Interwoven

A frigid frost coated the grounds beyond the manor, signalling the transition from her beloved summer-fall to a more dreaded fall-winter. October in England was much less pleasant than she remembered, involving more rain-soaked and bone-chilling weather than her pumpkin pasty-filled youth. She was bundled head to toe, clad in a red knit sweater and a matching scarf as she strode through the ice-laden gardens. 
 
It had been a month since her uncomfortable encounter with Malfoy in the library and nearly two and a half months since the beginning of this entire shitty ordeal. Much longer than Hermione had originally anticipated her eradication of the bond taking. She had read through nearly six books— most more than once— composed of personal notes and histories of blood bonds, soul-bonds, and blood maladies. 
 
A few weeks ago, Hermione had stumbled upon a text stuck deep in the alcoves of the manor library that detailed a description of the blood bond between master and house elf that seemed promising. Hermione theorised that binding servants to bloodlineages arose before that of wedding blood bonds— as it was, many ancient households bound elves that served generations of their line. The bond itself was described as ‘cord-like’, stretching between owner and chattel. The composition of such ‘cord’ was not discussed in detail, but the ceremony to bind slave to owner was written in a series of runic combinations that Hermione was still deciphering. 
 
If she could decode the ceremony between house elf and bloodline, then perhaps a similar ceremony— albeit reversed— could break the bond between herself and the Malfoy heir. 
 
She knew, of course, that there were a plethora of differences between the bond she shared with Malfoy and those between house elf and master; emotions are not shared between the two parties as with her own predicament, nor is there a stipulation preventing a master from harming their slave. Though, she supposed, that could’ve been added much later to soul-bonds, once it was found that wives were likely to murder their betrothed, which was not conducive to rearing heirs. 
 
The runic combinations of the ceremony were vexing her at the moment— a mix of 17th-century algebraic notations and 5th-century alphabets of both Aramaic and Egyptian lettering. Her education in Hogwarts of runic symbols focused entirely on those post-18th century, and her mastery programs only spanned back to the 16th in old English, not algebraic symbology. 
 
She had decided to take a brisk walk through the gardens beyond the manor to clear her head and to stop her from setting the book alight when she failed once more at translation. 
 
The wind blew softly through the bare trees at the edge of the gardens, sending the branches knocking against each other. A warming charm coated her like a second skin, though Hermione still buried her gloved fingers under her armpits. Curls slipped from her braid in the gust, leaving her looking bedraggled. The gardens, now decorated with tiny icicles that sparkled in the midday sun, were somehow just as enchanting beneath a layer of frost. 
 
She had seen little of Malfoy over the past month, only occasionally glimpsing his blond head at her arrival through the drawing room Floo or her departure the same way. Neither had she seen much of Narcissa; there were no surprise afternoon teas in the library, nor did the woman meet her at the Floo for chitchat. Hermione wondered if Malfoy himself had seen to that, and if so, she wasn’t sure what to make of it. 
 
She spied a white gazebo near the pond and made her way closer, her white trainers crunching in the frosted grass. Hermione worried she was becoming far too habituated at the manor. She had grown comfortable enough to venture along the grounds on her own, after all. It wasn’t a pleasing thought. Acclimatisation was much too close to acceptance of her situation. What was next? Meandering into the kitchens to prepare herself a meal? Despite the mental beratement of her current stroll, she continued it. It was necessary, she reasoned, to give her mind new stimulus beyond the library and four beige walls of her hotel room— which was now becoming more of an apartment at this rate. She’d begun paying for two-week increments, still too hopeful that she would soon end her predicament to pay for a month at a time. 
 
She climbed the steps of the large octagonal gazebo and sat herself on a wooden bench against the closest bannister. There had been rumours in her youth of the Malfoys owning white peacocks— silly little stories told in the Gryffindor common room after quidditch games. Though as Hermione surveyed the landscape, she found no evidence of any strutting pheasants. Maybe they had fled during the war, or perhaps they had never existed at all. Youth was always filled with embellishment. 
 
“The gardens suffer from a sort of winter gloom, don’t you agree, Miss Granger?”
 
Hermione jumped, muscles stiffening at the surprise interruption. She turned from her outward gaze of the pond towards the polite voice behind her. Narcissa stood in one of the arched entryways, clad in a pale blue set of winter robes. The fabrics billowed in the wind, wrinkled at the hemline around her ankles. Her blonde hair was twisted into a low bun, perfectly smoothed.
 
Hermione shifted on the bench, facing the woman. “I find them lovely either way.”
 
