Part I
“Sectumsempra!”
He deflects the curse with a negligible flick of his wand. Proud little chit, thinking she could use his own spells against him—
Retaliating with an impressive volley of slicing hexes, he almost misses the rustling sound from beneath his feet. There’s too much temptation to look down, if only for a moment. A moment so crucial in the duel for Granger’s Mastery; one that has been years in the making.
Years of her prancing about the castle after the war. Weekend teas in his office and endless questions about the Dark Arts. Meals upon meals of listening to her prattle on with the rest of the staff about the benefits of vegetarianism, feminism, or whatever cause she happens to have at the forefront of her mind that day.
She will no longer reside in the castle if she wins his wand, and he will finally be left to his peace. No longer tormented by that unexplainable draw to her, or the difficulty of actively resisting it.
He pivots when something shifts again near the heel of his boot. Twigs and branches amass into an elaborately knitted wall that towers over him, a transfiguration so real that continues to circle and tighten around him until soon, there will be no escape.
With the ground below him and the twinkling sky above, he chooses the latter. He bends his knees slightly and murmurs a spell to launch himself into the air.
The Room of Requirement, where the duel is taking place, has conjured up the Forest of Dean as their first of three arenas. Why it has done so, he does not know. He only has a few moments of not engaging with her before he forfeits this round.
Landing in the clearing where he is sure a small pool used to be, he conjures his shield again, and as though sensing him, she turns around.
And grins.
The rain, unobstructed by her usual halo of curls, drips down her face, and he sees her intent to cast before she does.
He is not a Master for nothing.
And so he parries. The mud slickens, and he adjusts his footing, leaning into the movement instead of fighting against it. Closer and closer, they come together, the magic between them prismatic, the spells darker and more complex.
Knowing her, she wouldn’t have it any other way. With her first Mastery in Transfiguration, she almost has him at a disadvantage.
She knows it, too.
But he has, after all, taught her most of what she knows—so he uses something she doesn’t: a repelling spell on himself, one that also incorporates an impervious, so she can’t see his outline in the rain or his footprints in the dirt.
It’s amazing what one can invent out of necessity as a bullied firstie at Hogwarts.
Her smile widens, and she expands her shield so that it encircles her in a shimmering sphere. The draw on her magic is larger with such a spell, but being unable to see him means that she could be attacked from any direction.
Typical Granger, going for defence over attack.
He takes a page from her book and uses his other Mastery to congeal the rainwater when it hits her. He imagines how unpleasant it must feel as it dribbles over her skin, and just as he revels in the hindrance he has created, she crouches down in an unusual movement that he does not associate with her style of duelling.
The sticks on the ground rise, whipping with a magical wind that she twists with her wand. Her eyes focus as she blinks uneasily, her magic still flowing. His spell is not meant to last this long, so he attempts to seek protection behind a thick tree trunk.
He almost trips before he finds safety.
For a few seconds, all is quiet but for the rain and the wind. The grating sound of bark against bark. Branches snapping, one after the other, getting closer—
He enlarges his shield and holds up his wand. Taking a deep breath, he steps out into the fray—
And right into the path of the imposing, moving beast she’s created out of twigs and vines. An embodiment of a Tolkein ent if he’s ever seen one—enough to take the breath away from him—proceeds to swipe his compromised hiding spot.
And him with it.
—
The Room of Requirement conjures her parents’ summer cottage for their second round, and Hermione marvels at how perceptive it is to her need for comfort after the harrowing ache she felt when she opened her eyes to the Forest of Dean.
Even now, the war still haunts her. She’s worked hard on herself; on her healing and her education. On figuring out what she wants to do with her life, what she enjoys and what she’d rather stay away from. Whose company she favours, and whom she’d be better off without.
It was a small surprise when she started looking forward to Minerva’s monthly tea with the Headmaster. As the Transfiguration apprentice, she was required to attend all meetings with her Mistress, even if they were with the Headmaster himself. He humoured her when the conversation turned in the direction of her interests, and she sought his opinion on a particularly dark tome in the restricted section. Crunched for time, he asked to resume their discussion the following week.
For the next four and some years, bar the major holidays, they had tea. And now—
Now is the last time she sees him, before she leaves the castle forever.
He’s nowhere to be found, however. After her makeshift, Ent-like golem won her the round, the arena had darkened as it reset around her.
She’s in her room, her back to the wall as she faces the closed door.
Shaking herself, she moves, the heels of her boots quiet on the carpet. Her shield at the ready, she turns the knob.
“DUCK! ”
She does, hitting her head on the doorframe in the process. Why she’s ducked in the first place is probably due to the commanding tenor coming from the—
A masked body falls at her feet.
Death Eaters. The bloody Room has magicked Death Eaters into her house.
They still scare her the same. She’d much rather hide out in here than go outside, but if she doesn’t cast any magic, the round will be forfeit in his favour.
Waiting will do her no good. Her mind made up, she twists her wand in the palm of her hand and steps into the hallway.
At the sound of her boots, he calls out. “Where are you?”
“As if I’m about to give away my position to—”
Another Death Eater exits the guest room, and a flash of light from the stairwell blasts him back inside.
