a shared territory
In all her years spent in the terrible orbit of Draco Malfoy, Hermione had never seen him smile with such boyish abandon. Always his smile had been tinged with cruelty, with a profound and unsettling mockery. To see him now, laughing, as if his entanglement in darkness was profoundly amusing, as if it were akin to a kind of cosmic prank, made her head spin on her shoulders.
His hair was longer now, she had noticed, no longer slicked back in that way that had made him seem so menacing in youth. Rather, it fell messily, as if it had spent the day being swept by the wind. Taking in his appearance – his dark blue woolen sweater, jeans and muddy leather boots - she had been struck by how her childhood bully now resembled a sheep farmer more than a pureblooded aristocrat heir to an ancient and noble lineage.
It had made her angry, his quietness, his refusal to meet her eyes. This new Draco Malfoy seemed like a shell of his former arrogant self. The world he inhabited no longer exists, the Mudbloods and all the other dirty creatures have won, she thought in a feverish flash, that must be why he is so dejected. She stomped across her small apartment, automatically sorting through books to determine which ones to pack.
But a small voice within her stilled those thoughts. She found herself instead conjuring the image of him at trial. He had looked so pale, suddenly so young. His eyes had been wide, frozen not in an expression of fear but surprise, as if he were astonished by the events unfolding before him. If you’ve lived alongside Voldemort you probably learn to measure fear differently, she had thought at the time.
Behind the iron cage within which the accused sit in the Wizengamot, she could have sworn his hair had become even lighter than it had been at Hogwarts, more akin to starlight than the pale blond of his childhood. It reminded her of Marie Antoinette whose hair – she had learned in primary school - had turned completely white the night before her beheading. But of course, that could’ve been a trick of the light.
She paused, holding her battered copy of Hogwarts: A History. As a child, she had dreaded running into him in the halls of the castle. For, although she had steeled herself during each encounter, it ate at her, the thought that he and others like him perceived her as not as a witch but as a creature unworthy of inhabiting a shared territory of magic. And in spite of Harry and Ron’s insistence on her belonging within Hogwarts and her own feelings – the way her magic hummed happily within its ancient halls – she couldn’t help but feel a deep-rooted fear that perhaps Malfoy was right, that she would always remain an outsider peering in.
Her parents, amidst it all, had been there for her during the nights she had doubted herself the most. They held her together until she felt reassured that she belonged there, between their world and the magical one.
She threw the book onto a messy pile, closing herself off from the image of her mother’s smile and replaced it instead with the grey eyes of Draco Malfoy which had met her own for a brief moment as he laughed.
He’s gone loopy from all that time spent in Azkaban. And I’ve gone loopy thinking so much about him.
Abandoning her attempts to pack she sighed and shrugged off her robes. There would be time for rearranging and thinking tomorrow. Feeling sleep tug at her mind she glanced at Crookshanks’ empty bed from beneath the covers.
And she thought of her dead cat and the ghosts of her parents who now lived the lives she had conjured for them from thin air until, finally, she succumbed to dreams of winding stone corridors.
∆
Hermione worried her bottom lip while staring at the blank sheet of paper. Since coming into her role as junior member of the Magical Creatures Department she had neglected taking a single day off, losing herself in the dull tedium of endless paperwork and the occasional elation from small victories. A word changed in a centuries old document, a werewolf child granted a safe refuge for their monthly transformation, all these made Hermione feel light on her feet, dizzy with hope and possibility. She felt crushing guilt at the mere prospect of time off.
She knew her request would be granted of course. Charlie Weasley - who after sustaining an injury in Romania had returned to England and quickly ascended in the ranks of the department - had repeatedly insisted she take time off.
“Hermione, I am begging you to take some time to enjoy the world outside of this basement, this simply cannot be good for you being here so much” he would say every summer before departing for his annual trip to Romania. This summer, however, he had leaned on the edge of her desk before adding, softly: “You could even come with me, see some dragons, enjoy some good food, drink, and company.”
She took in his tall body leaning over her desk, his eyes full of an unspoken feeling. She pulled her feelings deep into herself, wrapping them onto themselves like twine.
“Charlie Weasley, you cannot possibly be asking me to come with you. What will your mother think?” she had laughed, attempting to keep her tone light and playful.