Narcissa smiled at the courteous non-answer and crossed her hands in front of her robes. Her fingers were clad in garden gloves, leather and worn. “The roses are temperamental this time of year without warming charms. I’ve found myself tending to them daily to save the delicate buds.”
 
“Your son won’t cast the charms for you?” Hermione asked, brow lifted. 
 
Narcissa chuckled and sat herself on the bench beside Hermione, leaving space between the two. “Draco is rarely home these days and is usually locked away in his study when he is. I wouldn’t add to his burdens, though he would likely renovate the entire garden should I ask.”
 
“My mother gardened.” Hermione murmured, glancing at Narcissa’s gloved fingers. “She enjoyed the dirt and the laboring.” She wasn’t sure why she shared the fact. Maybe it was the silence between statements that drove her to fill the gaps. Or maybe it was the season, the chill in the air that loosened her tongue to bring warmth to the space. Narcissa watched her thoughtfully, likely noting the past tense verbiage in which Hermione spoke of her mother. 
 
“I had never dealt with the dirt before the war.” Narcissa said, holding Hermione’s gaze. “I did nearly everything I could to remain… untouched by grime and detritus. Now I find pleasure in weeding manually. It is much more rewarding to rear something without the aid of magic.”
 
The muggle way. The sentiment rang in Hermione’s ears, and she could barely believe the confession from Narcissa’s mouth. Was it truth? Or was it simply what Narcissa thought Hermione wanted to hear? It seemed truthful, as if the woman had granted her a secret she had shared with no one else. 
 
___•___
 
Narcissa had left shortly after, parting with a simple invitation for Hermione to join them for dinner later. She couldn’t imagine how awkward that would be and had politely declined. 
 
Hermione had returned to the library with renewed vigour, immediately snatching new books from the shelves to aid in her translations. By dinner time— in which she was prepared to leave before it became obvious that she was still in the manor but refusing to dine— she had cracked the 5th-century Aramaic runes. It was little progress, but progress nonetheless after months of nothingness. Her hands worked quickly to pile her stack of books and notes before she glanced towards the empty table near the other side. The same books were left atop the table that had been there the first time she had arrived. She hadn’t snooped to see if Malfoy had continued notating them, but he hadn’t plucked any new research material from the shelves. Had he ended his pursuit already? 
 
That just wouldn’t do. He was stuck in this as much as she was, and she’d be damned if he didn’t at least attempt to help get them out of this situation. It’s not as if he had a job that was busying him, Hermione thought, and then winced. He wanted a job, clearly, from the multiple letters he had sent out. No one wanted to hire a Death Eater, even one who had done his time. Did he deserve any different? 
 
Hermione chewed her cheek. Well, if he wanted work—
 
She gathered a separate stack of books and duplicated a few pages of her notes on the ceremony she was translating before carrying them to his designated table. He could make himself useful. She didn’t bother leaving a note; Malfoy was anything but stupid, and if he ventured to the library, he would likely understand what she wanted of him. 
 
Hermione departed at a crisp seven thirty, right as she heard the tinkling of silverware on her way to the Floo. 
 
___•___
 
It was far too late in the night for this, Hermione knew. 
 
The first time was one thing— her adrenaline spiked to the point where only researching could bring her to a lull— but this was another. A weekend in Italy, in which she nearly lost her toes in an ill-timed blasting hex when clearing an abandoned mine of curses, had left her once again wired and a bit bruised. But that was no excuse for Flooing to the manor as opposed to her own hotel room. 
 
She could research tomorrow, she had told herself when gripping the Floo powder in hand. If she was truly desperate for an outlet for the epinephrine shooting across her neurons, she could easily find a muggle gym and run until her heart gave out. But that cord under her sternum ached, itched like a phantom limb in her chest— it whispered that tonight she could find solace amongst a stack of books. Sleep would not find her after two days of such distance— no, she would toss and turn even if she released the buzz in her veins. 
 
She stepped quietly through the halls until she reached the empty library. Torches sprung to life at her entrance, and a fire roared in the hearth, which melted some of the frost from her bones. Hermione was not caked in mud as she had been the last time she opted for a midnight visit, though she limped slightly as she made her way to her designated chair. 
 
She hadn’t even opened her book before the doors creaked behind her. The golden thread hummed, spreading warmth through her appendages like a shot of whiskey. The ache faded to nothing. Hermione didn’t need to turn to know who had entered. 
 
