Interwoven

The smell of sulphur burned her nose, overwhelming her senses as she barreled down the tunnel. Dirt skidded up behind her, creating a plume of debris at her booted heels. Her heart sang in her chest, beating so hard she was sure the vampire ahead of her would hear it. The creature, clothed in tattered robes, flew down the tunnel at lightening speed, their feet pounding along the trodden ground. 

Hermione sent another blasting hex, missing the creatures head by only a hair's breadth. Rock exploded from the tunnel wall where the spell hit, flying at her body like pieces of jagged shrapnel. She spit out a shield spell, sending the stones ricocheting haphazardly while she continued her chase. 

She could just make out the sapphire necklace clutched in the vamps pale hand as the predator barreled further into the darkness, beyond her sight. Most humans were out of their element in complete darkness, even wizards, compared to a full-fledged vampire. The bloodsuckers thrived in caves, forests shrouded from piercing moonlight, or in abandoned mineshafts such as this. Most magic-kind would fret at the encasing blackness that seemed to seep into one's very bones. 

But Hermione wasn't most. 

The sound of footfalls abruptly ended ahead of her, but Hermione raced forward, teeth gritted. She heard the snarl and pictured the vampire rearing their ugly head back to rip at her throat—

"Ut ipsumis." She hissed, jabbing her wand into the creatures' stomach as she collided with their stone-like body. The vampire had no time to scream before they were vaporised into a cloud of black carbon particles. Hermione buried her face into her elbow, not wanting to breathe in creature-dust. A quick scourgify removed the lingering body-powder that had covered her head to toe. 

Hermione caught her breath, sending a wide-birth lumos through the tunnel to ensure no additional vamps remained beyond her sight. A grin stretched at her lips as she bent at the waist, plucking the cursed necklace from the pile of carbon dust with her gloved— new and reinforced, thank you— fingers. 

She slid the jewels into a warded case before letting the tug of apparation remove her from the bowels of the earth. 

___•___

After returning the cleansed artifact back to the French ministry, Hermione had enjoyed an additional two days in Annecy; a beautiful city nestled between the Alps and a picturesque lake. She had explored the quant city, enjoying the castles built in the Middle Ages and the bookshop in the middle of town. Hermione had felt normal for the first time in the last month— or her version of normal, which included carbon transformation of murderous creatures, coupled with a good book and coffee. 

There was no press hounding her, no awestruck gazes from war veterans, no sneers from those teetering the line of openly blood purist, and no worries of old relations reaching out— though she supposed, she'd been in England for nearly a month without that happening. Perhaps they didn't wish to reconnect either. 

She could've stayed here, or anywhere for that matter. Could've forgone returning to British soil and instead continued her trek across the globe, never staying in one place for too long. But the more she attempted to ignore the bond, the more ornery it became. The distance between her and her bonded only amplified the ache in her sternum. And the dreams— Malfoy had become a regular guest. 

It didn't matter the subconscious escapade her brain took her on when she was asleep; he was always there. Whether it was a jungle trek, in which he appeared dressed too similarly to Indiana Jones for her liking, or a nightmare from the war— in which case he either suffered with her or watched along— he was there. Usually— and Hermione only remembered because she had begun to force herself to write down the dream— she was on a bridge. Mist shrouded the horizon, blurring the edges of the otherworldly place beyond that of the stone bridge that stretched endlessly. Malfoy would arrive usually soon into the dream, and nothing would happen. They would stare at each other, or glare in her case, and then she would wake. 

The idea that their dreams were connected and shared was something Hermione had begun to suspect but desperately hoped wasn't true. It was difficult enough to accept that for the time being she was tied to the wizard, but to have him in her mind—

That was what drove her back from her trip to France and back to Malfoy Manor in search of more research. 

It was a crisp September afternoon, one that required her navy sweater all day and not just for a cold morning, when she Floo'd into the office Narcissa had shown her. It had taken monumental effort to not apparate outside and knock on the door— as she had done the last three trips she had made over the week before her mission in France— and instead come directly into the manor. But the idea of more stilted conversation with Narcissa or of Malfoy himself opening the door had made her choice easier. 

