Chapter Text
Hermione wakes up with a pounding headache so vicious that she can’t even enjoy the heavenly feeling of being cocooned in satin sheets.
She shouldn’t have taken the champagne glass next to the bath last night, nor the second. And she definitely shouldn’t have gulped down the rest of the bottle to drown her loneliness when it became obvious Draco wouldn’t join her.
She’s parched. Aguamenti fixes that quickly enough, but there isn’t a spell in existence that can conjure a plate of sausages and hash browns—the only cure she trusts for a hangover this foul.
Muttering, she drags herself out of bed and rummages through the drawer for something passably respectable for the dining room. Oddly, she finds Muggle jeans—her exact size. Not remotely a pureblood fashion item. Then she remembers something about the room, charmed to adjust to a guest’s needs. She pulls on a cozy cable-knit, and decides that counts as presentable.
When she finds the Galleon miraculously placed on her bedside table instead of buried somewhere in the disaster zone of clothes she abandoned in the bathroom, a problem she’d generously left to her future self, she notices a new engraving.
Still ok? Lupin wants to see you. Where r u?
Her fingers curl around the piece of gold, not knowing what to say. Probably best not to tell him that she’s currently living in Malfoy Manor. Too long to explain, and with the Galleon’s character limit, she figures it’s wiser to wait and say it in person.
Satisfied that procrastination has conveniently solved the problem, she pockets the Galleon, and steps outside the room, nausea now fighting for dominance over her headache for the privilege of ruining her morning.
When she opens the door, she’s immediately confused by Malfoy standing there with his fist half-raised, as if about to punch her. Or, more likely, knock.
“Wow Granger,” he grins, “Don’t you look radiant this morning.”
She scowls at him and his stupid smirk, and but still snatches the hangover potion he offers and downs it in one gulp.
Relief hits instantly.
“How did you know?” She asks.
“I went in to shower early this morning,” he says, crossing his arms nonchalantly and leaning against the doorway, annoyingly amused. “And noticed the champagne was empty.”
Brilliant. Her past self really outdid herself. Not only did she leave clutter everywhere, she also left the evidence of her drinking spree in plain sight. He must think she’s a complete trainwreck. And that’s without considering the fact that she… pleasured herself… with a thin, unsilenced door between them.
Heat rushes to her face. Confidence had ruled her every move in that bath: now all she feels is embarrassment. She wonders if he’ll bring it up or pretend the whole thing never happened.
“I assume it was meant to complement an enjoyable bath?” he asks.
So he chooses to tease her about it, it seems. Fine. Two can play this game.
“Oh yes, I enjoyed the turndown service Mippy so generously provided.” She glances up at him through her lashes. “And I had an even better night, despite never imagining I’d spend my first night as a married woman alone in my sheets. Then again, this marriage comes with a few surprises.”
His lips twitch into a half-smile as he uncrosses his arms and braces on hand against the doorframe. He leans down, close enough that she feels his breath skim her cheek and making it impossible to pretend she isn’t affected by the effect this man has on her.
“I don’t remember you having trouble asking what you want.”
Heat rises under her collarbone as she realizes what he’s referring to. About the girl who once sat in a cell, hollow with loneliness, and still asked her enemy for a pity hug. And he’s using that against her now. Sitting on the certainty that she’ll cave first.
Too bad for him, she made a pact with herself last night. He’ll be the one begging. Not her.
“All you have to do is ask Granger.” he murmurs, convincing her to be the one to submit. But she can see it, the cracks of vulnerability he can’t quite hide. He wants her. Just as much as she wants him.
“I—” She stops, horrified by how much that single syllable already tastes like she’s surrendering. Thankfully, the vibration of the Galleon cuts her off.
He exhales through his nose, annoyed that he lost her attention.
Please answer… r u OK?
He glares at the Galleon like it personally offended him.
Her stomach growls with hunger, reminding her that she’s indeed famished. She clears her voice and slips past him, evading the sexual tension strung tight between them.