Malfoy said nothing as he padded to where she sat. Instead he set a new jar of balm on the wooden surface and continued past her to his own selected table. His first concoction was in the bag at her side, but taking it out felt like admitting she had kept it, which felt like an acceptance she wasn’t ready to give. She could’ve ignored the new jar completely, but what was the point? Instead, she pulled her left leg onto her other knee and rolled up her pant leg before dipping her fingers into the mint green cream. His eyes burned into the side of her head from across the library, but she stared only at the jagged cut running from ankle to mid-shin. It had clotted by now, with dark tinges of blood smearing the surface of her olive skin. She murmured a soft cleansing spell before rubbing the ointment over the wound. 
 
It stung, like when her mother would pour hydrogen peroxide onto her scraped knees as a child. The good kind of sting— the healing kind that told a person the pain was nearly done. She kept her pant leg rolled up even as the wound began to suture itself closed. 
 
Hermione dropped her foot back to the floor and turned her gaze to the tome in front of her. She hadn’t looked up yet— hadn’t met his steely gaze. But she knew, didn’t she? That he would come tonight even if it irked her to no end? Even if ire burned low in her gut at the thought of him. She still knew the moment she threw the powder into the green flames that the bond would awaken him to her presence and clearly her state of physical distress. What did that feel like from his side? Did his own leg ache as hers did— or was it simply a thrum down the bond, a whispering of what pains ailed her? She had felt none of that from Malfoy’s side. She supposed he didn’t have a reason to run around in abandoned mine shafts as she did. 
 
Not that cursebreaking suited him at all. She nearly snorted at the thought of prissy Malfoy, sweating in a jungle near the Western Ghats while fighting mosquitoes the size of cats. Though he had no issues with blood— not when he had cut himself so easily that day in her hotel room and slammed their palms together despite the mud running through her veins. 
 
“Your notes are wrong.”
 
Hermione’s thoughts snapped back to the present, and she nearly broke her neck with how quickly she forced her eyes to his. He was staring at her with disinterest. Malfoy was clad in a navy cotton t-shirt and soft pants— muggle she noticed with shock that she attempted to hide— and his platinum hair was mussed, more so on the right side of his head than the left. She blinked, furrowing her brows as she echoed his words in her brain, forcing herself to pay attention despite the absurdity of seeing his poncy ass in what was clearly Gap pyjamas. 
 
“Excuse me?”
 
He rolled his eyes and held a parchment in the air that contained her messy writing. “You wrote that the Aramaic runes described in this ceremony were 5th-century but they aren’t. The 5th-century didn’t have runic combinations with diagonal slashes through the signs for ‘wealth’ or ‘blood’. That wasn’t changed until—“
 
“Until Elahi Acar created his treatise on the similarities between the symbology and began adding small flairs to distinguish certain runes.” Hermione interrupted, eyes narrowed. He had read her notes over the weekend. Had begun deep-diving into the research once more once she had piled new books on his table. “Yes, I know. I read that last week, too. But the other combinations of runes do not fit patterns of Acar’s work in the 7th-century.”
 
“Because more of these runes are based algebraically than simply word-for-word translations.” Malfoy drawled, flicking his wand to send the book with the house-elf bonding ceremony back to her table. “Look at the rune in the middle of the first page, the semicircle with the flourished ‘y’ in the middle. You assumed in your notes that was the Aramaic symbol for ‘control’, but the ‘y’ has a looped left fork of the letter, which means it’s more likely Euler’s constant.” 
 
She stared at the rune in question, eyes burning holes into the little flair on the tip of the ‘y’ that seemingly changed the entire meaning. “Where did you learn this? Professor Babling never went into details—“
 
“I read about it.” He deadpanned, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. She looked back up at him, her honey-coloured eyes meeting his grey ones. Before he had gone from pompous, bullying arsehole to full-fledged Death Eater, he had been close behind her in class ranks along with his friend Theodore Nott. Especially potions, she remembered. He had nearly bested her fifth year under Snape. Nearly. His intelligence was something she had forgotten because it conflicted heavily with his role in the war. Intelligent people weren’t supposed to choose the wrong side— but wasn’t that commonplace? Weren’t the villains of yore always surrounded by brainiacs? 
 
“Is that what you do? When you’re not here?” She asked, unsure why she was curious. His mother had said he rarely spent time in the manor these days, and yet with no job prospects, where did he go? 
 
“Worried about me?” He asked with a sneer, eyes pinning her to her seat. 
 
Her own lip curled up at his sudden change in demeanour at her innocent ask. “Hardly. But if you’re thrown in Azkaban for whatever shit you do in your spare time, I’ll have to feel your misery firsthand.”
 
He scoffed, leaning back in his chair, causing his shirt to pull down slightly. The pale stretch of his neck expanded, showing off the stark black prisoner tattoo where his throat met his collar. “Just because I’m not here babysitting you all day doesn’t mean I’m killing babies in the night, Granger.”
 
