Archive of Our Own ^beta

December 31st 2024

Her footfalls are silent as she storms the cobblestone walkway, the echoes absorbed by the ornate shrubbery lining her path. Each forward march feels like she’s fighting a rapidly strengthening sticking charm, the desire to retreat warring with her need to save face.

Wrought iron gates dissolve into a mist of whites and golds, popping cheerily against the dark night sky – her own personal firework display.

She passes underneath the dissolving lights, unaffected by their splendor. Glancing around to confirm that the expansive grounds have indeed been decorated within an inch of their lives, she acknowledges the intricate spellwork woven into the very foundation of the stones lining the massive front entry.

All of it is curated to highlight the spirit of the holiday. And none of it tames the spiteful harpies in her belly.

She raises her hand to knock, pausing to take in the elaborate wreaths on the doors.

White fucking peacock feathers. Of course.

A house elf dressed in yuletide livery greets her, ushering her towards the muted roar of the party inside.

Fashionably late by choice, she hopes to avoid any obligatory acknowledgement from the hosts. She has had enough of their kind of obligation for a lifetime.

Muscle memory takes her towards the patio, where the New Years’ Gala is in full swing. She is greeted by music and the scent of spiced mulled wine. Making her way down the steps to the main event, she recognizes dozens of faces, keeping her own pointedly away as a trays of champagne float by. Unashamedly grabbing two, she downs the first while taking stock of the extravagance around her.

The banisters and balustrades are littered with sparkling jeweled garlands composed of emeralds and cognac diamonds, made to resemble the lush greenery of the yuletide. “Pretentious arseholes. Couldn’t just use a fucking tree branch,” she mumbles into her glass. She subtly charms a few gems yellow amongst the white crystal displays, smiling wickedly to herself.

A white flocked mistletoe zips past, searching for couples to embarrass, or worse, coerce into love. Her eyes follow it skywards, landing on a large display of hundreds of blue and silver orbs floating in the air – the glass spheres twisting around each other in double helices of winter hues.

She drains her second glass, pleased to see both glasses automatically refilling. Setting one down, she searches for her reason for braving such frivolity this evening.

Theo better make good on his promise.

“Hermione?”

She whirls around, smacking into a firm body. Two hands steady her as Harry Potter brings her into a crushing hug. “I thought you said you were busy tonight?”

“Harry! Hi…” she starts, somewhat awkwardly. It had been weeks since she had brushed off his offer to join them tonight, and longer still since she’d actually seen him. “How – erm…are you?”

He looks flushed and a bit glazed from what she assumes has been hours of imbibing. “I’m brilliant! I just asked the woman I love to marry me – and she said yes!”

Hermione stares back, hoping her slack-jawed response is construed as anything other than the actual shock she feels. Though, truthfully, she probably shouldn’t be – Harry always did demonstrate a lack of restraint when it came to affection. This would be his, what, third marriage?

“O-oh! That’s…well – wow. I suppose congratulations are in order?” she replies, technically not giving said congratulations.

“Yeah. Thanks, ‘Mione.” He exhales, happiness evident in the set of his shoulders. “I wanted to tell you before, but you’ve been so busy. I sent a few texts and floo calls – even a bloody owl. I was certain the bird shit would get your attention.” He laughs softly.

“Yes, well. Success is the sum of small efforts and all that – not much time for anything else between school terms and my own projects,” she defends, somewhat lamely.

“Yeah. I know.” He sighs, sobering slightly, “I just hope you remember to enjoy the non-effort days as well.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” she replies, her tone placid.

“Anyway, since so many of our friends are here tonight – I decided to do it just before we arrived. Pans is over there.” He gestures to the large outdoor fireplace, where Pansy Parkinson is showing off her hand to two excited Greengrass sisters.

Hermione stiffens upon seeing them, but Harry, in his premarital bliss, seems not to notice. “Hey – while I have you. You should join us for dinner next week. A holiday re-do since you’ve been so swamped? I know Pans would love it.”