He had grinned lopsidedly. “Let her think whatever she wants, What I want is for you to come with me. I really believe like you could use a change of scenery. A change I think I can provide.”
“It’s a bit irregular to be asking your junior to gallivant with you across the Romanian countryside.”
“Well I have been known to deploy irregular methods to coax dragons out of their cages.”
She paused. “Ask me again next year Charlie.”
“I will,” he smiled, “have a good summer Hermione.”
She found herself gazing at the space he had occupied long after his departure. When she had first begun working in the department she felt a rush at the realization that he held the same passions she had for the rights of all magical beings.
She had not intended for there to be anything between her and the second eldest Weasley. But the tingle in her stomach grew in time, strengthened whenever he would smile at her or when one of her quips would draw a deep laugh from within him. It didn’t help that as he seemed to be caught up in a similar torrent of feelings, stuck between burgeoning attraction and fear of impropriety.
While it seemed that he had let himself be swept up in the former, Hermione couldn’t allow herself to venture into the dangerous territory of affection. He represented change, in all its unforeseen sinews. She feared losing herself within them.
“Dear Charlie,” she began writing. “While I am sorry I could not join you in your travels I have decided to listen to your advice and take some time for myself.”
∆
Hermione felt her feet meet tall grass and wild flowers as she rematerialized in the meadow. In the light of day, it unfolded before her in all its brightness. The grass glimmered around her, the morning light caught in the beads of dew that clung to their small blades. In the middle of the meadow, a smooth lake busied itself reflecting the immensity of the blue sky that stretched above.
It’s so beautiful here.
The wind rose, seeming to greet her, shaking her cloak gently, like the tug of a small child. And suddenly, mysteriously, she felt the long-forgotten urge to wander swell within her; to explore the recesses of this place, its flowers and animal inhabitants, in the midst of their unfoldings.
Focus, Hermione, she scolded herself, remember what is at stake. Spotting a thin column of smoke in a wooded area beyond the lake, she began making her way.
In the immediate aftermath of the war she had extensively researched how to reverse memory charms. She had raided libraries, archives, spoken to the most renowned scholars of memory and mind healers. All of which seemed in consensus: that there was nothing to be done.
Despair had clung to her skin, in the first years of her quest for retrieving the irretrievable. In time Hermione had felt her grief settle at the bottom of her heart and had decided it to endeavor to keep its silt still, to avoid movement lest it rise and overtake her.
The idea had come to her unexpectedly. Charlie had walked into the office on an afternoon like any other, hair mussed and tie askew.
“These blasted black market sellers keep giving us the slip, every single time” he let out with a sigh, absentmindedly rubbing his temples.
“I’m sure your luck will turn around Charlie,” she grinned over her desk, welcoming the interruption.
He returned her smile tenfold, his eyes crinkling around the corners. She found herself getting lost in the sun spots and pale flecks that resembled stars that adorned his face – whose origins she presumed to be the claws of hatchlings.
“You’re something of a good luck charm Hermione.”
She guffawed. “I am most certainly not, I’d say I’ve had a rather unlucky go at things for a long time. Now back to work enough feeling sorry for yourself.”
The boy with the sky on his face simply smiled at her before returning to his desk.
Yet for days the phrase echoed in her mind, as she tried to read her novel on the underground to work, as she bought beer and berries late at night at Tesco’s, as she lay awake in her bed. Good luck charm.
∆
The cottage stood upright in spite of the dense webs of vines that clung heavily to its sides. In the darkness of the previous evening, Hermione had been unable to make much sense of its appearance – in light she now marveled at the quaintness of its bones: faded white brick, dark slanted wooden roof, dark green painted windows and door. She felt a gentle pull of magic beckon her forward, a soft undertow she hadn’t realized she had been caught in. Although she was no expert in non-sentient magical beings she found herself intrigued by the particular forms of magic embedded in its structure.
Steeling her nerves at the prospect of her several months long endeavor – a fool’s errand the worst of her insecurities hissed in her mind- she knocked before instinctually stepping back several steps, her wand clutched beneath her cloak.
A disheveled head of white hair opened the door. The potion maker startled slightly at the sight of her. Perhaps he believed she had reneged on yesterday’s arrangement, or that he had imagined the entire exchange.
