Interwoven

Hermione awoke to darkness. Not the pitch-black nothingness she had been swimming in for the last who-knows-how-long. No, it was the darkness accompanied by moonlight, which shone in through the bay windows lining the other side of the ward.

The dread that had coated her insides before she had been pulled into slumber was gone, washed away by whatever potions were swimming in her veins.

Only embarrassment remained. She swallowed hard, shifting against the crisp sheets as the events of the night settled heavily in her mind. The panic had been suffocating, all-consuming, and worse—it had been public.

Just like before.

Her fingers curled into the blanket, gripping tightly. The war had barely ended when the vultures had descended, cameras flashing, ink drying on stories before she even had time to breathe. Every move she made was scrutinized, every mistake amplified. Golden Girl or not, the public had devoured her grief with morbid fascination, twisting it into something digestible for morning headlines.

Every night out, every outfit choice, every drink she poured down her gullet, her former relationship—

How she hadn’t deserved Ron Weasley, just as she hadn’t deserved Viktor Krum. Just as she hadn’t deserved a devoted friend like The Boy Who Lived.

Had she deserved them? Likely not. But she hadn’t needed the public to help her with that revelation. Just as she hadn’t needed Rita Skeeter telling all of magical Britain that Hermione Granger was nothing but a drunken tramp.

And now, here she was again, another picture captured—only this time, it wasn’t just her they’d spin their narratives around.

Malfoy.

Her stomach turned over at the thought.

A former Death Eater, his name still tainted despite his time served. Remembered as the youngest recruit by Voldemort, and the boy who had plotted to murder Albus Dumbledore. If a photo of her in St. Mungo’s trauma ward wasn’t enough to send the press into a frenzy, the fact that she had been with Draco Malfoy would be. The speculation would be endless. Accusations. Questions.

What was Hermione Granger doing with him?

A fresh wave of unease rolled through her, tightening like a noose around her ribs. If the press had caught wind of her merely being in Malfoy’s presence, how long before they uncovered the truth?

How long before they found out about the bond?

Her throat tightened at the thought. A blood-crafted soul bond—an archaic, near-mythical form of magic that tied their lives together in ways she still barely understood. Dark magic— blood magic— tied to heinous traditions involving rape and marital abuse. If the press ever learnt of it, the fallout would be catastrophic. They would twist the narrative until she wasn’t just trapped in this bond but complicit in it.

She could already see the headlines:

War Heroine Ensnared in Ancient Magic—Or Was It By Choice?

From Enemies to Something More? The Real Reason Hermione Granger Returned…

The Golden Girl’s Darkest Secret—Death Eater’s Whore

Nausea roiled in her stomach. It wouldn’t matter that she had never wanted this, that the bond had been nothing but a cruel twist of fate. Public perception had never cared for nuance.

Worst of all, they would believe—assume—that she cared for him. Likely shagging him.

Her breath came quicker, panic scratching at the edges of her drug-induced composure. The very idea made her skin crawl. She and Malfoy barely tolerated each other. The bond forced proximity, forced connection, but it had done nothing to erase the years of animosity, the history that lay between them like shattered glass. She hated him, and he thought she was nothing but dirt under his shoes.

And yet—

He had come.

The last time Hermione had woken in a hospital ward, she had been alone. Only a week before her departure to America, before she had packed her bags and crossed an ocean without looking back. Her throat had been raw, her limbs weak, mind swirling in a maelstrom she couldn’t control, let alone escape. She didn’t like to think about it. It stayed buried in the recesses of her mind along with everything else she refused to remember.

It had been an accident.

The diagnosis had been simple. Manic breakdown. Excessive amounts of liquor in her system. Overconsumption of Dreamless Sleep.

An accident. She hadn’t been trying to die. At least, that’s what she had told the mediwitch with a too-gentle voice and too-knowing eyes.

She had just wanted to stop—stop thinking, stop feeling, stop suffocating under the weight of everything she had carried for too long. The war had reshaped her, molded and forged her into something new. A machine. And like all good machines, she had simply fallen apart when her purpose had been fulfilled. Without the adrenaline, without her purpose, she was nothing. And they didn’t understand.

No one had come.

She had told herself she hadn’t expected them to. Not after the fight— the breaking. She told herself that she didn’t care. But she had still glanced toward the door, listening for footsteps that never came, waiting for a voice that never called her name.

She had stayed in that bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, tracing invisible constellations in the cracks along the plaster. When the healer had finally cleared her for discharge, she had signed the papers without a word, fingers tightening around the quill to keep them from shaking.

Then she had left.

She hadn’t given explanations. Hadn’t tried to mend what had already been broken. Some things couldn’t be put back together—no matter how much she might have once believed otherwise.

Now, years later, she found herself in another hospital ward, the same emptiness clawing at her ribs.

But this time, she hadn’t been alone.

She could still smell the scent of him lingering in the air— or maybe it was psychosomatic, a neurological response combined with the effects of the bond. Regardless, she couldn’t smell the sickness lingering beyond the confines of her bed, or the coppery scent of blood, or any of the potions and creams lathered into her wound and poured down her throat. Just him.

Maybe he had only come to ensure she wouldn’t die and take him with her to whatever hell awaited them both. Maybe he had come to sneer and scream and take out the deep-rooted anger and frustration she felt vibrating through their connection.

Or maybe it was something else.

A Something similar to how she had delved into his psyche when the resonance of his nightmare-induced fear had woken her from slumber.

She didn’t care why he had come. Neither did the bond— which she was sure was the root of the manifestations of Something on both sides. She didn’t care that they hated each other. It had just been nice for a moment to have someone at her bedside beyond the lime-robed healers that looked at her as nothing but a problem to solve.

Hermione blinked in the darkness, forcing her breathing to even out. Exhaustion tugged behind her eyelids, not abated by the potion-induced slumber she had awoken from.

It had been nice— until it hadn’t been. Until her likeness was captured in all its unholy glory with Malfoy’s body practically hovering over her own.

