The Dark
Hermione Granger, at the wise age of twenty-five, knew two things to be absolutely true: magic and Harry Potter. Both of those things had come later in life, but they had finally given her the power to face everything, knowing that at least something was certain. And for a mind like the one of the Brightest Witch of Her Age, this idea meant very much.
She still remembered the awe and the despair mixing together at the knowledge that magic existed, that she was magic, that there was a magic world next to the one she knew at eleven years old. Magic, as she learned, was something that had lived and will die with her, an extra life force, a second heartbeat.
She still remembers the feeling she had when, for the first time of many, Harry Potter had proven himself to be the best of friends. It wasn't after any of the many situations in which they fought and bled together, no. It was during a study session in their first year, when he simply smiled at her and poured her tea. She hadn't been well, still disoriented from the new environment they were in and focused on working her arse off to prove that she was no less than others and still struggling to make new friends and having to fake bravery and courage that she didn't feel because that's was what an old hat told her she was supposed to be and praying to any gods above that nobody would see the turmoil inside. For some reason, that small kindness was all it took Hermione to understand Harry. A boy who came from nothing, who lost everything, who took on responsibilities he didn't really have, who saw the struggle of a stranger and sought out to comfort her, the only way he probably knew how: silent understanding. And there had been many silent understandings in their life together. From the time they stood on the ruins of the same school they had become friends, she knew for sure that her best friend was the only thing that was simply not able to crumble.
So, when confronted with a problem, she knew she had to do two things: trust her magic and trust her best friend.
Now, imagine what happened when our Hermione Granger couldn’t do either of those things.
"Are you drunk?" Hermione asked her obviously drunk best friend.
"At 6 pm on a Thursday?" said best friend remarked, green eyes vibrant but tired.
"I won't judge, you know. It's been a dreadful day." the girl said, taking a sip of the tea they had ordered.
They were sitting at a Muggle tearoom, far away from the chaos of the Ministry and the reporters who still, after seven years from the Battle of Hogwarts, bothered them for interviews and whatnots. It was as if the entire wizarding society had chosen Hermione, Harry and Ron to be the three columns to which build on a new world, one without war. So, the wishes of peace of the three cited were often sacrificed for the greater good. That's why they returned to the Muggle part of London from time to time, the one they knew very well and in which the probability of being recognised were significantly lower.
The-Boy-Who-Lived-Twice, sighed. "It has, hasn't it?" he said around a bite of the apple pie he had ordered.
"So, have you been drinking?"
"I'm not fucking drunk, Hermione."
"Confunded then. Or perhaps a concussion? Dangerous job and all that." she said, gesturing vaguely at him.
"Hermione-"
"No Harry, there has to be a logical explanation to what you just told me." she interrupted, nerves finally getting to her.
"There is, you just don't like it." he bit back.
"I'm not a fan of this attitude, Harry Potter."
"I couldn't care less, Hermione Granger." Harry said in a surprisingly good imitation of the girl.
Hermione stared at the boy in front of her, really a man now, with the same messy black hair and the same glasses, but now with a mostly faded scar and a short beard. It was sometimes strange to realise that the eleven years old with holes in his clothes, was now the Head Auror of the DMLE. She stared in silence while he finished eating, mind somehow stuck on the same thought, for once. A name she really didn't want to hear, probably the only one that could have frozen her brain this way.
When he was done with the pie, Harry dared to meet her gaze. He smiled softly, almost apologetic, understanding.
"Hermione, I know this is really bad to hear. I'm here for you and I will answer as many questions as I can. But I'm really not joking right now, his life depends on this”.
"Why would I care?" she snapped.
"You shouldn't have to, but you do. Because you have a good heart, and you won't be able to have this on your conscience." he said patiently.
"What does Ron say?" she asked, suddenly.
"He wanted me to be the one to tell you, because he had to deal with stuff at the office but-" Harry hesitated, fingers tapping on the table "-he agrees with me." he finally said.
So there went all hope.
"So, no one is by my side? You're all actually taking his?" she shout-whispered.
"Hermione, I'm always by your side, you know that. But there are no sides in this, it's simple: it's a question of life or death, for the both of you ultimately”.
"So I die, what's the big deal? I will eventually, anyway." she pouted, arms crossing at her chest.
"I really hope you're not actually entertaining the idea." Harry said, a bit worried. She wasn't, really. She wouldn't do this to herself, her friends, her parents nor her colleagues. And ultimately, she wouldn't do this to not even him. She was being petulant, she knew that.
"Let's say I do this. Will you be certain he won't do anything to hurt me?"
"Hermione, he's a brat, how am I supposed to assure you of that?" He tried to joke, but at the look she threw at him, he amended: "I'm sure, however, that he's not going to hurt you physically, for two reasons-" he said holding up two fingers "-one, I would physically hurt him in return." she rolled her eyes "-and two, he is not that bad anymore." he finished.
