Faux Love

Hermione stands outside the door, hand raised but still in its movement. She hesitates.

How long has she known Draco for? Since they were 11, and she's 22 now. So a while. Just over a decade, and yet, now that she needs to speak to him, she can't even bear to knock on his door.

It's late, and everyone at the office has left, all except a couple of night owls that don't mind staying back a little longer, or even the few that do most of their work at night, for whatever reasons. The floor Hermione is on now is the one sanctioned for workers that, in other words, aren't to be trusted. Not near any artifacts or files, all floos locked and monitored, things like that.

It had been pretty desolate for the three years that Hermione worked; the only times she had walked down the halls had always been eerie and quiet. This year, though, almost every office and broom closet was full. Government workers were on the low end; after the war, most wizards and witches that were still alive and hadn't fled preferred to stay home for a few years and cherish their families. Harry himself had just joined the Auror force, his son just turned two.

Hermione? She had enjoyed the work, and what happened between her and Ron… until recently, work had been enough.

So no, there hadn't been enough workers for the Ministry of Magic, and so, something unprecedented happened. They had decided to start a rehabilitation program. Nothing too wild, just low-level jobs. Mail sorting, typing, that sort of thing. Which brings her to Draco.

She had seen Draco a little these past six months, usually when she had to come to this floor to talk to a fairy who worked here (Agg had worked here for decades, and chose to stay here even though she hated the wizarding world, and hated the wizards especially. She said it was due to the fairy circles that she had to manage, and the case file pictures Hermione sometimes saw on her desk explained why.) to gather intel on other cases.

Hermione worked as a secretary for an Auror, but she was hoping to one day build up into a different position. Until then, she would walk these halls every few weeks, and usually, sometimes, she would catch a glimpse of what was at first mistaken to be a ghost.

Draco Malfoy had changed in his four years in Azkaban.

Hermione had thought he was pale before; the glimpses she caught of him through ajar doors told her that he was tanned compared to now. The Malfoy heir was a sickly color, skin almost translucent. In the warm candlelight, he looked like a ghoul. At least it had appeared to give him color, but it made him look limp, his hair stringy in the green flame. It was horrid, to mistake someone for dead, to not register them as alive.

But… the few times they had made eye contact, there had been something in his pale blue eyes. Something that pulled at her, that seemed like a cat coyly asking to play. Draco still had his old fight, but she supposed it was buried a bit deep.

Which brings her here.

It's late, very late for anyone but Draco, apparently. The last time she had checked, it was 1 am, and that was a while ago while she was busy typing messily scrawled reports, trying to put this off. Now she had no choice, and had to get it over and done with, or else she wouldn't be able to face Luna tomorrow.

Hermione was going to Luna and Rolf's family lunch, and Luna had asked Hermione to bring Draco. Which frankly, at first, had made her ill. But now she only felt sick from the fear he looked up at her with those cold grey eyes and told her to fuck off.

She had wondered at Luna why. Why a Death Eater, why Hermione, why now.

But Draco wouldn't answer Luna's letters, and even though Luna admitted Draco still frequented her nightmares, he had also been in her dreams too.

'He had been nice to me, at the end. It doesn't sound like much, but it is when he knew the punishment was death.' And that meant something to Luna; these past few weeks, Hermione had thought about it every night before sleep came. What does it mean to sacrifice your own life for someone else that which was being sent to death?

Hermione, thinking of those months in the woods, imagined she had a bit of an idea what that meant.

The air gets caught in her throat on the exhale, and she has to fight the cough back. She can't do this, not tonight. Her arm shakes as it stays raised; her stomach rolls. When was the last time she saw Draco Malfoy? It must have been last year, at the trial. He had looked even worse then, unrecognizable, but at least she was at the back of the room. Only the witnesses sat at the front, and Harry had volunteered to be Draco's.

Harry had looked so young then. Afraid, but defiant. He really always was the bravest of them; now she was sure he would have knocked and welcomed Draco to lunch even if Draco spat in his face.

Hermione felt very young then, almost like a small girl playing dress-up. Some other night, but not tonight. She can't bear seeing his face or the thought she might take one look at him and either vomit or faint.

Hermione turns then and pretends her brisk walk is because she is tired and wanting to go home.

Not because she is scared.

Hermione lives by herself in a small flat in Muggle London. It's not the best place, and she's had to use magic to ward away mold and stop leaking pipes enough to annoy her to bits, but the flat has a window in every room, and the landlord doesn't mind Crookshanks, as long as Hermione cleans up his messes. Says he's good for the mice that come and go from the restaurant beside them, which makes Hermione smile a bit. Crookshanks isn't one for mouse pie.

She's been living here a year and a bit now, so when she comes through the fireplace she has transfigured into the living room, her heart immediately eases. Home, nothing bad can get her here.

Crookshanks meows indignantly from his place in the living room windowsill, face against the cool air that comes in through the ajar pane. She still feels sick, though only slightly. It doesn't matter how much she ignores him; she promised Luna. She can't get out of it now.

Hermione, for some reason, feels a little excited.

The building she lives in is tall and skinny. She has the second floor, and the one above her is vacant. On the ground floor is an old man that listens to the radio full volume every time of the day. There are still wards cast on the apartment, to protect her and to keep others from wanting to peek into her windows. But she's become a bit lax with the sound charms, and even most nights enjoys the radio and the nightlife that thrums in the air.

She could live in a better place than this, Harry and Ron have told her before. But the only person who realizes why Hermione stays here is Luna. The walls are a warm brown, the floorboards a dark chocolate. The few plants Hermione keeps in each room make it feel less like a rank old flat, and more like somewhere Hermione wanted to come home to. She hadn't really felt like that since she was a kid, not in her years at Hogwarts, or even in the six months she stayed at the Weasleys. This wasn't just home; it was her home.

The bathroom doesn't have a bath, only a shower. It's not big enough for it, and Hermione doesn't really want to play with transfiguring the space of it. All she needs to do is bust her piping. She undresses, her body aching like it does now that she doesn't sleep as long as she used to. She would love a warm bath, with some oil and candles and a nice book. She sighs and turns on the stream of water, standing there and shivering while she waits for the water to warm. Crookshanks comes into the bathroom, slinking. He meows again and jumps to perch on the sink.

He turns away from her and lays down to sleep.