Her last visits to the manor had been uneventful. Narcissa had politely led her to the library, making small talk over the weather or whatever outfit Hermione donned that day; then the blonde would leave Hermione be, with no tea interruptions. Hermione had found some interesting books in the library, though most were redundant on the facts of bonding. She felt close to something, however, like if she kept digging despite her minimal progress, she would uncover a wealth of information. The most important aspect of her last trips was that Malfoy had always been out of the manor. Perhaps he wanted to see her even less than she wanted to see him. 

Hermione slipped from the fireplace, shaking the loose soot from her wild curls. She had attempted to tame them this morning, but the abrupt change in humidity between the French countryside and dreary England had her hair more sentient than usual.

She glanced around the space. Empty, thankfully. The desk was still strewn with papers and books, looking even less tidy than her last visit. Hermione couldn't help but step closer, letting her eyes track over the documents from a distance. Sure, she was allowed to come and go as she pleased and allowed to use the library to her satisfaction, but she doubted the Malfoy matriarch would want her snooping through the mail openly. So she tried to discreetly look while also casting a quick locking charm on the door. Maybe it was rude, but Hermione had never claimed to be nice. 

The desk was filled with mostly letters— a correspondence of sorts with many different wizards and witches. She recognised the elegant handwriting as Malfoy's. So this was his office. That knowledge made her feel much more uncomfortable than before— though not uncomfortable enough to immediately head to the library. Instead, she leaned further over the desk, still attempting not to touch anything—

Dear Mr. Pemberton, 

I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. My name is Draco Malfoy, and I am writing to humbly request consideration for an apprenticeship under your esteemed guidance.

I am well aware of your reputation as one of the finest potioneers in the British Isles, renowned not only for your mastery of traditional potion-making but also for your innovative contributions to the field. It would be an honour to study under someone of your calibre, and I am prepared to commit myself fully to the rigorous standards I know you require.

I have spent the last several years in private study, refining my understanding of potion theory and practice. My Hogwarts education, under the tutelage of Severus Snape, instilled in me a profound respect for the discipline and precision required in this art. I have continued to hone my skills with what resources I could muster, including experimenting with hybridising restorative draughts and incorporating nontraditional ingredients into standard formulas.

Thank you for considering my request. I am happy to provide any additional information or references you may require and would be honoured to meet with you at your convenience to discuss this opportunity further.

Yours sincerely, 

Draco Malfoy

Similar letters were piled throughout, with responses back saying mostly the same— we thank you for your interest, but we do not have a spot open at the moment. 

Hermione placed a hand on the desk to steady herself as she peered at another letter over the sale of artifacts. A woosh sounded from the Floo behind her, and Hermione nearly face planted as she pushed herself away from the desk—

"What the fuck are you doing?" 

Hermione turned at the icy voice, back straightening as she met Malfoy's steel grey eyes. He was dressed in a black turtleneck with grey slacks that sported wrinkles along the seam. His hair was wind-tousled, with pale blond pieces falling over his forehead. The dark circles under his eyes still stuck out against his pale complexion. She hadn't seen him since the event, and despite the circumstances, the golden cord in her chest tugged hard enough for her to grasp her sternum. Malfoy gritted his teeth, hands tightening at his side as he likely felt the same lurch. 

The feeling passed, leaving only a warmth in her chest that she ignored, along with a distant storm of emotions on the far side of the bond emanating from the man in front of her. She ignored those too. Instead she lifted her chin, "Your mother invited me to use the library as I wis—"

"I'm aware of mother's schemes." He bit out, "I meant, what the fuck are you doing rifling through my things like a common thief?"

Hermione held her ground despite the embarrassment creeping up her spine. "I was looking for additional research for our shared issue." Lie. A bold-faced lie, but she would rather bite her tongue off than apologize for snooping. 