“I don’t pretend to understand pureblood customs.” She said faux sweetly, letting venom drip with each word. Could they have a conversation without insults or comments wrapped in barbed wire? She wasn’t sure it was a possible feat. 
 
“No, you assume you know everything.” He snapped back. “Is that why Weasel and Scarhead stopped following you around? Did they tire of your holier-than-thou attitude?”
 
“Still obsessed with school rivalries, Malfoy? Is that why you continue to bring up people that likely don’t remember you even exist?” She hissed, rising from her seat and planting her hands on the table. “Or is it because you’re jobless and penniless and can do nothing but reminisce on times before you screwed up your life?”
 
Hermione felt the surge of anger thrum down the bond as Malfoy stood himself, slamming the book in front of him closed as he snarled, “Did he cheat on you? The weasel? Is that why you fled to America with your tail between your legs because your little lover found out you were only good for research—“
 
She threw a book at his head, and Malfoy barely dodged it before it could slam into his nose. “You arrogant fuck, of course you’d assume it had to do with sex— that it was my fault— tell me, do you think it your fault that daddy’s in prison still?” Hermione rounded the corner of the table, letting her own anger flow through the connection. “Do you stay up at night and cry thinking about how your shitty little life means nothing to anyone?”
 
Malfoy bared his teeth, chest huffing as his fingers curled into fists at his sides. They were close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could practically see him vibrating with a shared rage that pingponged back and forth across the bond. “Going for the throat, aren’t you? Here—“
He lowered his head, until his breath fanned her face, “—I’ll give you a free shot. I know you want to hit me; I can feel it. You want to claw my eyes out, little lion? Go ahead.”
 
She did; oh god, did she want to wipe the smarmy look from his face. She wanted to drag her nails across his cheek to leave another scar, wanted to split his lip, bust his nose—but that look in his eye, the wildness that burned through her like untamed fire, demanding something of her. Hermione clenched her fists at her sides, and opened the floodgates to his side of the bond as she had done before— 
 
Shame— regret— self-loathing— rage, oh yes, a rage that matched her own— poured from him.
 
Hermione scoffed, schooling her own anger into cool indifference as she stepped back. “I won’t feed your self-flagellation.”
 
Malfoy’s eyes filled with icy malice before Hermione felt a yanking sensation in her chest— her very core— 
 
“So much anger and hate; do you feel anything else?” He asked, voice biting, before he yanked harder on the bond. Hermione choked at the sensation, slamming a hand over her sternum. Malfoy sneered, eyes boring holes into her, “There it is, there’s that self-doubt. Hidden so far down you don’t even know it’s there anymore, do you?”
 
“Get out of my head!” Hermione snarled as he pushed her to her limit. She gripped her wand tightly as she raised it to his throat, knuckles white around the gnarled wood. She forced air into her lungs as her free hand rubbed along her breastbone, as if to soothe the bond into submission. “Maybe I’ve been going about this the wrong way. Maybe I just kill you and deal with losing half my magic. Can you feel that through the connection? That certainty?” 
 
“You wouldn’t survive it.” Malfoy gritted out through clenched teeth. He stepped closer, until the tip of her wand jabbed into the skin under his chin. He glared down at her with that same wildness as before. “But go ahead, try. Make it last, though, so I can watch you write in pain before I succumb.”
 
“I hate you.” Hermione forced out, jabbing the wand harder against his throat. The echo of pain seared in her chest like a brand, reminding her who she belonged to. Trapped. Like a fox with its paw caught in a snare. Except chewing off her own paw wasn’t an option. She hadn’t felt such anger towards another person since— since she left all those years ago. It burned inside of her, tearing at her throat as tears of frustration built at the corners of her eyes. They wouldn’t fall; she wouldn’t give Malfoy the satisfaction of thinking he made her cry. 
 
“I know.” Malfoy’s voice was nothing but chipped ice, the heat gone as he stepped back once sure she wasn’t going to curse him. His steps were clipped as he made his way back to his table, snatching up a parchment before dropping it on her own research station as he promptly left the library without another word. 
 
Hermione wasn’t sure how long she stood there, staring at the doors in his wake. Her tears remained unshed. Malfoy never fought back, even with a wand at his throat. No, he wanted her to hurt him; that much was clear, just as he had wanted her to hurt him the last time they verbally sparred. Though for what reasons she couldn’t determine. 
 
Eventually her fingers found the slip of parchment, eyes tracing over the elegant script. The first five runes of the ceremony, translated. 
 
