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Reynisfjara is not Hermione’s destination.
It’s a sojourn.
A stop on her journey.
An escape from routine.
A moment of reflection that leads to clarity.
Reynisfjara is also where she finds what her subconscious has been mapping all along.
Iceland is a lovely contradiction.
Ancient yet modern. Old yet new. This must be what it’s like to stand at the edge of where the end meets the beginning.
On the snow-stained cliffside of Reynisfjall, she soaks it all in, watching the roaring tide’s gradual recession. She needs to venture into town to make the most of the minimal daylight.
By the time she hears a familiar pop, she’s lost count of the number of wizards and Muggles who have passed her on the trail or braved a walk on the dangerous beach below.
This time, a passing glance at the latest visitor turns into a look— a stare.
Recognition dawns like a shy sunrise.
Nostalgia casts a soft, silent spell that sweeps Hermione into the past.
Hostilities have long since dwindled to indifference, and a mutual duty to their newly married friends puts Draco Malfoy in her path—quite literally—in the form of a customary dance. She pays no heed to his polite grip on her waist or their hands clasped together.
It’s normal, she reasons, to recall the last encounter with someone when seeing them again.
But more memories arise. As they so often do.
She’s prepared for the worst, avoiding his assumed glare, ready to cut the dance short with excuses, and anticipating some slight about her skills.
Instead they waltz as naturally as they walk. She pays no mind to the ease of each synchronised step.
A comment from Draco catches her ear. The lack of malice draws her attention. His neutral expression sparks the sarcasm that opens the conversation like a flower, each petal revealing something new.
One second they’re navigating mutual interests, and the next, the music stops, and he politely retreats, duty fulfilled. In the blink of an eye, she is back at her husband’s side. At the end of the night, she sits with the puzzling urge to collect the dangling thread of Draco’s conversation. But that never happens.
Now, here, of all places, Hermione stands on the edge of past and present.
Draco hasn’t noticed her yet, so she takes the time to study him. On the surface, these past four years have not changed him physically. He’s still tall with sharp features and a build that’s lean yet capable. The pale skin and white-blond hair are intrinsically him, but the exchange of a perfectly tailored black suit for a heavy coat, dark jeans, and black boots is jarring—that is, until the next gust of icy wind resets her expectations.
Hermione rewraps her scarf. Draco is facing the ocean like he owns it. Typical for a man familiar with having it all.
When he notices her, Hermione expects some hint of surprise, a double take. But Draco looks at her like he’s been waiting for her all along.
“Hermione.”
One word nearly takes her off her feet, but she is an expert at recovering.
“Draco.”
Abstract and inexplicable, the pull between them is still there.
Magnetic.
Now that she’s here, it's too strong to ignore.
Too impossible to resist.
“The best view is at Halsanefshellir. I’ll show you.”
Curious to a fault, Hermione follows, sneaking glances at Draco’s profile as they fall into step like they’ve walked this path together before.
How Draco shortens his full strides to match hers can be attributed to observation, though how he knows when to steer her from a misstep on the snowy rocks is harder to explain.
Once they’re standing beneath the basalt pillars framing the mouth of Halsanefshellir, she understands. The warning light is green, the tide isn’t a threat, but safety feels like an illusion that allows Hermione to immerse herself in the sight.
Mesmerised by the wild, relentless roar of the ocean echoing from the belly of the cave, she watches waves crash against the nearby sea stacks.
The silence is neither tense nor uncomfortable when Hermione gently breaks it. “It’s beautiful here.”
Without so much as a glance in her direction, Draco says, “I come here almost every day.”
“For the view?”
“Not always.” He finally looks at her. “When I first arrived, a Muggle fisherman told me that the ocean tells you what your day will be like. If it’s calm, it will be a good day. If it’s not, be cautious.”
Hermione gasps in mock surprise. “A Malfoy listening to a Muggle? I’d tell everyone if I could, but no one would believe me.”
The corner of his lips twitch, but he rolls his eyes. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m not sure about that. I like to believe I was awarded a sense of humour in the divorce.”
It’s been over three years since learning her marriage was dead after a long sickness she knew nothing about. Certainly long enough to joke about now. But Draco doesn’t react the way she expects.