Malfoy sneered, stepping closer. "And did you find any? Or just my personal correspondence? I know my mother is allowing you free roam of our home for some goddamned reason, but consider your leash length halted at this desk and at my bedroom door." He gave her a viscous smile, stepping closer again until his scent invaded her nostrils. "Unless you want a repeat of our last meeting? Then I suppose my bed is an—"

She slapped him hard across the face, stumbling back when a piercing pain shot through her chest in tandem. Malfoy glared at her as she swore and dug her nails into the fabric of her sweater as if she could tear the bond out physically. Malfoy's head barely turned to the side from the force of her slap, though he sported a blossoming red mark on the same cheek as his scar. He looked down at her with burning eyes, "I guess not."

"Fuck you." She snarled, chest heaving as she fought through the pain. 

"I don't remember you being this much of a bitch in school," he mused with a cruel smile. "Were Weasel and Scarhead holding you back that much? Where are the two these days anyway, not following you around at your heels anymore?"

She glared at him with all the hate she could muster, practically shaking with the desire to break his pointy nose. He looked like he wanted her to break it, like he would enjoy it as much as she would. 

He grinned, eyes sparkling with cold amusement at her nonanswer. "Oh, this is rich. You mean to tell me the golden trio had a falling out? Is that why you fled England?"

Her eyes turned cold, and she dug her nails into the palms of her fists to stop from lashing out. She saw the wildness in his grey eyes— the ache for a fight. The bond between them was glowing hot in her chest, like molten gold, and Hermione didn't think twice before latching onto it— digging her nails into the cord until she could feel what lay beyond her side—

Hermione was slammed with a wave of guilt and self-loathing so strong that for a moment they felt like her own emotions. As if the complex weave she felt at the end of the golden cord had merged with her own feelings, leaving her feeling stripped and raw. It echoed down the connection, rippling in her sternum like a phantom beat. 

Instead of hitting him like she wanted, like they both wanted, she levelled him with her best Malfoy-esque glower. "You should work on your attitude. It's hard enough it seems for a death eater to get a job, let alone one who can't control their emotions." 

Malfoy's face shuttered, a crack in his porcelain facade in which she saw pain flash across his eyes. It was a momentary thing, like lightning flashing across the sky— their one millisecond and gone the next— He hardened again, looking down at her with such cold contempt she could nearly feel it vibrating in the air between them. "Get out."

"With pleasure." Hermione snapped back, turning on her heel before throwing open the office door. He likely expected her to Floo back to her hotel, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of running. No, she had work to do, and she'd be damned if that blond-haired prick got in the way of that. She stormed through the halls, her magic vibrating around her like an angry cloud. She passed portraits as she went, and no vitriol was thrown her way— no 'mudblood trash' spit at her from the occupants of the frames. Instead, they fled their paintings in her wake, likely worried she'd burn them as she had done once before. 

Malfoy didn't follow her, and she didn't dare check the bond again to see his current emotional state. She conceded to checking it that once, but she would not do so again. It was an acknowledgement of their connection, let alone a heinous breach of privacy. Sure, Malfoy didn't deserve her reservations, but if he had been the one to read her emotions instead of the other way around, she would've clawed his eyes out for the invasion. 

Hermione threw open the library doors, listening to the rattling panes of stained glass as the slabs of wood ricocheted off the wall with her force. She sat herself down in a different seat this time, far from Malfoy's designated area, before summoning all of the books she had set aside. They came barreling towards her in response to her anger, slamming themselves down on the wooden table loud enough that the reverberation sounded remarkably close to gunshots throughout the echoing library. 

Her heart hammered in her chest, each beat pumping loud in her ears. How dare he bring up the consummation? How dare he bring up Ron or Harry like he knew anything—

Exasperation filled her to the brim until it began overflowing from her eyes. 

Hadn't she given enough? Had tearing herself to pieces during the war not been enough? The glue that had pieced herself together these last years away melted with each teardrop onto the ink-lined pages. No, it hadn't been enough; she had to give her soul— her magic too. 

