Sweet Judy Blue Eyes
Thebes, Greece
Staring dumbfounded at the rocket embedded in the cavern wall, Draco took a beat before responding in utter confusion, “What do you mean, sending people to the moon?”
Sitting on the rock ledge next to him, Hermione laughed quietly, realizing that a pureblood wizard (especially such a snobby one), growing up with no contact to the Muggle world, wouldn’t know that the moon is a place to which a person can be sent. Suddenly curious, she arched a mischievous eyebrow and started to quiz him, “How far away would you say the moon is?”
Flustered, and sensing inevitable humiliation, Draco cleared his throat and tried to move on. “Nevermind that — more importantly, what time is this beastly thing supposed to be from, and how did it get here and now?”
Hermione gave an exaggerated sigh. “If this mission, or whatever it is, were so important to Dumbledore, he could have given me a partner who had at least taken Muggle Studies.” She looked at him in pointed disbelief. “Really? ‘What time is the Saturn V from?’ Unbelievable.”
Draco made a face. “Muggle Studies? I can’t imagine anything more dreadful. I’d rather sit through double Divination.” She held her gaze and offered no reply. For a few moments, he poked the gravel with his wand in idle frustration. “Well, are you going to tell me, or just laugh at me?”
“I’ll do both. But you have to guess first.”
He huffed and scratched his head for a moment, then smirked. “Well, Saturn was a Roman god, and the Romans had steel, so Ancient Rome is the obvious choice.”
Hermione stared at him, deadpan, her face resting on one palm. “You’ll need to be more specific. The various incarnations of Ancient Rome spanned over a thousand years.”
At this, Draco frowned. “You’re no fun. You don’t actually think I’m that bloody thick, do you?” This got a small smile from Hermione.
“I think I’m rather fun, actually.” Looking pleased with herself, she continued, “The Americans had a program called Apollo in the 1960’s. They used these huge rockets to shoot shuttles full of trained astronauts into space.” She glanced sidelong at Draco, gauging his expression. She hoped he might betray some surprise or admiration at the feats of Muggles, but he wore only a face of mild curiosity. Better than the customary revulsion, she thought.
After a moment, something in Draco’s memories seemed to click into place. “Do you remember that music festival we were sent back to ages ago? Er… Woodpile? Rockwood?” He paused, grasping for the name. “Stumpshock? Weedstock?”
Hermione snorted. “I can see why you might remember it as Weedstock,” she teased. She let her mind wander, back to the suntanned girl with the waves of walnut-colored hair hanging down over her bare chest, drawling “want some reefer?” to anyone who made eye contact. Draco had been so aggravated by the crush of Muggles that he had snatched a joint right out of the girl’s hand, lit it with a snap of his fingers, and gasped in the smoke like a drowning man lifted from the sea. “What kind of abject Muggle fag is this!?” he had demanded, coughing uncontrollably. But, the offensive smell hadn’t stopped him from finishing it. By then, it was too late, and the haughty aristocrat was truly and properly monged.
Hermione’s strongest memory was later, as the crowd swayed together in the dead of night to Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. They were close enough to see the four on the stage. Graham Nash, obviously the Brit of the group with his tight lips and dark pea coat, pleasantly reminded her of a young Sirius Black. Sitting to his left was Stephen Stills, outfitted in a black and white bohemian shawl with an angular zigzag pattern. As he sang, she was struck by his relaxed expression. He was so vulnerable to the hundreds of thousands of quiet listeners stretched across the acres of dairy farm, telling them all about his own failures in a cherished relationship. Hermione unwittingly fixed her gaze on him and felt a surge of… something. She asked Draco if he felt it too. He said yes—a deep and earnest yes without a hint of his reflexive dryness. Much later, Dumbledore had explained to them how magical power could be drawn from music, art, and crowds, and that was why he had sent them there. But in that moment at Woodstock, unthinking of their mission, their eyes met through the haze and they saw something new in each other.
“From what little I do remember, I’m surprised you don’t recall it the same way,” he retorted with a mock scolding expression, bringing her back to the present. “You and that Muggle girl shared so many joints you might as well have been snogging her too.”
