Four months after the Second Wizarding War, Hermione found herself at Platform 9 ¾, boarding the Hogwarts Express for the last time. She had her beaded bag in one hand, a suitcase worth of clothes and three suitcases worth of Muggle literature buried within. In the other hand, she held her wand - never holstered because her body refused to let go of the feeling of impending danger.
After kissing Harry and Ron goodbye, she boarded the train, peeking into each compartment, hoping to find an empty one. The first was full of Gryffindors, Luna and Neville waving her in, but she gave them a smile and shook her head no. Another one seated Padma and Parvati, a haunted look in both of their eyes, and as much as she loved them, she didn’t want to be reminded of her own pain today.
Finally, she spotted an empty one, and made her way in. As she sat down, she noticed there was some luggage already laying in the overhead storage. It was only one bag, so she decided it would be better than a gaggle of starstruck strangers asking her questions about the war.
Hermione closed her eyes and rested her head against the backrest. Stretching her legs out and feeling the resistance when her toes brushed the opposing seat, she was reminded of how large the cabin used to seem even the previous time she had been in there.
Three counts in, five counts out - a breathing exercise her therapist told her would calm her racing heart. She heard the door open, and lifted her lids to see who she would be spending the next eight hours with.
Bright blond hair and a sharp nose. Full pink lips slightly parted in surprise. Grey eyes hardening their defences.
“Draco Malfoy.” The way she said his name was almost reverent, but they both knew better.
“I can leave,” he suggested, without actually meaning it.
Her reluctance to interact with idolizers likely paled in comparison to his fear of being avada-ed by overzealous second-years.
But Hermione wasn’t one to make things easy for other people.
“Then, leave,” she replied, raising an eyebrow.
At this, he paused, lips curling into a grimace. Then he fully entered the cabin, closed the door behind him, and sat opposite her in one graceful movement.
He clenched his fists and straightened his back, clearly struggling to say something. She looked at him coolly.
“I -”
“Don’t bother. We both know you don’t mean it.” Hermione’s words were cruel, but her tone was gentle.
She wasn’t in the mood to hear an empty apology. She had already made peace with the truth. There were people who would hate her for something she had no choice in, something that made them feel inferior, something that drove them to lash out in fear. Hatred wasn’t logical, and she had stopped wondering ‘why’ a long time ago.
They spent the next twenty minutes not saying another word, which was very well because she was in the middle of a really good book. Occasionally, she would find him looking at her unabashedly, trying to decipher her intentions by analysing the curve of her nose, the colour of her jumper, the dirt on her shoes.
She too would stare at him, wondering what was going on in his mind, whether he would call her ‘mudblood’ for old time’s sake, what perfume he wore because Merlin, it smelled good. At this thought, she chuckled to herself. Good perfume didn’t discriminate. Maybe she should ask him what it was.
He gave her an odd look.
What a ponce.
She looked back down, then flipped the page.
The sweet trolley came by just as the character in her book was describing the flavour of a warm toffee pastry.
“Anything for you, dear?” The Sweet lady asked with a smile, smelling of sugar and kindness.
“I’ll have a cauldron cake and a sugar quill, thanks.” As the lady packaged her pastry and sweet, she asked Malfoy the same question.
“Three cauldron cakes, four chocolate frogs, four sugar quills. And…er…two - no, three licorice wands. And a box of Bertie’s.”
Hermione dug inside her bag for a galleon, but by the time she found one, Malfoy had already paid for them both. She didn’t thank him.
They nibbled on their snacks diligently, the silence so severe that Hermione felt self-conscious of her chewing noises, the icing sugar from her cake dusting her skirt, the occasional pop from sucking on her sugar quill. How did he eat so neatly? Not a single crumb or spill, as if he couldn’t afford to leave a morsel behind. Hermione choked on a laugh.
He looked at her oddly again, brows furrowed in confusion.
Couldn’t he mind his own business? She glared back, daring him to comment.
One hour into the train ride, her neck began to cramp from keeping it at a downward angle toward her book. Breathing out, she tilted her head one way, then the other. She dug her fingers into the aching muscles at the back of her neck, massaging the stiffness out of them.
“You do know you’re a witch, right?” His voice was wry, a snicker repressed.