She’s certain his wife-to-be shares no such sentiment, but she replies, “Sure, Harry. That sounds nice...” and as the words leave her lips, she feels the hollowness of them. Taking another sip from her glass, she tries to mask the growing discomfort at their obvious estrangement.

But his eyes are hopeful, trying to chip away at her icy exterior. It thaws, albeit infinitesimally.

She is about to ask Harry about his holidays when she feels an odd tingle at her back. Twisting around, she looks up, locking eyes with Lucius Malfoy.

Her face hardens immediately, defenses crystallizing once more.

“I'm going to see if I can find my date, but I'll look for you in a bit – to catch up.” She lies, squeezing Harry’s shoulder and stepping away.

As she retreats, she watches Harry rejoin Pansy and her former peers who are still mingling near the roaring fire. Their disgusting infatuation hits her squarely in the chest.

Taking a purposeful gulp of champagne, the beverage turns acrid in her mouth. She frowns, deciding she’d need something stronger to get through this evening.

Where the fuck is Theo?

As if summoned by mere thought, the curly haired man turns the corner followed, conspicuously by Charlie Weasley, who is looking flushed and slightly out of breath. Theo splits off from the redhead and approaches her, his arms opening wide in greeting.

“Well if it isn’t my gorgeous date for the evening! I was afraid I'd be ending this year in heartache –” he checks his wristwatch. “Though you’re cutting it a bit close to the New Year, no?”

She leans in, planting a kiss on his cheek, her face a mask of confidence she does not feel in this place. “You seem to be doing just fine without me.”

His smile broadens. “I’m an opportunist who loves a good back up plan.” He gives her an appreciative once over. “And good gods, NeeNee – did you paint this thing on? You look like sin incarnate.” He grabs her hand, forcing her to do a slow spin. She huffs out a laugh.

“Care for a drink?” he asks, gesturing towards the bar. Waving his hand over the menu, it produces two lavender-tinted beverages that give off a pleasant herbal scent.

She trades in her thrice-refilled champagne. “Gods yes. I’ve only been here ten minutes and the amount of good cheer and merriment is making my skin crawl.”

He chuckles, “Hmm, I take it the addition of yellow snow to the decor was your doing? Our hostess is in quite a state over the change in color scheme.”

“I like a more natural motif.” She shrugs.

“I'm just grateful you consider me a friend, what with that devious streak of yours.” He says, clinking his glass against hers.

“Speaking of friendship – I’ve held up my end of the bargain.” She runs a hand up the curves of her gold dress, kicking her bare leg out through the provocatively placed slit. “I’m here. Just for you. Now, when can I schedule some time in your workroom?”

Hermione, having worked with Theo for years on various projects, jumped at the Unspeakable’s offer to trade faux partnership at tonight’s Gala in exchange for a peek into his laboratory at the Department of Mysteries. It was a temptation she couldn’t turn down.

Theo pouts at her cheek. “Just for me, is it? You know – a less confident man would be offended by your lack of enthusiasm at having to spend more time with me.”

“And a more naive person would believe your act. You know how precious my time is.”

“That I do. I’m a lucky man to merit any of it.” He smiles, leaning towards the bartender to ask a question. She scans the room, packed with guests, when her eyes catch on a spot of blonde in the corner.

She does a double take, relaxing slightly. There nestled in an alcove, leaning suggestively into a buxom brunette, is the youngest Malfoy heir.

Scorpius.

A near facsimile of the man she is hoping to avoid this evening.

Having taught Scorpius at Hogwarts, Hermione appreciates how he managed to inherit his father’s wiley determination and cleverness while avoiding said man’s flair for arseholery. On a less professional, and far more dangerous, level - she could also admit that she found him devilishly alluring – in all the ways a professor shouldn't notice her students.

He catches Hermione staring, his gaze curious. Leaning in to whisper something to his date, Hermione watches the woman giggle and squirm while his tongue darts out to tease her earlobe. But his eyes remain trained on Hermione’s, curiosity shifting to something far more assured.

