"Blink, I have to go." Hermione glanced at her ring and sensed the boy was looking for her.
She smiled and whispered to the sorrowful little elf, "Promise me, Sparkle — that you'll get some proper rest this holiday. Find something you enjoy and stop dwelling on those unpleasant memories. Alright?"
The little elf nodded reluctantly, still looking wretched, her nimble fingers working without pause as she arranged a plate of smoked salmon.
It was the lunch hour, and every house-elf in the kitchens was fully occupied.
"Miss Granger, please do step aside — you might get burned, and your clothes dirtied!" one elf said softly, carrying a steaming pot filled with the fragrant warmth of French bouillabaisse.
Hermione quickly stepped out of the way.
"I'm so sorry, Miss Granger, so very sorry — it's frightfully busy just now, and we haven't been able to look after you properly!" Wendy hurried over and curtsied, then spun toward an elf rushing past the ovens and said in a piercing voice, "The soufflé will be ready in thirty seconds — remember to take it off the heat on time!"
Wendy turned back to Hermione. "Miss Granger, would you like something to eat?"
"Oh, Wendy, thank you — I'll go up to the Great Hall in a moment," Hermione said quickly. "Please don't trouble yourself on my account. I only came to see you and check on Gilgamesh. I'm sorry for turning up at such a bad time."
"Not at all, Miss Granger. Hogwarts' kitchens are always open to visiting witches and wizards — every guest is an honoured one." Wendy curtsied again, then turned to a temporarily idle house-elf and instructed, "Bring Miss Granger some of the freshest strawberries!"
"I really don't need —" Hermione began.
"The strawberries are especially sweet today, Miss Granger! The problem is, there aren't quite enough for all four house tables — you must have some before they're gone!" Wendy waved her small hand with great authority. "Find the biggest and best ones for Miss Granger!"
"Honestly, there's no need to —" Hermione tried again.
"Would you like a green apple?" the other elf asked in a shrill, eager voice. "Does Miss Granger like green apples?"
"Oh, yes —" Hermione said, thrown entirely off course — and losing all will to argue with house-elves — she said in a small voice, "Actually, it's my boyfriend who likes them."
"Then I'll pick out the finest ones for Miss Granger!" The elf seemed very pleased with this arrangement.
He snatched up two empty brown paper bags, which billowed like kites in the warm draught of the kitchen — snapping and rustling cheerfully — and flew to the fruit baskets as though carried by the wind.
Hermione gazed around at the orderly bustle of the underground kitchens, at the elves moving with such practised, diligent purpose, and found herself speaking in a warm, earnest voice. "I've never really seen how hard you all work before — I should have come ages ago. You know, skilled cooks like yourselves could earn quite a decent wage anywhere, and you work so hard — you deserve proper pay and recognition..."
Every house-elf in the kitchen stopped what they were doing and turned to look at her in unison. Their expressions were not of fear, but of weary, long-suffering resignation.
Hermione had just begun to feel hopeful — pleasantly surprised that most of them hadn't flinched at her words this time — when they all turned back to their work in unison, muttering under their breath.
"Oh no, Miss Granger's at it again..."
"Miss Granger, please go upstairs to the Great Hall for your lunch! We won't be swayed — you can't change our minds!" Wendy bustled over, firmly tucked the two bulging paper bags into Hermione's hands, and steered the slightly crestfallen girl toward the portrait hole. "See you next term!"
A curl of brown hair disappeared behind the portrait. Hermione Granger eased the kitchen door open and peered cautiously into the corridor — deserted.
She breathed out, decided against the Invisibility Cloak, and slipped through the door, making sure the fruit bowl portrait was pressed flush against the wall behind her.
She bid farewell to the pear, which giggled in its frame, and climbed the stairs toward the Entrance Hall through the bright, sun-washed corridor.
It was midday, and the heat was relentless.
Students had gradually retreated indoors from the courtyard, drawn by the cool of the Great Hall and the promise of lunch.
Hermione's white shirt — like tiny jasmine petals drifting from the branch in June — drifted upward against the black river of robes heading downstairs, back to the surface, to find the boy who was also wearing white.
"Hermione!" Ginny's hand appeared from the crowd, waving. "Aren't you coming to eat?"
"In a moment!" Hermione called back. "Save me a seat!"
She slipped nimbly, like a cat, into the covered walkway where they usually met. Sure enough, the platinum-haired boy was there. He sat beneath a thick wisteria trellis, leaning against a stone pillar, lost in thought.
