Chapter Text
June 1998
The rest of May had passed in a haze for Hermione. Four weeks of funerals, candlelight vigils, testimonies. At first, the days felt bleak, and she had run out of tears early on. She had catalogued her pain, sorted it into folders: things she could avenge, things she could defend, and things she'd have to endure. But when she first received an owl from the Ministry offering her an opportunity to provide her testimony to strengthen cases against certain Death Eaters and war criminals, she felt a kindling of a fire restarting in her heart.
Her opinions on justice were strong and preparing her testimonies had reinvigorated her rage. The Ministry’s list included too many men that survived the war that shouldn’t be allowed to see the light of day ever again. Alternatively, she knew several of the names listed shouldn’t have been there at all, as they were children, and that had enraged her as well.
Finally, after weeks that felt numb compared to the adrenaline constantly surging through her during the war, Hermione felt excitement for the first time in a long time. As she stood in the midst of what was left of the Entrance Hall, her fingertips thrummed with what could be described as magic, or simply just evidence that her body was still alive. She looked around at the rubble in awe, eager to get her hands busy. Others were milling about past her, most of them heading out to the grounds.
Professor McGonagall had announced word of the rebuilding of Hogwarts during the last memorial gathering that was held. The school needed to be ready for students to return in the autumn, and all staff would be working on it all summer, but any additional support from others would be completely voluntary and deeply appreciated. After everyone had gathered in the Great Hall to go over what needed to be done, Hermione found herself wandering off on her own, needing a moment of peace and quiet, certain she could figure things out on her own.
As she toed at some shattered pieces of a suit of armour that were scattered down the stairs that led down to the dungeons, she considered the gravity of the damage around her and how it mirrored the damage in her life. The mess of the castle made sense. It had been attacked. Broken. She could fix that. It was the things that didn’t make sense, like who survived and who didn’t, that she had no spells for.
The voices of the crowd grew fainter as everyone spread across the grounds. She thought of how their lives were also destroyed by this war. Then of the people that were lost and couldn't be here. People who lost something other than their own lives and couldn't bring themselves to be here. People who were misled, foolishly fighting for a false cause, now left with nothing to show for it. Her fingers tingled as her thoughts spiraled. Magic, she thought, or maybe just adrenaline. She didn’t believe in signs or second chances. Not really.
Then, she caught a glimpse of white blond hair, and as she turned her head to face him, he turned his too. Draco Malfoy seemed to have broken off from the group as well and was standing alone on the other end of the Entrance Hall. They locked eyes for a moment. Then, he glanced around, saw that they were alone, and walked hesitantly towards her as she held her breath. When he was two steps away, he looked down at his shoes.
“Granger, I—”
“Malfoy—”
They both shifted awkwardly after starting to speak at the same time.
“Please, let me say what I need to say,” Draco said solemnly, looking into her eyes. Hermione nodded.
“I want to apologise. I know I can’t possibly say or do enough to make up for the way I’ve treated you, but I at least want to start here. I—” He looked down again. “I’d like a chance to try. At least.”
Hermione’s heart stilled for a moment. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but it wasn’t that. It took her a few breaths to find words again.
“Thank you,” she whispered. His eyes shot back up to hers. “I—I’d like that too.”
His face was full of disbelief. She couldn’t help but laugh a little. “I didn’t quite say that I forgive you. Not yet. You’ve been bloody awful.”
Dropping his gaze, a scowl flashed across his features. “I know.”
She almost recoiled at the familiar look on his face, but looking at him now, she saw something different in his expression. Remorse. Shame.
“But this is a good start,” she said softly. “I’d say you started working towards amends a few months ago, really.”
He looked at her curiously, the slightest frown on his face.
“You saved me,” she clarified. “And Harry, and Ron. At the Manor. You gave us—”
“I did nothing,” he spat.
“You gave us time. You didn’t identify us when you easily could have, I know you knew it was us—”
“And then I stood by and did nothing.”
“What could you possibly have done that wouldn’t have got yourself and the rest of us killed?” She stared at him, hoping he would meet her eyes again. He was quietly seething with his fists clenched tight, looking somewhere far beyond her shoulder. “There was nothing else you could have done. But I’m thankful for the time you bought us. We wouldn’t even be here now if it weren’t for you. Or your mother, for that matter. I made sure the Wizengamot knew that.”
He finally met her gaze.
“That was you?”
It was her turn to look at him curiously.
“The private testimonies on our behalf—we never knew who was behind them. I assumed maybe Potter, but I couldn’t imagine anybody else…” His eyes searched her face, his expression hard. “We were released from Azkaban to await our trials under a Trace. My mother, I guess I can understand, but… you testified for me?”