She wets her lips, letting out a slow breath, before turning back to Theo, who’s eyeing her dubiously. “Forbidden fruit, darling. Might I suggest a broodier model?”

“I can appreciate art without wetting my brush.” Her eyes flicker one last time to the alcove before returning to Theo’s. “And I've had my fill of Malfoys for this lifetime. I'm far too clever and not nearly pissed enough for your meddling tonight.”

“Pity you couldn’t just be arm candy. Had to have the brains to go with it.”

“We all have our flaws,” she says, absently scanning the crowd. “So, can I leave yet? I have one last bit of business to deal with, and I’d rather do it on my way out.”

“Merlin, NeeNee, I admire your tenacity for work but take the night off.” He shakes his head, “And no, you can’t leave just yet. You’ll miss what I wanted to show you!”

“And that is?” She cocks a brow.

“The revealing of my magnum opus.” He waggles his.

“Couldn’t you just give me a quick run down?”

“I do love a quickie…” he glances behind her contemplatively. “Fine, I'll give you a preview.”

Pulling her along the outskirts of the party, they stop just below the orb display. Pointing up, he asks, “So? What do you think?”

“You have a lovely marble collection,” she deadpans.

“Your ability to flatter a man is astounding – would it kill you to inflate my poor trodden ego just this once?”

“It might. And your ego seems to do just fine with your own pumping. So. What are they?” She tilts her chin upwards.

“A little of this. A dash of that.” He waves his hands theatrically, holding out his palm. A single orb detaches from the group, floating down toward them. “See for yourself.”

He hands her the small bauble – it’s light and surprisingly warm to the touch. Inside, tendrils of blues collide with silver wisps all lacing their way through the center of it. As she examines it more closely, flashes of her face float into view – smiling, laughing, and – she gasps, looking quickly to Theo, who seems to only be enjoying her reaction to the orb itself – moaning in ecstasy as she grips the blonde locks of the man kneeling before her.

“Theo.” She breathes, the image vanishing on her face frozen in pleasure. “They’re beautiful – are they…portable pensieves?”

He preens, “Not quite. Though they can show memories. Still workshopping the name but ‘Sphere and Nows’ have a nice ring to it – wouldn’t mind more of a play on balls,” he winks. “These work a bit differently in terms of viewing the past. They also show hopes, dreams, and desires – something to look forward to – with some of my own flair thrown in.”

She cocks a speculative brow, “How appropriate for the New Year.”

“My thoughts exactly.” He nods, tapping her on the nose. “When is there a better time to re-examine your life and your true desires than at the start of another blessed year?” He gives her a suggestive look, “You can keep that one. Everyone gets one at the stroke of midnight.”

“Cute.” She snarks, running a thumb over the smooth surface of the ball. A projection of a scarred, muscular back flexing and moving in a rhythmic dance between a pair of tanned legs surfaces.

She bites her lips, clearing her throat, “So, you actually made functioning crystal balls?” She drops the orb in her handbag before it can summon another jolting image.

Theo watches her reaction carefully. “I’m brilliant, but not even the great Cassandra herself could harness that kind of power. No. These are just a glimpse into what is and what could be.”

Before she can inquire as to how he was able to contain such impressive magic, she’s cut off by the clearing of a magically amplified voice.

“Welcome dearest friends!” Narcissa Malfoy draws the attention of every guest from her perch on the balcony. Hermione fights the urge to roll her eyes.

“We are so pleased to host another Malfoy Family New Years’ Gala. As it is nearing the final hours of 2024, Lucius and I wanted to extend our warmest wishes for a happy and healthy new year.” She turns expectantly to her husband.

The Malfoy patriarch gives a tight smile and steps forward. His trademark blonde hair is braided back this evening, making him look like some Norse chieftain. Hermione envisions charming little bows into the ends, certain it would detract from the admittedly impressive figure he’s cutting.

The years have not been unkind to Lucius Malfoy, despite his inability to return the favor.

He surveys the crowd, his aristocratic aura attempting to carry the weight of self-import. “Well said, dearest. To your health and wealth in the new year.” His voice is deceptively light, as he raises his glass in toast.

