Interwoven

The stones were cool under her bare feet, weathered and soft and almost pliant as she stepped along the bridge’s path. Hermione wasn’t sure when she fell asleep, whether it had been directly after her apparation from Puerto Barrios or after hours of tossing and turning. Regardless, the bridge expanding into the misty distance was evidence enough that exhaustion had won out. Hermione leaned her back against the stone railing and tipped her head to the foggy sky-space.

Guatemala had been a bust— the tip given by the British Ministry, courtesy of some lower-level cursebreaker, had led to a nest of vampires. Well, technically, the tip had led to a Mayan ruin— which should’ve been ripe with cursed jewels, gold, and beautiful artifacts— but unfortunately Hermione had found a picked-through site and a writhing den of dereliction and depravity.

She had taken out two vamps when her arrival had been scented, before quickly making the decision to evacuate. No matter her expertise, when one saw fifteen pairs of red eyes blinking in the darkness, one could make the logical conclusion that withdrawing meant living and remaining meant death.

The bad tip was a reason Hermione usually picked her own leads instead of simply accepting missions from higher-ups. Usually she would spend days researching the site—the locale, the likely artifacts and curses she would find upon arrival, as well as the local beasts she might stumble upon. But her mind had been so singular as of late, focused only on her own curse, that she had foolishly accepted an expedition without any decision-making of her own.

It was how many cursebreakers before her had died— and likely how she would’ve died had she not the sense and training to escape.

Her nightgown swayed in the mist, tendrils of fog curled around her ankles as she sighed. She needed to clear her head if she was to take another case on, or else she might find herself a corpse long forgotten in some rotting wood. She took in another breath, letting the cool, damp air soothe her from the inside out.

There was a ripple along the bond— different. Not the awareness she had felt before, the tug in her chest, nor the sharp pain and ache caused by too much time away. No, this was as if something cold had slithered along the length of cord. As if winter itself had reached into her sternum and plucked the tether-like strings of a harp.

Hermione rubbed at her breastbone, frowning as she surveyed the mindspace she so often found herself in. Nothing changed along the bridge, and neither did a certain blond appear along its stone. There was another strum— harder this time— and the chill that snaked into her bones was laced with panic. Hermione nearly choked at the rush of emotion that flooded her system.

Not from her end, but—

Hermione stared at the far end of the bridge, covered in a thick veil of fog. She hadn’t ventured beyond its barricade since the night she’d stumbled into Malfoy’s inner maelstrom. It had been far too intimate to see what lay beyond his porcelain facade— unnerving to know the storm that slept just underneath his skin.

They had brokered a sort of truce since then, one that balanced on a work-based arrangement. One that teetered precariously anytime she asked the wrong question. The truce was a necessity in order to decrease the time spent bonded to the man— in order to remove their shackles to each other in a timely fashion, working together was seemingly the only option she had.

She stared and stared at the misty barrier. Something was brewing beyond. Something strong enough that she could feel it resonating inside herself like the echoes of a long-silenced pipe organ. Curiosity burned through her as it often did concerning the Malfoy heir— as it did when she discovered any sort of puzzle long abandoned in its quest of solving.

But curiosity was a murderous emotion— one that would likely result in the ruination of their peace brokerage should she venture where she was not welcome. The foundations they had built would likely splinter— and Malfoy would become a magnanimous arse once more if she prodded where he did not want her.

Coldness leeched into her marrow a third time, and she sucked in a rapid breath as fear coated the golden bond. Something was happening—

Hermione didn’t hesitate a moment longer before racing down the length of the bridge, footfalls echoing off the stone as she made her way to the fog wall at his end and plunged through it.

There was a moment of free-fall, like the feeling of sinking into a pensieve, before she slammed feet first into darkness. This was not the same stormy visage she had encountered before. Hermione blinked rapidly, as if she could will her sight to return, but only blackness remained.

She fought to control the panic tightening like a vise around her throat but it was near impossible when the rush of norepinephrine was not only from her side. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to focus despite the dark pressing in on all sides. Hermione considered herself a logical person, not one to be rash in the face of impending doom— a facet that saved her skin many times before. And so she reminded herself that this was not true darkness, merely a subconscious liminal space created by a pseudo-reality property of the soul-bond.

She could not be hurt here.