His right leg was stretched flat along the bench; his left knee was bent and raised. His left hand rested on his knee, index finger tapping an absent rhythm against his trouser leg, as if working through something complicated.
There was a cautious look on his face — brow furrowed, lips pressed together in that particular serious way of his.
He's thinking about something important, Hermione decided.
She tilted her head and studied his expression for a moment, then concluded quite firmly that she didn't like it.
So she smiled, mischievous, and plucked a tender bright green wisteria pod from the drooping trellis above. Then she tiptoed — like a cat with gleaming eyes approaching a beloved toy — placing each step with absolute care, making no sound at all.
At last, the bright-eyed cat crept to the side of the stone pillar, reached out, and moved to tickle his nose with the pod — to see if he was nearly asleep — but he caught her hand and pulled her into his arms.
The pod, denied its moment of glory, fell to the ground with a soft thud. The cat's eyes went wide; she used her reflexes to land neatly on his lap rather than crash to the flagstones.
"What are you plotting, you little menace?" Draco opened his grey eyes and looked at her, a hint of a smile surfacing in them instantly.
"How did you —" Hermione's lips parted, her hands flying to his shoulders for balance.
"This is outrageous," she said indignantly. "I was so careful. I didn't make a single sound!"
"I can smell you," Draco said.
How could he possibly ignore the faint trace of her in the air? Close your eyes, and it was even clearer.
Seeing that she was unsteady, he shifted his hold to settle her more securely.
Admittedly, the arrangement was somewhat hazardous for him — but it seemed safer for her this way.
Has he got a cat's nose? Hermione thought, genuinely puzzled.
She looked into those calm, clear eyes watching her and murmured, "Very well — my perceptive, all-knowing, entirely impossible boyfriend."
His mood visibly improved.
In the sunlight, Hermione's grey eyes caught a hint of light blue — a blue that sent a small ripple through her chest. Some portion of her composure slipped helplessly into that quiet lake, and she began to smile before she could stop herself.
Draco looked at her with a smirk. His hand pinched her waist with playful intent, and he asked, "Where did you disappear to?"
"I went to see Gilgamesh." Hermione tried to lean away from his fingers, stifling a laugh. "Don't be silly — this is a serious conversation!"
"Fine." Draco relented with a small, reluctant sigh, settling his hand instead against her back to keep the restless girl on his lap from toppling over.
"What's happened to Sparkle?" he asked.
"She's gone listless again. I thought she was nearly back to herself —" Hermione said, her brow creasing with worry. "She accidentally came across that newspaper while cleaning. The Daily Prophet that covered Mr. Barty Crouch's death."
"She would have found out eventually," Draco said, matter-of-factly. "A short, sharp pain is kinder than a long, drawn-out one."
"Draco, have some compassion!" she said, displeased.
"For house-elves as loyal and stubborn as Sparkle, the death of their master is the surest way to break free of their mental bonds," he replied, in the same measured tone. "It isn't necessarily a terrible thing."
"Since when have you cared what house-elves feel?" Hermione looked at him with sudden curiosity — the expression of someone who has just spotted an unexpected new continent — and asked, eyes bright, "I thought you were entirely indifferent to the idea of liberating house-elves."
"It was a passing observation. Don't read into it." Draco raised his chin, his customary air of superiority returning in an instant.
He was not about to give her any reason to think she was making progress, nor give her an opening to recruit him into that earnest and impractical organisation, S.P.E.W.
Hermione studied his face for a moment, her eyes flickering, but she didn't press him any further.
"Never mind. Shall we have some of those green apples the elves gave you?" She took the two large paper bags from her bag and set them to one side. "There are quite a lot of strawberries in here as well."
Draco looked into the bag, his expression slightly peculiar. "They really do adore you. They always set aside the best for you."
Hermione accepted this with a small, pleased nod and said nothing.
She began to stroke his shoulder, lightly, intermittently, a faint smile on her lips.
He looked a little uncomfortable, she thought. The way his concern for her S.P.E.W. cause had begun to surface, paired with his absolute refusal to admit it, was rather endearing.
Draco shifted under her gaze, but he had nowhere to go — she was still quite firmly settled on his lap.
He tried to look stern and said, somewhat unconvincingly, "What is it? What are you smiling about?"