“Really, Malfoy? Just as well call me a mudblood,” she seethed. The blood drained from his face when he realised the other interpretation of his words.
“I’m sorry, I - I didn’t mean it that way. You just - you could’ve used a levita- forget it. You’re Granger. Of course you know. Bloody hell.” He stumbled over every word, fingers raking through his hair in frustration at the rubbish apology.
Hermione let out a proper laugh seeing her tormentor in such a state, and a flush began to creep up from his neck into his face at her reaction.
“I was taking the piss, Malfoy. Calm down.” An amused smile enveloped her face, enjoying how the tables had turned. Maybe she could bully him this year, wouldn’t that be fun.
“Forget I said anything.”
He was annoyed at her mockery, how she could so easily poke fun at the burden that weighed on his shoulders. He felt like every conversation he had, every word he said, was a test. As if others were watching and waiting for him to mess up, ready to convict him and finally lock him away for his crimes.
Yes, he was a bully. He could admit to that. He constantly said shite to piss her and her idiot friends off. He had called her names and hell, he had even hexed her sometimes. But that didn’t mean he deserved to live the rest of his life on the edge between bully and killer. He wasn’t a killer.
Realising the direction his thoughts took him, Hermione rolled her eyes. Sure, her joke was a little pointed but then again, she was still sitting here, wasn’t she? But she didn’t want to be the instigator of the Third Wizarding War, so she decided to be the bigger witch. As always.
“I know you didn’t mean it like that. I apologise if my joke was insensitive.” He looked at her, eyes softening a bit, then caught himself and hardened them again. Mercury, steel. He crossed his arms and looked out the window, watching the trees speed by.
Was he always this sensitive? She snorted, then went back to her book.
As the train chugged through the permafrosted icescapes surrounding the edge of the mountain range that trolls inhabited, a chill wafted through their cabin and settled in.
Hermione shivered and took a moment to dive into her beaded bag again, looking for a thicker jumper. Unfortunately, the contents of her bag had been dreadfully jostled, and it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Giving up, she resorted to rubbing her hands together, then running them up and down her arms to bring some heat into her.
Teeth chattering, she noticed Malfoy’s eyes piercing into her with exasperation. There was a bit of murder in them too.
Stilling, she slowly brought a hand to her wand, locking her gaze with his. Lifting it up, she swished her hand and cast a warming charm, immediately feeling her limbs loosen and regain feeling.
She gave him a sheepish smile, and his mouth hardened into a line. He was such an angry person.
Something he had said earlier stuck in her mind, and she wasn’t too proud to ask.
“You said I could use a levitation charm. For my book. But Wingardium Leviosa requires constant concentration. And the hover charm doesn’t last very long.”
He looked startled, clearly stunned that the Great Granger was asking him of all people a question. He waited for a moment, deliberating whether it was safe to talk.
Pulling his wand out of his sleeve, he drew it into a swish then flicked, but the swish was not quite as large of a sweep and the flick was a bit more abrupt and in the opposite direction than a traditional Wingardium. He muttered some words and her book floated from her lap, snapping straight out and arresting mid air, as if it had been nailed to an invisible wall.
Hermione’s eyes widened in appreciation, fluttering her hand behind her book and tugging it to see if it would move. Nothing.
He smirked. Cocky bastard.
“Tell me. What was the incantation?” She prodded him for the words, already fantasising how handy this charm would be during NEWTs. She could fit about three textbooks comfortably on a desk, two if she had a notebook. But with this, she could surround herself with them and have her notebook on the table before her.
“Figure it out yourself.” He looked chuffed at finally being able to one-up the most obnoxious witch of her age.
Narrowing her eyes into slits, she said, “Fine, you tetchy bastard. Give me five minutes.” Hermione cast a tempus charm that started at 05:00 and counted down.
And for the next four minutes and thirty-nine seconds, she played around with various charms, augmenting them and the corresponding wand movements. When the tempus struck 00:19, she flicked a curl over her shoulder and aimed her wand at him.
He looked at her in blatant disbelief, but when she smiled and cast her charm, dragging his entire figure up into the air and jerking to a stop mid way, his face drained of colour once again.
“I figured it out,” she stated, before letting his body crash down into the seat.
