Chapter Text
December 13th, 2005
Hardgate Market was, by any reasonable measure, not worth the thirty-minute apparition-banned walk from the Hog’s Head.
It occupied a thin corridor of storefronts at the outermost edge of Hogsmeade. The shops were small and closet-set, their windows filmed with condensation and signage either deliberately vague or aggressively cheerful.
Hermione moved through the sparse crowd with her hood up and face covered, which was less dramatic than one might assume. The face covering was practical–it was two weeks before Christmas and December in Scotland could turn skin blue in seconds–and the hood was habit.
Six years of minor celebrity had made her extremely practiced in being invisible in a crowd, which was a skill she had not anticipated needing when she was eleven and first reading about the wizarding world in a series of increasingly implausible textbooks.
She had spent the morning at an apothecary in Gdańsk before flooing here, and before that, a market in Ljubljana that smelled strongly of sulphur. The ingredient she was looking for, powdered Ashwinder egg, specifically the non-commercial grade that hadn’t been cut with chalk dust to make up the weight, apparently did not exist in the places where it was supposed to. This was a pattern she had noticed with the things she needed the most.
The post-war reforms had made this particular kind of errand considerably more complicated than it used to be.
The wizarding world had once been an expert potioneer’s paradise with hundreds of markets and shops that sold ingredients of all sorts, ranging from the basics of herbs and roots to the expensive—and illegal—powdered phoenix claw. The most accessible locations carried supplies without difficulty from the Ministry of Magic, and as a result of the laissez-faire regulatory authorities, the price of these goods were quite reasonable for the average potioneer.
In the years immediately following the Battle of Hogwarts, the Ministry had moved swiftly to regulate the potions ingredient trade, ostensibly for community safety and security measures.
The new regulations did not only limit the trade of illegal ingredients, but also restricted access to certain substances that were now considered only available to academics and Ministry employees. Effectively, one could no longer purchase anything more chemically interesting than dried Mandrake root without submitting receipts to the relevant authorities, and a potion detection system had been installed across most of wizarding Britain that made brewing a bureaucratic ordeal for anyone without the right credentials.
Hermione no longer had the right credentials. This was, technically, her own fault.
She pushed that thought away–she was very good at this–and pushed open the door to the third shop on the left.
The war had changed a lot of things, and the rebuilding had changed others.
Hogwarts had been restored with a speed that still struck her as slightly improbable. McGonagall and the Ministry had worked in tandem to have the castle operational within months of the battle, and when Hermione had returned in September of 1998 to complete her NEWTs, the stone had looked so clean and unmarked that she’d stood in the entrance hall for a full minute trying to reconcile it with the pile of rubbish she remembered.
She’d managed to consolidate the two images eventually.
She had been glad of the full extra year. Harry and Ron had sprinted through the coursework and had been done by December–Harry turning down no fewer than six positions before eventually completing Auror training by 2003, Ron going immediately to Diagon Alley and the joke shop to support his elder brother in keeping the place up and running.
They both seemed to know exactly what they were meant to do with their lives now that it was all over. She envied them most days for the clarity in the way she envied a lot of things she never said out loud.
She graduated in June, with all Outstandings, of course, which she’d celebrated with Harry and Ron at the Hog’s Head because she hadn’t wanted to impose on the Weasleys and couldn’t find it in herself to celebrate properly without her parents. They’d raised a glass to her anyway. She’d smiled the whole way through and then walked back to the castle alone and sat in the library for three hours reading nothing, which was its own kind of processing.
Her parents were currently in Australia, living a quiet life in a suburb of Melbourne, and did not remember having a daughter. They had not remembered since 1997. That was not something she had successfully filed away, but rather one she had learned to carry at a particular angle, adjusted so it didn’t show.
Hermione cast a warming charm around herself as she stepped out of the third shop empty-handed, and her body relaxed incrementally under the heat.
She hated December. The joys of the season could, frankly, see themselves out.
The snow had fallen heavily on the ground, creating little domes along the sidewalks where the shop owners had moved them away from the entrances of their stores.
Her footsteps were muffled, the white powder absorbing any sound around her, so much so that the only noise she could hear was that of her breathing, the heat being redirected to her lips against the face covering.
The Ashwinder eggs were the reason she hadn’t simply gone to Hogsmeade first and saved herself two hours and a detour through Ljubljana.