But Hermione knows better – understands even the smoothest silk can still draw blood if applied at just the right angle. His eyes find hers, a dark forest of green vining its way towards her across the crowd.

She meets his intensity, forcing an artless smile to paint her lips as she pictures lighting each imaginary bow on fire.

His eyes flash to the exit.

Her smile becomes tight as she turns her back to him, allowing herself a moment to enjoy the euphoric effects of a decent buzz. Hermione lets out a long breath.

“Okay there, darling?” Theo asks, sensing her discomfort.

“Yes. Just a bit knackered. I think I may head out.”

He doesn't look convinced, but doesn’t press, planting a kiss on her temple, “Thanks for coming to see my balls.”

She swats him in return, heading to the side entrance, trying to ignore the feeling of foreboding in her gut.

Coming to stop at the large double doors, she prepares for an onslaught of stern glances and thinly veiled threats. Knocking once, she enters, not waiting for a response.

The space hasn’t changed in two decades. Just like the man who currently occupies it, lazily scrawling something on his desk, his slender fingers bearing the ring of his forebears. Glancing up, Lucius Malfoy returns to his task, casually announcing, “You're here.”

She maintains her stoney gaze. “Obviously.”

His eyes flicker to the clock in the corner, deliberately noting the hour. She rolls hers in response. She never said when she’d be arriving today. Only that it would before the end of it. Surely he could appreciate semantics.

She barrels in, stopping directly in front of his desk. “I haven’t the time or patience for this little display of power – I'd like to get on with it.”

His quill stills as he looks up, slowly raking her body from hips to head. “Eager to get back to the festivities. I do recall this date held some…significance to you?” His perfect eyebrow bows.

She mirrors his composure. “Yes. Who doesn’t love middle grade liquor and a tired theme – peacocks again? Narcissa was really challenging herself with that one.”

He chuckles, darkly, “The years have made you quite bitter, Ms. Granger. ”

“And you quite old, Lucius.” She throws back. Not her best, but she keeps her face smooth as granite, hoping it strikes him where it hurts.

Standing slowly, for reasons she knows are not age-related, Lucius grabs his serpent-headed cane, rounding his desk as his robes dramatically billow around him. “I assure you, I’m just as capable as I’ve ever been. More so when I’m properly motivated.”

She’s all too familiar with his motivations.

“So. Based on your letter, you wish to discontinue our partnership?” The clicking of his cane sends shockwaves through the marble flooring. He stops inches from her, leaning forward with two hands on the handle, the tip placed directly between her feet. “Are you certain? Seems you’ve benefited greatly from our arrangement.”

She meets his eyes, “I want nothing more from you or your family. No more gold. No more connections.” She takes a purposeful step forward until her legs bracket the cane. “Nothing.”

“You know, when you first flitted into this office all those years ago, you were quite the annoying pest, buzzing about, practically begging me for help –”

“Does your story have a point? I’m making it my new year's resolution to ignore the ravings of egocentric manics.”

He clicks his tongue, the smile cutting his face, rare and dangerous, “I’ve tolerated quite a bit from you over the years, but that bratty streak of yours has been a thorn in my side from the moment I agreed to help you.”

“Help me? Is that what you think you did?” She hisses.

“Are you not currently the most sought after in your field? Immensely successful in both academia and your…muggle work?” The sneer floats just beneath the surface.

“I never needed your help to get here.”

“Perhaps not.” His voice is low, and she breathes in his numbing scent of mahogany and oak. “I merely meant to point out how you’ve changed. Matured into something far more impressive. I take a certain degree of pride in knowing I had a hand in cultivating this version of you.”

“Your hand forced this version.”

She’s chest to chest with him, the pressure of his cane light between her thighs. “Yes all that success – quite the burden to bear. Poor little wasp.”

Hermione glares back at his use of that nickname. He’s called her it for years, claiming it was because wasps work hard, often solitarily. But she knows the truth. They're pests, and make homes in the dirt. No matter how much she proves her worth, he will always consider her dirty.