There was no dealing with the press. Hermione couldn’t force them to not print the story they were likely concocting at this very moment. She couldn’t put Skeeter back in a jar no matter how much she wanted to. She would have to simply ignore it. Burn whatever copies she found and focus on what really mattered— breaking the fucking bond.

She had stalled long enough after her fallout with Theo. Had avoided the Manor for too many days. Clearly Malfoy was over their fight— or willing to start another one as soon as possible.

Hermione needed to get her life back in order. This mission was proof enough that her mind was addled. Compromised and shattered. She needed to rip the golden cord out of her chest and attempt to piece herself back together. Or at least glue herself into the shoddy version she had been post-war and pre-soul bond. She didn’t think the girl from before the war existed anymore anyhow.

A patient to the right of her privacy curtain sniffled softly, and someone further down the row let out a groan of pain. Healers walked the aisle between beds, murmuring softly, whispering platitudes to soothe. Hermione thought of her mother kissing her aches and pains away. Her father tickling her until her tears turned to giggles.

She fell asleep wishing they were here to make her whole again.

___•___

The bridge was warm under her bare feet, each cobbled stone slick with dew that coated her skin like a gossamer veil. Hermione slid her hand along the barrier as she walked, her other hand holding steadfast to the ties of her hospital gown to ensure the important bits stayed covered.

She hadn’t dreamed long of camera flashes and her mother’s wide smile before she ended up here. Hermione made it to the midpoint, stopping before she crossed into what she considered his territory of bridge. She turned and leaned her lower back against the stone siding, letting her head fall back until the vast nothingness above filled her vision.

There were no footsteps, and yet she felt his arrival all the same. She’d known he would come, could feel the subtle pull from his end of the bond the moment her feet had touched stone.

“You look like shit.”

She didn’t bother looking over at him.“Charming as usual.”

Malfoy huffed out something like a laugh, dry and lacking in all things that resembled joy. “All of my etiquette lessons, I’m sure.”

Silence settled between them, thick and heavy. She kept her eyes on the swirling mists. They were thick enough that the air looked tangible, as if she could reach out and grasp it. She reached a hand up and watched as the fog dissipated against her fingertips like an uncatchable ghost.

“You’re worried about the press.” His voice was sharper this time, cutting straight through the quiet. It wasn’t a question; it never was with him. He always seemed to be aware of her thoughts, sometimes before she herself knew what was happening in her cluttered mind.

“Brilliant deduction, Malfoy.” She bit out. Hermione rolled her tongue against the inside of her cheek. She hadn’t come here to start a fight. She exhaled slowly, her grip tightening. “They got a picture.”

“That is what cameras are for, Granger.” His sarcasm was tart in the air.

She finally turned her head, snapping it angrily to the side. She found him a few feet away, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He was still clad in the all-black attire she had seen him in earlier despite the late hour. “This isn’t funny.”

He rolled his eyes, exasperated as if he hadn’t willingly joined her here. “I’m not laughing, Granger.”

“They’re going to dig, Malfoy. They always do.” The words scraped out of her like gravel. “And they can’t find out—”

“They won’t.”

Hermione let out a short, humorless laugh. “Merlin, you’re delusional.”

His jaw tightened. “No, I just know how these things work. They’ll take the easiest answer. A one-night stand. Hogwart’s princess drops her granny knickers for her bully.” He ignored the look of disgust that flashed across her face. “No one’s going to go looking for this.”

He had been subject to the whims of the paparazzi himself, she knew. The Malfoy name had been blackened the moment Lucius had gone back to Azkaban along with his heir. Hermione was surprised Malfoy hadn’t been drawn and quartered in Diagon Alley once he’d been released from prison.

“And if they do?” She pressed.

His lips curled into something bitter. “Then that’s your problem.”

Her stomach twisted, anger flaring under her skin. “Right. Of course. Because it’s not like this affects you in any way.”

His eyes flashed, and he stepped closer. “Oh, I’ll get dragged through the mud, don’t worry. Most of the stories will focus on you being a slut—“

Hermione clenched her teeth, forcing down the sharp retort burning her tongue.

He continued undeterred, “— but a few of them will try a different angle.” He cocked his head, a nasty look on his face. “They’ll say I’ve imperio’d you. Tortured you. Raped you—“ he spit the word out like it burned him. His voice caught, and he twisted his lips into a sneer to cover it. “Which I guess isn’t far off.” Hermione flinched, opening her mouth, but he wasn’t finished. Her back pressed against the stone. He took another step, closing the distance further. “They’ll paint you as the pretty victim in those headlines, and I’ll be the monster who snatched you up in my claws.”

“Then why don’t you care?” She whispered, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze.

His eyes were molten pools of silver. “What else can they take from me?”

Her throat caught at the rawness in his voice. Malfoy turned and walked back down the bridge. Hermione stepped forward instinctively, hand hovering in the air. “You left.” He froze but didn’t turn around. She chewed her lip, feeling too vulnerable once the words had slipped out of her mouth. “You rushed out after the picture was taken.”

Malfoy’s shoulders dropped with his breath, and he looked back over his shoulders. He thumped his index and middle fingers against his sternum and the bond hummed in response. There was something strained in his eyes despite the uptick of his lip. “You wanted me to.”

Hermione watched as he slipped into the churning mists.

___•___

Hermione was discharged the next evening after another grueling round of potions and hourly administration of the countercurse. She was prescribed an ointment to rub into the scar tissue across her ribs to ensure she retained stretch in her muscle fibers.

The scar was ugly. The wound slashed across Hermione’s ribs like a bolt of lightning, jagged and uneven. The edges were slightly raised, ridged where the skin had struggled to knit itself back together even with countless hours of healing. In some places, the silvery tissue thinned into delicate strands, like branching veins of a storm frozen mid-strike; in others, it thickened into rough knots. It stretched from just beneath her left breast, curving along her ribs before tapering off near her back.

It was ugly, but the nasty word engraved across her forearm still took the cake.