“Of course I did,” she said matter-of-factly, followed by an exasperated sigh after seeing his expression that couldn’t disagree more. “We were children, Malfoy, all of us. Impossible things were asked of us. After what you did for us, I decided I couldn’t blame you for who your father was. And…”
His face softened at her, waiting for her to continue.
“And you looked just as scared as I was that night,” she spoke so lowly, she wasn’t sure he heard. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to hear. A few moments passed in which he held her gaze, causing her heart to race nervously, despite the relief she felt that he wasn’t asking her to repeat herself.
“I was,” he breathed.
They both swallowed.
The sound of rubble shifting outside caused them both to break eye contact, the sudden noise startling after their shared silence.
Hermione cleared her throat. “Were you assigned any certain part of the castle?”
“Oh, er, no. I wasn’t exactly listening to McGonagall,” Draco shifted uncomfortably. “I figured I should operate alone.”
She gave him a knowing smile. “I felt the same. It seems like everyone else is working outside first, so I was going to actually start with the library, if you’d—”
He snorted.
Her eyes narrowed at him.
“I’m sorry! I just—” he bit back his laugh and smiled at her. “I’m not surprised, that’s all. Of course you want to start with the library.” His smile shifted into a smirk.
First, she thought he looked rather nice with a smile on his face. Then, she shook that thought from her mind and settled on being annoyed with him instead, which was far more comfortable.
“Well, if you’re just going to make fun of me, I’ll be on my way,” she spoke bitterly as she started towards the staircase.
“Granger, wait,” he sounded frustrated. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make fun of you.” When she turned back towards him, he looked almost vulnerable. “Mind if I join you?”
Turning back to the staircase with a sigh, she called over her shoulder, “Come on, Malfoy.”
6 June 1998
The first week had gone by rather quickly. Hermione and Draco were making fast work of the library, which was really only damaged from a blast that had occurred along the hallway. When they had first arrived, the entire front section of the library was in shambles—bookshelves and furniture shattered, books unrecognizable.
Hermione had formulated a plan of attack straight away: rebuild the walls, separate what remains into piles of shelving then furniture then books, and repair whatever could be repaired. Then they’d be left with Vanishing whatever couldn’t be saved, conjuring and transfiguring replacements, and cataloguing any missing texts.
Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t long into that first day that the pair had got under each other’s skin.
After an incident of disagreeing how something should be done that left Hermione yelling that she should just do this on her own, Draco had stormed off, running a hand through his hair in frustration. A quarter of an hour later, he’d returned to find Hermione working up a sweat with her long brown curls piled on top of her head in a messy knot. She was levitating the heavy stones, stacking them one after another, pausing after each to cast a specialized heating charm so they could meld together once stacked.
She refused to look at him for a while. At first, it was because she was truly lost in the work: how repetitive and meditative the stacking process was, and realising how, frustratingly, she couldn’t logic her way through grief or forgiveness as easily as she could reconstruct a library. Admittedly, she noticed him standing there much sooner than she had given him a glance. After some time, he had silently come up to her left and cast her heating charm while she was in the middle of levitating another stone.
They had fallen into a quiet routine then, him melting the surface of the stones, her slotting the next one carefully into place. It felt serene, both of them casting nonverbally. Even their stances felt natural. Despite the wide brandishing it took to levitate such heavy stones or to implement the specific nature of a heating charm that worked for this purpose, they could comfortably work side by side, him casting with his left hand and her with her right.
“That was pretty clever spellwork, Granger,” he had said as they were on their way out of the castle at the end of that first day.
“How did you figure it out, anyway?”
“A normal heating charm wouldn’t have done that with stone,” he answered with a shrug. “I had to watch your wrist movements for a while and wait for you to mutter some things under your breath.” He had glanced at her then, and her cheeks were undoubtedly red. “Eventually I pieced it together. To get the surface to level out like that and stay melted long enough for you to be able to stack another stone… It was clever. Do you do everything nonverbally?”
“I try to,” she had replied, hoping he didn’t notice her blush. “It was easier when you took over half of the work. Going back and forth between the two was tiresome. Hence the… muttering.”
He had laughed gently at that. “You’re something else.”
She didn’t know what to make of that. “Your work was much neater than mine. Much more level.”
“I do like to be precise.” They had smiled quietly to themselves after that.
After that first day, Draco didn’t seem to mind Hermione calling the shots most of the time, or maybe he was just staying compliant to avoid another outburst from her.
When Friday rolled around, they were just starting on what Hermione had dubbed “Stage III” of their library project. She was glad to have started separately from everyone else, as she and Draco were the only ones working on this entire floor, and he seemed to appreciate the privacy as much as she did.
Halfway through the afternoon, Hermione heard a feminine voice chime through the library.
“Draco? Are you in here, Draco?”
They were in the middle of repairing bookshelves. At the sound of the voice, Draco’s shoulders fell and his face screwed up in irritation. After a deep breath, he walked towards the entrance.