Another stab of fear raced along the bond, tasting of blood and bile—

But could Malfoy be hurt on his own end of the connection?

Her hand instinctively reached to her side for her wand but found only the silk of her nightie. Magic wasn’t welcome here, or at least not in a tangible way she could access. Hermione didn’t waste time dwelling on the fact; instead, she pressed forward into the darkness.

The void around Hermione felt suffocating, dense, and unyielding, as if the very air had been replaced by something far more oppressive. The ground beneath her feet was cold and damp, like the surface of a stone dungeon floor, slick and unwelcoming— the only tangible sensation she could grasp. The air around her seemed to shift, carrying with it a faint, acrid scent—like burnt wood and copper, a smell that clung to the back of her throat and made her stomach churn.

Hermione pushed further into the blackness, and in response it began to stir, like ash billowing in wind. Shadows coalesced and writhed, forming grotesque shapes that danced at the edges of her vision. She snapped her head to the right, attempting to glimpse the figures, but they moved like spectres, never fully taking form. She pushed forward, ignoring the dread clinging to her bones. The shadows whispered, voices raw, and she strained to hear as they swirled. They whispered—

And began to scream.

Hermione clamped her hands over her ears and hunched her shoulders. The sound was primal, an overlapping of tones hitting her from all different directions— and the words—

“Help me—“

“Traitor—“

“Please don’t—“

“Look at young Malfoy, finally wetting his whistle, isn’t that right, gents—“

Hermione was surrounded in a cacophony of noise— voices swirling in shadow, screaming at the top of their lungs— voices so familiar at times—

She dropped to her knees as a maniacal laugh bounced through the void, high-pitched and sounding straight from her memories.

“Ittle Bittle Dracey. Cissa doesn’t want me to train you, but our Dark Lord insists—“

Hermione’s breathing became laboured. No.

Not her. Hermione clawed at the scar on her forearm, digging her nails into the flesh as if it would stop the assault of memory—

But this wasn’t her memory. Not hers.

A hissing sound filled the space between screams, like that of scales sliding on stone or that of a voice speaking the language of serpents.

Not her memory. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, chest heaving—

Not her memory. But Malfoy’s nightmare.

Hermione yanked herself from the liminal space, forcing the bond to drag her back from the imagined hellhole— she spun, blinking like a speck of light through the darkness as the tug yanked behind her navel— and landed with a smack on polished marble.

She scrambled upright onto her hands and knees, sucking ragged breaths into her lungs as she wildly looked around. Moonlight shone through the large oval windows, painting everything in shades of blue and grey. The hearth behind her was dim, casting no shadows along the white-hewn stone walls.

A crack lay only inches from her bare knees, an imperfection grafted into the otherwise perfect floor.

The drawing room.

Where she had lain and bled under the witch whose laughter still rang in her ears.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, echoed by a similar beat that grew louder and louder—

“Granger?”

Her head shot up as she tore her gaze from the crack. Hermione’s eyes landed on Malfoy, where he stood across the room looking as out-of-sorts as she did. His chest was bare, skin pebbled with gooseflesh; his hair was mussed, half hanging over his forehead and half sticking up. But it was his eyes that she could not tear away from. They were bloodshot and wild, no hint of ice or the grey of what she assumed was occlusion. The colour of lightning, raw and open.

She didn’t speak; instead, she focused on not hyperventilating as she stumbled to her feet. The marble was cold, much colder than the stones of the bridge had been. It grounded her.

“What are you doing here?” He rasped, voice thick with sleep or something else. Malfoy stepped forward, eyes tracing along her features as if looking for an injury. His eyes dipped down her legs before snapping back to meet her gaze. It made sense; the only time she came to the manor past midnight was when she was hopped up on adrenaline and bleeding from a new wound.

“You were—“ She started, but the words were sticky in her throat. She felt raw, flayed almost. Screams and laughter kept floating around her head, bouncing between neurones that couldn’t remember what was reality and what was merely nightmare. “Your dream.” His eyes hardened suddenly as if she’d doused him with cold water. But she continued regardless of the blankness now smothering his once open features. “The bond brought me here, I think, because it felt like you were—“

“I’m fine, Granger.” He bit out, fingers curling at his side.