Hermione apparated directly from the trauma ward to her hotel, not willing to face the hoard of paparazzi waiting in St. Mungo’s lobby. The scent of old takeout greeted her once she swirled into existence within the confines of her room. She ignored it, as well as the pile of letters piled on the floor beside the door— likely shoved underneath by the hotel staff. There were at least five envelopes in ranging sizes, but she had no desire to see the contents. She knew that whatever story had been printed about her had hit the streets by now, and Hermione had no plans other than to shelter down and ignore the fallout.

The hotel room held nothing of comfort for Hermione, nothing of substance.

She trudged into the small en suite, bypassing the mirror entirely. She stripped unceremoniously from her tattered leather gear before stuffing herself into the tiny stall shower. Boiling hot water poured from the showerhead, bathing her in a river of warmth. She held her breath, sticking her face into the stream for as long as she could stand the burning in her lungs. Hermione wasn’t sure how long she stood there letting the water wash away the scent of potions and ease the tension in her shoulders. Long enough that she required a heating charm cast upon the spout twice— and long enough that her fingers were print when she finally tore herself from the steamy bathroom.

She didn’t let herself second-guess her decision when she dressed quickly in a pair of jeans and a thick woolen sweater before apparating away once more.

___•___

Hermione tiptoed out of Malfoy’s office Floo, not daring to look at the paperwork strewn across his desk this time around. Not that there was anything to see; the desk was perfectly orderly. Completely lacking in snoopable material. Hermione wondered if that was due to her previous meddling. She also wondered if he’d cursed his desk against her touch after that incident— possibly some sort of rash or pimple-inducing curse along the lines of what she had done to Marietta Edgecomb back in Hogwarts. She didn’t test it, though her fingers itched to cast a diagnostic.

Instead, she eased out of the office and made her way towards the library. The soft light of the crescent moon shone through the hallway windows, casting long shadows across the marble. Her trainers made soft squeaking noises as she walked despite her attempts to step as quietly as possible. It was only nine o’clock; it was likely that the Malfoys— both Narcissa and her son— were still awake. Hermione glanced out at the garden as she walked. A thick frost coated the hedges, leaving everything glistening as if the flowers had been dipped in melted sugar. The trees at the edge of the property swayed, branches barren of life. There were rows of cloth-covered blooms, likely Narcissa’s work of protecting the floral landscape from the harshness of the coming winter. It must’ve been difficult, finger-numbing work to wrap each rose and peony in muslin. The muggle way. But the matriarch had said she enjoyed gardening without the intervention of magic now that the option of wand work was not available.

Hermione pressed herself against the frosty glass, looking for a particular set of flowers out in the cold. There, out past the fountain and the rows of pruned gardenias, were tiny bursts of purple petals.

Hardy flowers, lilacs were. No need for frost protectants. Resilient.

They reminded her so much of her mum.

Hermione turned from the glass, leaving a handprint on the fogged surface, the warmth of her skin a fleeting mark against the cold. She stared at it for a moment before curling her fingers inward and stepping away.

The labyrinth of hallways unfolded in front of her. Hermione had become familiar with the pathways that led to and from the library, but she hadn’t meandered beyond her own restrictions. There was no reason to explore the estate, despite Narcissa’s invitation to do just that. She had no reason to beyond her own curiosity— but she wouldn’t allow her nosiness to outweigh what she was really there to do. Her visits were not recreational nor pleasant in nature, and it did Hermione good to keep that boundary in place. It was a condition she had created at the beginning of this entire ordeal— she wouldn’t allow the bond to sway her feelings on the situation at hand. Regardless of the Somethings she’d noticed brewing.

It was strictly business.

Hermione’s steps echoed in the empty hall, and she counted each one as she went. It was three hundred and twenty-six steps from Malfoy’s office to the library doors. Six hundred and sixty-seven steps from the library to the drawing room. Eight hundred and five steps from the front door to her specific table.

Hermione passed a cracked door at step two hundred and forty-one. Laughter bubbled from beyond the entrance.

She froze.

The laughter had been unmistakable—light, unguarded, the kind of sound that was at complete odds with the darkness that seemed to swallow her whole where she stood. Her ears strained, and she caught a low murmur of voices, words too indistinct to make out but carrying the cadence of easy conversation.

Another laugh. Feminine this time.

Hermione had no intention of lingering. She shifted her weight, preparing to move past the door without drawing attention to herself—

The soft squeak of her shoe against the polished floor rang out far too loudly in the quiet hall.

Silence.

The laughter cut off. The conversation stilled.

Hermione held her breath, pulse hammering at the base of her throat. For a moment, she thought—hoped—whoever was beyond the portal might simply resume talking, dismissing the noise as the house settling or the wind shifting through the corridors. Or perhaps a ghostly ancestor haunting the manor.

A chair scraped. Hermione felt like a rabbit caught in a trap. She wasn’t sure why— she hadn’t eavesdropped, hadn’t done anything besides pass by at an unlucky moment. But it didn’t matter— she felt an outsider. Did Malfoy have a woman in there? Had he figured out a way to circumvent that particular clause in the bond? A tightness lurched in her chest.

There was a soft shuffling of movement. Hermione made to bolt; she could surely make it to the end of the hall before she would have to see Malfoy starkers with some female. Or maybe she should run back the way she came; it was eighty-five more steps to the library, but—

“Who’s there?” Malfoy’s distinct voice rang out.

She closed her eyes briefly, cursing herself. She could still run, but being seen sprinting down the hall was more embarrassing than being caught in front of the door. She would simply keep her eyes squeezed shut— lest she see any unwanted private parts— and call out an apology.

Hermione leaned into the cracked doorway, enough that she could feel the light shine on half of her face. She tightened her eyelids until stars shone behind them. “Just me. Sorry.” She squeaked out, hoping the mortification wasn’t clear in her voice.

She pivoted, making to hastily move away.

“Is that Hermione Granger? Draco, I didn’t know you allowed Lions loose in the manor.” The feminine lit was familiar, resonating deep in Hermione’s memory— memory that was laced with pointed laughter and sharp remarks. She stopped in place once more. Parkinson.