They were a sensitive product–sensitive being the polite term for will ignite and destroy everything within a five-kilometre radius if mishandled-which meant that harvesting them directly from dwellings in the Highlands was not something she was going to attempt herself. The freezing process required meticulous supervision and equipment she didn’t have, and blowing up a significant portion of the area was not on her agenda for the holidays. She needed them either already powdered or whole and professionally frozen, which narrowed her options considerably.
She’d heard from Iago that J’s Pippin Potions had the non-commercial grade she was looking for. Iago was not always reliable, but he was usually right about supply chains, hence why she kept him around. If he’d sent her on another wild goose chase, she was going to have words with him that he would certainly find unpleasant.
She’d decided to start at Hardgate and work her way toward Hogsmeade proper only if absolutely necessary. J’s Pippin Potions was her last resort.
Hermione stopped in front of the small box shop at the far end of the row.
It was grimmer than she remembered from fifth year, when she’d come here specifically because it was obscure enough that neither Umbridge nor Snape would think to look for her. She’d been brewing experimental potions in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, partly out of academic interest and partly because a well-timed hair-loss potion in someone’s breakfast tea was a contingency she liked having available.
She hadn’t used it, of course.
The war had resolved certain problems before she got the chance.
She pressed her face briefly against the window. The shopkeeper was inside, alone, and didn’t appear to be J–she’d heard he’d passed away a couple of years ago, though she hadn’t confirmed it. Rita Skeeter would print anything that moved, and Hermione had long since stopped taking anything even as short as her obituaries at face value.
The door chimed as she entered. She closed it behind her, taking one last look at the empty path outside before turning to the young man at the counter who was already staring at her.
She couldn’t blame him, looking like a thief and whatnot.
“I need a vial of powdered Ashwinder egg,” she said, skipping the pleasantries because pleasantries led to questions and questions led to conversations she rather hoped to avoid. “If not, the whole egg will do, though I’d prefer not to grind it myself.”
He nodded and reached for a jar of ashy powder on the shelf behind him.
“Not the washed-down product,” she jumped in, raising a hand. “If you don’t have the organic material, I’m not interested.”
He shot her an indignant look, which she met by raising a brow back at him. She’d done this enough times to know that even the most honest-looking suppliers weren’t above cutting corners when they thought they could get away with it.
He went through the purple curtains without a word, and she waited.
She drummed her fingers against the glass counter and let her eyes move around the shop. It was certainly filthier than fifth year.
The door chimed behind her.
She hadn’t flipped the Open sign.
She kept her eyes forward and tracked the new arrival in her peripheral vision. A man, dressed in all black, a long leather coat, dark hair cropped close. He moved to the shelves and glanced at her with a lopsided grin before returning his attention to the vials.
The shopkeeper emerged holding a bottle of pure, white powder, which he placed on the counter carefully. She tossed a sack of coins beside it without counting them (more than the cost, deliberately) and said, “Keep the change,” which was not her generosity, but the price of not being remembered.
She turned to leave but walked directly into the man who had moved behind her now without making a sound. His coat swayed and she noticed his auror badge, a junior in training, but an auror nonetheless. She hadn’t noticed him moving behind her, which was either professional competence or deeply inconsiderate depending on one’s perspective.
Hermione almost dropped the bottle, but he caught it before it hit the floor, fast and practiced, and looked at the inscription on the paper wrapping before holding it out to her.
His other hand stayed extended, open, between them.
“May I see your purchasing qualification card, ma’am?”
Hermione took a quiet breath. “Yes, of course,” She reached into her pocket unhurriedly. “How silly of me, I should have it right–” she patted the other pocket, “–somewhere here.”
A few more seconds passed. She puffed quietly, as though mildly puzzled.
“I may have left it at home. Is there any way I could send the receipt directly to the Ministry, officer?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, those are the rules. I’m afraid you’ll have to–” He stopped and squinted, something shifting behind his eyes.
“Wait a minute. I know you.”
Hermione snatched the bottle from his hand and ran.
______________________________________________________________________________
The seventh-floor corridor of the Ministry was, in Draco’s professionally informed opinion, fourteen percent longer than it needed to be.
He had walked it every working day for the better part of two years and had reached this conclusion sometime in February when the novelty of his promotion had worn off and the reality of it–which was mostly paperwork and a desk that faced a wall separating him and Penelope Clearwater–had set in.
He hadn’t gotten used to the walk yet, and the corridor remained as long since. Longer, on some days.