He sighs, “I suppose it’s for the best – shame we’ll never see you reach your full potential.” His eyes travel the length of her, the hard press of his cane biting into her thigh for an instant longer before it's gone.

Her eyes narrow to fissures. “The funds you loaned will be returned in full in the new year. With interest.”

He straightens to his full height, “Excellent. That's that then. Unless there was some other business you wished to discuss?”

“None.” She clips.

“Well. It's been a…pleasure, Ms. Granger.”

“For you, I’m sure.”

His chin rises in practiced arrogance as she heads for the door, “Should you be feeling desperate again, you know where to find me,” before there’s a decisive click of the doors behind her.

Her angry ramblings carry her towards the railing overlooking the patio, back to the music and laughter. Below, she sees her old friends embrace each other and sing horribly off key in preparation to enter another year. Together.

“Hermione?” Her carefully maintained armor turns porous at the sound.

She turns to face it. Him.

“Hello.”

“You’re here.” She watches him form the words this time, dripping rich as treacle.

“I am.” She responds neutrally.

This isn’t the first time she’s seen him in the last two decades, it isn’t even the first conversation they’ve had. But those had been in passing, unable say all the things she wished she could.

And now, something about being here, on this day, makes the lump in her throat and the knot in her gut triple in size.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you.” Draco says, his eyes searching hers.

“Seems a common theme among most this evening. I assumed I’d see you.” Her reply is cool, despite the powder keg of emotions his proximity threatens to ignite.

“And yet you still came.”

“There are other guests in attendance, Malfoy. It’d hardly be fair if I ignored them for the sake of any unpleasantness you and I experienced years ago.”

He stiffens. “Malfoy, is it? Well. Forgive me. Seeing as this is the first time you’ve attended in the last…two decades? I simply assumed it had something to do with said unpleasantness, Granger.” His gray eyes sharpen, slicing into her.

Hermione fires back, “Yes, well, ‘Draco’ implies a familiarity you and I have not shared for some time.”

“And whose fault is that?” He counters.

She gapes, suddenly exhausted from holding herself together all night. “Well, this has been such a lovely reunion, but I’d like to start my first new year free of Malfoys, actually free of Malfoys. Take care.” She calls over her shoulder.

But Draco is hot on her heels, quickly following her down the hall. “Granger, stop. Please.”

She continues, ignoring his calls.

“Mi! Stop!”

The sound of her name - that name - stuns her into obeying.

He steps around her. “Look. I’m sorry. I just. Wasn’t ready to see you.”

She turns on him, “What does that even mean? We’ve seen each other before, Draco – this isn’t some clandestine meet up. We are nothing to each other.” The words burn like acid as they leave her mouth.

“We have never not been something to each other.” He says softly. “You just –” he trails off.

“I just what?” She snaps.

“Changed.” He finishes, swallowing hard.

“Oh gods. Really? It’s what people do, Malfoy. They struggle, they learn, they move on. Have you been so sheltered in your pureblood palace that you’ve failed to do so, too?”

His jaw twitches. “No. I meant that it…” he deflates, “...kills me to see you this way.”

“And what way is that?” She spits out.

“Miserable. A husk of the woman I knew. So focused on her work – she can’t see anything else in front of her.” He takes another step closer, pine and bergamot heady in the air around them.

“It’s called being successful, Malfoy. Though I suppose when a woman does it, or even worse a muggle born, it’s considered gauche? At least according to your family’s ridiculous ideology.”

“Oh please – you know I haven’t held those beliefs for years. And success? What good is success if you have no one to share it with?”

“I share it all! With my students, with my clients and with the rest of the bloody world! I don’t need one person to validate me.”

He drops his head, then, not in shame but frustration, fingers carding roughly through his hair.

“The woman I cared for used to walk into a room and all heads would turn, eager for even a tendril of her warmth. Now, I’m not sure which is colder, you or the bloody ice sculptures.”