Malfoy was attempting— or more than attempting— to sleep with Pansy Parkinson? Pug-nose herself? She had heard rumours back in school that they had a sort of on-and-off relationship. Or really more of a frottage-in-closets-situationship. But really? Her? Pansy had played a smaller role than Malfoy himself in her torment at Hogwarts, but the raven-haired girl had certainly enjoyed making Hermione feel like nothing more than a bug. The tightening grew in her chest, moving into her throat where it lodged itself like a stone.

“Pansy, there’s no need—“

Was that Theo?

Were they planning on having a threesome? She didn’t peg Malfoy as the type—

Her eyes shot open against her will in complete bafflement right as the door pushed all the way open. Draco stood in the doorway, fully clothed. His right hand was propped against the door’s wooden surface, holding it open. His other hand held an empty scotch glass. Beyond him, further into what she described as a parlour, Theodore leaned forward on a leather couch. His elbows were braced on his knees, eyes wide as they stared over at her. Blaise Zabini sat across from Theo on a matching leather loveseat, with one brow arched in lazy amusement. Pansy, she had been correct in her deduction, sat beside Blaise, legs stretched out into his lap, an untouched glass of wine in her hand.

Four pairs of eyes locked onto her. She felt more of a bug under a microscope than any other time in school. Hermione shifted on her feet, weighing the option of bolting once more— even with the lack of nudity she was expecting on the other side of the door. No, everyone was dressed impeccably.

Theo wore what could’ve classified as a kimono, coloured a deep tangerine. His thick brown curls were tousled, as if he’d been absentmindedly running a hand through them. He tried to meet her gaze, but she didn’t let herself look at him too long, not when her chest ached at the apology written across his features.

Blaise Zabini was sprawled comfortably, exuding effortless confidence. He wore a rich navy button-down, the top two buttons undone, paired with pressed charcoal trousers that contrasted with the deep brown of his skin. His dark eyes glittered with quiet amusement as he swirled his firewhisky lazily, watching her over the rim of his glass. The smirk playing on his lips was the same one he had always worn at Hogwarts—mischievous, knowing, and just a little bit cruel.

And then there was Pansy. She was draped in an emerald silk blouse, the deep green complementing the porcelain of her skin, and perfectly tailored black trousers. Her sleek, dark bob framed her sharp, aristocratic face, and her kohl-lined eyes flicked over Hermione with a slow, assessing look, her expression unreadable but clearly unimpressed. A ruby pendant hung at her throat, catching the warm firelight, and her nails—painted a glossy, blood-red—curled around the wine stem with idle grace. No longer pug-faced in any sense of the word. No, she was reminiscent of a siren— dangerous and beautiful in equal measure.

The elegance made Hermione’s sweater and well-worn jeans feel rattier than before.

Hermione hadn’t seen either Blaise nor Pansy in years. Neither had received prison time as Malfoy had. No, they had both been in a similar boat to Theo— clear of any wrongdoings themselves despite the exuberant list of crimes committed by their family members. Parkinson’s father had been sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban for his use of the unforgivables against innocents. And Zabini— well, his mother had never been convicted of any dark crimes, though rumour had it she disappeared to Italy once news circulated of her inability to keep a living husband. Seven dead exes, if gossip was to be believed.

“Granger.”

Hermione snapped her attention from Blaise as he ran an idle hand over Pansy’s arched foot. She looked upwards, meeting an icy stare. Malfoy’s voice was unreadable, but there was something guarded in the way he gripped his glass a little too tightly.

Hermione blinked, stepping backwards away from Malfoy’s looming body. Far enough that she could no longer feel the heat radiating from his skin. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” Blaise drawled, though his smirk said otherwise.

Theo shifted forward in his seat, setting his glass down on the side table with a quiet clink. His expression was open, eyes pleading, "Hermione, gods, are you okay? You were in the hospital— I saw the article, and you look fine now— but now that you’re here, I want to apolo—"

Pansy’s voice cut through the space before he could say anything more. “Draco darling, you still haven’t answered my question.” She leaned back against the arm of the sofa, pressing her foot demandingly against Blaise’s hand. Blaise simply chuckled and set his glass down before rubbing her foot in earnest. Pansy’s sharp gaze snapped between Hermione and Malfoy. “Why is she here?”

Hermione stood there like a voyeur, her attention pingponging between the various parties in attendance.

Malfoy exhaled through his nose, clearly irritated, and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s none of your business, Pansy—”

“Oh, but it is,” she interrupted smoothly, tilting her head. “Especially after that Prophet article I read this morning. I didn’t think it true but it must be if you’re playing house with—”

“Careful,” Draco warned, his voice dropping a degree colder.

“I’m here on business.” Hermione interrupted the tête-à-tête, annoyance creeping into her voice.

Pansy raised a single, perfectly arched brow, then took a slow sip of her drink.

“Business, not pleasure?” Blaise purred, rubbing his thumb into the pad of Parkinson’s foot.

Hermione’s fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves. There was something particularly suffocating about being in a room full of Slytherins, all of whom seemed to be waiting for a slip, a misstep, an opening. Snakes readying to strike, indeed. Her body couldn’t decide between roiling anger or embarrassment.

“I don’t know if Granger is built for pleasure, Blaise.” Pansy smirked, eyes goading.

Theo’s jaw flexed, and his gaze flicked briefly to Hermione before he turned back toward Pansy. “Pans, stop being a bitch for once.”

Pansy scoffed. “Oh, please, Theo. If you lot expect me to sit here and pretend this isn’t strange, you clearly don’t know me.” She turned back to Malfoy, “If this is to clean up your family name darling, I’m sure there are easier ways.”

Hermione straightened her spine. She was a grown woman— not the child she had been before when opinions like Pansy’s determined her self-worth. She had killed. Maimed. She’d be damned if she let Parkinson destroy what was left of her shattered self. “If you’re finished discussing me like I’m not here, I’ll leave you to it.” Her voice was steady, even, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her.

She expected another sharp remark, another veiled insult, but Pansy merely raised her glass in mock salute before turning her attention back to her drink. “There’s the infamous claws, Granger. I was hoping you wouldn’t roll over like a Puff.”

