Chapter Text
They say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
The people who uttered this did not know what it meant to be paired against Hermione Granger.
Dean Thomas shoved the bushy-haired swot from his mind as he weaved around dawdling schoolmates, eager to arrive at his upcoming appointment. With a sigh, Dean rubbed his temple as he stomped up the stairs that led to Professor Sinistra’s office. He had scheduled this meeting as soon as he had heard “the news” from his delighted best friend and straight-up pain in his arse, Seamus Finnegan, in the Gryffindor common room twelve and a half hours prior, to be exact.
“D’you seen the postings for our Eighth Year project yet, Dean?” The Irishman’s blue eyes glinted as he plopped beside his friend on the maroon sofa. “Because I know who you got…” his sing-song cadence created a boulder-sized ball of anxiety to form in Dean’s stomach.
Their Eighth Year projects were assigned amongst those who decided to return to Hogwarts for their final year; each project focused upon the array of courses offered. Due to the number of pupils returning for an attempt to complete their final year at Hogwarts, each subject area would have two students completing a project. The pairs would have to orchestrate plans on utilising the resources offered, which were also scarce and difficult to obtain, thanks to the war. Dean had applied for either Arithmancy or Astronomy as his focal point, but was uneasy as to who his partner would be. He was currently second in their class, and Dean found himself annoyed that he was so close to the top — yet so far it felt impossible to achieve. All because of her, he brooded with each heavy thud up the staircase.
How fortunate for him that his best friend was all too ready to share the news of his project, knowing damn well that Dean had despised Hermione and that the feeling was most certainly mutual. It had taken seconds for Seamus to impart the news to Dean before white-hot anger took hold, the notion of working beside such an insufferable bint night after night…
Merlin’s bollocks.
Sunlight dappled the ornate curve of the stairs, causing Dean to pause and roll his shoulders free of the tension that had taken hold. He glanced over his right shoulder, looking out at the fiery Scottish hills that beckoned to him that October morning. It was hard to believe that this would be his last year at Hogwarts, although he should have said that last year. But that would have been lucky, and Merlin knew that luck never bestowed itself upon Dean Thomas willingly a moment in his short but troubled life.
Much akin to fate, Voldemort had other ideas for the lives of Wizarding Britain. Plans that forced Dean to go on the run for months, paired with Griphook and Ted Tonks as they evaded Snatchers and Death Eaters alike and hid in the thick forests of Surrey like feral animals. Unfortunately, the trio stumbled upon a particularly grimy set of Snatchers one day, leading to Ted’s death and a lovely six months in the Malfoys’ dungeon, imprisoned and on the brink of death. If it hadn’t been for Luna’s nurturing and Draco sneaking into the bowels of the Manor at night to smuggle in tinctures and potions for his pneumonia and food for his emaciated frame, Dean would not be here today.
The Battle of Hogwarts had been gut-wrenching, losing even more of those he had grown up alongside, while the others grew hardened by the cruelties of war. Its grasp on them all maddened Dean beyond recognition, feeling at times that it would have been an easier fate to meet death prematurely than to carve out a new path post-war. The new ideals and norms that began to present themselves made him weary and hesitant: being a half-blood had pitted him against so many over the years, and to be frank, he also wasn’t sure if he could trust what was being shared so readily. Call it years of exclusion and separation, but the Wizarding World was cruel for those who didn’t easily fit within its mould.
Turning into the corridor where Sinistra’s office was housed, Dean scooted around a group of disinterested Sixth Year Ravenclaws, all whispering behind their hands shyly. He ran a hand over the close-cropped curls and shifted his bag to the other shoulder, smiling awkwardly at the gaggle before knocking on the expansive wooden door.
“Enter.”
The lilt of the professor’s cadence beckoned him into the small but orderly office. The walls had been painted a soft white, allowing the light from the large eastern window to brighten the space and appear larger than it actually was. There were numerous portraits — Dean surmised they were deceased family members — as well as enchanted constellations twinkling overhead. As Dean crossed the room to sit at the wingback chair facing the large oak desk, he watched the Astronomy professor carefully.
Professor Sinistra smiled, albeit a little forced. The professor was widely known as one of the strictest in the history of the school, having little leniency in making exceptions for students. Usually, Dean admired this about the professor, finding her strong principles something worthy of his appreciation.