“Do you know a subtle place where I could meet someone?” She asks, hovering between left or right having no idea where the dining room is. She picks left, but Draco steers her right, pressing an insistent hand on her lower back.
“Does Gringotts know you’re tampering with currency?” He mutters, nodding at the Galleon still clutched in her fingers.
“Add this to my list of crimes against the People.” She rolls her eyes. “So? Do you know a place or not?”
“Why?” His hand lingers far longer than necessary, his fist curling lightly in the knit of her sweater. “Planning to meet your Weasel?”
“He’s probably going to be there,” she says—no clue whether Ron will show, but the way Draco’s hand tenses in irritation is too tempting not to provoke. “But it’s Lupin that wants to see me.”
He stops halfway down the staircase and turns toward her, one step below, bringing them almost eye to eye.
“You’re delusional if you think I’m letting you run off to see a known werewolf.”
The overprotectiveness driven by his inner dragon slips out of him before he can help it, and it’s almost endearing. Almost. Because Remus on Wolfsbane is harmless, certainly far less dangerous than Draco in a mood.
“Down, boy.” She teases, her voice dropping low. “Shouldn’t two pets like you get along?”
Her knuckles skim along his jaw in a slow, mocking stroke, the kind you’d give a well-behaved Labrador. And something tells her he responds to positive reinforcement, because he practically whines and his whole posture loosens, wagging his imaginary tail.
“So,” She clicks her tongue, all command. “Do you know a place?”
He catches her hand and brushes it aside with a huff, and they continue down the stairs. Voices can be heard, and Hermione can smell the delicious smell of bacon and grease.
“Yes.” he mutters. “Tell him…the farm in Huntingford. He’ll know.”
A strange numbness seems to envelop him, his shoulders slumping forward as his eyes go glassy and distant. She wonders what’s in Huntingford and why Remus would know about it, but Hermione decides not to press, too focused on the roaring emptiness in her stomach. She taps her reply on the Galleon with the frantic efficiency of a starving woman.
When they step into the dining room, Hermione briefly wonders if she got her dates wrong—which is entirely possible in captivity—and it’s suddenly Christmas Eve. The absurdly long table is buried under a mountain of food, enough to feed a small army.
Narcissa and Lucius sit amid the feast like it’s perfectly ordinary. And maybe it is.
Her eyes lock on a platter of sausages so juicy and bubbly she might cry. She drops on the chair in front of it, missing Theo’s presence just beside her.
“Had a nice night of nuptials, lovebirds?” The curly-haired wizard chirps, and Lucius groans behind his newspaper.
“Of course you already know.” Draco mutters as he sits beside her. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Surprised?” Theo gasps theatrically, sliding the sausage platter out of Hermione’s reach before she could even take one. She lets out a tiny, wounded sound. He smiles, perfectly knowing what he’s doing. “No, no, imagine my surprise when dear old Lucy told me this morning, I—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“All right Papa, how could—”
“Don’t call me Papa either.”
Hermione watches the ping pong exchange, amused by their dynamics. Theo once told her, during one of the many times he was patching up her Azkaban injuries, that he was practically the Malfoys’ adopted son.
“Couldn’t have owled me so I could be there as your best man?” Theo complains, tightening his grip on the platter like she might lunge for it. “Especially since it was my idea.”
“What do you mean?” Hermione gasps.
Theo turns his sharp green eyes on her and pauses when he realizes she has indeed half-lunged. She’s practically draped across his arm like an underfed cat. Smirking, he finally relents and spears a sausage with a silver pick. He deposits it onto her plate with exaggerated generosity.
But her curiosity has surpassed her hunger now, so she waits.
“Seeing how Draco felt miserable about you for months—”
“Miserable seems far-fetched.” Hermione corrects, sawing a little too aggressively through her sausage. At the same moment, Draco’s knife screeches across his plate as he cuts into a slice of quiche. Across the table, Narcissa hums thoughtfully with the ghost of a smile.