Blaise floated a glass towards Hermione with a lazy wave of his wand. “Have a drink. I’m sure your business can wait.”

Hermione was sure the shock was plastered across her face, interrupted only by the confusion knitting her brows.

Pansy rolled her eyes at Hermione’s hesitation and took a slow sip from her glass. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Granger. We don’t bite. Not unless asked.” She smirked over the rim of her drink, her dark eyes glittering with amusement.

Theo shifted in his seat, his fingers drumming against his knee. “You don’t have to stay,” he said quickly, almost too quickly, then cleared his throat. “But, uh—if you do, I wouldn’t mind a chance to—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, spit it out, Theo,” Blaise drawled, rolling his eyes before grabbing a throw pillow and launching it at him. “You sound like a nervous first-year.”

Theo caught it with a scowl and lobbed it back with more force. Blaise dodged effortlessly, laughing as it sailed past him and thudded onto the floor. Hermione met Theo’s eye, a subtle beg for him to not bring up what he was attempting to apologize for. That would garner too many questions. He sighed, dipping his chin before relaxing back against the leather seat. Another time. And maybe, if his apology was as good as his gifts, she could think about forgiveness.

Pansy sighed dramatically, swirling the last of her drink. “If you’re all done flirting, can we get back to the real question here? Why is Granger standing in Draco’s parlour like a lost kitten?” She turned to Draco expectantly. “Well?”

Draco, who had been oddly quiet through the exchange, tensed at the sudden attention. He finally met Hermione’s gaze, his grey eyes darker under the dim lighting. Hermione’s eyes darted to the speckled pink on his cheekbones. Was he drunk? She didn’t think that sort of inhibition-inhibitor would be in his wheel-house.

“She has business with me,” he said flatly, lifting his glass to his lips. His words didn’t slur, but there was a resonance to his voice that wasn’t usually present. Of course, even inebriated he would still be well put together.

Pansy arched a brow. “Business?”

Hermione could practically see the muscle in Draco’s jaw tick.

“Yes, Pansy. Business.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” Blaise smirked over the rim of his glass. “Because Pansy and I would love to do some business in the solarium later if Narcissa wouldn’t mind the mess.”

Hermione bristled at the implication, sending a heated glare towards the relaxed male. “I’m clearing a family artifact of curses.” A lie. But close enough to the truth that she didn’t stumble over the words. She was clearing herself of an ancestral curse anyhow. Draco didn’t contribute, which she was thankful for. Any additional lies would stack like a house of cards— and any Slytherin worth their salt could blow it over with ease.

“Cursebreaking? That’s what The Golden Girl has been up to?” Blaise raised an eyebrow.

Hermione flinched slightly at the moniker. Malfoy shifted in her periphery, frowning as he watched her too closely for her liking.

Pansy hummed, unconvinced, but let it drop. She leaned back against the couch, exchanging her feet in Blaise’s lap. “Well, since you’re here, you might as well drink.”

Blaise grinned, lifting his own glass. “That’s what I said. Draco might be piss-poor now, but his family’s liquor collection is to die for.”

Theo smirked, his overly flirtatious facade back in place as he waggled his eyebrows towards her. “‘C’mon Hermione, haven’t you always wanted to experience the Slytherin common room? It was just like this, except reeking of familial-induced depression and teenage horniness.”

Draco stared at her, his expression unreadable. He didn’t object, not outright, but there was something wary in his gaze, something taut beneath the surface. Was it because he didn’t want her here, mingling with his friends? Because she was an intruder in a space that wasn’t meant for her— too dirty for a circle of purebloods? Or was it something else? Was he worried they’d see what she already knew—the thing tethering them together like a noose?

Hermione didn’t have an answer, and she wasn’t sure she wanted one.

“Well?” Pansy drawled, her head lolling to the side. She swept a piece of black hair out of her face with her manicured nail. “Are you actually going to sit, or just stand there like a stunned pixie?”

Hermione hesitated, flicking her gaze back to Draco once more. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she thought he might say something. But he only exhaled sharply, downed the last of his drink, and strode back into the room towards the bar cabinet set up beside the fireplace.

That was as much permission as she was going to get. Not that she needed his permission for anything. She should leave. She came for a specific purpose— she needed to continue her research after the multitude of distractions she had allowed herself. She could march straight to the library and work until sunrise on translating another section of the house-elf bonding ceremony. Her fingers itched to hold the aged parchment again.

But—

But her side ached. The scar pulling taut with each twisting movement. And honestly when would she get another chance to see the snakes interact without her getting bitten? Theo was right; she had always been curious about what occurred below the depths of the castle, though she would never admit it aloud.

And Malfoy was drunk. She was more curious about that than anything.

She stepped forward and grabbed the glass still hovering in front of her. She sipped, relishing in the burn as it slid down her throat. One drink. One drink, and she would make her way to the library. Hermione’s shoes squeaked as she made her way to an empty chair close to Theo, and she winced at the sound. Damn trainers. Hermione lowered herself into the seat, back stiff. The leather was cool, even through her thick sweater. The fire’s glow flickered across the crystal decanters on the sideboard, creating fractals of light thay twinkled along the ceiling. Hermione watched Malfoy pour himself another drink, swiftly down it, and pour another.

Theo grinned, clinking his glass against hers with a playful wink. “Welcome to the dark side, Granger.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she still took another sip. The liquor was warm and heady, and maybe it was just the alcohol, or maybe it was the sheer absurdity of the situation, but for the first time since stepping into the room, she let herself relax.

Just a little.

Blaise swirled his drink, the firelight catching the amber liquid as he smirked. “So, Granger, a cursebreaker? Never would’ve guessed it. Always figured you’d be locked away in some dusty Ministry office, drowning in parchment.”

Pansy raised a brow. “Let me guess—Granger’s idea of cursebreaking is reading about it for weeks before actually lifting a wand.”

Blaise chuckled. “And colour-coding her research.”

Theo clicked his tongue, leaning back against his couch cushion. “Now now, our resident bookworm is actually quite the little menace in the field.” He shot Hermione a look, smug and knowing. “Didn’t you tell me about that hag in France? The one holed up in some forgotten catacomb, picking off unlucky travelers?”