She gritted her teeth. “Stop being an arse; I didn’t mean to interrupt your beauty sleep.” She could still hear the high-pitched laughter bouncing off the walls, could hear herself begging, begging for death, not to live—

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, forcing hard breaths down her throat as her curls fell in front of her face, shielding her. She wrapped her arms around her midsection, tightening them until it felt as if her ribs would break. She should go; she should leave this wretched place, but leaving meant walking, and walking meant opening her eyes, and then she would see that spot again, even if the flooring was different—

“What’s— Granger, what the hell—“

Footsteps sounded across the floor, and then breath was on her face. She flinched. It wasn’t rotten and acrid as she remembered it being when she was held to the floor, but it had to be hers—

“Granger, you bloody idiot. Breathe. I swear to Merlin, if you pass out on my floor—“

“Shut. up.” Hermione forced out between her teeth; she squeezed her eyes even tighter until bursts of colour danced across her pupils. Her nails bit into her sides through the thin silk, but pain didn’t pull her from the sinking depths of her mind; no, the pain only catapulted her back in time—

War.

So much blood; there had always been so much blood. She always had to clean it all up. Even her own.

Standing in the bathroom, vomiting until burning liquor turned to bile—he waited on the other side of the door. Not speaking. Never speaking when she was like this.

She downed a potion, then another, and another until numbness coated her tongue. The dress was short— friends would comment on its length but never the faded look in her eyes.

There was a spew of cursing beyond the confines of herself and then hands—

Long fingers gripped her cheeks, shoving her hair back before pressing so tightly she was sure the bones would break. But there was no pain, only warmth along the cord inside of her. Her eyes slammed open, heart erratic as she met Malfoy’s glacial stare, broken only by the deep furrow of his brows.

“Fucking breathe, witch. She isn’t here. She’s dead. Rotting in the ground somewhere. Probably nothing left of her but her ratty hair.” The harshness of his words was offset by the slow delivery, by the flickering of his eyes rapidly over her face.

She sucked in a breath.

“Good. Another.” He murmured.

The words seeped along the bond, wrapping around her sternum in a golden hue. She took in another breath, letting it out through her nose.

Laughter faded. So did the crying and screaming. She was cold, shivering almost. His hands were surprisingly warm. He hadn’t been this close to her since—

As soon as that thought crossed her mind, she pulled back, and Malfoy dropped his hands. His expression didn’t waver, despite what he likely saw on her face.

“I should go.” She rasped, suddenly feeling a wave of embarrassment. God, she had a panic attack over his nightmare. She hadn’t had an episode like that in years, not to that degree anyway. And he’d touched her, grabbed her face as he had in the hotel room. No— not as he had then. His hands had been rough, biting into her cheeks when he’d found her half-dead. His touch this time had been firm, yet without pain.

Malfoy scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yes, and splinch yourself to bits in the process.” He gave her an annoyed look before he turned and began walking away. “I finished another line of the ceremony.”

She hesitated, curling her toes against the marble. There wasn’t really any argument to be made. She wouldn’t sleep if she returned to her hotel room unless she took a potion. And she had already begun itching for them again, so it was out of the question. Researching was at least a way to use her time productively, even though her mind felt like a blacksmith’s anvil.

Malfoy left the room without her, likely already knowing she would follow. Prat. She did— after transfiguring her shift into a floor-length nightgown— though she wouldn’t call it following so much as heading in the same direction with the same common goal.

Malfoy already had the fire burning in the hearth when she arrived, and he had placed himself not across the room but in the chair across the table from her designated spot. He had transfigured himself a dark grey t-shirt, fitted to his defined build. He didn’t look up when she walked in, and she slid into her seat without a word, falling into their routine with ease. No discussion of what had occurred, of what he had dreamt. She was glad for it. Hermione wasn’t sure what to make of it all anyway.

Malfoy slid parchment across the table. “Only eighty-four to go.”

Her eyes greedily ran across the page as she mumbled, “The next two pages will likely go faster if my theory is correct that they correspond not with the ceremonial verbiage but with the material and somatic components.”

“Hurrah.”

“When did you finish this?” She asked, quickly checking his translation’s accuracy against the runes. It was habit, despite the fact that she knew he had likely triple-checked himself.

“This afternoon. When did you return from your trip?”

“Only a few hours ago.” She responded, glancing up to find him engrossed in the next section of the ceremony. ”It went…poorly.” Hermione wasn’t sure why she was telling him this. She knew he couldn’t give less of a shit, but she was tired and emotionally drained, and it felt good to just talk.