“Oh, still living in the denial zone, are they?” Theo asks, directing the comment at Narcissa as if they share a silent conversation. Then, he swings his attention back to Hermione just as she swallows a piece of sausage. “Whatever floats your boat, Granger. Anyway, I may have suggested the Vow could be tricked. But by then, we thought you’d escaped, so it didn’t matter anymore.”
“I did not escape,” Hermione adds, taking another bite. “I was…elsewhere in Azkaban.”
“Yes, ‘Cissa told me.” Theo’s normally bright voice dims, the corners of his mouth twitching downward with sincerity. “I’m sorry.”
She’s just about to redirect the misplaced attention about her well-being, when Mippy materializes between her and Draco.
“Good morning, Mistress Malfoy.” Hermione winces at this nonsense appellation. “Tea or coffee?”
“Oh please,” she says. “Call me Hermione. “And coffee, thank you.”
Mippy snaps her fingers. A steaming pot drifts up and tilts neatly over Hermione’s cup. Then the elf glides to Draco and pours him tea instead, adding honey and a splash of vanilla without having to ask, knowing and indulging his habits.
Now that she’s not dramatically hungry anymore, Hermione feels almost playful. She leans toward Mippy.
“Thank you for the care you put into the bathroom last night,” she murmurs, loud enough for Draco to hear. “The bath was…quite pleasant.”
Draco makes a great show of being unbothered, but the way his index finger tightens around the fragile teacup handle suggests he’s at risk of snapping it in hundreds of pieces. Meanwhile, Mippy bounces on her toes, delighted.
“Oh everything for Hermione and young Master Malfoy! Mippy put very strong oils in the water. Fertility oils!”
Hermione chokes on her coffee, and Theo wheezes a laugh into his napkin. Mippy beams as though she’s delivered wonderful news.
“Mippy loves babies! We want babies, yes!”
“We do not.”
Lucius drops his newspaper with such force that Narcissa’s brushing is almost dishevelled. Disgust twists his features. Probably less at the idea of a grandchild, and more at her producing it Hermione theorizes. That’s when she notices the parchment he’s been hiding behind the Daily Prophet, a hand still clutched on a quill. Top-secret correspondence or something deeply embarrassing—she can’t tell. He quickly snaps the newspaper back up like a shield.
Theo rises from his chair and winks at Draco, who only rolls his eyes and scoops a spoonful of wild berries.
“Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds to sort out the next generation, then.” Theo sniggers, “So, what kind of trees you want me to get Lulu? Charmed with leaves or not?”
Lucius’s eyes blaze murderously, but Theo only raises an eyebrow, unfazed.
“Ask them.” Narcissa pats her husband’s hand with tender encouragement, as if soothing a nervous child.
Lucius mutters something incomprehensible.
“Darling,” His wife coos. “There’s no need to be embarrassed.”
The mumbling continues, though fragments surface—“theme,” “why me,” and something that might be a curse in French, like ‘quel connard’.
“What?” Draco leans in, failing to understand his own father. Lucius glances at him, then away, then back to Draco again, before letting out a long and suffering sigh.
“Do you prefer an enchanted forest theme…or a starry night theme?”
“Are you well?” Draco asks, because surely Lucius is having a stroke.
“For the wedding reception on Friday, dear.” His mother explains gently.
Both of Draco’s eyebrows raise slowly as he awaits clarification. Then, he breaks into a laugh so loud, and utterly inappropriate if one considers Lucius’s scowl.
“You are in charge of decorations?” Draco manages between laughs. Hermione joins in, because this is objectively hilarious.
“Yes,” Lucius snaps. “The Dark Lord has seen fit to place me in charge of this…delicate assignment.”
“Yes, he did.” Narcissa says, in the same tone she might use with a child who has just mastered tying their shoelaces, and needs validation.