“I’ve told you, you and I were not snogging!” complained Hermione. Her voice was raised and her cheeks had flushed bright pink. “It was just one tiny kiss, and neither of us was sober! You even agreed it was only a mistake!”
Her last word lingered for a moment longer, carried by the soft spring breeze flowing in from the mountain and echoing off the cavern walls. Mistake. She felt self-conscious, then, and part of her wished she could take it back, find a softer word. Fluke. Accident. Impulse. Need. Need? She shook off the thought. Draco was indifferent to her internal struggle, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. He held his gaze intently on the rocket embedded in the wall.
“Why did you bring up Woodstock?” she finally asked.
“I heard some Muggles talking about it there,” he replied, pointing to the gleaming anachronism with his wand. “They were going on about how Apollo would conquer the moon and bring peace to the earth. I thought it was just some religious tosh. But it must have been around the same time.” Draco chewed his bottom lip as his mind worked. Hermione waited. Just as she was about to break the silence, he stood up, clearly having made up his mind about something. His posture was impeccable, standing angled to the wall, his chin turned over his right shoulder. He lifted his wand like a trained fencer would hold a sword: perfectly still, poised to lunge. Hermione found herself admiring his form. Her eyes scanned him methodically, taking in his relaxed, practiced pose. She glanced to his face, which wore a focused expression, his lips pursed thoughtfully. Again, she stifled the memory of what they felt like on hers. A mistake. A need.
“Revelio!” Nothing happened. Draco huffed and gave his wand a shake, as if it were just a malfunctioning flashlight. He tried again, to no avail. “Right, I didn’t think so. Bloody typical,” he grumbled.
“It’s the same for me,” Hermione said quietly. Gravel crunched under Draco’s leather boots as he made his way towards the rocket to inspect it manually, leaving her perched on the rock ledge. She felt small, and powerless to untangle the web of mysteries they found themselves in. Each strand was like a thick steel wire, binding her with impossible strength. How on Earth did this rocket get here? Who was the man in the mask? Why don’t wands work? What are we going to do? Why is he so annoyingly calm right now? Why can’t I stop thinking about him? She grimaced at this. Her hands fidgeted, alternately pulling at her cloak and flattening it back out again.
A low, pleasant hum reached Hermione’s ears, just audible above the ambient noises of the cave. She glanced up, looking for Draco, but he had disappeared from view. Curious, she hopped down from the ledge. As she followed his path across the cave floor, the hum grew and became distinctly human. The cave floor sloped down towards the wall holding the rocket, and at the bottom she found him lying on his back, inspecting the underside of a crumbling ledge. Next to him was a neat pile of translucent crystals, each no larger than her thumb. He stopped humming.
“LOOK WHAT I FOU— oh! You’re here,” he said with a startle, emerging from the shelf like a mechanic might roll out from underneath a car. “Here, come have a look at these.”
“I didn’t know you could sing.”
“Sorry Granger, no more time for flirting today, I think I’ve had an idea.”
“Well careful then, don’t overtax your poor brain.”
Smirking, he threw two fingers up at her. She replied with her best shocked expression, one hand over her open mouth. He rolled his eyes and pushed himself up to his feet, gathering the crystals with a sweep of his hand.
“The more superstitious types used to do this trick in the common room,” he explained, sorting through the crystals and stuffing the rejects into his cloak. “They loved all kinds of eerie shit. I kind of fancied this one, though, don’t tell anyone.” With that, he held his wand to the smallest of the crystals and closed his eyes, humming a drone in the low register of his pleasant tenor. After a moment, Hermione saw a dull flicker at the heart of the crystal. Gradually, it crackled to life and started to ring softly at the pitch Draco had set. He set it down gently in a natural cavity in the floor, amplifying its sound.
“Not bad, eh?”
Hermione was struggling to conceal how impressed she was. “How did you know that would work when the rest of our magic is suppressed?”
“Remember the festival. Music is the answer, Granger.” He flashed a grin at her and she tutted reflexively. He always used her last name whenever he thought they were competing. It was like they were back in school, vying for the top of the class. How unimportant that all seemed now. He’s so immature. And it’s not like he’s ever beaten me, anyway.