Usually. Life lent itself its own sense of humour to things, and if there were a deity overlooking Dean currently, he was certain the omnipotent force was laughing off their arse — and all at Dean’s expense.
“Professor Sinistra,” Dean took a seat and leaned toward the Astronomy professor’s desk in earnest. “This project will require a significant amount of cooperation and consideration… Months of it. I beg of you… I can’t be expected to cooperate for that long with her.” His lip curled in disgust, thinking of brown eyes and a swotty attitude.
The professor remained unmoved, studying the student before her carefully. “I would think that all things considered, Mr. Thomas, you would appreciate the fact that you are back here at Hogwarts and pursuing your education. You’re one of the top students in your year, and perhaps some cooperation with Miss Granger will allot you the opportunity to challenge yourself further. I find that sometimes the situations that make us are also the ones that reward us the most.”
“But — ” Dean started, only to be waved off by the witch, her dark skin glowing in the sunlight.
“Seeing as you both are Muggle-borns, working together might allow you both to create a united front for the future. Though the war has been won, your struggles are far from over.” The professor arched a brow and folded her hands, seeming unmoved by his plea.
Scoffing, Dean bit his tongue and instead nodded in sullen silence. Arguing or insulting his professor likely wouldn’t bode well for him, or at least he figured. He caught sight of a small flock of birds flying over the Black Lake as she droned on, their wings flapping in a rhythmic taunt: You lost. You lost. You lost.
Dean’s eyes fell back upon his professor, who was currently looking over at him from the rim of her half-moon glasses. Apparently, she felt the need to replicate Dumbledore with her optical choices, but at the moment, they added a sense of whimsy to the usually-rigid professor. Her fingers were steepled as she regarded him carefully, her desk creating a vast divide between teacher and student.
She cleared her throat and shrugged. “I know that you disagree with my decision, Thomas, but please know that it shall stand. You will work with Miss Granger on this project. Both of you are expected to complete your star charts over the next quarter, and we are frankly limited with availability on the appropriate equipment.” Professor Sinistra arched her brow and nearly appeared amused at his predicament. “Now, do I make myself clear, Mr. Thomas?”
“Yes, Professor.” Dean stood quickly and slung his bag over his broad shoulder. He nodded gruffly and strode out of the room, closing the door briskly and wishing he had slammed it with more gumption. The witch had, after all, sentenced him to three months of working regularly with his academic rival and a massive pain in the arse. And she wasn’t even the tiniest bit sorry.
If Dean weren’t such a polite wizard, he’d currently be calling her some choice names at the moment. However, being raised by a single mother for a large portion of his childhood allotted Dean a deeper appreciation for the female species — especially when the fact that he had been gifted two half-sisters who were the literal centre of Dean’s universe. Leaving them was the hardest thing about attending Hogwarts, even including the intolerance toward his Muggle upbringing and half-blood existence. So despite his overwhelming urge to shatter every window in the Great Hall, Dean continued past the expansive doors into the brisk autumnal air.
He continued on the path, ignoring any person that crossed him, with not even the slightest bit of goodwill. It didn’t matter who they were at the moment, all he wanted to do was to get as far away from others as he possibly could. He treasured his space, likely due to being an only child for the first eleven years of his life. Even after becoming a brother, his attendance at a Wizarding school made him an outsider, creating far more opportunities to skulk in solitude unbothered more than he’d like most days… but today was not one of those days. He needed the space now, feeling his emotions beginning to simmer and veering toward a rolling boil. Fresh air and Scottish lochs were just the ticket for him to decompress.
The Black Lake loomed over what appeared to be miles and miles, and Dean walked around the majority of it before finding his typical secluded reprieve. With a shove, his bag plopped down onto the ground as he neared the large rock that had served as his resting place for the last eight years. Tall pines loomed behind him, their fragrance teasing the air with a promise of Yuletide. He yearned this year for boughs of holly and enchanted ceilings littered with glittering snowflakes, because the Christmas holidays also meant his project with Granger would be over. And Dean Thomas really, really, really wanted his project to be done and over already.
Because he really, really, really hated Hermione fucking Granger.