“He asked your mother first.” Lucius supplies. “To which she replied—brilliantly, I might add—that interior arrangements shouldn’t default to her simply because she happens to be the lady of the house.”
This witch never ceases to impress Hermione. She giggles at the thought of Narcissa Malfoy refusing to give in to sexist orders of one of the darkest sorcerers of all time on the grounds of principle alone. And that he allowed it.
“I may have said that competence does not obligate me to indulge him simply because I can.” The witch adds lightly, and her husband stares at her with dreamy tenderness, like she just hung the moon. “So I took charge of the guest list instead.”
“And I’m in charge of visiting the botanist to order the trees,” Theo cuts in, bored. His gaze flicks between Hermione and Draco. “So if the two of you could please choose the theme?”
Deciding on something as inconsequential as a party theme in the middle of a war irks Hermione. They shouldn’t be wasting time debating table arrangements under the pretense of a fabricated union. They should be planning their next move. Ending the war, ideally.
Draco seems to share the same sentiment, and only shrugs.
“Enchanted forest.” Hermione says, deciding for both. Summer has always been her favorite season, and as she watches the gardens outside, grey and gloomy with April drizzle, she rules out anything resembling winter.
Draco nods, in quiet agreement.
“Perfect,” Theo claps once, “I’m off to Diagon Alley.”
He disappears from the room at once. Lucius lowers his gaze to the parchment still concealed behind his newspaper, quill already moving, as though they might not notice he’s begun drafting an entire list of preparations tailored to the newly chosen theme.
“My dragon,” Narcissa says, turning to her son. Her voice softens. “You look a little pale this morning. Are you feeling all right?”
Hermione’s head tilts left, studying the perpetually pale wizard. Still—he does look weirdly pasty and unkempt, which is rich, considering she’s the one who emptied a whole bottle of champagne last night.
Her hand flies to his forehead before she can stop herself, and an unusual dampness meets her skin.
“I’m fine.” Draco peels her hand away and settles it back on her thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze, which is awfully considerate of him.
“We actually had a question,” Draco says, snapping his wand up and silencing the room. “Have you seen Nagini lately?”
“Why?” Lucius drawls, not bothering to look up from his parchment.
“It’s a simple question,” Hermione says evenly. “Have you seen her or not?”
“Nothing is ever simple when it comes to you,” he grumbles, “Let me guess. Will this help you in your inane quest of … disposal?”
“Yes.” She confirms, without elaboration. She doesn’t trust Lucius enough to reveal her whole plan, but she does suspect he could be useful where the snake is concerned. It takes a snake to know one, and all of that.
The deranged smile that he sends her over the edge of his newspaper tells her she’s correct.
“Good.” His lips twitch upward, the only sign that he’s delighted. “I saw her last week. He keeps her in his personal wing.”
Maybe Lucius is not the enemy she thought he was, like he said.
Over the next days, Hermione explores the Manor, hunting for any hints of what Voldemort’s final Horcrux might be. He looks narcissistic enough to have hidden it in plain sight, convinced no one is smart enough to look. She’s also determined to run into the Dark Lord as often as possible, for investigative purposes, but quickly learns he has left for Slovenia and won’t return until the wedding reception on Friday. She really should make herself a note to ask what’s in Slovenia, because from all the European countries, the Republic spends an awfully disproportionate amount of time there.
For reasons she can’t quite explain, Malfoy seems just as committed to not crossing paths with her. At first, she thought it was simply the new thrill and freedom that came with being a dragon. She caught him several times flying over the Manor’s gardens, practicing his maneuvers, sometimes alone and other times with his parents. She couldn’t blame him. Merlin, if she could turn into an enormous flying beast at will, she’d be insufferable too, spending most of her time outside, soaring until the ground became an afterthought. Her fear of heights would be an afterthought if she were the one in control.
But when he’s not outside being a dragon, he avoids her like she’s an infectious disease. Literally.