“Bitch.”
He snarled, unsure if he was more angry that she had treated him in such an undignified manner, or that she had mastered a spell that took him three hours of research and three more hours of practice to perfect. He conceded to himself that she had the advantage of seeing his wand movements. She wasn’t that brilliant.
Her brown eyes were dancing with mirth, and this infuriated him further.
She went back to her ridiculously thick book, now stuck in the air with his charm.
After seven minutes of glaring daggers at her through her floating book, he decided two could play at that game. He stood up and pulled out his own book from his bag.
It wasn’t quite as thick as hers, but the content was surely more cerebral. They read in silence until the sun had set enough that the lights in the cabin flickered on. He cancelled the spell as he finished the last page, closing the book and placing it to his left.
“That’s a good book.” She was peering at the cover of his novella, head cocked to the side as she remembered the contents.
His brows rose in surprise, and he pulled them back down.
“It was okay.”
“The prose was unique. Very sensory. Almost too sensory at times. It made me feel uncomfortable. But the ending was brilliant. Like a void compared to the rest of the story.”
“The ending was predictable.”
“Predictable?”
“The foreshadowing wasn’t subtle at all, it was a bludger to the head. Do you even need foreshadowing in a hundred page book?”
“You’ve had one too many bludgers to the head, Malfoy. The foreshadowing was clearly subverted, unless you misunderstood the entire story?
“It wasn’t subverted, you berk. It happened exactly the same as the foreshadowing. See here. Trembling fingers, icy hearts, a dragon’s breath was a soft release and she tumbled into the bottom of the cauldron and her skin peeled off as it burned in the acid. That’s exactly what happened in the end.”
Hermione let out a noise of frustration, snatching the thin silver book out of his hands.
“Yes, but the foreshadowing was all figurative. It had a positive connotation at first, but in the ending it was a negative and literal one. It was subverted you absolute plonker.”
“How is skin peeling off a positive connotation?” He practically yelled, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. “Actually, forget it.”
Malfoy snatched the book out of her hands and shoved it into a pocket deep inside his robes.
Hermione opened her mouth in protest, but stopped when they heard a knock at the door, which proceeded to slide open a crack. A head of curly black hair popped in through the gap, wheels turning in his head as he realised exactly who he was looking at. But he took a deep breath, undeterred.
“Excuse me. Sorry. But could you two please keep it down a bit? We’re trying to sleep.” The smallish student asked meekly, frantically looking between Hermione and Draco.
Draco looked like he was about to decapitate the child, but gave him a sharp apologetic nod.
Hermione on the other hand, hated being interrupted during debates.
“Bugger off and cast a deafening charm. You learn that in year two, and you look to be at least thirteen.”
“I’m sixteen,” he replied, miffed at her insult. But he left their cabin promptly.
“That was a little…hypocritical, don’t you think?” Malfoy angled his head as he scanned her from top to bottom, grinning as if he had brewed the bloody Elixir of Life. He relaxed into the seat, stretching his legs out and knocking into her feet at the movement.
Hermione was a little speechless at his accusation, so she gave him her best So what? look and kicked at his offending foot. Bloody know-it-all Malfoys and their bloody git brains and their bloody blasted legs.
Since she didn’t have an answer for him, she did the next best thing and diverted.
“Why are you here, anyway? I never thought you’d want to take an extra year.”
“Because I’d be too ashamed? Traumatised? Or because you think I’m a wanker who would take advantage of the NEWT exemption?”
She paused, pondering her own intentions. “The latter.”
“I’m not one of your idiot friends, Granger.” She pursed her lips, debating the truth of that statement.
“And I didn’t just miss one year,” he said more quietly.
Right. He was a little absent in sixth form, now that she thought about it.
“Huh.”
“Nothing to say? No, ‘You reap what you sow, Death Eater.’ ‘Go drown in your money and never come back, evil scum.’?”
She chuckled at his dramatics. He was - dare she say it - pretty funny.
Surprised at her reaction, Malfoy’s face contorted into an unwilling smile.
“What? Are you having a good time? With me? I can call you a slur if this is too bizarre.”
Hermione laughed harder - she really was having a good time and thought back to the past four hours, wondering when the discomfort had turned into a playful back and forth.