Instead he checks his watch and asks, “How long are you here?”
A moment of speechlessness passes. “Four days.”
Harry’s messily-written itinerary in her beaded bag leads her along the cliffside path to hotel accommodations in Vik. It also lists three things she must do before returning to London.
Hermione doubts she’ll complete any part of this list.
She has achieved enough success to understand the balance between thriving and surviving. Time is precious, but it’s all hers to selfishly do as she pleases.
Within reason.
And he might be a good one.
Exploration is curiosity put into action, and she’s fresh out of excuses not to see where this path leads her—if anywhere at all.
Hermione takes the first, tentative step. “If you tell me the closest place for a cuppa, I’ll buy you one.”
There is a wry quirk to Draco’s lips when he offers his arm.
Despite being limited to common phrases and singular words, Draco’s Icelandic is as smooth as the tea they order.
Excusing herself, Hermione squeezes past locals and tourists alike until she finds a small table for two in a brightly lit corner by the window. When her name is called by the barista, Draco collects their order and joins her with two steaming cups.
“You never told me how you’ve been,” Hermione chides gently.
Slender fingers wrap around his cup as he lifts it to his lips. “You never asked.”
Pausing, she realises he’s right. “Fine, I’m asking. Indulge me.”
Since burning down his slowly recovering public image by ending his wildly popular engagement to Astoria Greengrass and quitting his position as a generational philanthropist, Hermione has only seen his name printed in The Prophet’s opinion pieces or gossip rags. Draco was rarely in London once that media circus concluded, and when he was, their paths didn't overlap.
“Okay.” Draco sits his cup on the table. “I work for the International Wizarding Committee monitoring magical hotspots globally—but you already know this.”
“What do you—”
“You’re the only one who asks Potter about me.”
Her dying smirk crashes, and her cheeks burn. “I, um…”
“I’ve asked about you, too.”
The candid statement hovers like a delicate bubble between them, but poking at it further might make it pop.
And then what?
The first time she asked Harry about Draco’s whereabouts, she crafted an internal map to plot the answer.
Hermione put stars over Namib, Mexico City, and Bermuda during the month she went from being married with a year left on their family-starting plan to being blinded by Ron’s tearful confession of unhappiness in their marriage. He was human, and so was she.
Circles were dotted on Machu Picchu, Denver, and Zaisan while she and Ron divided assets, signed every parchment, fielded questions from shocked friends and family, and finalised the divorce. They vowed to remain friends, but needed time.
Prague, Manila, and Easter Island were marked with an X as Hermione collapsed after being too strong for too long. She waded deep into her pain until she was drowning. Her friends grabbed hold of her and pulled her up for air.
Oahu and Hong Kong were circled while she held a post-mortem of her marriage. It was the only way to find the strength to piece herself back together. She rekindled her love for long-forgotten hobbies, braved countless first dates, indulged in a few trysts, quit the Ministry, and started over.
Tripoli, Kyiv, Panama City, and Surat were stamped while Hermione healed, accepted the past for what it was, and found peace in the life she built. Ron became less of a loss and more of a chapter in her story. She was stronger, wiser and more in tune with her true self.
Which is why she’s in Vik, being honest about her need for a break.
How this became the point where their paths intersect, she doesn't know, though it's a pleasant surprise.
“What about you?” Draco rests his elbow on the table. “Indulge me.”
It sounds like a challenge.
“I have a flat in Soho, a cat named Hugo, and I quit the Ministry. I’ve been a Curse Breaker for Gringotts for two years. Since my personal time won’t accrue if I don’t use it, I figured I’d take a short holiday. Harry suggested Vik, and now I’m here.”
Draco’s chuckle is warm and utterly smug. “Still a workaholic. Why doesn’t this surprise me?”
She doesn’t answer the murmured question. Instead, she notices the way his eyes slide between her and the beaded bag she’s placed at the centre of the table.
“What?” she asks.
“Is that all you brought?”
“Yes, it’s everything I need for four days.” Hermione touches the braided string. “It's larger on the inside.”
A smirk sneaks its way onto Draco’s face. “So I’ve heard.”
