When Ginny Weasley moved like a tsunami tide, the rest of the world parted and fled before they were caught in her chaos. That was how students found themselves jumping onto the nearest benches inside the Great Hall, some looking away from the famous, furious red of her hair and color beneath pale cheeks, while others braved to see where she was headed.
"Breathe, Ginny," Hermione said just before placing a spoon of mashed potatoes in her mouth, her eyes lingering on the thick book sprawled next to her dinner plate. When she was done reading her sentence, she looked up to find Ginny heaving at her side, Harry just a few steps behind her, hands in his pockets, and a look in his emerald eyes that reminded Hermione of all the scolding expressions she had given them over the years.
"You're absolutely mad," Ginny said through her teeth, "and a hypocrite. You told me not to rebel against the Ministry, and yet you just challenged them and McGonagall."
"Of course I'm hypocrite," replied Hermione as she took another scoop of potatoes into her mouth. When she swallowed it down, she then added, "I've got paired up with Draco Malfoy. Had either of you been paired with him, I'd be helping you challenge the entire world to get out of it."
Harry nodded, conceding to her explanation, but Ginny flung her elbow back, hitting him on the chest. "I'm not saying it wasn't absolutely wonderful watching you stand up for yourself, but you gave up your wand. You understand what that means, don't you?"
Hermione pushed her dinner plate aside, turning to Harry and Ginny with her massive book in her hands now. "Of course I know what that means, but do you know what a betrothal in the Wizarding world consists of?"
"Servitude?"
"Pureblood inbreeding?"
"Besides that," huffed Hermione, offering the book up to them. "I checked this out from the library. It's all on vows involving family and marriage contracts."
Harry groaned when he ended up holding the book. He frowned at Ginny's smirk and Hermione rolling her eyes at him. "Surely not all of this can still be in practice, right? This thing looks ancient."
"The Wizarding world is ancient," Ginny told him, crossing her arms. "Not a lot changes when it comes to government. Wizards are set in their ways—which explains why we had an entire war to fight blood supremacy. This movement was backed by people in power even weeks before the final battle, you seriously think they've given their other laws much room for change? No way."
"Exactly," Hermione echoed in agreement, reaching over to tap the corner of the book she wanted her friends to see. "Betrothals cannot be broken by either participating individual. It is only broken through legal consent by those who drew up the contract—in usual circumstances, it would be the fathers of the pair, but in my case it would be the Wizengamot."
"And they won't concede," Harry grumbled, his eyes scanning the yellowing page.
"As if it's not horrible enough that someone else has a say in whom I marry, but during the ceremony between the betrothed, an unbreakable, binding enchantment is cast upon the couple. This isn't like the muggle world, Harry; there is no annulment or divorce. When they marry you off here, they intend for you to stay together forever."
"'Til death do you part, then?"
Hermione nodded at him. "And if it comes down to it, I will not hesitate to sacrifice Malfoy."
Ginny sighed loudly, yanking the book from Harry's hands and shutting it close. Both the latter and Hermione eyed her for a second, both wondering if she was going to use it to hit Hermione on the head with it, but instead Ginny held it close to her chest.
"Look," she said through her teeth again, the red in her cheeks still not wavering, "I'm not saying all of this okay, but you're talking about giving up your—"
"You just don't get it," Hermione interrupted, standing from the bench and grabbing her schoolbag all in one sharp movement. "None of you do. And I'm happy for you, truly, I knew you'd end up together—and that's exactly why I told you not to start a fight, but this is not the ending I wanted for myself."
"'Mione—"
Securing her bag over her shoulder, Hermione did not pause to hear what else Harry and Ginny had to say over her predicament because there was nothing else that needed to be said. She could see that they thought her to be irrational, but Hermione was anything but. She was completely justified in wanting to tear down the world around her for having been engaged to Draco Malfoy against her will.
And it just wasn't about having to marry Malfoy—a stupid, cowardly boy who loved to make her life miserable since they were children, but having to intertwine her life with his family, too. While she indeed had defended his and his mother's actions through their extensive, draining trials, Hermione knew they still had blood on their hands. She knew they still carried sins that would take more than a few redeemable actions to forgive. How, then, could she sit across them and pretend to be their family? When they hated her since she was a girl? When they thought her to be a disease? When they wanted her dead?
