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A few days had already passed since her arrival in London, yet Hermione could still feel the burn on her skin — the phantom kisses of the Australian sun that made her hand drift to her forehead, wiping away non-existent droplets of sweat.
It was all rather strange. Returning to those old places that held tiny bits of her heart and finding them unchanged, as if she had never left. And yet, she knew she couldn’t visit them in the same way she once had, with the same people she once knew. Her friends had moved on: started families, had children, matured. Though she liked their current selves far more than their teenage versions, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was the only one standing in the same place as a few years ago.
She and the dead.
In Australia, it was easier to ignore this feeling. Time passed in a circle there, all days blending together. She would wake up, take a quick shower, eat something simple, work in her study, and then visit her parents. The visits were short and nearly always the same. Chatting over tea full of awkward silences she was desperate to fill. So, she talked and talked, but her voice softened with each passing minute as she watched her parents’ expressions turn increasingly apprehensive, until she was barely mumbling.
She had managed to reverse some of the memory charm, but her spell had been rooting too deep. They knew she was their daughter, but it was a fact, not a feeling. They no longer remembered her first words, the bedtime stories they would tell her, stroking her hair when she had a fever. They recalled some fragments of their previous life: some conversations, a few family Sundays, a puzzle they had once done together — but it wasn’t enough to love her.
What remained engraved in their minds was that she had hurt them. She had wiped their cherished child from their memories.
They didn’t want to return to England; in Australia they had friends, jobs, a house by the beach — real lives.
They had once been curious about magic — almost like Mr. Weasley was about Muggles — fascinated by her school supplies, wizarding newspapers, sweets… They loved watching her cast spells. But now they feared it. Whenever Hermione paid them a visit, she had to leave her wand at home, even though she kept catching herself touching the hip where her holster would normally be or scratching her scarred forearm nervously.
After each visit, she would cry on her bed, evening after evening, until one day she didn’t. She transformed her sorrow into a fierce determination, diving deeper into her research, experimenting further, reaching out to wizards who specialised in memory charms beyond Europe and beyond the magic she knew. She did all this, trying not to think if perhaps she had destroyed her parents’ memories for nothing. The war had ended swiftly, and no-one had ever truly looked for them. It might’ve been enough if she’d simply hidden them in a safe house.
But regrets were useless things.
“Hermione! Over here!”
Hermione turned at the familiar voice and spotted the unmistakable Weasley red hair by the bar. Ginny was grinning and waving her over, so Hermione squeezed through the crowd at the Three Broomsticks to join her.
“Oh my, he’s already so big!” Hermione exclaimed, staring at Ginny’s very pregnant stomach.
Ginny rolled her eyes with a smile. “He’s normal-sized, you just haven’t seen me in a while.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just…”
Ginny waved her off. “Don’t. I know you’ve been busy with your parents. I’m just happy you’re finally here. We’ve missed you, you know. I told the gang you’d come by tonight, and I think everyone showed up.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Everyone?”
“Yeah. Sorry, Ron’s here. But he’s brought his girlfriend. So... I think this time he’ll behave himself. Come on, we’re over there.” She took Hermione’s hand and led her towards a booth in the far corner.
As they drew closer, familiar faces began to loom out of the shadows, all with beaming smiles.
Except one.
Sitting alone, two seats away from everyone else, was another thing left behind which held a tiny bit of her heart. He looked gloomy and aloof, as if trying to imply he was above such plebeian gatherings. He raised his face from his drink just as her gaze fell on him, and Hermione quickly looked away before their eyes could meet.
Her heart thudded in her chest, her hands immediately turned sweaty, but she was instantly distracted as everyone around her started to talk to her at once.
Did he remember? Oh Merlin, she hoped, he didn’t.
When the initial flurry of greetings settled and everyone drifted back to their seats, Hermione leaned in to Ginny, murmuring, “I didn’t know Malfoy still comes to your monthly gatherings.”
“He doesn’t, actually. I don’t think I’ve seen him at one in over a year.” Ginny gave her a sly smile. “Maybe he showed up because of you. You know, it’s been a while since he could make fun of your hair.”
Five years ago, Malfoy had occasionally attended their gatherings. He had been part of an Auror squad that mostly consisted of her friends, and they had a tradition of meeting every first Friday of the month. At first, it had been a way to remember — the dead, and the dark world they’d managed to push back into the shadows — but over time, it had evolved into a typical get-together of old friends.
Malfoy had never truly fit in. He was neither their friend nor a true member of the Auror squad. He didn’t work because he wanted to, nor even because he needed to. He had enough wealth to live comfortably for several lifetimes. And he certainly wasn’t the type to willingly risk his neck hunting down dark wizards. But the Wizengamot had given him an ultimatum: help us catch your old friends or rot in Azkaban. Hardly much of a choice.