“From Harry?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate, leaning slightly closer. “He tried to reserve accommodations, but didn’t anticipate the wave of tourists here to see the Northern Lights.”
Hermione nods understandingly—that is, until her half-smile dies and everything clicks into place.
“What do you mean I don’t have accommodations?”
Draco waits outside while she goes to every hotel in Vik to reserve something— anything.
When she finally accepts defeat, she meets him under a light post that’s bright enough to illuminate the entire street.
Snow falls like rain, blanketing everything except Draco.
“No luck?”
“None, and my Portkey won’t activate until Christmas Eve morning.”
Draco rubs the back of his neck then pulls his wand from his pocket. “My cabin isn’t far from here. You’re welcome to—”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“You’re not.”
“This is the last time I ever let Harry make plans. I—” Hermione freezes when gloved hands rest on her shoulders.
Draco repeats, “You’re not,” and she believes him.
The cabin isn’t what Hermione expects.
No wards. No elves. No magic.
Just him.
Beyond quaint, it’s devoid of anything aside from furniture. There’s a small kitchen to the left, the living room to the right, two shut doors, and a set of iron circular stairs leading to the top floor. Hermione hasn’t moved from the front door, watching Draco turn on lights with a flick of his wand as he tosses wood into the fireplace.
After starting a fire, he says, “Magic is an open secret here. The Muggles mind their business. No one bothers me.”
Hermione ventures farther inside, still looking, still wondering.
The room warms quickly. Soon, it’s cosy, comfortable and bright.
A few looks spark Hermione into action. Shedding her damp coat and boots, she places both by the door next to his.
Draco points to one door. “Your room. The other is the bathroom.”
“Where are you sleeping?”
He points up. “The loft.”
After sitting on the small sofa, her search for clues about Draco’s life continues.
She comes up empty.
“Are you hungry?” he asks from the kitchen.
Hermione begins to decline, but her stomach betrays her. “I could eat.”
Dinner is Kjötsúpa, a hearty and flavourful lamb stew.
“I learn one dish from every place I visit,” Draco tells her while they sit at the small kitchen table. He’s changed into a comfortable jumper and joggers. Admittedly, Hermione spends more time watching him than keeping up any meaningful conversation. She's slow to realise he’s waiting for her verdict.
“It’s good.”
Draco smiles, and Hermione nearly drops her spoon.
“Do you like travelling as much as you do?” she asks to distract herself from the absurd desire to see him smile again.
“I do, though I’m not gone all the time.” Draco sips water. “I have a flat in Castle Combe, a parting gift from my mother.”
“And far away from the London gossip vultures.”
Draco’s deep, throaty rumble sends shivers down Hermione’s spine. She adjusts her chair and crosses her legs, noting that his eyes haven’t left hers since she complimented his food.
“What is it?” Hermione moves her foot only to accidentally nudge his. Oh.
He reads her expression perfectly. “It’s fine… Potter tells me you have a list.”
She squints. “What else did he tell you?”
Draco only smirks.
Hermione, curious, yet patient, continues, “He gave me an itinerary. Ice cave. Volcano. Aurora Borealis. Harry’s not known for his specificity, but I’ll figure it out—”
“Perhaps I could be your tour guide.”
Hermione settles under the covers.
The instant she closes her eyes, they fly open.
This is Draco’s bed.
She doesn't need confirmation.
It smells like him.
It looks like twilight when they dress the next morning in warm clothes and boots. Draco gives her a helmet and crampons before Apparating them to the first destination.
“We have an hour before the first caravan of tourists arrives.”
Trepidation greets Hermione at the opening of the ice cave, but she doesn’t let it block her path. Leading the way with her wand aglow, she steps into a place sculpted by centuries of melting and refreezing ice. The cave is a mix of blue, black, and white with icicles hanging from the ceiling and walls. Her eyes ache from the cold, yet she can’t stop looking.
“You could call this a two-for-one,” Draco says once they’re deeper in the cave, navigating the twists and turns. “We’re under the Katla volcano.”
“Do you come here often?”
“Yes, to make certain nothing is wrong. A frigid energy lingered here once. It disturbed the locals. The wizards thought something was amiss, so the IWC sent me to investigate.”