Blaise’s eyebrows shot up. “A hag? How very grim.”

“Wait, Theo, when did you two get so cosy?” Pansy snipped, looking miffed that she seemed to be one of the few in the room out of the loop.

Theo waved a hand in Pansy’s direction. “Old news, Pans. Hermione and I are straight chummy.” He gave Hermione a nervous look, that guilt once again filling his sapphire eyes. It made the mask he wore that much starker. When she didn’t contradict his statement, he turned back to Pansy with a lazy grin. “She dealt with all of my father’s nasty toys. And then we ate McDonald’s.”

“I couldn’t care less about your meet-cute.” Blaise rolled his eyes. “Back to the hag. You fought one of those beasties?”

Hermione shrugged innocently, cutting her eyes towards Malfoy unconsciously. She was surprised to find his gaze already locked on her.

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised,” Malfoy drawled, his voice edged with sarcasm. “Granger practically had her hand on Potter’s wand when he took down the Dark Lord.”

Hermione blinked. That almost sounded like a compliment. Even wrapped in derision, it was… unexpected.

“I suppose that’s true. Well, Granger, regale us with your adventure in France.” Blaise chuckled, gently setting Pansy’s feet back onto the floor before pulling her into his lap. Pansy allowed the change— Hermione could sense that no one else would be allowed to play rag doll with her besides Blaise.

Hermione shifted in her seat, not entirely comfortable with the entirety of the room’s attention on her. That had never been her forte. Had been a reason she avoided the press so thoroughly after the war. The spotlight had been crafted for heroes, and Hermione had never considered herself of the variety. She cleared her throat. “She was warding the entire cavern with blood magic, and before you ask—no, it wasn’t hers.”

Theo’s smirk widened. “Oh, this is my favourite part. Though I wish you would add some voices to your story— perhaps give the hag a Parisian accent.”

Hermione exhaled a laugh, some of the tension melting from her shoulders. She swirled her drink, eyes locked on the gilded drink. “She had the place rigged with trip-hexes and dark runes. Took me nearly an hour just to get through the first corridor, and by then, she knew I was there.”

Blaise gestured lazily with his glass. “Let me guess—she tried to strike a bargain.”

“She tried to eat me,” Hermione corrected flatly.

Pansy snorted. “Of course she did.”

Draco, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke, his voice even. “And?”

Hermione flickered her gaze to him. The fire cast shadows across his sharp features, painting him like Cabanel’s Fallen Angel. He watched her with the same intensity he looked at everything— the way he attentively stared at the runes while translating— the way he watched her cellphone when she attempted to teach him the internet— the way he pinned her in his gaze every time they met upon the bridge.

Hermione took a slow sip before answering. “And I set her own traps against her. Collapsed half the bloody catacomb.”

There was a pause. A twitch of his lips upwards.

Then Theo whooped, tipping his glass in her direction. Hermione forced herself to look towards the brunette as he spoke. “So brutal. I approve, but like I said before, your storytelling could use more flair.”

Blaise chuckled. “Didn’t think you had that sort of viciousness in you, Granger.”

Hermione arched a brow. “Would it have been better to let her eat me?”

“Oh, certainly not.” Blaise smirked. “Just saying, you’re full of surprises.”

Pansy tilted her head towards Malfoy, her lips curling in a way that was almost amused—almost. “Must’ve stung, hmm? Having to call in Granger to clean up the mess in your grand old estate?” Her eyes were sharp, calculating, like what Hermione imagined a cheetah looked like before pouncing. Hermione shifted in her seat, not missing the pointed way Pansy was watching her now too.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, pushing off the mantle. He dropped down on the other side of Theo in a far less dignified manner than she’d come to expect from him, “Oh yes, it kept me up at night. Right between filing my nails and counting my gold.”

Theo snorted. “What gold?”

Pansy grinned. “Right, my mistake. Forgot about your tragic descent into peasantry.”

Blaise feigned a sorrowful sigh. “They fall so fast, don’t they?”

Draco glared over the rim of his glass. “I can still have you all thrown out.”

Hermione covered her smirk with another sip of her drink. It was strange, sitting here and watching them like this. She’d never imagined any of the present company as jovial and yet— and yet Malfoy had always been the center of his friend groups back in school, hadn’t he? Before the war really kicked off and he looked as gaunt as the rest of them, Malfoy had teased and joked and laughed. Usually at her and her friends’ expense, but it shouldn’t have surprised her that Slytherins could be fun.

”So,” Hermione tucked her feet underneath her, lifting the glass to her lips but not drinking, “Do any of you… work?” Hermione winced at the phrasing. She wasn’t attempting to be rude or stuck up. “Besides Theo—“

“I’ve already promised to show her my secret dungeon in the ministry,” Theo sighed dramatically, “But she continues to turn me down.”

“No one wants to see your combustion chamber.” Malfoy drawled.

Pansy snorted, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. “Are you asking if we all just lounge around living off Daddy’s money?” Her tone wasn’t offended, just vaguely amused.

Hermione opened her mouth, but before she could clarify, Pansy waved a hand. “Relax, Granger, I’m not insulted.” She smirked, leaning back against the cushions. “I, for one, have a rather thriving business.”

Blaise scoffed, raising a brow at her. “Thriving, is it?”

“Oh, don’t be bitter just because I found my calling.”

Theo turned to Hermione with a lazy grin. “Pansy, our dear entrepreneur, owns one of the most exclusive boutiques in Appleby. Unattainable by most, overpriced for all.”

Pansy flipped her hair over one shoulder. “And yet people pay for it, don’t they?”

Malfoy hummed, lifting his glass. “A testament to your ability to swindle the masses.”

Pansy raised hers in return, unfazed. “To my impeccable taste.”