Malfoy looked up from his work, face blank. “Do they usually go well? You seem to frequently return in a half-dead state.”

She went to sneer before she caught the subtle shift in his grey eyes. Teasing. Was he teasing her? She didn’t know what to make of that revelation. Hermione rolled her eyes instead of her original intent to let anger rear its ugly head. “Yes, in fact they usually go perfectly swell. But the site was already looted, and the only thing remaining was a den of bloodsuckers.”

“Vampires?”

“Yes. They looked a bit like you, actually.” She sniffed, eyebrow raised.

Malfoy snorted, a completely undignified sound that was at odds with his entire personality. “And you look as if you fell into a bramble and took half of it with you atop your head.”

She scowled. “Prick.”

He smirked, and with the fire casting shadows, he looked positively devilish. He shoved another page her way and tapped his index and middle fingers atop the paper. “Get to work, Granger.”

___•___

The moon was low in the sky, and Hermione could barely keep her eyes open. Two hours had passed in a comfortable silence, only broken by the rustle of parchment passed to and fro. She continued to stare at the runes in front of her until the symbols began bleeding together. She should leave— should return to the comfort of her suite even if she likely would stare at the wall all night long.

Hermione glanced upwards. Malfoy’s forehead was leaned into his palm, quill in his free hand dragging slowly across the paper in front of him. His white-blond hair flopped over the digits pressing against his brow line. His blinks were slow, forced almost. He looked as exhausted as she felt.

“You should go to bed.” She murmured, her voice sounding too loud after hours of echoing silence. Malfoy glanced up, eyebrow raising, “You’re the one who started snoring ten minutes ago.”

She huffed, glaring, though she was sure the effect was lost when she nearly yawned. “I do not snore.”

Malfoy snorted and raked his fingers through his hair. “Of course not. You also don’t look like a banshee in a slip.”

Hermione sneered softly but ignored the weak jab. She pushed the parchment away as she leaned back in her chair, stretching her stiff muscles. Her eyes flicked toward the bar stand near the hearth. Perhaps a nightcap would help ease the tension coiled in her shoulders and coax her back into the land of dreams without finding herself trapped in another nightmare.

She stood quietly, padding over to the bar without a word. Her fingers brushed over the assortment of bottles until she settled on a smooth amber liquid, pouring a modest amount into a glass. She could feel Malfoy’s eyes burning into her back. He likely didn’t want her dirtying his things with her touch, but she was too tired to care and too tired to start a fight. Did he care about that though— her muggleborn-ness? She was sure he did before, but now her thoughts on the matter were as muddied as her blood.

She swirled the contents before raising the glass to her lips; it was cool and burned deliciously on the way down. Likely very expensive. She ran her thumb over her bottom lip, collecting the spilt drip before sucking it off the pad.

“Drink?” Hermione asked, her voice low, almost tentative in the quiet of the room. She expected backlash, some sort of punishing words lacking the teasing intonation he had donned tonight. She was being far too amicable for their tentative truce— especially after the drawing room. After what she’d accidentally stumbled upon in his innermost consciousness— the dreams that plagued him as much as the war plagued herself. He would likely want a fight— for her to scream and snarl and hurt him for whatever fucked-up reasons he had invented.

She glanced back over her shoulder, steeling herself for any vitriol he might spill. He was staring at her, face pinched. He rolled his neck, working his jaw before giving a tight nod.

Hermione didn’t let the surprise show on her face— instead she poured a second glass, carrying both over to the table before sliding his across the wooden surface. He palmed it and lifted it to his lips without breaking eye contact. Malfoy took a slow sip from his glass, and the flickering firelight danced across his features softened the sharp edges of his face. A fluttering sensation spanned the bond, like fingertips caressing the golden cord.

Hermione broke the staring contest, lifting her own glass once more to her lips. She didn’t sip, “Ogden’s not fancy enough?”

Malfoy huffed a breath, “Might as well drink bog water if you are fond of Ogden’s. Besides, I might as well enjoy one of the few finer things I have left.”