“Tell me more.” Hermione could listen all day. “What did you find?”
“Nothing,” he replies. “It was a natural energy—unseen, yet present. Don’t you feel it now?”
“No, but I’ve been told I’m too boring for imagination.”
Draco stops her at a split in the cavern, his hands resting on her shoulders. “I couldn’t either, at first. Not until I tried. Try.”
Rolling her eyes shut, Hermione’s mind doesn’t stop supplying reasons this won’t work—until a gloved finger gently curls under chin.
Her eyes open, breath hitching.
Cool grey eyes rest heavy on hers.
“It’s a tingling sensation sometimes,” he murmurs. “But mostly, it’s a presence, a feeling. Heat.”
Her heart doesn’t slow until long after they leave the cave.
Energy isn’t always heat. Sometimes it’s potential, frozen in ice, waiting to get out.
Hermione is starved by the time she tucks into her unoriginal meal of a burger and chips.
She can’t complain. It’s delicious. Surreptitiously, she glances at Draco while he eats lamb chops and arugula salad. He hasn’t said a word since they Apparated from the cave. Though they’ve been inside nearly an hour, his pale skin still shows proof of the wind’s aggression.
Normally, she likes quiet, as every aspect of her life is loud. Yet every moment with Draco makes her want to speak—if only to excavate his every thought.
“Is everything to your liking?” he asks when he notices her watching him.
“Yes, it is.” Hermione picks up a chip. “It’s surreal that we’re here, on this side of thirty, sharing a meal like we’ve been old friends all our lives all because of Harry’s poor planning.”
Draco chuckles and forks his salad.
She can’t help but ask, “What’s next after Iceland?”
“I leave the day after you and will be in London until the end of January.” There’s a teasing look on his face. “Just in time to spend Christmas with painfully happy people.”
“Are you happy?”
“I am,” Draco replies. “My only complaint is there will be more children than adults at Christmas. What about you? Are you happy?”
“I am now. It took work,” Hermione admits. “I don't mind the children. Years of Christmases at the Burrow have made me immune to noise. This year, it—”
“You spend Christmas with your ex-in-laws?” Draco asks incredulously. “You truly are a glutton for punishment.”
Hermione laughs. “When you spend the better part of a decade married to someone you’ve known since you were eleven, old habits die hard. It’s like listening to a familiar song. Some bring back pleasant memories; others, not so much.”
“I usually turn off songs I don’t like. Don’t you?”
Beneath his question lies another. “I do, but I’ll admit I get nostalgic sometimes. Even still, looking back doesn’t mean I can’t let go.”
“I imagine letting go is hard to do when you’re forced to.”
“It is, but I’m not always the first one to arrive at the right answer. I’ve learned that new beginnings are often disguised as painful endings.”
Draco sips his drink. “You’re right.”
“What about you?” Hermione asks. “I hear you don’t speak to your parents much. Do you have bouts of nostalgia?”
“There’s not enough nostalgia in the world to get us in the same room. I only go back to see everyone else.”
"I've never seen you.”
“I didn’t know you looked for me.” Draco sat his cup on the table. “Besides, you work too much.”
Despite growing jitters, Hermione rolls her eyes. “Unlikely that you’d want to see me.”
“Is it?” Draco’s eyes never leave hers. Silent questions linger like whispers—light, gentle, persistent.
“I don’t know.” Amusement fades into curiosity. “Aren’t there witches waiting for you around the world?”
“No,” Draco scoffs. “Have I dated? Of course, but nothing felt right. You?”
“Same, though I believe dating is about discernment.” Testing the waters, she asks, “Let me guess: commitment issues?”
“Quite the opposite.” Draco doesn’t elaborate. “After we finish your list, have dinner with me.”
“What about tonight?”
“Kjötsúpa again, forgive me. Tomorrow will be a proper dinner.”
She shifts in her seat. “I only packed in preparation for the cold.”
“Something like what you’re wearing now is good enough.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m certain.” He leans closer, voice lower. “Trust me.”
Hermione has no reason to, but funny how that works. She already does.