___•___
 
That night Hermione laid awake in bed; she stared at the ceiling, fingers idly tracing over her sternum. Hermione closed her eyes and focused on the golden cord until it was visible behind her eyelids. She tiptoed along it, ensuring no vibrations resonated along its length. 
 
Hermione wasn’t sure what compelled her. Not guilt, she hadn’t started that fight. Nor was it a continued anger. The rage had died the moment she saw his translated work. Perhaps it was the look in his eyes, or the churning self-hatred she had felt when she invaded his mind. All she had done was ask a question, and he had snapped at her like a dog long beaten by its master. Had he always been that reactive in school? Defensive and sharp, like a knife waiting to be planted between someone’s ribs? She wasn’t sure. Her mind had always been preoccupied with other tasks during her time at Hogwarts. It had always been Harry and Ron who obsessed over Malfoy and his machinations. 
 
Maybe it was that Malfoy was as much a puzzle as the bond itself, and Hermione couldn’t stand leaving a puzzle unsolved. 
 
Regardless, she felt along the connection until she came across his end of the cord. She visualised it behind closed eyes, leaving behind her bedroom for the hazy bridge she associated with her magic’s connection. Her own end of the bond was a shoddy patchwork of walls, an attempt to keep her emotions from transmitting like wavelengths to the other side. Her barrier was filled with holes, leading to a continuous trickle of feelings to leak without her control. 
 
Malfoy had no such construction. His end of the bond was a dense barricade of mist, thicker than that which surrounded the mind-bridge. Soundless lightning danced through the wall of fog, streaking like forked tendrils of burning light beyond her reach. 
 
Hermione hesitantly reached a hand into the mist. She had come this far already, driven by a curiosity that resonated through the golden cord under her feet. Moisture coated her fingers, tangible and realistic. Something she would analyse later. Hermione stepped through the mist, unafraid of the lightning; this was the bond; she could not be hurt here, she reasoned. The fog parted for her like Moses upon the Red Sea, folding in on itself as she moved beyond its blockade—
 
Her breath hitched as she reached the other side, and the world before her erupted into chaos. A maelstrom churned violently, a storm of emotions spiralling with raw, unfiltered intensity. It wasn’t wind or rain that greeted her, but something far more primal: a hurricane of rage, grief, longing, and fear, all colliding and tangling together in a ceaseless vortex. The golden cord under her feet shimmered with each wave of emotion, pulsing as if it were alive, tying her irrevocably to this storm.
 
The force of it slammed into her like a tidal wave, stealing the air from her lungs. Hermione staggered, clutching her chest as the sensations surged through her. She wasn’t just feeling them; she was drowning in them. The rage burned like fire, searing her veins and forcing her fists to clench, while the grief dragged her down like an anchor, its weight pressing relentlessly against her soul. The longing coiled around her like a serpent, suffocating yet achingly familiar, and the fear was a bitter undercurrent, cold and sharp as shards of ice.
 
The storm swirled around a single epicentre, a figure she couldn’t yet see but could feel with an undeniable certainty. Malfoy. He was the eye of this tempest, the source. 
 
She made to step forward, to push through the relentless pressure, when she felt a thrum from deep within the maelstrom—
 
It tugged at her very center, recognising her in this place. The emotions swirling around her, battering her, paused for only a moment as if a sweeping confusion and shock stuttered throughout. A wind, softer than before, licked at her cheek before Hermione was cast from his side without ceremony, thrown back beyond the vale of mist—

Hermione gasped as she sat up in her bed, gripping at her chest as the raging storm ebbed away as if nothing more than a dream. 
Yet she could feel the phantom echoes of it, lingering just beneath her skin, raw and aching. Her breath came in shallow bursts as she stared at the darkness of her room, lit only by the pale sliver of moonlight filtering through the curtains.

Malfoy hadn’t been expecting her. That much was clear. The way the storm itself seemed to recoil in shock— she had stumbled into a place she was not supposed to find. And yet, she hadn’t been prepared for what lay on his end of the bond, either. Malfoy had always been composed, cold, and calculating. But this… this was different. 
 
The clock on her bedside table ticked softly, grounding her in the present. Hermione clenched her fists, her resolve hardening. It didn’t matter what lay on his end of the bond— didn’t matter that it had only further ignited her curiosity instead of satisfying it. She had her goal to focus on, breaking the connection regardless of the difficulties or consequences she might find. 
 
It meant nothing—
 
Hermione repeated the mantra, murmuring the words as she forced a dreamless sleep down her throat. It meant nothing, glimpsing what lay beyond Malfoy’s exterior.
 
Nothing. 
 
The word felt hollow as the silver potion pulled her into darkness.