"I'm just very glad, and constantly amazed, that someone as lovely and impossible as you exists in this world..." Hermione said, smiling at him. She leaned in and gently rubbed her nose against his, precisely as she did with Crookshanks.
A faint flush rose to the boy's cheeks.
Hermione knew exactly how to scatter all his composure, and she knew it.
"What were you thinking about just now? You looked very serious." She settled her chin in her hand.
"Many things," he said, hesitating slightly.
Snape's secret. Dumbledore's secret. His own secrets — and hers. The volatile weather of the months to come.
Hermione tilted her head and watched him waver. He reminded her of a cat deliberating over whether it was allowed to knock over a bowl of milk.
She couldn't help herself. She reached up and touched his platinum-blonde hair, where tiny glints of light were woven through it, and smiled. "Tell me. I don't like it when you keep things to yourself."
The sensation of her fingers moving through his hair was profoundly calming. He could feel the tension in his chest unknotting, his tangled thoughts smoothing out beneath her gentle hands. He forgot entirely what he'd meant to say and found himself reaching up to stroke her hair in return.
Like two cats quietly grooming each other, they both fell into it — touching, being touched, comfortable in the simple exchange.
Hermione was very patient.
She didn't press him with further questions. She only stroked his hair and accepted his in return, languid and unhurried, a soft smile on her face, her eyes warm and full of trust as they looked at him.
"I'll tell you — but you have to promise not to get angry." After a quarter of an hour, the boy, soothed and finally settled, found the words to begin.
"Now I'm nervous," Hermione said, her brow furrowing. "Was it Professor Snape? Was he dreadful when he called you away just now?"
"What? No." Draco blinked in surprise, then shook his head. "It had nothing to do with that. He actually did me a considerable favour."
She hummed softly, looking puzzled.
He made up his mind, met her eyes, and said, "It's my parents."
"Oh," Hermione replied — flatly, calmly — her fingers still moving through his hair without so much as a pause. She might have been responding to a question about lunch.
Her reaction was so composed that it only made him more unsettled.
Draco hesitated, frowning, and tried again, more deliberately: "They are pure-blood wizards. Firm believers in blood purity."
"Mmm." Hermione was still tracing the small shadow that his platinum hair cast across his forehead, careful and precise about it.
"That means they may dislike certain people," Draco said with difficulty, swallowing. "Even people who have done nothing to them, and have no quarrel with them."
He watched her face intently — her eyes, the corner of her mouth, the curve of her nose.
Would any of this touch her? Would she let even a little of it show?
"Yes," Hermione said. She was looking at him the way she always did, openly and without hurry. She studied the clarity of his eyes. The straight line of his nose. The pale set of his lips. The faint light in his thin cheeks. She thought, not for the first time, that he would be stunning if he smiled right now.
"They've heard I have a girlfriend. They may see you at King's Cross when we return to London — they might be..." He continued to stroke her hair, his eyes shadowed with worry. "I cannot guarantee they'll treat you with the courtesy a witch of your standing deserves."
"Of course not," Hermione said quietly, her calm eyes finally meeting his. "She'll be rude to me. She might even despise me — after all, I'm Muggle-born."
The steadiness of her gaze unsettled him further.
He found himself scrambling: "Hermione, you have to understand — they don't hate you as a person. They hate the idea of 'Muggle-born.' They don't know what kind of girl you actually are. Generations of prejudice have blinded them to everything else."
"I understand," Hermione said. "Do you think these things don't exist in the Muggle world?"
She thought of those throughout Muggle history who had preached the doctrine of racial purity — and what they had done with it. The slave trade. The camps. The atrocities carried out in the name of bloodline.
That day, when she'd finally seen Fudge clearly for what he was, Hermione had begun to feel something crystallise into a strange, uncomfortable certainty.
The wizarding world was a mirror of the Muggle world.
The darkness in human nature was, in both cases, precisely the same. Only the names had changed.
"Does that still happen in Muggle society?" Draco asked, genuinely curious.
"No — those ideas fell out of favour. Society shifted, and people began fighting for equal rights." Hermione's gaze burned with quiet conviction. "I really hope the wizarding world catches up. Some of the views held here are decades behind, even by Muggle standards."
"An ambitious ideal," Draco said, and found, despite himself, that her bright eyes had briefly arrested him entirely. She was beautiful in her conviction.
He remembered the bold words she'd said to him outside the maze: "Let's change the scenery."