It is not that she did not believe Draco Malfoy did not deserve forgiveness (only after tirelessly working for it), she just did not want to be the one to give it to him.
"Miss Granger, a word, please."
Hermione stopped mid-turn down the empty corridor that led to her favorite abandoned classroom. McGonagall stood at the end, her dark, brown eyes cold and dissatisfied behind her glasses.
She wanted to tell the Headmistress that she had a workload to get to, but instead Hermione found herself conceding to her command with a small nod. So she followed McGonagall down the corridor, heading for her old Transfiguration classroom just a few steps away. Hermione wondered if that was where the Headmistress planned to do it—where she planned to expel her.
After all, a witch with no magic was not a witch.
When McGonagall was behind her old desk, where so many times through the years she patiently assisted Hermione's growing interest and aptitude for Transfiguration, she motioned for her to take the open desk before her.
"I am disappointed in you, Miss Granger," she said before Hermione even had a chance to sit. The words made her wince, like they were all thin, dainty razors sinking into her spine. It made Hermione hold her breath to keep her from gasping. "Challenging two professors and the Ministry of Magic with such display. I had better expectations for your composure than this."
"You're marrying me off to Malfoy, Headmistress," Hermione reminded. "Is it really that hard to understand why I'm upset?"
"Of course I understand why you are upset," McGonagall returned sharply. "I expect most of you to be more than upset at the Ministry deciding your fates. It is ridiculous they had to resort to something like this, Miss Granger, but do you not think it was ridiculous that there was a war based on blood that made the Ministry end up on this method to repopulate?"
"I did not start this war," Hermione told her loudly. "People like Draco Malfoy did."
"And now two of opposing sides are meant to find a union," McGonagall replied in her usual, cold tone, unruffled by Hermione's outburst. "You have a chance to make this impending marriage into something revolutionary, Miss Granger, but you are giving up before you break barriers."
"The only thing Malfoy and I could break is each other's bones, Headmistress." Hermione took a deep breath, attempting to settle the rage inside of her so she could then add, "You want me to sacrifice myself, don't you? You and the Ministry. Is that the real reason why we were sorted together? Because a Mudblood and a Pureblood getting married makes for the perfect unifying propaganda?"
McGonagall stood, her hands smacking down against the surface of her old desk. "I would never offer you or any of my students up for political gain. This law is not my doing, Miss Granger, nor was it half of the Wizengamot's first option—it was just the only option."
"But it can't be mine, Headmistress."
"Can you not see the real sacrifice here? Giving up your magic is a waste for yourself and the rest of our world. You were made for greatness, Hermione. Dumbledore and I knew it the moment we sat in your living room, explaining who we were—who you were. You are the Brightest Witch of the Age because of it. You have Harry and the Weasleys because of it. If you give up your magic, you give them up, too. Is accepting Mr. Malfoy really worse than not being a part of this world and our lives?"
Hermione flinched at the implication. Behind her closed eyelids, she saw every memory stretching and breathing: she saw her people through every year of her life as a witch. She saw herself at eleven, a short, bushy-haired girl stepping onto the platform and meeting a shy, sad little Neville Longbottom looking for his toad, only to then volunteer to help find Trevor, but instead meeting two boys who would end up being her best friends. She saw herself sat at the front of the Great Hall, sorting hat on her head, screaming Gryffindor as her new house-mates roared and clapped to welcome her as one of them. She saw herself surviving that troll attack, Harry and Ron forever at her sides from then on out. She saw Viktor Krum twirling her under dim lights, her cheeks sore from laughing and smiling, her pretty dress gleaming along with his brown eyes when he pressed his lips tenderly to hers, claiming her first kiss. She saw starting the D.A. in Fifth Year, joining Slughorn's Slug Club in Sixth, and saving the world in her Seventh.
Slowly, her eyes fluttered open. She was never one to backtrack on her decisions when her mind was set, but Hermione was not blind to what she would be losing. She knew from the moment the Sorting Hat paired her off to Malfoy—she just did not allow herself to dwell in it. But McGonagall had cornered her, forced her back against a wall, and told her to take another look at her choice.
Hermione was not brave enough to say goodbye to her magic, let alone her friends.
But she was brave enough to look at every surviving, bigoted Pureblood left right in the face and tell them I have always belonged here, and you will not intimidate me away.