"So you've said, many times."
"And I'll tell you many times more. I've respected your decision to avoid him as much as possible, but you know that I consider him a friend, Hermione." he continued. "Do you honestly think I would be friends with him, after everything, if I didn't trust that he is a different man?"
"Do you trust him, then?" she challenged.
"Yes." he answered immediately and surely.
It was as if someone had slapped her. She couldn't face the sincerity she read in Harry's eyes, so she occupied herself with the pattern of the mug she still held in her hands. This was a huge problem. Both her magic and her best friend were working against her, threatening to smash the precarious balance of her handmade world. She took a deep breath.
"I trust you, Harry. If you're sure, then I'll deal with it." she said, standing up.
"That means you're gonna research everything on the matter, innit?" he asked, putting on his leather jacket and fixing his glasses, following her out.
"Of course I'll research, I'm not crazy!" she screamed, exiting the establishment.
"You surely don't sound like one." he smiled, receiving one of the dirtiest look the woman could master.
They walked back to the apparition point in comfortable silence: Harry's mind too focused on worrying about his best friend, Hermione's too focused on the one and only, Draco Bloody Malfoy.
----
Draco Malfoy, at the wise age of twenty-five, knew he could trust two things only: his magic and himself. It may sound a bit self-centred, but it was true. If our Draco were to look back at his young age, these were the only two things that never disappointed him. His father? A maniac who sold his own son and wife. His mother? A woman who didn’t challenge her upbringing for not even her own son. Theo Nott? The git had sod off somewhere to do Merlin knows what. Blaise, Pansy and the Greengrass sisters post-War were simply unbearable. So, with no family nor friends to rely on, he learned to rely on himself. Now, after years working as an Auror, he learned that to trust his gut was essential on a mission. He was good at his job, dare he say so. It wasn’t easy at the beginning, dealing with his colleagues or with people who didn’t want the help of a “Fucking Death Eater”. But Draco, for once in his miserable life, decided it was time to grow up. He worked a lot on himself: he went training every day, he studied, he went to therapy, he went out into the Muggle world, he smiled, and he learned to be the best in protective spells. This change of character pushed him closer to Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, two of the many people he had hurt in his past. The arseholes, he soon learned, were decent people. And after spending years becoming familiar with the concept, he could now consider them friends.
He still remembers the jumpiness, and the knot in his throat, when he stumbled his apologies to them. They just offered him a pint and decided then and then to give him a second chance. And he hoped that they never regretted it. Hermione Granger was a different story.
He couldn’t really blame the woman. He did watch her get tortured by his aunt, in his house, after years of bullying. So when his heartfelt written apology was met with a cold reply of “I accept your apology, Malfoy”, a general avoidance in meeting in person, a nod when crossing paths with one another, Draco truly understood. It hurt, but he deserved it.
Now, imagine what happened when his magic chose hers.
“You’re joking.” Ron asked his obviously joking friend.
“Why would I joke about this, Weasley?” the white-haired man said tiredly.
“Is it really ‘Mione?” Ron said, finishing up his paperwork.
“The one and only.” Draco sighed, signing his report.
“Bloody hell, mate.”
“My thoughts exactly.” the man said, standing up and reaching for a bottle of Firewhisky and two glasses. He usually didn’t indulge while at work, but today had been a dreadful day. Today Draco learned that he was part Veela.
When he first started at the DMLE, he was anxious to prove himself and his talent. He had been too sure of himself, he had been too neglectful, too impulsive. After years of experience, he knew how to handle himself. Imagine his surprise when Draco had thrown himself in front of a shaking Granger, pushing her behind him, after running maniacally, and shouting at everyone he met on his way, when he first learned that the woman was being attacked in the Ministry’s Hall by blood supremacist arseholes. He was aware of only one thing: he had to save her. And then imagine his surprise when, after securing the scene, Draco met her brown eyes, hands still on her shoulders and felt a tug on his magic. And from the look on the woman’s face, she too had felt something.
From that moment on, Draco was sure he was about to die. For months he kept fainting, he kept sweating, he kept aching all over. At first, he blamed it all on exhaustion. Then maybe it was the flu? It was when he couldn’t even produce a Lumos without a bit of a challenge, that he worried. Harry had accompanied him to St. Mungo’s, where Healer Brary informed the men about the newfound genetics. The tug? Draco’s magic recognized a perfect match in Granger’s.
And so, our Draco found his life depending on a witch who hated him.
He knew, logically, that she wasn’t going to let him die, but it felt wrong to accept her help. That’s why he was drinking with Weasley, at 6 pm on a Thursday, while Potter tried to be his knight in silver armour, convincing the woman to at least be in his presence from time to time.