He had a nine o’clock briefing with Potter, which told him almost nothing because Potter’s briefings existed on a spectrum between straightforward, tedious and actively dangerous, with very little in between.
The memo that morning had read:
Malfoy. My office. Nine.
- HP
Which was four words, one initial, and approximately no useful information, and was therefore entirely characteristic. Draco would never get used to the Chosen One’s nightmare of an office, which reflected its owner with depressing accuracy.
But he wasn’t concerned. He was mildly irritated and that was a different thing entirely. Potter was simply doing his job, albeit a minimally decent variation of it, but they’d never taught them proprietary in Hogwarts or auror training, and Draco suspected Potter got little of that in his home life.
One couldn’t reasonably expect punctuality from someone who’d been raised in a cupboard and then a Weasley household, in that order. Draco had adjusted his expectations accordingly.
The auror division had been good for him, he’d decided. Not that he’d had significant doubts. It was one of the first things he’d chosen for himself deliberately, which was how he’d learned to make most decisions since, and he hadn’t wasted energy second-guessing things he’d already settled.
There was something clarifying about work that had clear parameters. Every day was the same routine of problem, investigation, and Morgana willing, a resolution. He was good at it too, which didn’t hurt. His clearance was the second highest in the division, a fact that bothered him only slightly because the first highest was Potter’s, and it was difficult to be genuinely aggrieved about losing to someone who operated on what appeared to be a combination of instinct and structural good fortune. He wondered how long Potter had kept the bottle of Felix Felicis he’d won in Slughorn’s potion class.
Draco operated on methodology and had come to a grudging peace with this distinction.
He paused outside the office door and checked that his badge was level.
It wasn’t. The pin was slightly bent and sat at a two-degree tilt that was barely perceptible and entirely unacceptable. He’d been meaning to replace it since October. He straightened it manually, which did nothing, because the pin was bent, and he was aware of the circular nature of this problem. He addressed it on a case-by-case basis rather than the root cause, which was a methodology he would never have accepted in an investigation and which he applied to the badge without any sense of irony whatsoever.
He knocked once, a courtesy more than anything, and opened the door without waiting for a response, which was not.
The office was empty, save for the grey owl that sat perched in its cage. It made a small croo sound when it noticed Draco, fluttering around its cage in excitement.
Potter was not there.
It wasn’t the first time. The two had become the two youngest Junior Auror Co-Supervisors a year ago, only two years after their training had ended, and Draco had come to learn all about Potter’s inane habits. He was constantly late, forgetful, and worst of all, a great procrastinator. Sometimes, Draco prayed the Department Head would find out and give his partner a lashing if only to make his life easier, though he’d never bothered to file a formal complaint. The work was always done anyway, whether through late nights at the office or Draco’s punctual nature, and as long as they didn’t have Susan Bones breathing down their necks about administrative responsibility, he didn’t care.
“Unbelievable,” Draco huffed and stepped further into the room. It was typical of Potter to have forgotten to cancel their meeting before flying off to wherever it was he’d gone.
Draco shoved his hands into the pockets of his black trousers, his shoes clicking very softly against the marble floor. He wandered around the room to the desk and squinted over the documents spread apart on the large desk.
He couldn’t believe that Potter got a bloody office and he had to share a cubicle across from Potter’s secretary. It was unfortunate because Clearwater was intelligent and a Ravenclaw if Draco wasn’t mistaken. He wondered how she’d managed only to become a secretary.
Draco didn’t have a secretary, one because he didn’t have to deal with as many messages and paperwork as Potter–even though they were co-supervisors, it seemed that people preferred to let Potter handle the paperwork and complaints and issues with the evidence and Draco to work on the practical, hands-on stuff. When asked why, the Golden Boy had said something about how he just wanted to take a step back from being on the front lines. Something about trauma and war.
The documents were various files, mostly concerned with illegal potion purchasers, a few murders and a poisoning case of an elderly grandmother. Potter had scribbled something on the bottom of that one. “It was the grandson.”
He straightened up and checked his watch. Nine fifteen. Potter was, by any reasonable measure, not coming.
Draco considered waiting, but ultimately decided against it.
He’d find him later whenever he deemed to return from wherever he’d run off to.
In the meantime, he had his own desk and files, and approximately four hours of paperwork that Clearwater had left on his chair with a sticky note that said “Please.” underlined twice, meaning he was picking up slack while his partner was off galavanting elsewhere.
Draco picked up the poisoning file on his way out.
What was one more?