The idea of changing the world was something Draco Malfoy had never been able to picture for himself. For Hermione Granger, it seemed as natural as breathing — as though the choice had already been made, without any particular effort. The fact that she could speak of it that way, however unformed the vision still was, didn't dim its brilliance; it made it more brilliant.
The boy gazed at the spirited girl with a fascination he couldn't quite suppress, holding a strand of her strong brown hair between his fingers as though it were a warm, living flame.
It took him a moment to find his way back to what he'd been trying to say.
"What I'm trying to ask is..." He stumbled over it. "My parents' beliefs — their attitude toward you — won't that make you angry with me?"
Hermione let out a soft laugh.
"Draco Malfoy, you absolute fool. Do you honestly think I'd pull away from you simply because your parents might treat me badly?"
"...Would you not?" he asked, genuinely bewildered.
"You told me about your parents' beliefs a long time ago," she said, amused. "Have you forgotten?"
His expression shifted to something close to bafflement. "When?"
"Last year, on the Astronomy Tower, when you told me what you'd been doing — you told me you were working against your parents' beliefs and the Dark Lord. And this spring, in the library archive room, didn't you mention that your parents would take your side?" Hermione said. She sounded almost dismissive. "They were followers of the Dark Lord, so they can't have understood what you've been doing. Didn't you tell me that yourself?"
"Yes, but what I'm specifically trying to say is their view of Muggle-borns." Draco pressed on — but even as he did, a small, involuntary bubble of warmth rose in his chest.
She was absolutely unruffled. Not a trace of hurt.
"I've known since the beginning that they despise Muggle-borns. Back on the train when we started second year, Ron told me a great deal about what was said about your parents." Hermione was entirely matter-of-fact. "I'll admit, I was rather shocked the first time I heard it all."
She smiled, and then — with the same casual precision — reached over and rubbed his ear until the tips of it went scarlet.
"After all, you've always been perfectly kind to me. You never seemed remotely like the son of a family that espoused blood supremacy."
Draco shot a guilty glance upward at the dangling wisteria pods and thought, quietly and privately: That's not quite right. In his other life, he had not been kind. He had been the furthest thing from it.
Hermione tilted her head, pinched his ear, and said with a hint of arrogance, "I was prepared for this from the moment I chose to be with you. I never expected them to like me. I was also prepared for the possibility of being treated as a threat — after all, I've stolen their precious son."
"Stolen seems a bit extreme," Draco muttered, ears burning.
He watched two wisteria pods brush against each other in the breeze and felt, oddly, as though something had brushed against his chest as well.
It was more accurate to say he had gone with her of his own free will.
"But — what will they actually do? What do you mean by rude?" Hermione asked, and for the first time, there was a note of real unease in her voice.
"I imagine there may be scrutiny," he said carefully. "Some pointed looks. A few cutting remarks..."
"I can tell you care very much about them." Her unease deepened, and her hand stilled in his hair. "But what would you do if they insulted me?"
"I don't think they would go that far," Draco said, though his gaze drifted anxiously to her face. The sight of that small frown tightened something in his chest.
He began to pat her back, slowly, through the fall of her hair. "I won't tolerate anyone insulting you. If they say or do something wrong, I will stand up for you. And until they've understood their mistake and apologised themselves, I'll do something that might seem presumptuous — I'll apologise to you first, on their behalf. And then I'll do everything I can to make them see how wrong they are."
"I only care about what you do," Hermione said. "As long as you're on my side, I don't think their attitude will be too much to bear." She paused. "That might sound a bit foolish, coming from someone who's never actually faced them. I'm just — talking on paper."
Then she went quiet for a moment.
"For all I know, I might fall to pieces the instant I see them," she said quietly.
Draco's brow furrowed deeply.
"Hermione, I intend to change their thinking — in my own way. But it won't happen at once. Changing minds like theirs may take a long time, and there will be pain along the way for all of us."
He paused, then asked, carefully, "This is not a fair thing to ask — and I know it isn't. But... Hermione, could you wait for me? Just — wait for me in this?"
Once he'd made progress with his parents. Once he'd managed to draw the Malfoy family away from the Dark Lord's orbit. Once he'd had the time to put things right —
Since his rebirth, Draco had been watching his parents constantly, studying their every word and inclination, quietly searching for ways to shift them. But his original plan had always assumed considerably more time.
Being with Hermione had altered those plans entirely.