Hermione eyed her with mild surprise. Hermione had never pictured Pansy as someone who would own a business. Or work at all, if she was honest with herself. Then again, Hermione hadn’t thought about Pansy in years. She had always imagined the girl sitting in a pony-drawn carriage screaming at servants, but it seemed Pansy was not the same bitchy girl she had been in school. Hermione didn’t think that version of Pansy would deign a conversation with someone not of pure blood. Perhaps that version of Pansy had died in the war. The school-girl version of Hermione had died after all. Had been reduced to rubble and blown away in the wind. But Hermione supposed a fashion boutique fit Pansy quite well.

Blaise stretched out lazily, tipping his glass toward Hermione. “And I, for the record, have a very respectable investment portfolio.”

“That means he gambles,” Malfoy muttered.

Blaise smirked. “I prefer ‘strategic financial endeavours.’”

Pansy rolled her eyes, turning back to Hermione with a wicked gleam. “And as for Malfoy, well, you seem to have spent some time with him and already know he broods in his manor and dabbles in potion work when the mood strikes. Or sells family possessions he no longer wants to look at. I suppose that’s what will happen to whatever artifact you clean up for him.” There was something behind the other woman’s gaze, picking at the edges of the lie Hermione had crafted.

Hermione ignored the look. Instead her gaze flicked toward Malfoy. He was selling heirlooms? She supposed, unlike the rest of his friend group, he didn’t have funds to fall back on without a line of work. He had to afford food somehow. Her stomach turned slightly at the thought of him panicked when his vaults had been emptied. An heir with little skills beyond what had been drilled into him in youth. Hermione had originally been giddy at the information— the Malfoy’s destitute. Paying for their crimes— their prejudice. And maybe the Malfoys in totality had deserved such a stark sentencing. But Malfoy himself… well, he had already served time in Azkaban. Shouldn’t she think that was enough?

Malfoy didn’t react to Pansy’s shared insight, simply taking another slow sip of his drink. He watched Hermione as if waiting for some sort of reaction.

Theo grinned and leaned over towards Malfoy, pinching his cheek. “And don’t forget his true passion—glowering professionally.”

Malfoy batted his hand away with a glower, setting down his glass with a distinct clink. “Yes, yes, laugh it up.”

Blaise leaned back, swirling the last of his drink in his glass with a look of mild distaste. “It’s surprising the Ministry invited you to their little soirée at all. That gala is nothing but a chance for them to stroke their own dicks over how ‘progressive’ they’ve become.” His voice dripped with derision as he tipped the glass back, finishing the rest of his drink in one smooth motion.

Theo snorted. “Please. They probably just needed a former Death Eater to stand in the background so they could pat themselves on the back for their so-called redemption efforts.”

Hermione had guessed the same when she had seen Malfoy’s name printed across the invitation that day. While the ministry had done some incredible work in restoration after the war’s end, she knew better than anyone that these parties were nothing but a way for Wizengamot members to rub elbows— and for child soldiers to wave and smile like good little dolls.

Malfoy’s expression didn’t shift, but his fingers flexed subtly against the armrest of his chair. “Yes, well, it seems I was deemed the perfect showpiece for their self-congratulatory parade.”

Pansy raised a brow over the rim of her glass. “And yet, you’re going.”

Malfoy gave her a flat look. “If I don’t attend, I imagine the minister would find some way to spin it as a snub. And then I’d have the Prophet printing speculation about my supposed grudge against the Ministry.”

Blaise smirked. “Wouldn’t want to upset our fine government officials, now would we? And Narcissa seems positively giddy that you’ve been re-invited into society.”

“Yes, well, Mother is always the optimist.”

Hermione frowned slightly, watching Malfoy carefully. His jaw was tight, eyes hardened as they stared down into his now empty glass. Hermione hadn’t thought about the fallout of whatever decision he happened to make; attend the gala and he was a zoo animal to be watched all night by the public— not attend and risk rumours spreading of his return to darkness.

Hermione wondered how much of his decision to attend had been about politics—and how much had been about necessity.

I, for one, am excited to make a statement,” Pansy declared, crossing her legs with a satisfied little smirk. “Not every day we get to step into the Ministry’s good graces, is it?”

Blaise scoffed. He waved his wand, floating a bottle of Odgen’s firewhiskey to the table between the two low-back couches. “Not that any of them will admit it. They’ll smile to our faces while driving daggers into our backs.”

Pansy shrugged, entirely unfazed. “Let them whisper. I’ll be making an entrance in a piece from my own collection, so they’ll have plenty to talk about. Maybe I’ll even let Skeeter get a photo.”

“You would relish the attention,” Theo muttered, leaning forward to snatch the bottle. Theo tilted his head back, pouring the liquor straight into his mouth.

Pansy smirked. “Of course. What’s the point of a gala if not to be seen?”

“You were all invited then?” Hermione’s voice sounded too loud to her own ears after her prolonged silence— and the question sounded too brash. She flicked her gaze away from Blaise, who was watching her with a wide grin, and instead watched Theo gulp down at least a glass’s worth of whiskey.

“Our first invitation, would you believe it?” Pansy purred, lifting herself off of Blaise’s lap. He protested, but she swatted his hand away. Her bare feet padded against the wooden floor as she made her way to the bar station. She refilled her wine glass to the brim without spilling a single drop. “It turns out a parent’s sins are inherited by the child.”

“Well, our parents did torture people, Pansy.”Theo rolled his eyes before turning back to Hermione. “What about you, Granger? Still undecided?”

Four sets of eyes landed on her again, but Hermione kept her expression neutral. “Still thinking about it.”

The gala had been far from her mind the past few days, but thinking about it now did nothing to solve her conundrum. There were too many factors at play. Going meant exposure— meant cameras flashing in her face, questions spewed from vile lips. It meant shaking hands with people who looked at her either as a silly child or as some war-born savior. It meant reliving the worst memories of her life while being surrounded by the temptations that had numbed her of that burning pain: liquor filling every glass in the room, powdered power atop the counters in each restroom, or lining the nostrils of every politician. It meant realizing she no longer had a purpose— that she was shattered glass who only felt whole when she was pumped with the same war-bound adrenaline she tried to forget. How fucked up could she be? That exactly what she tried to bury inside herself was the very thing she craved?