Hermione set a timer with her wand before allowing the tears to slip soundlessly down her cheeks. 

___•___

Hermione read until her eyes burned, taking meticulous notes on the written properties of blood magic until her fingers protested. 

Sunlight no longer streamed through the large glass windows; instead, moonbeams lit the rows of books, the silver light broken only by the magical sconces lining the far alcoves of the space. Hermione stacked the books into a neat pile and slid her journal back into the bag at her side. 

Her anger had faded with the sinking of the sun, replaced instead by a bone-deep weariness. She shouldn't have read Malfoy's mail; she acknowledged that fault, but slapping him was warranted given the foulness he had spit at her. She tried not to think of the burning silver in his eyes nor the waves of emotions she had discovered beyond the bridge connecting them. 

Hermione left the library with a silencing spell cast upon her boots. She would rather choke than Floo through Malfoy's office, regardless of if he was still there or not. Instead, she wove through the halls like a wraith, a guest who stayed long past her welcome. 

The manor was a different place entirely at night. The softness of cream-coloured walls and lilacs did nothing to stop the dancing shadows on the walls cast by swaying trees far in the garden or flickering firelight betwixt the sconces. No amount of renovation could stop the moon from awakening the nightmares that laced these halls. Had Voldemort himself walked the path she took? Had prisoners, never to see the light of day again, been dragged across the marble under her booted feet? 

Hermione dreamed often of the war, especially in the early years when loud noises had made her jump and no amount of ocean in between could stop her from seeing the blood painting British soil. Her dependency on Dreamless Sleep has lessened them, and time—as well as a propensity to shove down any unhappy thoughts— had weaned her of both affliction to the potion and entangling nightmares. 

But she still dreamed of Bellatrix every so often. 

The cut of the blade into her forearm, the sound of her own screams echoing off the marble floor, the worry that her friends would die too. And Malfoy. Watching. Or not watching truthfully. His snivelling face had been pointed above her prone body as he blankly stared at the wall. His mother had watched, though. Which was worse? To watch the act, or to not have the courage to see the torture taking place right under your nose?

It had been near twilight during her capture, and yet the darkness of the halls seemed to whisper in Bellatrix's voice as Hermione followed the twists and turns of the manor. 

Gooseflesh prickled her skin by the time she pushed through a set of double doors, her feet instinctually taking her—

The drawing room sprawled in front of her; its grand expanse unfolded amidst the starlight breaking through the large wall of windows. Hermione's feet stopped their trek, and all she could do was stare. 

She had only glimpsed the space when she had made her mad dash from the manor a month ago, but it was something else entirely to once again stand in its confines. The walls were the same white hewn stone, with towering columns rivalling those of the Greeks. The chandelier, the one that had broken into millions of tiny fractals during their escape so many years ago, had not been replaced. Instead, candles floated at the apex of the ceiling, a hundred or more burning bright in the darkness— a similar spell to that of the Great Hall of Hogwarts. 

Hermione stepped further into the room, her gaze dropping to the floor. 

It had once been a wood so deep in colour she thought it black; now the ground under her feet was a white marble, with veins of glittering emerald running throughout. The descending staircase to the dungeons was nowhere to be seen. A glamour perhaps? Or had that level of the manor been utterly changed as well?

Hermione stepped to the centre of the room and stared at the spot on the floor that was once covered in dirty blood. Only polished stone remained.

Entirely different, and yet the bones were the same. 

A door closed somewhere deep in the manor, the sound travelling up her spine. Hermione snapped from her trance, straightening as she turned to face the entry doors. She expected Narcissa to bustle through, perhaps with a soft smile and a subtle nod to the change in their torture room— a look of 'See? Look what I've done. Not a stain to be seen. We Malfoy's are changed people.'

No one entered. 

Hermione stared at the spot once more— the spot that was too clean. The sins washed away. Untainted when it should've bared some scars as she did. 

Hermione slashed her wand once before stalking through the Floo, leaving only a thin crack across the marble in her wake.