“How many are there?” he shouts.
She looks around, but there’s no one in sight. “I don’t know! I’ve just come out!” she shouts back.
“Of course you have.” His voice is getting closer, and she sees his shadow rise up the stairs. “Why don’t you let your hair down as well, Miss Granger.”
The tight pull of her bun, and his words, have her seeing red. She ignores him and inches across the stretch of wall that leads to the loo.
“How many have you counted?” she says, as his head emerges over the railing.
“I’ve not bloody well counted since they’re coming out of the walls willy-nilly!” he growls, his wand jabbing open the door to her parents’ room.
As though they’ve been waiting, three Death Eaters run out onto the landing. They start firing off spells immediately, and she twists and parries and curses them right back until she finds herself back-to-back with the Headmaster.
She’s always known that he’s a powerful man. His form is strong, taut with muscle and magic, his shoulders rolling as he casts and his steps harmonious with hers.
The Death Eaters keep on materialising, as though in infinite supply. Her breath is coming fast when she turns to him.
“Where are they coming from?”
“The Room is creating them— Relashio! It sets up spaces that are meant to be unsettling— Reducto! Reducto! To test your composure and your ability to duel while maintaining control over your emotions and your magic!”
“But there’s more—”
He turns to her, and almost gets hit by a sickly green hex which he deflects as though he is swatting a fly. “Because you are panicking, witch!”
It doesn’t feel like it. Not with him here.
She stares up at him, a headache forming at her temples. She’s always known that he was tall; she simply was never presented with an opportunity to compare her own lesser height to his. The gleaming sheen of sweat on his jaw catches the moonlight from the window in her parents’ room, and he shifts, bringing into view the silver cicatrices on his neck.
Her eyes linger there, at the short hairs stuck to his forehead, freed from his own bun, and the liberalised collar, unbuttoned and empty of the standard cravat. His gaze is intimidating even though they are relatively familiar—even friendly—with each other, and despite his constant, characteristic indifference, everything about him captivates her to no end.
But he could never see her as anything other than Miss Granger, his student, barely tolerable and always insufferable. She sighs, and his eyes move away. He must be thankful to be rid of her—
“Diffindo!”
His left arm grabs her wrist, yanking her behind him. The spell meant for her back hits her side as she turns, and she feels his magic, insidious and formidable, charge the air around them. Yet one more Death Eater that he fells to the floor, their moment of peace shattered.
Hearing footsteps coming up the stairs, she’s back to back with him again, throwing hexes at the faceless figure until it collapses. Another one follows in its stead, seemingly stronger, and she stumbles when she hears him swear behind her.
He levitates the fallen Death Eater to block the one currently attacking her, and turns her so she’s pinned up against the wall.
“You’re bleeding.”
She is. Her belly feels wet and her skin exposed through her torn clothes, but she would have to heal herself later. If she looks down at her wound, she’ll feel the pain—
He does not wait for her to respond. Wandlessly and wordlessly, he moves his wand to his right hand, keeping the body levitated with his left. His smooth baritone eases over her, first a numbing spell, followed by a cleansing one, and finally the soothing lullaby of Vulnera Sanentur.
Would any other opponent have healed her?
“Why you?” she wonders aloud.
He switches his wand back to his left hand, his makeshift barrier still holding strong. Eyes sparking with fury, every word he speaks pierces her.
“The Guild deemed me your most instigative opponent.” She looks down where he touches her, the cool pads of his long, pale fingers flexing over her now unmarred skin. “Because a stranger would not intimidate you, but I still do.”
As he steps away, she sees her wand glow red as a sign that her time has run out.
She’s lost this round.
Noting the same thing, he lowers his wand as it gets dark around them. “Get it together, Miss Granger. Next time, I won’t be so accommodating.”
—
In a depraved way, it makes sense that Hermione is back in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. Back where she was victim of the darkest magic she’s ever known. This time, the chandelier is still intact. The portraits are animated, candelabras are lit on the mantle, and the fire is roaring strongly in the hearth, each flicker reflecting in the crystals above her.
There is no Bellatrix, no Snatchers, and no Malfoys.
All the more for her. Fewer distractions, and definitely fewer opponents to duel. The only person she needs to overcome tonight is Severus Snape, and she refuses to allow the triggering arenas and intrusive thoughts to plague her mind and affect her performance in this final round.
Tugging at the collar of her shirt, she wishes she had the time to survey the rest of her surroundings. Snape is nowhere to be found, so she strides to the doors, wand in hand.
Across the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and one booted foot lifted against it, is none other than the man of the hour, looking sullen and unamused. “Are you ready to proceed, Miss Granger?” he asks, as though bored and indifferent at the task before him.
She fires a jinx at him in response, and he advances.
Backing away, their wands become blurred. He’s not holding back, and she’s drawing him out to the centre of the room where where she’ll have more objects to transfigure and charm—
He deflects everything she throws at him. Her spells are redirected to the curtains, the portraits, and the diamond window panes. The room seems to be getting colder, despite the sweat trickling down her back and the heat heaving in her chest.
Then, she swipes away his Reducto only for it to collide with the chandelier above them. It swings from its chain, then drops.
