confidently say she knew Harry better than most, better than anyone, but even she couldn’t quite decipher this particular expression.
The closest translation was “Witch, you better be joking.”
The last time Hermione saw Malfoy was with Harry.They’d met briefly after his trial. He’d apologized to them both, it wasn’t the most grandiose apology, but it felt genuine and that was enough. If Hermione was being honest, she barely remembered it. The aftermath of the war was a blur. Back then, her mind was solely obsessed with getting her parents back.
“He’s back from whichever country he ferreted away to,” Harry supplied. “He came into the office last week to report his new residence.”
“Did he bring you scones?”
“Luckily not. I was away on assignment. Theo processed his surveillance paperwork. Apparently, Malfoy’s taken up a penthouse in Zabini’s new hotel.”
The two of them tactfully didn’t comment on the manor, a subject better left buried for every party involved. The death eaters had certainly made sure of that.
“Is it as gaudy as his casino?” she asked, her lips twisting with open distaste.
The Fallen Wizard was as heavily decorated with gold as it was with legal notices, which meant it was a perpetual headache. None of the cases stuck. Hermione knew better than anyone, since her team at the DMLE was currently in the midst of processing a case. Even though Blaise Zaibini was rich and well-connected, Hermione had an inkling he was backed by investors with even deeper pockets.
“Apparently the hotel is quite swanky. Which reminds me I'm supposed to attend its inauguration next month and––”
“No.”
Hermione took another swig of her butterbeer, eyeing her friend with wariness. Harry wore his isolation now very much like he used to wear his invisibility cloak when he was younger.
“Harry, you can’t keep doing this to yourself, hiding yourself. You didn’t die and live through a war just so you can elude happiness.”
“I think happiness eludes me,” he muttered, gazing into the crackling fire. "I don't have it in me anymore, Hermione. I am done showing up."
Her face softened with understanding, and she gave his hand a reassuring pat. Harry was no stranger to sacrifice. If anything, he had learned it too well. They were companions in that regard, in their isolation, a fact that had escaped their other best friend, Ron.
“Are you happy?”
The question caught Hermione off guard, the bottle slipped from her fingers, amber liquid pooling all over the plush Persian carpet. She tried reaching for her wand, but her hands started shaking. She immediately balled her fists. Hermione felt the bluebells flare every so slightly, but they were high above their heads that Harry didn’t seem to notice.
“They’re getting worse,” he observed, his green eyes glinting. “Hermione, has anything else happened?”
Hermione contemplated telling him about her failed patronus, but shook her head. She had chalked the experience up to a panicked fluke. He searched her face for a second longer before giving her a small, crooked, smile.
“I think we’ll need something stronger than this. Let’s go raid old Walburga’s wine cellar."
“As I explained, Mr Mclaggen.You signed a magically binding waiver.There is nothing the DMLE can do except waste further ministry resources."
And my time. But she kept that part to herself.
Hermione shared an empathetic smile as they slowed near the casino entrance, her heels ceased clicking on the gleaming marble. “As they say, the house always wins.”
“Where is this winning house?” Cormac inquired. "Can it fight?"
She just looked through the man, like he was a poltergeist at Hogwarts, but with less personality. Next to the entrance was a cute little bistro with gilded black tables and a muted tone, entwined with flora. There were couples lining the sides, tables laden with artful food and sleek glasses. Ignoring his nephew's blubbering questions, Tiberius Ogden made a heartfelt plea that lodged in her heart.
“Miss Granger, they’re taking our firewhiskey distillery! It’s our family legacy. It's all I have after my resignation from the Wizengamot.”
Hermione gave the old, handsome, wizard with kind eyes an apologetic look.
“I can try for you again, Tiberius. However, The Fallen Wizard is not breaking any Wizarding laws. They’re under constant surveillance by the ministry.”
“What would this muggle born know or care of legacy, uncle?” Cormac mocked.
Cormac shared a resemblance with the older man except his looks were tapered by his carefully styled hair, obnoxious robes, and overall sleazy, wankerness.
“She’s a war hero, you spoiled git,” Tiberius thundered. “And you will address her with the respect that title deserves.”
Cormac snickered, his eyes still trailed down her formal maroon, fitted dress, with thin black heels, and he leered at her when she caught his gaze.
“No, I’m sure Cormac is devastated over his legacy. A legacy that he gambled away for a game of––” Hermione paused as she squinted down at the paperwork. “Fairy Ferris Wheel.”
Hermione made a beeline for the bistro just as the older man pulled out his wand and hexed his nephew. The casino security surrounded the duo instantly. She assumed the Aurors were on their way. Maybe she could grab a quick lunch with Harry.