In an atypical show of teenage theatrics, Dean reared his head back and yelled out into the chill. His breath floated out of him in smoky plumes, the shocking warmth from his breath starkly separating itself from the untainted oxygen surrounding them. It was maddening how easily he caved with Sinistra; he knew how to be as tenacious as the best of them. Yet he hadn’t fought like he felt he would have — and why was that?
Eighth Year was meant to be filled with normality, and frankly, frivolity. Dean was a strong student and always had top marks, but he was looking forward to reclining into a relaxed routine as he ended his academic career. Being hunted by the community you had previously been led to believe was your saving grace made you a bit jaded about finding success within its claws, he reckoned. He had once aspired to rise through the ranks of the Ministry and secure a high-ranking position that would promise things he couldn’t previously obtain: freedom and respect. Dean yearned for a place within the world he had been shoved into, his absentee father having been his sole link to the Wizarding World. Dean never knew the magical world, and instead was exposed to it all headfirst at the tender age of eleven and expected to act grateful for it. It unnerved him to review the expectations his professors and mentors had set for mere children: what the fuck was that all about?
“Oi, fanny features! Just having a wee breakdown overlooking the lake?” Humour still tinged his best mate’s voice, and Dean groaned inwardly at being discovered well before he felt ready. Luckily, Seamus couldn’t see how Dean’s face fell at the sound of his friend’s voice, and was quick to school his countenance in jovial surprise before turning around to face Seamus.
“Fuck off, Finnegan.” Dean’s mouth twitched as he heard his friend chuckle, seeing his frame come into view as he clamoured on top of the rock with surprising agility. His closest friend at Hogwarts was also sometimes seen as an outsider: he was a half-blood like himself, but Seamus was also fiercely Irish and therefore treated as a doubly perceived outsider. It was mad, but it was a tether to each other that Dean appreciated more than he could say — and he damn well wasn’t going ever to admit it to his friend. He’d take the piss out of him for it and then some, but Dean wouldn’t have it any other way.
Climbing atop the rock with an agility befitting of a pyromaniac, Dean felt his friend’s shoulder brush against his own. For a long moment, they both stared out at the lake, watching the surface break occasionally as its mysterious inhabitants slinked beneath the surface. It was oddly comforting, watching something so typical, so steadfast throughout the years that it made Dean feel infinitely small. Somehow, the obscurity of his existence also allowed his problems to become just as minuscule. Perhaps that is what he needed to do to swallow his firmly planted fate, all lying within the cold, stern hands of Aurora Sinistra.
“Hermione’s not too bad, Dean,” Seamus started, holding up his hands in mock surrender when Dean spun toward him with ire flashing within his chocolate eyes. “I’m just saying, maybe this will afford you a chance not to despise her as much as you do. She’s not too bad on the eyes, if you take a gander. Maybe the moonlight will paint her in a different light.” He wiggled his dark brows as his cerulean eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Daft prick,” Dean grumbled as he continued to fight a smirk. His friend always knew how to rile him greatly, but also knew how to goad him into better spirits. One of the strangest aspects of friendship was the ability to know someone so intimately, almost more than they could ever discern about themselves. The intimacy of such a notion caused Dean to wistfully realise that he and Seamus could likely drift apart upon their departure from school in May. The notion of not having his best friend nearby made an uneasy stirring nestle into Dean’s ribs, coughing to dislodge it from his bones before it overtook his heart.
”Mate, you knew that Sinistra wasn’t going to cave. The woman’s tougher than dragon hide — she wouldn’t cower to the likes of even you.” He laughed with a cheeky wink, leaning down to swipe a long blade of grass to place in his mouth.
Once again, Dean scoffed and narrowed his eyes at the contemplative wizard beside him. “And what in the hell does that mean, Seamus?” Dean wasn’t sure if he appreciated the tone their conversation was morphing into; it seemed like a conversation far too introspective for someone in his position. At least allow the wizard to mourn the disruption of his inner peace, all thanks to bushy hair and a lightning-quick hand raised overhead in impatient want.
It was now Seamus’ turn to narrow his eyes at his friend in speculation. “Oh fuck off, Thomas.” The wizard waved his hand across Dean’s body from head to foot. “You’re a witch’s dream: tall, dark, and handsome. I think you’d just need to smile at a witch to make her complicit in whatever scheme you have cooking.”
