Notes:
Hello !
I just started this story. I wanted to be able to share some of my ideas, to mix a broken but sensual Draco Malfoy and a Hermione in the throes of a post-war panic. It will be very different in this eighth year at Hogwarts and the more the story evolves, the more the relationship between our two madcaps will take off. Hope you like my story, enjoy reading!
This fanfic contains sexual content, graphic depictions of violence and referenced of torture.
"𝐻𝑜𝑔𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑏𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒."
For some obscure reason, Hermione Granger found herself standing on the cobblestones of Diagon Alley. Here, the bustling magical streets were once filled with happiness and hope. The Leaky Cauldron pub, the dozens of bookshops, and Ollivanders Wand Shop now appeared lackluster after the war. The narrow signs, broken doors, and walls shimmering with dust reflected the image of a faltering city in ruins. The young Gryffindor hadn't expected to wander these adjacent streets again, where numerous shops now stood abandoned. Yet, her long legs, encased in high-waisted white jeans, moved over every debris as if she inhabited another world—a dreamlike existence. Perhaps she needed a reminder? Maybe her nightmares had invaded her mind too much, keeping her in a comatose state of grim memories? She couldn't say for sure.
The war had left destruction in its wake—buildings, families, and even people's hearts. It fractured the depths of the soul, draining an individual's inner wellspring. Hermione knew she was different now, broken by the past few years. But beyond the inner voice urging her to give up, nothing could pierce the steel armor she had erected to keep the shadows at bay. She needed to clear her mind, to reflect before plunging into the unknown. A new year at Hogwarts shouldn't evoke this bile-like sensation in her throat. It was déjà vu. Yet... Yet, her trembling lips couldn't conjure the same spark of life deep within her chest. It had vanished, just like several of her comrades on the battlefields.
"Why return to Hogwarts?" Ron had asked her, exasperated, a few months ago.
His best friend hadn't chosen Hogwarts. A whole new path had opened up for him. Since the moment Voldemort was defeated, events had unfolded with overwhelming intensity. The heroes who conquered the dark wizard—Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter—had survived the unimaginable. Amid public acclaim and ministry recognition, brown envelopes had fluttered about, heralding their praise and promoting their futures.
Ron had been offered a prestigious position on the Irish Quidditch team. Harry, on the other hand, had reluctantly accepted the role of an Auror at the Ministry of Magic, but only under the condition that he could complete his studies at Hogwarts. The shock had etched itself on everyone's faces, except Hermione's. Like her, the only glimmer of love and the image of home resided within the magical walls of the castle that had welcomed them for so many years. Nothing awaited them beyond those fortress walls.
Harry's sole blessing, amidst the horrors of the past, lay with his girlfriend, Ginny Weasley, who spent her year at Hogwarts. Battling the grief of her departed brother, Fred, the young Weasley sought solace in the arms of her friends and the rest of her family.
Ron sent her letters. Hermione couldn't help but smile ironically at their content. They were more formalities than genuine interest in her. The kiss they'd shared in the heat of the moment had evaporated, lost in the sands of time. Ron didn't attempt to understand her, pushing her away after his brother's tragic death. When the Quidditch opportunity arose, he dove into the unknown with enthusiasm. Hermione didn't hold it against him. Each of them navigated the depths of their emotions in their own way. Perhaps she expected a few more words from him? Certainly. As surprising as it may be, the small interwoven envelope under her fingers brought her no solace. She knew its contents by heart.
"Dear Hermione,
Training with the Irish team is fantastic! I spend a lot of time with the squad. I can't wait to start the tournaments. The coach says I have great potential and that I'll bring good luck this year.
I hope you're well.
Ron"
Should she taste soap in her mouth due to his blatant lack of interest in her? Should she feel sorry for not hearing more from him? She didn't. There was only silence within her—icy and obscure, draining every last drop of emotion.
A weary sigh escaped her rosy lips. Turning away from the unrecognizable village, Hermione pushed her headphones over her ears and carried her suitcase. With a flick of her wand, she incinerated the letter and Apparated to the King's Cross station toilets. Walking through the stone and concrete corridors of Platform 9¾, the young Gryffindor was surprised to find herself running late. After greeting the train conductor, she boarded, her eyes scanning the rows of rounded students. They were numerous. The cushioned cabins absorbed the heavy silence of the Hogwarts students. Not a word was spoken. As she walked down the long corridor, Hermione caught several glances directed her way. She continued forward, trying to remain indifferent to the mix of consternation and awe in those gazes.
"Mione!" a soft voice exclaimed.
Golden hair and arms enveloping her with joy: Luna Lovegood. She hadn't lost her radiance. Her pale skin bathed in sunlight streaming through the train's windows. Her eyes sparkled mischievously as she pulled Hermione along into a compartment where Ginny, Dean, and Seamus were bundled up. Harry was nowhere to be seen. Hermione greeted them briefly, listening from a distance to their excited murmurs about the new school year. Seamus was already eager to resume Potions classes, hoping to try a new disastrous recipe that would likely explode his cauldron, covering the walls and his face in soot. Dean, on the other hand, relished Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons and couldn't wait to learn a new spell to cast at his friend when the professors weren't looking.
Feeling like an outsider in the equation and having little to say, Hermione slipped out of the compartment. With her headphones snug over her ears, she weaved through the throng of students in the train corridor, heading toward Hogwarts. With precision, ignoring passing glances, she cracked open a window in the deserted hallway and pulled out a cigarette. This wretched habit had started during the war. There were many ways to soothe her nerves, but the cigarette between her slender fingers allowed nicotine to drown her inner anxiety. She no longer felt the passion for learning or the overwhelming enthusiasm of seeing familiar faces. There was only darkness within her, eased only by a drink or a smoke. Pathetic, she thought.