Regaining his composure, he moved aside and gestured for her to enter.
They both stood before one another for a beat. Hermione found herself taking in his appearance once more, the gaunt face he had worn in youth had filled in with age, and, although she searched his face for the expressions she had come to associate with the boy – haughtiness, arrogance, disgust, she found no traces of them in his pale grey eyes. Instead she found curiosity and an odd intensity she could not place before he shifted his gaze elsewhere. He seemed to tense up at her visual inspection.
Merlin Hermione say something, stop gawking.
“Shall I give you a tour of the house then?” his voice broke the silence before her own.
She nodded, annoyed at her continued loss of words.
“Kitchen is over there, not much to look at but it’s functional. It’s actually run by electricity if you could believe that. Living room, we’re standing in, over there is my potion’s room. Upstairs there are two bedrooms and a bathroom. I’ve cleared the one to the right for your use. The attic is quite dingy, I mostly use it for storage so I wouldn’t go in there. Back through is my herb garden.” After vaguely gesturing towards each room without actually showing any to Hermione he set off towards the back door, opening it onto the garden.
Rows upon rows of herbs peaked out from behind the door, despite her limited knowledge of plants she recognized bushes of lavender, nettle, thyme, sage, their small spines gently shuddering in the breeze.
“Sorry I am realizing this is quite an uninformative tour, especially to someone who, well, likes information. I’m not used to having guests” he said quietly, grimacing slightly on the last word.
“Um no, thank you Malfoy, that was perfectly adequate.” Informative? Adequate? Merlin this is an absolutely demented interaction. Hermione felt ill at ease thinking about this new arrangement which would stretch into months, realizing that she did not know what to make of him outside of a carefully built scaffolding of hatred. Who would’ve thought that outside of war all we would be capable of is awkwardness.
As if sensing her discomfort, he mumbled something about tea and started busying himself in the kitchen. His long fingers reaching into a cupboard for a chipped mug of glazed indigo.
His back now turned, her voice seemed to return to her.
“I brought my tent, I will live in your garden if that’s ok.”
“Of course, whatever suits you best.”
“I think we should lay some ground rules,” she resumed.
“You can take the head girl out of the tower,” he chuckled, and she found herself momentarily disarmed by the softness in his voice.
“I think it’s best given our history,” she huffed, “I want this to be as expedient and painless a process as possible. I’ll pay you for your time and while I recognize you may have other engagements I hope you will prioritize this particular task. Also, no personal questions,” she felt an inadvertent blush creeping on her cheeks at the last point.
There was some small part of her – she realized - that feared his judgment. Partly due to his being her youthful tormentor, partly due to her recognizing his deep intellectual capacity. In all their years at Hogwarts he had been a close second to her, a position which seemed to make him grow increasingly incensed throughout the years. Until sixth year. She feared he would think her childish in her hope that a lucky potion could help steady her hand enough to cast the spell that would return her parents to her.
Hermione was not one for flights of fancy. She was a creature of logic, sequentially plotting her movements towards tangible goals. Even as a child while others dreamt up improbable futures, she was diligently thinking of school, work, a luminous office to one day call her own.
And as she busied herself night after night, rehearsing the intricate dance that constituted memory retrieval with her wand, she told herself that this was just another tangible step taken towards her goals. And that liquid luck was merely a tool to help her achieve the very best outcomes.
“Right, I guess I’ll set my terms as well. I’ll need your assistance in collecting most of the ingredients, at times that may require us to camp in various locations. I’ll still need time to make my weekly potions for Madame Pomfrey. I have weekly meetings with my caseworker on Mondays” he finished, handing her a mug of tea.
“Today is Monday”she stammered, unsure of what to do with this information, how to reconcile the boy who betrayed them all with the one who stood before her.
“Yes. We can begin after I return,” he said apologetically. “I should probably head out now.”
“Right.”
“I’ll let you get settled in. Goodbye Hermione,” he said, the cold grey of his eyes briefly meeting her own as he slipped through the backdoor.
Staring at the spot from which he had disappeared, she could not help but feel an odd tightness in her chest. In all these years, she had never heard him call her by her name.