Sleep is difficult when thoughts of Draco hum beneath her skin.
Hermione hears him adding wood to the fireplace and gets up, padding to the door, opening it slowly.
His head snaps toward her. “Something you need?”
Yes.
The energy is here.
More than potential—it’s chemical.
“Hermione?” Draco tilts his head curiously, eyes narrowing.
“I’m fine, thank you.” Hermione steps back. “Good night.”
Grey skies and bitter cold threaten snow.
Hermione wonders if her warming charms will hold.
Rushing water should be impossible at this temperature, yet Skógafoss waterfall defies the odds. It is all icy water drops and reflected light—powerful the same way a shattered mirror is stunning. Beautiful, not in spite of being dangerous, but because of it.
“Be careful.” Draco is behind her, body pressed against her back. “Water is like fire. It's mesmerising to watch, yet detrimental if you get too close.”
She knows, but a larger, more insistent part of her wants to move closer. No, needs to.
This pull is like the one that keeps her following Draco's lead.
It grows stronger as denial weakens.
Hermione doesn't run from possibility.
She leans against the weight of it on her back.
The silence is gentle on their walk, only broken by the sound of their boots on the snow and the brush of leather against her gloved hand.
They arrive at Reyniskirkja, a church with white walls and a bright red roof that overlooks Vik. It’s not on her itinerary, but it’s something Draco wants to show her. They don’t go inside, only farther up the hill where the view stretches wide.
“It’s peaceful.” Hermione’s gaze sweeps over the little town nestled between mountains and ocean.
“Sometimes I come here when I’m restless.”
“Are you restless now?”
“No. But I used to be.” Draco looks up at the red steeple. “Do you know the second purpose of this church?”
“I imagine it has something to do with it being the highest point and the only structure that will survive if Katla erupts.”
Draco looks suspicious. “You've researched.”
“Of course.” Hermione smiles. “It was a fascinating read—stories of drowned seamen and trolls who kidnapped a man’s wife at night, leaving her to freeze to death. When the man found her, her spirit was at peace with the rocks and sea of Reynisfjara. He warned the trolls to never kill anyone again; apparently, they listened. These aren’t the English trolls I’m familiar with.”
Draco does something unexpected—his smile splits into a laugh. “Some things don’t change.”
“But other things do.”
His smile softens into something warm, personal. “You’re right.”
“It’s lovely here.” Hermione meets his gaze.
Draco fixes her tilted hat. “It is.”
Dinner is a casual affair.
Hiking on the glaciers was more strenuous than Hermione expected and took longer than anticipated. Now, they’re placed next to the window as clouds roll in. Draco’s cheeks are red, his hair windswept and slightly out of place from the harsh conditions—though she’s certain hers has fared far worse. He slips on his glasses to study the menu until it’s time to order.
Hermione orders mulled wine while Draco deviates with a glass of Syrah.
“I didn’t know you wore glasses?”
He touches the rim, his embarrassment fleeting. “Only when my eyes are tired. I was up late reading reports.”
“Oh.” She’s spent plenty of those nights.
Draco’s attention shifts to a nearby table with a group of locals. They wave, clearly recognising him, but don’t approach. A few exchange glances, nudging one another and shushing. As they leave, one gives Draco a thumbs-up. Hermione watches, fascinated.
“You’ve made friends here? Muggles, from the look of it.”
“It’s hard not to meet people when half the year it’s either dark or light for up to twenty hours a day. Everyone goes to the pub. Besides, my job requires mingling with Muggles to make sure they aren’t unknowingly the reason for the anomalies.”
“Never thought you would enjoy a career like this.”
“Neither did I,” he confesses, “I used to hate it. I spent too much time alone, punishing myself, questioning my decisions, but over time I sorted myself out. I learn something new about myself in each city.”
"What did you learn in Vik?” Hermione asks, enrapt.
Draco doesn't answer until she nearly gives up on the question. “That I've let enough go to finally address what's left.”
“Which is?”
“I'll show you after dinner.”
Outside the restaurant, Draco offers his arm.
One tug, and they’re on a grassy hill outside of town. A basket waits for them.
“You planned this?”
“Actually, it’s the last thing on your list.”