Some of the quieter, gentler approaches he'd intended to use were no longer available to him. This summer would be two months of scorching heat and careful navigation.
But he didn't regret it.
He had tried, for a while, to suppress what he felt — to wait until everything was resolved and all obstacles cleared before allowing himself to pursue her. But the feeling had arrived too fiercely and too suddenly, and he had been absorbed by it completely before he could stop himself.
And yet — he could not afford a falling-out with his parents. Not now. He still needed his father to listen to him. He needed his mother to quietly help shift his father away from the Dark Lord before it was too late.
If he broke with his parents now — could he simply walk away?
Draco Malfoy could not stand by and watch his family fall into ruin.
When the nest is destroyed, the eggs do not survive.
Their home could be taken over again. The humiliations and torments of his past life could repeat themselves.
He couldn't allow that. However prejudiced they were, however flawed — they were still his parents.
And yet it seemed, once again, that he was asking something unfair of her.
She deserved the best — the most radiant, most unburdened love — not stumbling through darkness and waiting in an abyss.
"If the idea of waiting is something you can't accept, I understand completely. It isn't fair to you." Draco's gaze dropped, his voice low. His fingers closed around the end of her hair where she couldn't see, unwilling to let go even as the words he was about to say betrayed how unwilling he was.
"If you're tired — if you'd rather not wait — I can let you go. You could choose someone better —"
Hermione took his face gently in both hands and said, without hesitation, "I'll wait for you."
"I haven't finished —" Draco said, thrown.
He still had so much to say. Every advantage and disadvantage, carefully weighed. All the things she deserved to consider. All the far better choices she had that didn't involve him.
She needed to know all of it. She needed to understand all of it.
"I don't want to hear the rest," she said firmly. "I don't agree with any of it. I don't need you to let me go. My soul has always been free — whether I'm with you or not — and my free soul is choosing to wait for you."
"You'll really wait?" he said softly, as though tasting the words, finding them sweeter than he'd expected.
"A thousand times. Ten thousand times." She held his face and looked at him directly, her expression without any softness in it — only clear, steady certainty. "Draco — I may still care what your parents think, in the end. They're your family. And I can't ignore what my own parents mean to me, so I understand why you love them. I'm willing to respect that. I'm willing to wait."
Hermione... Draco let out a silent, aching breath.
An innocent and fearless girl.
Do you know what they did to you?
If you ever learned how cold and merciless they were to you in that other life — could you still look at me this calmly?
Do you know that you're reaching out to hold something selfish, cowardly, and broken?
Do you know I've been pulling you, step by step, toward an abyss?
Do you know —
"I know you love them," she continued, cutting gently through the noise in his head. "I know you don't want to hurt them, even when your beliefs are nothing alike. And I know exactly what kind of person you are. I know what you're doing."
Draco looked up carefully, searching for something beneath her dark lashes — and found it. Clear, unwavering, unhesitating.
"I know it's hard to live the way you do, in the circumstances you're in. I'm not tired. I can wait." She finally pulled him into a proper hug and laughed softly against his neck. "But — honestly — waiting isn't really what I have in mind. I'd rather work alongside you."
She settled her chin on his shoulder, breathed him in, and said, in a tone of cheerful certainty, "Remember? We still need to work out how many Horcruxes there are — and destroy them if there are more. We need to be prepared before You-Know-Who returns. We need to find a way to help Harry. We have so many important things still to do together, so many mysteries left to solve."
"Honestly," she said lightly, "your parents' attitude is probably the least pressing thing on our list."
Draco closed his eyes. He held her hair in his hands and let himself be held in return, surrounded by her warmth, listening to her voice, his heart at once full of something sweet and full of something that stung.
She was right.
There was still so much to do. Together.
"Draco... I'll wait for you... I'll work alongside you... Let's do it together, alright?" Hermione murmured against his shoulder.
The wisteria pods swayed overhead, their round leaves rustling in the warm air. She nestled against him entirely, trustingly; the moment was so perfect it was almost too much to bear.
He sighed — a long, contented breath — and swallowed the bitterness back down. Under the cool canopy of wisteria, safe from the midday sun, he held her as tightly as he dared, hiding the struggle in his face in the soft warmth of her hair.
If that's how it is — stay with me. Stay with this selfish, cowardly, broken thing — together.
Let's jump together, into this dark and unknown and terrible abyss.
Together.