“Just a crisp glass of white wine, please.”
The server gave a swift nod after seating Hermione and left in a swish of tailored robes.
The truth was Hermione felt bad for Tiberius Ogden, he was a Wizengamot member who resigned in protest due to the appointment of Dolores Umbridge or, as Ron would call it, a neurotic cat lady turned child abuser. It was one of the reasons she took Cormac’s case.
Seconds after the server left, a chilled glass with sparkling wine appeared in front of her. The bubbles floated in the air and popped off like tiny stars. It was a neat bit of magic. Hermione brought the glass closer to her face, closing her right eye to look through it, and as she did, she saw a familiar blonde head that shone like a beacon.
A beacon of disaster.
Draco
“You’re looking lovely, Astoria.” Draco murmured, placing a delicate kiss on her cheek.
She blushed as she perched on the chair, he pulled out for her, her lavender robes, flowing past her dainty ankles. The color complimented her cool skin tone and rich blonde hair. The two of them laughed easily over a quick lunch, catching up on shared stories of riding, France, her sister. Unlike her older sister, Daphne, Astoria was softer, more subtle, more refined. Draco surmised being the second born brought fewer responsibilities, less pressure to perform. It must’ve been a freeing feeling.
Astoria reached across the table and took his hand in his. “I know it’s been a while but I wanted to share my condolences on Malfoy Manor. It was terrible how mercilessly they burned it down. It was a true work of art.”
“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it. “Shall we start on the food?”
“I must say, Draco, you're very contrary to the reports I’ve heard about you,” Astoria said.
She gave him a teasing look from underneath her lashes, and then took a small bite of her salad. Draco wasn’t sure how she managed to talk and chew that grass at the same time and with such finesse. If Draco attempted something like that he would probably choke on the greens. It was a reason why he only stuck to simple meats.
“How so?” he inquired, politely.
“You’re quite the gentleman. Excellent manners, extremely calm and put together. I suppose that’s the good breeding in you.”
Draco hid his strained face behind a sip of wine. He swirled it around in his mouth for longer than necessary before he forced it down his throat, and dabbed a napkin at his lips. Absolute piss.
“Oi Malfoy!”
Draco tilted his head at the approaching form of a very beautiful woman. She had a curvy figure, clad in a sophisticated dark, maroon, dress. Her skin was deliciously sunkissed, her face delicate, framed by long caramel tresses and a glare that was he was sure still haunted his nightmares.
“Granger?”
“I’d offer a greeting, Malfoy. Sadly, I’m fresh out of hugs. Would a punch suffice?”
Draco squared his shoulders. “A simple hello would suffice, Granger, or have the muggles finally progressed to the stone age and this is what passes for manners now.”
“You prejudiced, pompous, git! Manners? You? Ha!” Granger spat, smacking her palms on the table. “I’ve seen better manners from a troll, and it was trying to kill me.”
Draco knew he should’ve shot back a retort, but he suddenly became very still, very distracted by something. Something not huge.
“What in Merlin's name happened to your head, Granger.”
Her face went slack, confusion lining her shapely eyebrows. Now that her ball-shriveling glare was no longer contorting her features, Draco could grudgingly admit she had turned out somewhat pretty. Even with the horrors she’d obviously subjected her mane too. Her honey eyes were wide and clouded with confusion as she patted the top of her head.
“Is this about my hair?” she asked, her voice small, finally catching the crux of the issue.
Draco gave a swift nod. “Yes, It’s hideous.”
She passed her fingers through the long, strands, with a hint of wave, until one wrapped around her finger. Draco followed the movement.
“Come, Draco, Let’s not insult a witch’s hair,” Astoria interrupted with a lighthearted laugh, a subtle reprimand in her voice. “Hi, I’m Astoria, Greengrass.”
Granger turned and extended her hand, casting a wide smile at her. “Oh hi! I’m Hermione. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“The brightest witch of her age,” She acknowledged appreciatively.
“Not that bright since she’s clearly interrupting a date,” Draco said, baring his teeth in what could loosely be called a smile.
Granger’s face flushed. “I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to. You. You two please carry on. My apologies.”
“It’s alright,” Astoria said, kindly. “Just schoolmates catching up, I presume?”
Hermoine raised her eyebrows at him, her mouth twitching. Draco narrowed his gaze ever so slightly.
“I would say it’s a pleasure, Granger,” Draco said, and then abruptly turned to his date. “Where were we darling?”
It took a few seconds for the meaning to sink in, and then she shot Draco a parting glare that certainly hexed the side of his face. Brightest witch indeed.