“Wait a minute,” Dean hissed with the clenching of his large fists. “I do not manipulate people with how I look.” He stared out across the lake, his jaw set as he watched the water lap at the rocky shoreline. “And I could look like Adonis, and Granger would be none the wiser.”
Dimples appeared on the side of Seamus’ mouth as he regarded his friend thoughtfully. “You know, with all of your similarities, I’d have thought you two would make a grand pair… purely academically speaking, of course.”
A snort left Dean before he could stop himself. “I’m telling you now, Seamus: I will never willingly pair myself with Hermione Granger. I’m not a bleeding martyr.”
“Ahem.”
The voice that rang out behind them was all too familiar, Dean’s gut plummeting as he screwed his eyes shut tight. He could feel the icy blue stare of his friend’s gaze upon him, then quickly followed by the sound of Seamus leaping down from their perch. Dean kept his eyes glued together, praying that he’d soon wake and be reminded that this was a horrible dream: he could complete his Eighth Year project alone and unscathed, only forced to endure Granger in classes thrice weekly.
The Irishman cleared his throat as he threw his bag across his broad shoulder. “Hermione, always a pleasure.”
Dean cringed when Hermione sighed wearily. “Seamus. Is it all right with you if I speak to Dean for a moment?”
“Later, you two.” Seamus’ footsteps began to fade, choked up by the damp earth. As he trailed away, Dean looked over his shoulder and arched a brow at his nemesis.
She was staring up at him with her mouth set in a firm line, her arms crossed tightly around her middle. Her robes swallowed her up entirely, and the Gryffindor scarf was wound tightly round her neck. Her curls had been pinned up, ringlets escaping their confinements and falling around her face in shining, curly ribbons. She honestly looked rather fetching, even with the potato sack that encumbered her frame.
The thought of him ogling Hermione dislodged him from his lecherous state, and he locked his eyes upon hers, his chocolatey depths mingling with the warm honey gaze before his. She had stepped nearer, and he was now able to regard her without putting a crick in his neck. “What can I do for you, Hermione?”
Hermione rolled her eyes and shoved a piece of parchment at him. “Here. I made this for our reference during this semester’s project.” She snarled at him as her arm hung in front of him, causing him to pluck the missive from her grasp.
He squinted down and looked back up at her in perplexed bemusement. “What’s this?” His mouth dropped in dismay as he studied it carefully; pure outrage beginning to seep into his walls. Scoffing, he took a steadying intake of breath. “You’re fucking barking if you think I’m going to follow this schedule. It’s clearly biased and my final project will make me a laughingstock if we adhere to this!” He chucked the parchment back down at Hermione, her mouth now gaping up at him in a furious scowl.
“What are you talking about, Dean?!” She studied her handiwork carefully, and scoffed. “I don’t know how you can say this is biased.” Hermione glared up at him and pointed at the November lunar cycle. “You get the telescope on the Leonid meteor shower, for Merlin’s sake!”
Dean smirked, smug to see her so outraged by his opinions. “And you get the telescope for the Meteor shower and the Moon-Saturn Conjunction in October. Like I would miss that… c’mon, Granger.”
Hermione’s eyes snapped as she balled her hands into tight fists. “You get it on the Penumbral Lunar Eclipse in December… that is completely fair, Dean.” Her jaw ticked as she glared up at him, still smugly perched upon his overlook and watching her resolve fray into a chaotic mess. “This is ridiculous, so what do you suggest? We do all of this together?”
The idea now seemed far more lucrative after watching her displeasure. She had clearly gone to extensive lengths to keep them apart, despite having to share a telescope with him. Perhaps some vengeance enacted upon Granger could entail him sacrificing his peace of mind — especially if he could watch her dissolve into fury each time he questioned her handiwork. His conversation with Sinistra and the sulking behaviours from before now were past him, he gleefully smirked at the petulant Hermione Granger.
“That,” Dean started, his dimples beginning to twinkle down at her, “is exactly what I’m suggesting, Granger.” He jumped, flung his bag onto his shoulder, and winked at her. “See you on Sunday evening’s full moon, partner: let’s meet at the Tower at seven.” He strode off as she continued to stare at him in horror, turning back to take in her outrage one more time. “Make sure you bring your cloak; it’s supposed to be awfully chilly.”
And with a final cheeky grin and a wave, Dean Thomas walked back toward the castle and decided that perhaps this project wouldn’t be too bad after all.