Without having to be told on this new moment of clarity, McGonagall turned away from Hermione, a hint of a smile on thin lips before she parted them to call for the one person Hermione had no quarrels killing with her bare hands.
"I will leave you two alone to redo today's assignment," she said as Draco emerged from the shadows of the classroom, his striking, blonde hair a contrast to the dark room and the sullen expression on his face. Hermione stiffened when he took a seat beside her. "You do not have to like this law, nor do you two have to like each other, but you do have to respect it and one another. You are now set to marry. Do you want to spend the rest of your lives dreading each day, or do you want to be able to build something new and extraordinary together? Think about that not only the next time you are at each other's throats, but when you see an empty space around you that should have been occupied by a classmate, relative, or friend that died in a needless war."
To Hermione's surprise, Draco lowered his head, unable to meet the Headmistress' eye before she left the classroom. She almost reached out to him, almost placed a warm, comforting palm on his shoulder, but the sound of the door closing, leaving them alone made her hands ball into fists.
Somewhere beyond the surrounding, marbled walls, Hermione could hear careful footsteps and indistinctive chatter. The missing laughter of school mates, the loud gossiping, the giggling of girls enthralled with their crushes, the bustling banter of friends roughhousing each other, professors shouting for order, Peeves cackling as he pranked the younger students—all of it set her more on edge than the sharp, cold silence between her and Draco.
And maybe he felt the same because he cleared his throat, shaking his head as if he was trying to push out the memories of a life they would never have again.
"Say something," he told her through his teeth, not entirely with a tone of demand, but with a plea. "Anything."
"I always wanted a sibling," Hermione said the first thing that came to her head, "but my parents couldn't conceive after they had me."
Draco pulled his head back a few centimeters, allowing the ends of his tousled, blonde hair to move out of his silver eyes so they could lock on her. Hermione narrowed her own, trying to find signs of malice or mock in them, but she could not find anything other than metallic pools. It startled her when he said, "I can relate. I always wanted a sibling, too, but my parents had their male heir their first try. There wasn't a need for any other offspring."
There was a wave of righteous retaliation on the tip of her tongue, but Hermione forced herself to swallow it down. Instead, she said, "When I was five I accidentally brought an animal book to life. A lion tried to claw at a boy from inside the pages because I was jealous he got it before I did."
Draco failed at subduing the chuckle that formed in his chest. The image of a young, Hermione Granger, small and unknowingly powerful, tormenting boys even in her primary schools was ironically funny because she still tormented her classmates with her righteous brains. Their feud was proof of that—minus the blood wars that had caused hatred to build between them and everyone else like them.
When she raised her eyebrow at his fleeting amusement, Draco relinquished it to say, "When I was a boy I liked to climb trees and pretend I was a giant—"
"Until your father told you it was a disgrace to be anything other than a Pureblood wizard?" Hermione cringed at the sharp words that had tumbled out her mouth, cutting the inside of her cheeks when she tried for a second to contain them. She closed her eyes, breathing in; when her lungs were full, she blew out the air and opened her eyes to see the familiar Malfoy glare looking back at her. "I'm sorry," she said, the apology cutting her just as the other words had, "It's a habit."
Hermione expected him to retaliate, to reach for the wand he had placed on the desk and attempt to hex her. Instead, he squeezed his palms into fists and nodded once, accepting her excuse. Before the silence solidified, he added, "I fell once and broke both my arms. As a lesson, Father forbade anyone from helping me until I understood there were reasons for his rules."
It's the reason he never wanted to break Lucius Malfoy's rules again—he didn't have to say it, but Hermione knew that was the context of it.
"My dad once pulled out three of my teeth all at once," offered Hermione with a small, uneasy smile tugging at the left corner of her mouth. "It was horrible."
Draco scoffed. "I'm sure he had a good reason. You do remember how big your teeth were before Madam Pomfrey fixed them, right?"
"Shut up, Malfoy," she grunted, letting herself shove his shoulder. He was momentarily startled that she had touched him, Hermione could see that, but it was gone when he returned the gesture. She narrowed brown eyes at him, rubbing at her own shoulder. "He's a dentist. It was a necessary procedure."
"You love him," he then said, his blonde brows furrowing together. "Your father."
"Yeah," Hermione returned, her tone uncertain. "He's important to me—him and Mum are important to me. They're everything."