“Yes, well she was tired of being lied to! And I'm so sorry my priorities haven’t been to light a fire in your crotch after being ignored for nearly two decades.”

“Mi – I…had my family. We couldn’t –”

“Yes, I know. And how lovely for you.” She waves him off, fighting back angry tears forming, “Seems you’ve managed to stay happy – why should what I do matter to you?”

He steps closer. “Is that what you think?” he shakes his head, “Your life, your happiness has always mattered to me. I just couldn’t do anything about it – you made sure of that.”

Indignation rises her chest. “I did it to protect you and your precious family! I gave up the very thing that – you know what. It doesn’t matter.” She’s tired, buzzed, and in need of a soft blanket on her body and something hard between her legs to cheer her up.

“That what?” he asks, taking another step towards her.

“Nevermind. I made my choice. And you made yours. We both got our versions of happiness in the end.”

“Your choice took away any chance I had of truly having that.” He counters.

“Then I guess it’s a good thing you didn't end up with me. I'm apparently just a miserable shrew.”

She turns and storms out, practically running towards the exit, hearing a frustrated yell behind her, “Mi, wait! We need to talk!”

She doesn’t want to hear what he has to say.

But as she rounds the corner towards the front entry stairs, she misses the first step – her feet fly out from under her – her handbag and its contents spilling in a slow motion fall. She lands on her back a second later, her head hitting the steps as she registers a flash of blue and a small thudding to her right.

It hits once.

Twice.

A third and final time, and then everything goes dark.

“I will keep Christmas in my heart!” Scrooge calls out as the darkness envelops him. Hermione snorts, throwing an empty wrapper at the screen. She is snuggled in bed, jimjams donned and her feet warmed by the hideous orange cat slippers Theo got her last Christmas.

Popping another sweet into her mouth, she relishes in the way the toffee bits stick to her teeth. Tonight is not the night to worry about dental hygiene – tonight is about self care. Or self-obliviation. Whichever could more quickly erase this unsettling feeling plaguing her.

When she came to at the bottom of the front stairs, she was alone. She had briefly checked the time, relieved to learn she’d only been out a few minutes. Hurriedly, she gathered her things and rushed out the door, apparating home with a splitting headache and a heavy heart.

Thinking back over the evening’s events, she sighs.

She had survived – perhaps a little worse for wear but nothing compared to years past. Still, with her interaction with Draco fresh in her mind, she can’t help but let her thoughts wander. His eyes had been so sincere, she’d almost believed – wanted to believe – that he cared about her all this time.

But it was too much. Too many emotions. Too many memories. And far too many Malfoys in one place to rattle her.

Closing her eyes, she can feel the gaze of all three Malfoy men – stirring something in her. She starts to toy with the waistband of her shorts, taking refuge in the distraction of pleasure, like she’s done for years.

Allowing her thoughts to shift then, a heat builds between her thighs as forests of green, pools of gray, and a sky of endless blue dance around each other, pushing and pulling on her deepest desires and guiding her hand down her body. She lets go of the stress, permitting herself to feel good, better – whole.

Just as her fingers dips lower, she hears a crack of apparition. She quickly charms the lights on, her eyes falling on the intruder.

“Theo? What the fuck!”

“NeeNee, darling. Sorry to…interrupt?” He eyes the hand nearly breaching the edges of her shorts.

“You scared me half to death!” She moves her hand to her chest, her heart thundering. “Why are you here?! And why are you so pale – you look like a fucking ghost!”

He has the sense to look apologetic. “Sorry about that. This is a projection, so to speak, from my future self. Little bit of magic I cooked up at work for emergency sit–”

“Theo. Please.” She cuts him off, all too familiar with his propensity for long winded explanations.

“Okay. I’m not actually here. Well I am. But this is me about 72 hours into the future. Current timeline Theo and Charlie are doing something decidedly more fun, away from the main event –”

She casts a tempus. “Christ – it’s nearly midnight – is this really the time for your fuck boy stories? What are you going on about?”