Hermione could see the two of them through the shelf she was repairing. The girl looked familiar, but not quite. Tall, beautiful, and long brown hair tied back into a ponytail that fell in elegant waves down one shoulder. She looked just like Daphne Greengrass, another Slytherin in their year, but where Daphne was slender and delicate, this girl had curves Hermione found herself jealous of. Hermione knew she was starting to finally fill out after nearly starving for months on end living on the run, but she was not blessed with such hips.
“What are you doing here, Astoria?” Draco drawled. So that was the other Greengrass sister’s name.
“I’ve been looking for you! Nobody out on the grounds knew where you were. I almost searched the whole castle,” she whinged. “Your mother sent me to bring you home. You don’t need to do this every day, especially with your birthday celebrations—”
“You can tell my mother I’ll see her later.” He sounded bored.
“Nobody’s forcing you to be here, Draco,” she said gently.
“That’s probably the best part about it, Astoria,” he said flippantly, turning away to head back towards the stacks.
“You were supposed to at least be home today—”
Spinning to look back at her, his face darkened. “How I spend my time now is my choice—”
“Your mother won’t be happy if—”
A loud crash interrupted them.
“Shit!” Draco hurled around and looked towards where Hermione was standing. Several planks of wood had crashed down around her, the one hovering threateningly above her head only kept at bay by her quick shield charm.
“Astoria, just go,” he shouted without looking back, rushing to stabilize the remaining pieces of wood that were hanging precariously from the top of the shelf they were working on.
Hermione heard the girl huff as she turned away, muttering something under her breath.
“So it’s your birthday, then?” Hermione asked casually after the dust settled and they resumed their work.
He practically scoffed in reply.
“We’d normally be right in the middle of exams about now. Do they always coincide with your birthday?”
He sighed as though he didn’t want to have this conversation. “Yes.”
“Not the most fun way to spend one’s birthday, I’d suppose.”
“Better than the alternative,” he muttered.
“Which is…?”
“If my mother had it her way, I’d be home for my birthday so she could plan some elaborate dinner party, or maybe even, Merlin forbid, a whole damn ball.” He rolled his eyes. “Full of people I don’t care to talk to or see. The end-of-year exams are my savior, honestly.”
Hermione giggled. “You might be the only person that enjoyed them besides me, then.”
He laughed. She realised earlier that week that she wasn’t familiar with his laugh, and she quite liked it. “Yeah, probably.”
After another hour of hard work, they had successfully assembled an entire row of shelves. Wiping away some sweat from her brow, she stepped back to admire their accomplishment.
“Fancy a break?” She looked over at Draco, who was assessing the next pile of wood.
He hesitated for a moment before smiling. “Alright.”
She led them out of the library to head down to the Great Hall where McGonagall had refreshments and snacks ready for volunteers throughout the day.
“I hope we’ve missed the worst of lunch. I really don’t want to run into anybody,” Hermione mused out loud as they descended the stairs.
Draco paused at the landing. “I know how to get into the kitchens, if you’d prefer not to see anyone.”
Noticing he had stopped, she looked back at him, her expression shifting from questioning to cheeky.
“And what business did Draco Malfoy have sneaking into the kitchens?”
He shrugged. “I value privacy.” Then he smirked back at her. “I know you weren’t exactly a rule follower yourself, despite appearances.”
She scoffed. “What appearances?”
He led her down a different set of stairs. “Oh, you know. Teacher’s pet, Prefect, a general air of better-than-everybody-at-everything.”
She glared at him before walking onward. “You were a Prefect too. And I was not better than everybody at everything. You bested me at Potions, although that may have just been favouritism from Snape—” he scoffed, and she bit back a laugh before continuing, “—and I can’t fly. A broom, at least.”
“I didn’t say you were better at everything, Granger,” he said with a grin, “just that you gave off the air of someone who thinks she is.”
She gave an affronted gasp. “Look who’s talking!”
“Regardless,” he pressed on, “I’m quite aware how much better I was at Potions, thank you very much.” He looked at her smugly and she rolled her eyes. “And I forgot how terrible you were during flying lessons all those years ago. Thank you for reminding me. It’s a lovely visual.”
“Oh, sod off, Malfoy!” She shoved him playfully, although he didn’t budge one bit.
“How do you fly, then?”
She looked at him, a brow raised in question.
“If not on a broom, how have you flown? You said you can’t fly a broom.”
“Oh.” Her face flushed. “Just, erm, I may have flown on a thestral once. And I also, er… well, I rode a dragon,” she finished after some hesitation.
They stopped in front of a large painting of a bowl of fruit, where they stared at each other for a beat.
“I have questions,” Draco said flatly before he reached over her to tickle a pear.
Hermione smiled as he stepped back for her to enter the kitchens first. “I may have answers.”