Which is fine by her. Totally fine.
She doesn’t need him hovering, especially since the few times they have seen each other, her heart has lurched into such a concerning arrhythmia that she briefly wondered if she should consult a healer. Maybe Theo should check her. And, frankly, probably check his friend as well.
Because if Draco had looked a bit unwell at breakfast, his condition appears to be steadily deteriorating. Just this afternoon was proof enough. She had been examining every portrait in the western wing, trying to gather any clue about a possible Horcrux, when she turned a corner too sharply.
Draco caught her before she could even register who it was. His hands closed around her upper arms, fingers digging in as if letting go were not an option. She hadn’t been close to falling, but he held her anyway, breath stuttering once against hers. His grey eyes went from blank to fire the instant their skin touched.
His grip tightened, shifting, like he was facing an impossible dilemma. His body was suddenly and deliciously too close, heat bleeding through layers of clothes.
Then, he released her abruptly, as though the contact had scorched him. He muttered nonsense before retreating and evading her. Again.
The next day, she overhears a hushed conversation between Narcissa and Draco—who looks deeply uncomfortable with whatever his mother is implying.
“It has been four days.” She whispers. “It’s too long for someone in your situation. You’ll burn out.”
Hermione fully intends to interrogate Malfoy about what his mother meant by burning out, and exactly what situation she had been referring to. But first, she has a meeting scheduled with Lupin.
Correction: they have a meeting.
Because no matter how firmly she argued that it would be better for her to go alone, Malfoy was categorical. Either he came with her, or she could forget about going altogether, as he would never tell her the exact meeting point. Threats were made. Strongly worded opinions were exchanged. In the end, Hermione lost, though not without calling him an insufferable, controlling moron.
For all the times he’d ignored her over the past few days, she couldn’t understand this sudden surge of overprotectiveness. Rationally, it made sense. She was leaving the relatively safe perimeter of the Manor for a location where the war still raged. And yet Malfoy had a talent for turning her into the most illogical version of herself, where reason had been thoroughly expropriated.
Which is how they end up Apparating into the middle of a barn, surrounded by hay bales, two confused goats, and a mildly judgmental alpaca.
“Now that I’m safe and sound.” She whirls on Malfoy. “Go hide. It’s best you’re not there for the news I’m about to tell him.”
Lucius had warned them that the news of their marriage would break by next morning. And since it seems to be Hermione’s destiny to be surrounded by hot-blooded men who think it’s their sacred duty to rescue her from mortal peril, she has very little faith that her surrogate father will take it calmly.
Malfoy only folds his arm.
“Or stay right there,” she adds coolly, “if you want Lupin to kick your ass.”
He scoffs, unimpressed, but retreats to an empty horse stall.
She waits for the familiar crack of apparition, though she isn’t surprised when she hears two. Ron’s presence registers briefly, just a blur, before Remus reaches her and pulls her into his arms.
“Finally.” He says, her head tucked under his chin. He slowly rubs steady circles between her shoulders in a comforting manner. When he pulls back, he lets his hand linger on her shoulder, squeezing it once.
The smile he gives her almost eclipses the marks that fatigue has traced on his face. Lupin has never been a vibrant-looking wizard, but the war left him even more gaunt—no doubt the price of his high-ranking role in the Order.
“My brave girl,” His hand drops by his side, relief softening his posture even as guilt creeps into his voice. “I’m sorry it took so long, I tried to get to you, but—”
Hermione stops him before he sinks into the quicksand of guilt, a place that serves no purpose and where struggling would only make it worse.
And of everyone, she knows Remus is the one who fought the hardest for her.
“I know,” she says quickly, “Cho told me. You even managed to piss off Kingsley.”
“He hid my wand for one whole month,” he grimaces. “But at last, you finally escaped. I’m so proud of you.”
Ron lets out a sarcastic laugh, and she had almost forgotten he was there.
“Ah, yes.” Lupin says mildly. “Ronald was rather upset that you didn’t return with him.”