______________________________________________________________________________
Hermione cleared the two steps of J’s Pippin Potions in one jump and ran.
The cold hit her face immediately, cutting through the covering and making each breath harder than the last. She let her body take over, one foot, then the other, the adrenaline doing the thinking, and didn’t look back. Looking back was how you tripped.
Behind her, the auror was shouting something. She assumed it was stop or some functional equivalent, which she had always found deeply counterproductive. The entire premise of a foot chase was that one party did not want to be caught, and announcing that they should stop was false optimism that was unbecoming of an officer of the law.
She continued running.
The market stalls blurred past her on either side. She clipped the edge of one, a display of bottled Flobberworm mucus that went over with a crash she felt rather than heard, and kept moving. She ignored someone shouting behind her, instead turning hard left toward the edge of Hogsmeade, where the treeline started and the foot traffic thinned.
Apparate, she thought. Apparate now, you absolute–
She tried.
Nothing.
She tried again, already knowing it wouldn’t work, the resistance of the wards pressing against the attempt like a wall she’d run into at speed. The Hogwarts anti-apparition boundary. She’d crossed it without noticing, too focused on moving forward to track exactly where she was and now she was on the wrong side of it with an auror fifteen seconds behind her and the Forbidden Forest directly ahead.
She’d been able to apparate the whole time she was in the market and hadn’t.
Stupid, stupid, Hermione.
They’d run into the trees, the forest swallowing the sound behind her almost immediately. The snow and mulch muffled her footsteps, her heartbeat pounding loudly in her head and chest.
Hermione pressed herself against the largest tree she could find and cast the hiding charm with hands that were steadier than they had any right to be.
She stood breathing hard, waiting, her lungs disagreeing with the stall, urging her to keep going.
She’d always hated the Forbidden Forest and its awful, slimy scent. It was riddled with far too many unsafe creatures to be prodding about a forest that directly bordered a school for children.
Hiding in the Forest of Dean had also been a ghastly experience as they ran from the Snatchers and Death Eaters. She’d hated every second of it and had avoided forests and camping altogether since.
Her cardiovascular system had calmed a little, sweat coating her skin in the freezing air. She feared a head cold, but that was the least of her problems, considering she was being chased for not having the right identification.
One problem at a time, Hermione.
She slowly inched to the side, her fingers running flat atop the jagged treebark. Hermione realized that the auror had called for backup when she noticed another tall brooding figure wearing the same costume. He looked taller, older than the first.
If she were to run left behind the bushes across the field, she could take a shortcut through Mitstich Village to the Hog’s Head, where she could take Aberforth’s floo to one of her safehouses, which she maintained on the principle that having options was never wasteful.
Aberforth Dumbledore was one of the few people who’d seen the new Ministry restrictions in the same light as Hermione, so he allowed her to use his facilities.
“Just like old times,” he’d said.
She took a couple of deep breaths and with one final glance at the two aurors, she ran in the opposite direction. They missed her, but Hermione stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the figure standing before her on the other side of the field.
His hair was a mess, tousled and unkempt, and his leather coat was slightly too long on the sleeves. He’d been running too.
Hermione felt the disillusionment charm wear off and he spotted her immediately.
“Hermione,”
She threw a hex at him anyway.
“Stay back!” She yelled across the field, catching the attention of the other aurors who ran towards them now. “Stay where you are.”
“Hermione–”
“Tell them to back off.” She gestured at the other men who had frozen at a tactical distance. The man raised a hand without looking at them and they stilled, though they didn’t lower their wands. “I’m not going anywhere–”
“Can we please just talk–”
“So you can arrest me?” The words came out before she could stop them, and she saw the pain flicker across his face, but she couldn’t get caught up in that now. “Never been so bright, have you, Potter.”
They hadn’t seen each other in so long. He looked good. Fitter, taller, an air of authority to him that Hermione would have smiled and jumped at to celebrate if they weren’t in the position they were in now.
“Hermione,” he repeated, the register of his voice changed–quieter, the authoritative tone gone. “Please.”
She calculated the distance to the ward boundary once more and reached the conclusion she was trying to avoid since she saw him step out of the trees.
Hermione threw another hex, pointing directly at the bush beside him. He deflected when the dried branches caught fire, and she had just enough time to think of course before the body-binding curse hit her and the forest floor came up to meet her.
Harry crouched down, close enough that she could see the expression on his face that she had been carefully not looking at.
“Nice to see you again, Mione,” was all he said.