But the Gala also meant cursebreakers. Famous ones— including her old professor from her mastery program. She could get answers about the bond— vague answers lest she spill the reason for her inquiry— but answers nonetheless. It meant a possible end to the constant tugging in her chest, the sleepless nights, the raw need to be close to the man who had been the very first person to call her a mudblood.

So she didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to decide if prostrating herself for the masses was worth the information she might receive.

Pansy sipped at her drink until the threat of spillage was low before she made her way back to Blaise. She snatched the bottle of Ogden’s from Theo— with a whine from the latter— before he could drink himself into a stupor. She sank against Blaise, handing off the bottle as she tapped a manicured finger against the arm of her chair. “You should go.”

Hermione hesitated. “Why?”

“Because,” Pansy drawled, “whether you like it or not, people already expect you to be there now that you’ve returned from abroad. You’re Hermione Granger—the Ministry’s favourite poster girl, their shining example of virtue and intelligence.” Her lips curled. “They let you slip away once and have been dying to get their hands on you again. And after that delightful little article about you and Draco, everyone will be waiting to see if you crawl out of whatever hole you’ve been hiding in.” Pansy eyed the way Hermione’s knuckles whitened around her glass. “Let your return to the masses be on your own terms; otherwise, the vultures won’t rest.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted at the image of vultures picking her apart. But Pansy’s thought process wasn’t without its merits.

“They would love a second headline,” Blaise mused, casting a sideways glance at Malfoy.

Malfoy, for his part, had gone quiet again, staring down into his drink.

Pansy’s sharp gaze flickered between the two of them before settling back on Hermione. “You’ll wear something off my line, of course. You’ll look gorgeous, and my brand will become the talk of every social circle overnight.” The corner of her lip pulled up, “A war hero draped in Pansy Parkinson Original? Oh, the Greengrasses will be positively green with envy.”

“Leave the humour to the professionals, Pans.” Theo snorted, his words more slurred than they’d been when Hermione had stumbled upon their little party. Theo drug his gaze back to Hermione, eyes twinkling. ”You’ll need a date, of course. Are you currently in any binding engagements, Granger?”

That little shit.

Hermione glowered at Theo who shrank in his seat, quickly busying himself with the empty glass in his hands. ”No. I’m not seeing anyone at the moment. But if I decide to go— which I haven’t yet— I can invite my friend from Germany.”

Malfoy’s attention snapped to her, and something stormy flashed across his face.

She didn’t look at him.

Theo smirked. “Does your friend have any friends for me? I’m looking for something tall and shaggy—“

“Perhaps you should shag a giant hairy slug elk.” Hermione deadpanned. Theo sank further into the cushions as Blaise howled in laughter.

Pansy’s lip tugged upwards, and Hermione assumed that was as close to a smile of approval she’d ever get from the woman. “I’m sure Weasel and WonderBoy will be in attendance. One of your companions could escort you. I’m sure a Golden Trio reunion would be beautiful and vomit-inducing.”

The air shifted, and Hermione felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under her.

Hermione’s grip on her drink tightened, and she took a large gulp, letting the familiar wash of amber fill the hollow spots in her soul. She hoped the grimace on her face wasn’t as noticeable as it felt.

“Yes, that would be fun.” Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears. Too rushed and garbled.

A glance from Draco, sharp but fleeting, passed from her to the others. Theo’s brows raised for only a moment before he schooled his features into a lazy grin. “Hermione, I haven’t gotten to tell you about my latest experiment— not with wizards, that was years ago— but I happened to stumble upon a rather rare broom that vibrates—“

Pansy dropped her head into her hand, “—please tell me you didn’t stick it—“

“Of course not! Merlin, you have no faith in me.” Theo scoffed, rolling his eyes. He gave Hermione a conspiratorial grin. “But I definitely rode it—“

Blaise groaned and Draco shook his head, hiding what looked like a smile. But Hermione—

She laughed.

It was brash and too loud, but it was real as she tipped back her head and just let it bubble from her lips. Theo looked like the cat who got the cream. Blaise and Pansy looked at her as if she had some screws loose— which she was certain she did. And Draco, well, he looked dumbstruck at the sound.

Her laughter ebbed into a breathless chuckle, and Theo, emboldened, launched into an animated story about his vibrating broom. His voice filled the space, exaggerated and theatrical, but Hermione barely heard him.

The weight in her chest—the ever-present knot of tension she’d carried for longer than she could remember—felt… lighter. Not gone, but loosened, unspooling just enough to let her breathe more easily. It was a foreign sensation, one she wasn’t sure what to do with.

Her fingers drifted to the edge of her empty glass, tracing the rim absently as realization struck. She said one glass, and then she would leave— make her way to the library and cram her nose into a book until her eyes burned.

And yet, as she set the glass down with a soft clink, she made no move to stand. A little longer wouldn’t hurt, would it? She glanced towards the assortment of liquor-filled bottles. She looked away sharply. One drink was enough.

But she didn’t have to leave. She could pretend for a little bit longer that she was stitched back together. She settled her gaze on Theo as he stood, demonstrating exactly how he flew on the broom with no hands— so he said anyway.

But her focus didn’t linger on Theo for long.

Instead, it drifted—inevitably, inexorably—to the blond to her right.

Draco wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t rolling his eyes or smirking at Theo’s antics like the others. He was just watching her.

His chin rested against his fist, his expression carefully schooled into something unreadable, but his gaze was unwavering, sharp in its intensity. Studying her.

He watched her the way she so often found herself watching him. As if she were a puzzle herself that he had yet to solve.

Hermione attempted a scowl in his direction, but it faltered when he smiled, unbidden, outwardly and not behind a glass. It was loose, likely due to his inebriated state— gods he and his friends drank more than she did— and it wasn’t laced with a sneer like usual.

It was Hermione’s turn to be left dumbstruck.

He turned his attention to Theo then, lips twitching at whatever ridiculous gesture he was making now. She forced herself to do the same, sinking back into the leather as the warmth of the fire-lit room soaked into her skin.

But it was the warmth of that golden thread in her chest that Hermione could not ignore.