As the wind brushed against her face and her eyes fixed on the mountains and trees defying the sky with their height, Hermione fought the heat creeping up her neck. She recognized this sensation. Someone was watching her.
Grumbling under her breath, she forced herself to stay in place, ignoring the lewd looks that were constantly being thrown at her. Hermione was the Golden Girl.
The triumph of the war imposed upon her felt like a vise around her throat. Perhaps she should stop dwelling on the countless losses, the sacrifices made for the greater good, and instead focus on the living? Sniffling imperceptibly, swallowing down her emotions, she didn't immediately sense the presence at her side. It was only when a warm hand made contact with her shoulder that the realization clicked in her mind.
Maybe it was a survival reflex, but in less than a second, she had spun around, her assailant now facing her, and she brandished her wand against the newcomer's jugular. Her breath came in ragged gasps, lips pressed tightly together, pupils wide with adrenaline as Hermione stared at Harry, her best friend, frozen under her grip, both elbows raised in a sign of truce.
Hermione swallowed at the sound of her name murmured, quickly releasing her friend, her breath still catching. "Sorry, you startled me. Did I hurt you?" Her hand instinctively pressed against Harry's chest, seeking reassurance. He offered a weak smile.
"I thought you were going to impale me with that wand, Mione. You're terrifying," he chuckled. "Remind me to make more noise next time I approach you, okay?"
The dimples in his cheeks didn't reach his eyes; concern etched into his skin. Hermione vaguely nodded in response, feeling disoriented and her cheeks aflame. If she had tried to be discreet and show no emotion on her face, she had just failed miserably. Merlin.
With a contrite smile, Harry pulled her into his arms, his hands gripping her hips, and his head buried in her neck. She allowed herself to yield, her limbs trembling, inhaling the scent of pine from his ebony hair. Forcing herself to stay grounded, she swallowed. She could do this, maintain composure.
"Are you okay?" he murmured, still nestled against her neck.
A shaky intake of breath was the only response she could manage. She couldn't form a single word; her throat too tight. A hug was all it took to unravel her. She could play the robot all day long as long as there was no physical contact or tenderness. It would be so easy to concoct a lie and say everything was fine, that she was merely exhausted from lack of sleep. But not with Harry. So, she chose to silence her thoughts and savor the moment they shared. They separated by mutual agreement, and he gestured toward her cardigan with a raised eyebrow. She chuckled at his unspoken question.
Dressed in white jeans cinched at the waist and flared at the ankles, along with a dark blue cardigan bearing the inscription, "The breath of life comes from the heart," the tiny molded letters were barely visible to the naked eye against her shoulder blade, but Harry had a keen eye.
"I snagged a few clothes on Diagon Alley," she said with utmost seriousness, and Harry seemed to believe her without question.
Playfully tapping his shoulder, her eyes shining, she continued, "No, they belonged to my mother."
And so, they remained silent, locked in a gaze. When Harry finally spoke, changing the subject, Hermione was immensely grateful.
"Ginny won't stop talking about the new courses this term; you should see her—it's like looking at you," Harry said.
Hermione smiled at his words. "She's fantastic. But I think once Quidditch starts up again, she'll quickly forget about the other subjects."
"Definitely," Harry chuckled.
After a final glance at her, Harry's green eyes shifted to her right hand, which still held the half-smoked cigarette. Hermione extended it toward him teasingly. In the quiet of the corridor, Harry blew smoke toward her face, winking mischievously. What a kid, she thought, a smile distorting her features.
"How do you think the year will go?" she asked.
Would it be okay for their friends? Could they navigate this stage without Ron by their side? That's what her initial question concealed, but she hesitated to voice her inner turmoil aloud. Harry pondered, seeming to grasp the direction of her thoughts.
"It'll be difficult and strange without Ron, I think. But after the war, we all needed a break and a sanctuary. We've got the same Hermione, so we'll get through this together, okay? Like in the good old days."
"Like in the good old days," she repeated with a faint smile.
She didn't believe it for a second, but allowing herself to be swayed by her best friend's words, she dared to hope. They had survived the horrors of war, and they owed it to those who hadn't been as fortunate to keep living. Even if the searing pain on her arm told her otherwise, she clung to that reality.
"I think you've got a fan," Harry whispered, leaning close to her ear, a gentle smile in his voice.
Hermione tore herself away from her thoughts and surveyed her surroundings. Several students were surreptitiously observing their exchange with barely veiled admiration, and she grimaced in response. As she averted her caramel eyes, they met the steely gaze of a tall blond. Seated diagonally in a compartment, legs stretched out and long, muscular arms crossed, the man with ash-blond hair watched her with an unfamiliar glint in his eyes, causing Hermione's eyebrows to arch. Draco Malfoy. He had changed since the war, like all the passengers. But his dust-gray eyes, tightly defined jaw, and pinched mouth only evoked dark memories. He had matured. He was... handsome. Not the gentle kind of beauty her best friend might reveal, but a brooding, intense, and possessive allure.
When he lifted an amber-colored glass to his lips, challenging her with that unknown spark in his gaze, Hermione turned away, her cheeks aflame for some inexplicable reason. It was only Malfoy, a boy who had spent all his recent years insulting her about her bloodline, right down to her fiercely curly and untamable hair. Hermione pressed her lips together. Just because he had gained muscle and had a handsome face didn't alter her perception of him. They had never spoken, and that certainly wouldn't change this year.
Harry flicked his extinguished cigarette, dusted off his T-shirt, and gripping his best friend's shoulder, they made their way to the compartment with their peers, without a backward glance. Hermione felt the heat on her neck. Surely it was the other students, she thought. It definitely wasn't Draco, who had despised her for so many years.