“It only took a war to make me enjoy your company.”
At this, he tossed the wrapper from his eaten licorice wand at her head, snickering when it caught in her hair.
“So you admit it. You’re enjoying my company.”
“Call me a slur, Malfoy. It just got weird,” she threw the wrapper back at him, aiming at his head but accidentally clipping his eye.
He let out a noise of pain, and covered his injured eye with a hand. Hermione leaped to her feet, hands hovering before her, wanting to help but not knowing what to do.
“Ah shite, sorry, Malfoy.” She reached for his face, but he batted her hand away. “Let me take a look, you git.”
He grumbled, but didn’t protest when she tilted his chin up and peered into his swelling watery eye, the flaming colour a stark contrast to his serene grey iris.
Reaching over for her wand, she cast a quick healing charm and watched as the redness faded away.
Hermione wiped away a stray tear from his face with her thumb, then patted his cheek. He had soft skin.
“All better.”
“Thanks,” he said grumpily.
She sat back down, momentarily floored by how normal that interaction was. Silence permeated the cabin as they both took in how strange the day had been so far.
“So what was it like? Being a Death Eater?”
“Are you barmy?” He looked at her as if she had three heads, a horn, and scales. No-one had asked him that. Would dare to ask him that. He knew they all wondered, but surely - and accurately - thought he’d avada them if they asked.
Of course Granger wouldn’t be afraid to ask. Barmy Gryffindors. Actually, no. This was a Granger thing. She really had to know everything.
“Go on. Unless you’re embarrassed…?” She needled him, and he scoffed at her choice in words. She really was barmy.
“Not as fun as you’d think.” She waited for him to say more.
“A lot of threats, torture - receiving and giving, felt like I would soil my pants every other day. I’m surprised I made it out alive.” She nodded along to his words, frowning in places and humming at others.
“The masks were fun though. Very ‘secret society.’” They exchanged sardonic smiles.
“I would’ve thought you’d like the tattoos. Edgy. A little sexy. Sometimes I wished the Order had their own tattoos too. Maybe a phoenix rising from the ashes. Or is that too on the nose? A Ministry symbol would be too political. A lightning bolt like Harry’s scar? But that would be a little boring. The Dark Mark had some flair. Evil, but flair…What?”
Malfoy was clutching at his sides, red-faced from holding back laughter. Eyes sparkling with tears that he dabbed at rather poshly.
“You’re fucking weird, Granger. I always knew you were a swot, but you really are incredibly absurd. I wish I spoke to you longer before. I would’ve had so much more material.”
She pressed her lips together and turned away, face flushing with embarrassment.
“Granger.”
“Granger.”
“What, Malfoy?” She kept her head facing the other direction, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
“You’re funny too.”
She turned back, lips pressing even harder, trying to stop the growing smile.
He covered his own with his hand, pretending to itch his nose.
~~~
They spent the next few hours rattling on about nothing. About everything. About nothing at all and it felt like everything.
He would tease and she would taunt and they would both try to hold out until one inevitably cracked and they both fell into giggles.
He liked how she dared to talk about things no-one would ever bring up, how she poked fun at his mistakes as if they could be forgiven, as if she was giving him a second chance.
She was giving him a second chance, and he was extraordinarily grateful for it, though he would never admit it.
Not yet, at least.
She laughed hysterically at his jokes. His witty banter was the slightest bit self-deprecating and she respected that, especially since he was really quite clever. She would never admit it, though. Ever.
And maybe he was right about that novella - she might’ve been giving the author more credit than she deserved. Peeling skin was a bit hard to portray in a positive light.
No, she was definitely right about that. It symbolised transformation and renewal. See - she wasn’t daft.
She could tell he struggled to talk about the war. She always wondered how someone could be a part of something so evil, so irrationally vile, but as they talked, she began to understand.
He told her about his family, how his father was suffering from panic attacks yet refused to see a healer. It frustrated him how desperately his father felt like he needed to be strong, invincible. But he didn’t know how to make him see that it could be okay to be weak.
No. Vulnerable.
Maybe it was necessary sometimes, but this wasn’t something his father ever learned. Malfoy himself only learnt it recently.