The Northern Lights.
Draco spreads a large blanket imbued with barrier charms on the snowy grass and unpacks the basket. Inside are two mugs and a glass bottle of eggnog.
Spiked, Hermione quickly learns, but delicious all the same.
Her contribution is draping the other blanket over their legs. They watch the sky together as light music wafts from the mobile Wireless Draco sets up beside them. No lights yet, but flakes of snow begin to fall as a tune plays from the speakers.
“The last time I saw snow this white was at Blaise and Padma’s wedding,” Hermione confesses.
“Blaise and Padma’s wedding was the last time I listened to music.”
“That night was also the last time I danced…” With you remains unsaid.
Draco’s lips part twice before he says, “The last time I danced, I ended my engagement.”
Hermione’s breath hitches. “W-what?”
As he searches her eyes, a gloved hand grips the end of her scarf. His words are only for her, always for her. “I felt more in a four-minute dance than I did in a four-year relationship. I knew then I couldn’t stay.”
Potential stirs beneath the ice. It cracks the mould, desperate to escape. “You left.”
“You were married.”
“For another six months,” Hermione argues, breath faint. “But you knew that. You asked about me.”
“That’s how I heard about Weasley leaving you.” Draco runs a hand through his hair, exhaling a puff of cold air. “I spent too much time convincing myself that I didn’t deserve a chance, that you weren’t over him. I kept searching the world for a similar feeling, but in the last year, I’ve wondered what would happen if I addressed the one thing I've been avoiding…”
“What?” Hermione wraps a hand around his wrist—not to push him away, but keep him close.
“You.” His kisses her gloved knuckles. "Do you feel the same?"
Hermione exhales a frosty breath, which turns into a chuckle, then a laugh. At Draco’s shift in expression, his hesitation, she intertwines their gloved fingers. “I can’t believe it took coming here to realise I’ve been waiting for you.”
Draco’s expression softens, his matching smile eases the tension between them. “Potter didn't make a mistake. He sent you here on purpose. He was sick of me wasting time.”
“He probably sent me to you for the same reason.” She leans closer, lips ghosting his. “I’ve mapped your travels in my mind long enough.”
“I—”
Hermione kisses the words off his lips, a slow smile spreading at his surprise. “Done wasting time?”
Lips catch hers once before he murmurs, “Yes.”
Beneath the stars, potential ignites into a blazing fire.
Draco kisses her goodnight before going upstairs.
He shuts the door. Then locks it.
Hermione stares incredulously for a minute before heading to her room. Staring into nothingness, she wonders how they ended up at a polite goodnight after kissing under the stars.
A quick knock startles her.
She opens the door, and he’s there—shirtless, pink splotches blooming on his chest, his hair in disarray. “Sleeping upstairs is the polite thing to do.”
“It is.” Hermione steps closer. “But I don’t want you to be polite.” She is ready to weave herself into the fabric of him. “I thought I made that pretty clear earlier.”
“You did, but I don’t want casual.”
“Neither do I.”
Draco steps fully into the room.
He unzips her coat, pushes it off her shoulders, and lets it fall to the floor.
Her jumper quickly follows.
Every shred of hesitation vanishes when warm palms slide along her side, navigating their way up to her bra clasp. Mouths busy exploring, they blindly stumble through the steps to the bed, working buckles and clasps, kicking off jeans and socks.
Soon, they’re skin to skin, hands roaming, mouths tasting. He parts her legs and eliminates the space between them. He enters her with a gasp, filling her deliciously as her body draws him deeper.
She breathes in his sighs as he swallows her moans.
Here or there? Harder or softer?
Draco wants to make up for lost time: thoroughly, completely.
His hunger is equally as relentless as his need to explore her is overwhelming. She mouths praises against his shoulder, panting and shaking, toes curling as her thighs clutch his waist. He’s not far behind, fingers digging into her skin, her name spilling from his lips.
They stay huddled under the blankets, pressed close, watching auroras dance across the sky.
Reynisfjara was a sojourn.
An escape from routine.
A stop on her journey.
A moment of reflection that’s led to clarity.
This place may not be her destination.
But perhaps he is.