He’d become the man for dirty work. The sort any respectable Auror would not touch. After a while, Harry began to tolerate him; in time, he even admitted he liked working with him. He felt a bit sorry for him too, which was probably why, one day, he turned up with Malfoy at one of their regular gatherings.
If not for that, she’d probably never have got acquainted with Malfoy’s family jewels. That wild night five years ago, when Seamus brought those bloody fairy biscuits.
“They’re called Dreamers,” he’d said, with a grin, “supposed to make you follow your wildest dreams.”
They’d laughed it off. She thought it silly. Until she found herself acting out one of her dirtiest fantasies with the last person she’d ever expected to be intimate with.
Letting Malfoy fuck her that night was bad enough, but what was even worse was that she hadn’t just let him. They’d had sex like she’d never experienced before, the kind she couldn’t imagine admitting to Ginny, or to anyone. It was raw, filthy, and, in hindsight, rather humiliating. Especially given who it had been with.
She’d half-expected Malfoy to boast about it, to call her a slut in public, make fun of her kinks, maybe even tip off Rita Skeeter to write it up in the Prophet. Yet, he hadn’t. Perhaps because he’d been engaged back then, with a wedding meant to bolster his reputation only weeks away.
A fortnight after that encounter, she found herself single, with half the Weasleys hating her, and browsing flats for rent in Adelaide.
She snapped out of her thoughts and noticed that Malfoy was no longer where she’d last seen him. Her eyes swept the room, but he was nowhere to be found. Had she got lucky? Perhaps he’d gone home.
She finally felt the effects of the three colourful, fancy drinks she’d had. Murmuring an excuse, she stepped outside to breathe in the fresh night air and clear her mind.
Snowflakes swirled gently in the cinnamon street lamp light, and the chill bit at her cheeks as she exhaled in soft, misty puffs.
“Already tipsy, Granger?”
She nearly jumped at the sound of Malfoy’s voice — raspy like he hadn’t used it in a while and laced with amusement. He was leaning casually against the wall near the entrance, like a character from a clichéd movie, his breath forming faint clouds in the chilly air. Between his bare fingers, a cigarette glowed softly, the light catching on a signet ring adorning his hand. A family heirloom, she noted, not a wedding band.
“Divorcé?” she blurted out without thinking. “I mean, are you?”
His eyebrow arched in a perfect curve. “To be a divorcé, one must first endure the bliss of marriage,” he drawled, studying her intently. “I thought the Prophet made it clear. They dedicated the entire series to my sins that must’ve caused the wedding falling apart.”
“I wasn’t around, and I’m not interested in your affairs.”
“Is that so?” He flashed her a lazy smirk. “Funny. I found your break-up with Weasley quite fascinating.”
“Obviously. You hate us.”
“Only one of you.”
They fell silent. She watched as he took one final drag, then stubbed the cigarette out with practiced ease.
Her gaze was still on his lips when they parted, shaping into words: “How much do you remember from that night, Granger?”
There was some nudity in his tone, no malice, no smirks, no amusement. It terrified her.
“Nothing.”
“Really?” He titled his head slightly, a few strands of hair falling with the movement. He sounded calm now, conversational even, like he was telling her about his essay for Binns. “I remember everything. The first thing I did upon waking up was store the memory in a Pensieve. I watch it rather often.”
She’d spent the last five years trying to obliterate that memory whilst he glorified it. He probably got off on watching her so eager to humiliate herself for him. For all she knew, he could’ve shown it to his friends, or worse: sold it. She’d heard whispers that some wizards did that — traded their most intimate memories like cheap entertainment.
She wanted to leave, not listen to him any longer, but she was rooted to the spot.
“At this point, I know every bit of your body. You have a freckle here,” he said, reaching out and to her horror gently brushing the tender spot where her neck met her shoulder. She didn’t protest and emboldened by it, his fingers drifted lower, skimming the underside of her breast, almost cupping it. “Here,” he said softly. His light touch continued, tracing a line down her inner thigh. “Here.” His hand climbed higher, until his palm hovered just over the seam of her jeans. “And three more... right there.”
He was so close now, just a breath away, that she didn’t realise where his other hand had gone until it touched her face.
Just a simple brush of knuckles, as he swept some of her hair away — the same gesture she’d received from Ginny countless times before — but now, the simple act felt so intimate that her stomach churned.
“Are you seeing anyone right now, Granger?”
He whispered and somehow she felt the need to whisper too. “Why?”
“Can’t you just answer?”
“I’m not.”
“Then go on a date with me.”
“Why?”
“Because even though I’d gladly just take you right here, right now, I think there are a lot of things we need to talk about first for this to have any chance of working out. And I’d like it to work out. Wouldn’t you?”
A part of her bristled at his presumptuousness, assuming she’d be interested, but —
— but the tiny bit of her heart — the part that had once throbbed solely for her stupid teenage crush, forced into the darkest corner of her mind — was now pulsing, setting the entire muscle racing wildly.
“Okay,” she simply said.