She looked back at him. He didn’t seem angry. No, if anything, the furrow of his brow indicated something akin to regret. And so she tempered the fire burning under her skin— he didn’t seem upset that the Malfoys had lost everything. Maybe he knew he deserved it. That his family deserved it after the crimes committed in the war. She was tempted to ask, but she had committed herself to not fighting tonight— and she was smart enough to know that asking if he thought he had paid for his bigotry and role in the war, for his sins, would likely result in something explosive.

She sipped, just enough to let the oaky taste wash across her tongue before retaking her seat. “Where did the ministry allocate it all? I didn’t keep up with the Restitutions Act.”

“I wasn’t privy to that information.” Malfoy said, finishing off his glass. He set it down, fingers still tightly gripping it. “Though Hogwarts received a new wing expansion soon after the vaults were emptied.”

“What was the addition?”

Malfoy snorted, though it was more akin to a huff of a laugh than something born of annoyance. “An integration dormitory that students of all four houses spend at least one week a semester in. Supposed to foster interconnectedness or some rubbish.”

Hermione raised a brow, giving him a hard look. “You don’t think that’s a good idea? Forcing students to get to know each other— removing the stereotypes built around the houses? Around muggleborns?”

Malfoy gave her the same look right back, “Yes, because shoving myself, Weasel, Scarhead, and Gryffindor’s princess in a dorm would’ve definitely resulted in less violence.”

“Maybe you would’ve been less of an arsehole.” She retorted, lifting her chin.

He smirked, the motion entirely savage. “Unlikely.”

She rolled her eyes and polished off the last sip with a sigh. One drink was plenty— not enough to send her on a bender, just enough to rekindle the warmth in her stomach that had been absent since her plummet through Malfoy’s subconscious. Her eyes fluttered, and sleep attempted to keep them shut. A ringing in her pocket woke her from her almost-slumber. She jolted, blinking hard as she yanked her cellphone from her pocket.

She fumbled with the device for only a moment before silence returned. She ran a hand over her face, glancing upwards to catch the bewilderment written on Malfoy’s features.

“Why did your muggle thing just scream?”

Her mouth twitched, “It was an alarm. Similar to a modified Caterwaulingcharm or tempusspell. I had it set for after my return from Guatemala to check for any residual curse damage or wounds. I just forgot to turn it off.”

Malfoy worked his jaw, glancing at her phone before turning away. He summoned the bottle from the bar cart and poured himself another inch. “You use them often.”

His tone was not questioning so much as it was a statement. Her mind swam, flickering through memory— he had heard her alarms before. Embarrassment crawled under her skin for the second time that night; God, had he heard her crying here in the library? It had been a while since she had given in to the urge— had succumbed to the emotional taxation that required a good exorcism of tears. On a schedule, of course. She didn’t have the time to wallow for longer than three and a half minutes at a time.

Hermione’s index finger picked at the cuticle around her thumb. She tried to mask the shock and discomfort, though with the lack of rest she wasn’t sure she schooled her expression as well as she hoped. “Yes, I use the alarms often. They are quite handy. And it’s not a muggle thing; it’s a cellphone.”

“That’s what I said.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. A yawn fell from her lips, and she buried her mouth in her palm to stifle it. “You should get one, since you’re so curious about them.”

Malfoy’s lip curled up in a sneer. “I am not curious.”

“You’re like Crookshanks when he would find a ball of lint on the floor. He would pretend to be uninterested, but he would stare at it nonetheless.”

Malfoy’s face contorted. “Do not compare me to the mangy creature you called a pet in school.”

She couldn’t stop the side of her lip pulling up, even when her eyes began losing the battle to sleep. “You remember Crooks?”

She heard him shift in his chair, wood groaning. “How could I forget? He snuck into the dungeons once and caught a rat the size of my forearm.”

Hermione chuckled warmly; flashes of her beloved pet floated across the darkness behind her eyelids. “He was a good boy.”

“Did you lose him?”

Her smile shifted to something sad. “Yes, two years ago. He was old when I had him back in school, but I always thought he would live forever— half kneazle and all that. He didn’t enjoy the moving around, I don’t think, not really. He was a homebody without a home. But I guess that was something we had in common.”

Malfoy didn’t answer her overshare, and Hermione could no longer fight the pull of dreamland. She drifted, completely at ease, surrounded by firelight and the scent of parchment. It wasn’t until she slipped past the precipice of consciousness that she heard a mumbling that could’ve been part of a dream itself.

“I’m sorry, Granger.”