“Upset?” The not-upset wizard scoffs. “Bloody mad is more like it. Still am!”
The judgmental alpaca beside him clucks loudly, as though advising him to mind his volume. Ron bristles, clearly offended to be scolded by livestock, and stalks toward Hermione.
“What were you thinking,” He hisses, “flying off with a dragon?” After all the trouble we went through to escape, you just had to pick the next best suicidal plan!”
“I told you,” Hermione replies slowly, not wanting to be reprimanded by the disgruntled alpaca, “that it was to find the remaining…cakes.”
“No need for the code with us,” Ron rolls his eyes, miffed. “Lupin knows all about them.”
He does?
It’s not that she doesn’t trust Lupin, but she’s still deciding how much the man hiding in the horse stall needs to know. She trusts Malfoy, somehow, but this secret was never hers alone. It was Dumbledore’s, entrusted to Harry, and by extension, to Ron and her, accessories to the fact.
Her eyes drift to the horse stall for just a moment too long.
She knows, because Lupin follows her gaze, then looks back at her.
“Yes, I know.” Lupin confirms. “Legilimency doesn’t work on me. Occupational hazard of lycanthropy.” He smiles. “One of the few perks.”
Hermione exhales.
“So your secrets are safe with me,” he continues, softer now. “Though I wish you’d trusted me sooner, so you three wouldn’t have to endanger yourself into a creative hunt...”
“Yes, well.” She scratches absentmindedly at her cheek, nervous that Malfoy will start to connect the dots about the Horcruxes. Or, alternatively, that Lupin might realize he’s hiding a few meters away, seeing how his gaze keeps drifting in that direction.
“Anyway,” she presses on, “I decided the best strategy was to get closer to Voldemort.” She shifts from foot to foot, knowing she has to come clean. “That by living near him, I could learn more—and be close to the snake too.”
“Hilarious, ‘Mione.” Ron lets out a rough laugh. “So what, you asked You-know-who if he fancied a roommate and just moved in with him? Are you splitting the rent? Besides, everyone knows he’s living in Malfoy Manor…”
She offers a close-lipped smile, inviting him to fill in the blanks. Maybe it’ll hurt less if he comes to the conclusion by himself, instead of her telling him that, yes—she has moved him with the Malfoys and Voldemort.
Ron blanches so fast she briefly wonders if this was, in fact, the worst possible approach.
“No.” His words become shrill with horror. “W-what—how is that possible? How would that even work!” He shouts, stepping toward her. “He’d kill you. Or one of the Malfoys would! I—I… I don’t understand. Are you bloody insane!”
His hands shoot up to her shoulders, shaking slightly.
A low lament rumbles through the space. She pointedly avoids the horse stall, choosing instead to stare at the pig in a puddle of mud and assign the blame there.
Of course, Lupin’s canine hearing catches it instantly, probably updating his mental something is wrong list.
Great.
At least Ron seems far too perturbed to notice anything at all. Hermione steers him away from the sound, guiding him toward the nearest hay bale.
“Ron, sit.” she orders calmly. “I have something to tell you, and I don’t fancy you passing out.”
He stares at her in catatonic disbelief, but his knees eventually give out. She crouches in front of him, hands pressing firmly against his legs.
“Long story short,” she carefully says, “the only way to be safe from Voldemort was to get married.” A pause. “To Malfoy.”
He stares at her, blankly, like she’s just handed him a riddle written in Ancient Runes. Which is impressive, considering her words could not have been clearer.
Then he gasps.
“B-but—” His face scrunches into pure disgust. “He’s already married, and he’s ancient, and—”
“RON.”
She yells it so loud that one goat panics and tips sideways in silent solidarity. She can only imagine the son retching nearby. A carousel of nightmares assaults her mind: herself in white, Lucius in a bowtie.
You may now kiss the bride.
She fears there isn’t an Obliviate strong enough to undo that.