When she asked about his mum, he closed up a bit, fists clenching. He asked her about her parents. She had a similar reaction. They silently decided this would be a conversation for another day.
Hermione asked to see his Dark Mark and he showed her. He asked to see her scars and she grimaced, but gave him a peek. They both itched their marks in unison once, and that led to a bit of morbid laughter.
But for most of the ride, they chatted about nonsense. How much stronger her charms were than his. How much longer-lasting his potions were than hers. She accused him of cheating, and he accused her of being a try-hard.
She admitted to cheating once in 5th year when her Toothy Ripplevine kept attacking her, so she stunned it and swapped hers for Neville’s. He didn’t notice a thing, and somehow soothed it into submission. It was a win-win, she reasoned. She got an O on the project, and so did he.
Draco went silent for the next five minutes, then admitted he failed that project and threw his plant in the Black Lake. He later discovered it grew fifty times its size and it was injuring the merpeople. Snape and Dumbledore had to get rid of it, the former brewing some potion to kill it while the latter created a barrier to keep other creatures out of the area.
She cackled at his idiocy, and he briefly regretted telling her.
Afterwards, both fell into a bittersweet silence at that story.
Hermione told him about her own anxiety attacks. How it was hard to talk about, especially when she was put on such a pedestal and almost worshipped for her actions. She said she understood how his father felt. It wasn’t easy. A lot of it came down to being the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time. Too much of it was out of their hands.
Not that he was blameless, Draco argued. No, Hermione agreed. But he was given a choice between a death sentence for himself, and a death sentence for his family. Who could hate him for choosing the former?
They talked about Quidditch and how brilliant of a Seeker Draco was. Well, Draco talked about Quidditch and how brilliant of a Seeker he was. Hermione tried to escape the cabin but was forced to listen when Draco cast a locking charm and nicked her wand.
The train screeched to a halt and let out a chuff. They looked at each other in surprise. Confusion. Had eight hours already passed?
They hadn’t finished their conversation about Hermione’s book. She thought he would enjoy it, especially if he liked surrealist fiction. Draco wondered whether she might let him borrow her book. It seemed interesting enough.
They both didn’t know whether this truce would last, and felt themselves drift farther apart as they got swept up in the storm of the bustling students exiting the train. Draco lost her in the crowd, and Hermione couldn’t see past the bodies blocking her vision.
He backed away to a pillar and waited for the crowd to dissipate, watching as students boarded thestral-led carriages that stood eerily in their midst. Thirty minutes passed and the last gaggle of students were climbing into them, so he decided to leave too.
“Draco!” A voice called. Her voice.
“Draco, I was just on the other side of that pillar beside yours. I didn’t see you until you stepped out.” She was a little out of breath, a smile on her face, fiddling with a curl that fell at the side of her cheek.
“How long does it take you to read a book?”
“A few days. Depending on how busy I am.”
“Then read this and tell me what you think when you’re done.” She grabbed his hand and placed the book into it. At her touch, he bit down on his lip, trying to hide his grin. She held on a tad longer before letting go.
“So, I’ll meet you in the library? Saturday?”
“Do you want to go to the Three Broomsticks instead?”
“How do you expect us to get there?”
“I have a way.”
“Sure, then."
“Alright.”
“Want to grab a carriage? They won’t wait for us much longer.”
“Yeah. Go on, then.”
“Was that your stomach?”
“No, you mongrel. That was yours.”
“Oh.” ... “So what? I’m a growing boy.”
“You’re a glutton.”
“You’re a bit mean, Granger.”
“You can call me ‘Hermione.’”
“Hermione.”
“That was bizarre. Was that the first time you’ve said my name?”
“I reckon.”
“In seven years? That’s a bit hurtful.”
“You broke my nose.”
“I’ll do it again.”
“Your words hurt more than your actions.”
“Actually, scratch that. Your actions hurt pretty fucking bad. My eye is still throbbing.”
“You’re such a ponce, Draco. I healed you. You’re fine.”
“You didn’t heal my nose.”
“I’ll heal it next time.”
“If there’s a next time, Hermione, I’ll…”
“You’ll what? Break mine?”
“Fuck. You’re bloody scary, Granger. Hermione. Just heal it properly.”
“Obviously.”