While she stewed to herself, Draco activated more crystals. As he set down the last one, the cavern was filled with a low, pleasant major chord. He tapped a few of the crystals in turn, adjusting their sound to his liking. Then he closed his eyes and, to her complete surprise, started singing softly.
“It's getting to the point — where I’m, no, fun, anymore!” He paused, listening to his voice echo off the walls. He had a surprising clear tenor, and he sang earnestly, his face relaxed. For a moment, Hermione saw a flash of Stephen Stills. She was speechless.
"I am so-o-rry-y-y,” he continued. A pause.
“What are you doing?” she finally demanded.
“Do you feel anything? You know, like…” he trailed off, scratching the back of his head. “Well, I know you like this song. Try your wand?”
“Oh.” Flustered, Hermione nodded and reached for the piece of vine wood tucked into her cloak. She knew what it was supposed to feel like when she held it just right. Something in the wand was alive, and she would feel that spark of life in her hand like the faintest static shock. She adjusted her grip, turning it over twice, but it felt dead in her hand.
“Lumos! Bollocks, still nothing. Um, keep going, maybe?” she suggested nervously. Hermione wasn’t sure if it was the want of magic or the leftover feelings from Woodstock, but she feared that somewhere inside her was a desperate want for Draco’s singing voice, now that she knew how it sounded. Even worse, what if he knew about that want? Or even worse than that, what if he thought she wanted it but in the end she didn’t really? She shook her head and scolded herself, Ugh, stop overthinking boy stuff. Why can’t you just have a simple working relationship with the only other person trapped outside of time with you, the only human being you’re allowed to connect with, a stupid boy whom you happen to despise? Seemingly oblivious to her inner turmoil, he kept singing, channeling Stills, adjusting his collection of crystals with his wand like a conductor directing a chamber orchestra.
Sometimes it hurts so badly I must cry out loud I am lonely I am yours, you are mine, you are what you are You make it hard
Hermione watched him wistfully, absorbing every syllable as if reading a love letter. He broke her trance with an urgent call, “Hermione! Hermione, look! It’s bloody working!” Bewildered, she snapped back to the present and followed his pointing finger to her own wand, which was now glowing brilliantly.
“Shit! Shit — I mean, good! Wonderful!” She gawked at the light, brighter than any Wand-Lighting Charm she had ever cast. “Nox!” The blinding light dimmed, and she laughed, despite herself. “Oh my God, it worked! Keep going!” Draco smiled, obviously proud of himself in his own muted way. Someone who didn’t know him as well as Hermione might have mistaken it for a mocking smirk. He closed his eyes again, searching his memory for lyrics, and continued.
Remember what we've said and done and felt about each other Oh, babe have mercy Don't let the past remind us of what we are not now I am not dreaming
“Revelio!” Hermione focused then on the Saturn V, hanging quietly in the shadows above them. As the spell took hold, she watched thin purple lines spread across the rocket’s surface, no thicker than thread. They clustered densely near the fuel tanks — some kind of protection spell. She scanned for weaker areas, and honed in on the engines at the far left, where there were no traces of purple. She fixed her stare on the nearest one and drew her concentration together as Draco reached another chorus.
I am yours, you are mine, you are what you are You make it hard
“Confringo!” she shouted, erupting with unexpected power. A writhing fireball escaped Hermione’s wand, surging towards the cave wall, burning plasma arcing from it like solar flares. Then, just as it was about to slam into the fuselage, she heard a low buzzing sound, like a guitar being yanked out of a live amplifier. The fireball vanished on impact, leaving a neat, bright red spiderweb pattern on the nearest engine. The entire cavern shuddered and she turned to Draco, who was staring up.
She followed his gaze again to see more bright red lines shooting across the ceiling of the cave, causing bursts of dust to float down towards them. Then, a group of stalactites above them broke loose, and he was running at her, shouting something. Just feet away from her, she saw a sharp point in the falling rock formation dissolve in the air as it hit Draco’s shield charm. Then the rest fell, and he landed on top of her, wand arm raised to ward off the falling rock. Everything went black. They were trapped.