“With Draco,” she snaps, slapping Ron on the shoulder. “I married Draco Malfoy. What the fuck is wrong with you for even thinking—” She breaks off, visibly shuddering.
“What?” Ron hisses.
“You. Heard. Me.”
“He tortured you!” Ron explodes. “He’s the reason Voldemort knew you were in Azkaban. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The irony that Ron finds her marrying Draco more alarming than the idea of her marrying his father is not lost on her.
“Children, if you could—” Remus mutters, rubbing at his eyebrows.
“Why are you not reacting?” Ron snaps at Lupin. “The girl you consider a daughter, the one you’ve been trying to save from Azkaban, has married the guy who kept her there, and brought her repeatedly in front of his lord to—”
“I know.” Lupin exhales, glancing furtively at the horse stall. “But I also know that the safest place Hermione could be is with him.”
Hermione cocks her head, trying to follow his train of thoughts. Technically, he’s right—yes, being the catalyst to Draco’s transformation makes protecting her one of his priorities, to the absolute delight of no one—but Lupin doesn’t know that. She hasn’t told them that part of the story, yet.
“How could you possibly know that?” Ron scowls, matching her suspicion.
“This farm,” Lupin spreads his arms. “It’s been used for months as a meeting point to transfer Voldemort’s memories he wanted to give the Order…to bait us into exchanging Harry for you.” His eyes are suddenly hollow, replaced by the vacant gaze of someone who has seen too much.
“And the person he asked to hand them over was—” He stops himself, then admits. “Draco.”
“I could see how miserable he was. And—strangely—how upfront about everything concerning you. That despite the horrors, he made sure you were fed, healed. He even suggested ways to get you out, plans that all failed, or were doomed from start.”
A deep sense of sympathy blooms in her chest for the wizard hiding in the horse tall. For all the attitude she’d thrown at him—every accusation about doing nothing, being useless, letting her rot and liking it—turns out he had tried. Failed, yes, but intent is intent, and she’s suddenly short one villain to blame.
And to be the one being forced to hand over those memories, to deliver them like a courier of misery—both of their miseries. Gruesome images of her, sometimes of himself, hurting her because someone wanted a show.
She can’t imagine the shame he must have felt. He apologized for the things he was forced to do, but she never understood he’d been drowning right beside her for so long. Just quieter about it.
“So when you told Ron to meet me here…” Lupin continues. “Since only Draco Malfoy knew about this place, I knew it meant you were with him. Safe.”
She offers him a small smile to say he’s right. Ironically, the headquarters of a maniac with genocidal aspirations against people like her is the safest place she can be.
Lupin returns her smile, gentle and knowing. It’s a peaceful and quiet moment. Naturally, Ron ruins it by shooting to his feet, startling the gaggle of geese that waddled into the barn. They scatter like someone unleashed a mountain troll. One even stumbles over a rock lying haphazardly at the entrance and sheds a few feathers in protest.
“Over my dead body,” Ron hisses. “This ends now.” He grabs her wrist. “You’re coming back with us.”
Hermione takes a breath. Of all the things she hates—which includes, but are by no means limited to: people who select the toilet stall right next to hers, when all the other ones are empty; people who walk slightly slower than her only to suddenly speed up the second she tries to pass, and anyone who says calm down while she is demonstrably calm—she especially hates men who think hauling her like a sack of potatoes will make her more compliant. It does not. It never will.
“Ron,” she snaps. A lone goose who got left behind startles, honks indignantly, and flees. “Let me go, you’re hurting—”
He’s not really hurting her, but she just wants him to feel guilty without forcing her to draw her wand, because if she does, then someone will be hurting. Ron.
Unfortunately, she momentarily forgot about the other wizard in the barn whose new life mission revolves around her not getting hurt. Great. More male energy, exactly what she didn’t need.
“Get your hands off of her.”
She doesn’t need to turn around to know who just made his existence known.