Snape launches himself at her, rolling them away from harm and shielding their heads with his cloak.
“This is very peculiar,” he mutters as he rolls away from her, shards of glass shattering under him. He turns to her, and both of them notice the puff of air forming in front of her as she exhales.
“What is going on?”
“Get up. Quickly.”
“What—”
“We need to get out of here. Something isn’t right with the Room.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hurry up, Miss Granger!”
She hesitates before she starts to follow him back to the double doors, but its hinges squeak open before they get there.
Framed in sinister firelight, moonbeams, and darkness is a full-fledged dementor.
“Merlin!”
Just like Snape, Hermione waves her wand to summon her Patronus. Only a faint whisper of silver comes out.
“Expecto patronum!” she shouts again, thinking again of her happiest memory: a cold weekend morning on holiday from Hogwarts, having breakfast with her mum and dad.
The wisp she’s managed to summon fizzles out again.
Looking up, she sees that Snape has folded his arms and is facing her, his wand downcast. “Please, proceed, Miss Granger,” he mocks.
As the dementor approaches them, the smiling faces of her parents fade from her mind. She needs to banish it, to do something so that they can get on with this farce of a duel that is turning out to be a veritable tour of the places that live in her nightmares.
Frustration and sadness well in her eyes. “We’re meant to be duelling each other!”
“However shall we do that, Miss Granger, without our souls in our bodies?” His teeth chattering, he glowers in her direction, and she swears the room gets colder. “I am but your examiner, and yet, it seems that it is I who must cast the spells needed to dispel these embodiments of the Dark Arts.”
Perhaps it’s the light, but the tunnelling charcoal of his eyes softens the longer he looks at her. Her breath hitches, and he blinks, turning away.
“Your patronus, Miss Granger!”
Frozen, she stares as a glowing panther erupts from his wand, larger than life, and his wonderous expression awakens her own at how all-encompassing his magic is, how easily it comes to him… all the while she has so much left to prove.
Yet she will never accomplish enough, in his eyes.
As the room warms up again, she can’t help but add this moment to her growing list of shortcomings. Another failure in a time of need. Another charm that she must perfect, a scenario that she should have prepared for.
She is burdened; weighed down by that helpless feeling of having done very little with her life. All of her research, her projects, her masteries—they mean nothing with her inability to live up to her reputation as the brightest witch of her age.
Rationally, she knows that duelling didn’t lend a need for the Patronus charm. And yet, here she is, watching his panther prowl and snarl until the dementor leaves and everything feels light again.
“You are far too content with being mediocre, Miss Granger,” he drawls as the panther disappears into thin air. He doesn’t lower his wand, the overarching purpose of their predicament obvious again.
She has never felt like his equal, and he would always berate her for it. This final duel, this is her chance to prove that, despite some missteps on her part, she knows what she’s doing when it comes to matters of life and death. In darkness and in light, be it magical or middling.
But he would always be there to witness her downfall.
“Spare me your arrogant exclamations,” she calls out, “You may have imparted your knowledge on me, but—”
An aching hunger propels her into action. With her worst memories affecting her, the curses she fires are no longer grey and obscure in intent, but patently maleficent.
His eyes flash in anger, thick, leather ropes materialising from his wand and whipping over her. “I have suffered, and so I learned,” he answers. “That I chose to teach you—”
She ducks and rolls on the marble, then rises to her feet at once. “Perhaps you chose to teach me simply to showcase my mediocrity to all and sundry. The opportunity presented itself when I approached you, and you lorded your expertise over me, Professor. Why?”
A sudden burst of fury unleashes a wave of magic so strong the floor cracks between them. He looks alarmed, but he does not falter.
“Never taking me on as an apprentice yet accepting today’s duel. You revel in seeing me fail, don’t you?”
His shield flares in the face of her wrath. “I do not spare you any thoughts of mine.”
A tornado of hexes slices at his legs, his robes, his fine hands, and with a flourish, she finally disarms him.
“And now?”
It is within her right to turn around and leave, but she isn’t done.
“I have many vices, too many to count. And believe me,” she laughs, notching the tip of her wand beneath his chin, “I’ve tried. I’ve spent hours writing and reflecting, talking things over and over with almost everyone I know. And you know what? I’m happy, having these vices. I can live with them. Manage them, and still have a full life with the people I love.”
He faces her, his jaw flexing, but he doesn’t answer.
Fully at her mercy.
“But you—no matter the excuses I make for you.” She turns her face to look at him, and the stunned agony in his eyes pierces her own.
She shakes her head. His scent washes over her, vetiver and citrus and sweat, and she can’t help but lean her forehead against his face, his cheekbone hard against her temple.
“For a while, I thought perhaps—”
She turns her face until her lips are pressed against the pursed corner of his. A kiss that she might have given him, had she won.
He exhales, tilting his face to hers just slightly, but before it can be deemed a reality, she steps back.
She imagines what a real victory would have felt like. One where she isn’t so hollow with loss.
“We’ve both suffered, yet you remain indifferent.” She sheaths her wand back into her holster and sighs. “And while my pride may be my downfall, at least cruelty has forsaken me.”