"How'd you keep them safe during the war?"
For a brief, rare moment, ease took over the space between them, but the true, thick animosity that was commonplace for them was back. There no longer was a war that made her vital secrets necessary, but Hermione still could not trust Draco—couldn't trust people like him. She believed in what she preached, in mending bridges for the greater good of their society, but that came with time and effort.
"I can't imagine they were thrilled to see their only daughter go on the run with Harry Potter."
Hermione bit her lip, observing him for a moment longer before making her choice to say, "I sent them away. I wiped myself out of their memories and sent them on an adventure as two thriving, childless adults."
"Why?"
"It was the only way," she told him, no trace of malice or resentment in her voice but honesty. "It was only a matter of time before Death Eaters took them—I knew that, Harry knew that, and the Order knew that. I didn't want them in a safe-house. I didn't want them worrying about what I was doing, so I took myself out of the equation. They weren't collateral or a threat if they had no daughter."
Draco looked away from her, his fingers nimbly rolling his wand back and forth over the surface of the desk. He nodded once to himself, to his thoughts Hermione could not decipher, and said, "Do they know you now?"
"Yes. I found them first thing when the war was over. I was elated to see them alive and happy, but just as devastated to have just survived a bloodbath and know that the people I most needed comfort from didn't know I even existed. Looking into the eyes of someone you love more than anything in the world and them not see you—really see you—that's an unimaginable pain because for a moment, I had lost them."
"Losing people who are still alive is a tragedy of its own," muttered Draco, his silver gaze still lost somewhere far from that old classroom. Hermione wasn't even sure he knew he said it at all when silence followed. He didn't let it linger for too long; he eventually turned to her, a sneer perfectly perched on his face when he said, "You have a wicked uppercut, Granger. I'll give you that."
"It's all the writing," Hermione returned, blowing a hesitant laugh past her lips at his sudden change. She understood, though: emotional territory was not something she wanted to cross with him and it was not comfortable for either of them to address the things that kept them up at night. So, she sat up straight, pulled on her best, giant, proud grin, and said, "I really did enjoy smacking you that year, Malfoy. You deserved it."
"Maybe," he offered with a laugh of his own, "but you caught me off guard, you being peacemaker and all."
"Well, even peacemakers get fed up with little rodents like you. Which, I must say, you had something going for you as a ferret in Fourth Year. Very graceful."
Draco glared at her, but it was not twisted, dark, and cutting as she was used to. The silver in his eyes was a light, almost blue shade she thought unfamiliar on him. "And if rumors are true, Granger, you were the perfect kitten in Second Year. Maybe you shouldn't be marrying me—consider the fluffy, orange beast you call a cat."
"That was all Millicent Bullstrode's fault," Hermione defended herself with a loud, affronted gasp. "Has she not heard of a lint-roller, or a charm to clean up her robes? Honestly. She ruined by Polyjuice Potion."
It did not go unnoticed by her that Draco let out a laugh—small, breathy, borderline an indifferent snort, but a laugh nonetheless. The sound almost made her lips pull into a small, satisfied grin, but the cold glimmer of his silver eyes reminded her just who he was, what demons he carried that gave her some of hers, too.
Draco must have sensed it, too, because he blinked away, his attention back on his wand resting on the desk. "Here's my last fact for you, Granger," he said, pausing for a short moment to gather and collect that mask of perfect indifference that oddly provided her with comfort. "I want to try this thing called civility McGonagall keeps insisting we need to learn. As much as we don't want it to be real, we are set to marry. And I'm tired of fighting. I'm sure you are, too."
"I don't trust you," Hermione told him, her Gryffindor courage and self-respect making her look him in the eye, never wavering from all the things he was trying to subdue in her presence, "and I don't really much like you, either, Malfoy, but I am not giving up my magic. This is my life—all the people I love are here, and I'm not going anywhere. So if this is our only choice, I will try being civil with you."
Draco leaned away from her when her right hand suddenly was extended out to him, her fingers gently motioning for him to do the same. He had the urge to push it down, to insult her, to let the hatred of their past come out and flood her, but thin, red scars on her knuckles reminded him of their present.
It reminded him of all he had lost in this war.
It reminded him of all he needed to get back after it.
So he took her hand and tried not to jump at the surge of magic that brightened the dim, old classroom by just their touch.