He sighs, looking increasingly more fatigued, “Happy New Year? Erm, do you remember that party favor I gave you?”

“Your blue ball? Yes.” She thinks back to her tumble earlier, feeling the memory of a deep thudding sensation echoing in her chest. “I…lost mine. Why?”

He frowns, biting the inside of his lips. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Don’t tell me Narcissa kept count.” She scoffs.

“No. But shortly before the new year, one of Papa Lulu’s precious peacocks made a bee-line for my balls – the floating ones – and well. Most of the party was doused in…”

“Crystal ball juice?”

He sighs, “Yes. We’ve spent the last two days trying to locate all the pieces. Seems the stabilizing charm placed to keep the time turner dust secure failed. And we’ve gotten varied reports of hallucinations, lowered inhibitions, and, in a few cases, guests stuck in time travel loops – all which seem to reset around midnight.”

“How very Hans Christian Andersen.” She replies dryly. “So why are you here and not fixing the cock-up?”

He gives a tight smile. “We’ve managed to find all the missing pieces – save yours. Which you apparently don’t have…”

She thinks back to the Manor. That moment of panic, needing to escape. The sound of the rolling oddity drowned out by the literal crashing of her body.

“No. I think it's still there…”

“Bugger. I'll have them do another sweep. In the meantime, given the hour, maybe be on guard. We’ve contained the fallout but just in case–”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Right. Well if you do experience anything…floo me. I believe me in this timeline is cock deep in Charlie right about now but should be free shortly after the balls empty – my actual ones in that case – to help.”

“Thank you for that wholly unnecessary account of your evening.”

“I like to be thorough. Anyway once we have them all…we'll be able to set the timeline right and forget this little incident ever happened.”

“Okay. Now fucking leave?”

He eyes her shorts, and the current state of her hair, throwing her a knowing wink. “Have a good night, love.”

It takes her a few moments to settle, but she finally manages to turn over, leaving her movie playing to the sound of Scrooge shouting, “I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me.” She sighs, her eyes closing as another year comes to an end.

Her last conscious thought of blonde men and bad decisions dissolving into dreams.

Somewhere in the distance, there’s the frantic sound of squawking.

Hermione’s dreaming. She knows it.

The first clue is the strange blue lighting woven into the edges of her vision. The next being that she’s still in her sleep shorts and tank, cat slippers looking up in silent judgment as she walks the Hogwarts corridors.

Reaching out, she watches her fingers pass through an invisible film of aquas and creams, swirling like clouds around her. Definitely a dream then.

There’s a soft sound up ahead and she follows it, turning the corner to come face to face with her 14-year-old self – alone, crying and trussed up like a periwinkle tartlet.

So it’s the Yule Ball dream then. Such lovely times.

She continues to watch as the girl sniffles – this must be right after Ronald decided to grow a pair in the form of insulting her – except in her dreams, she usually ends it in a fiery show of vitriol, running off into the sunrise with Krum while Ron nurses those freshly grown bollocks writhing on the floor.

This feels more like the actual memory.

Hermione is so focused on the scene before her that she barely notices the blonde boy enter the hall.

His voice is infused with a cruelty that sounds rehearsed. And thinking back, she knows it was.

“I was wondering why the party got decidedly better – must be the lack of filth there now.”

The crying Hermione spins, a look of hurt and – ah there’s that stewing vitriol – marring her face. Malfoy is surprisingly alone, wearing a sneer threatening to curdle her insides.

Hermione watches them, entranced, as his words ignite something in her past self.

“Come to think – if you could just remove yourself from –” suddenly, his eyes bulge, the insult he’s about to hurl never making it past his lips.

“No. You don’t get to finish that.” Young Hermione stands and walks up to him, her wand lowering. “I’ve had enough dealing with stupid boys tonight and I am so sick of trying to impress you people. I work hard, and I’m a swot. I don’t understand something, and I'm an ignorant mudblood. I cannot win.” She steps closer, “And tonight – when I try to just be me – a girl – you still think it’s okay to cast your hurtful words.” She lifts her wand up, placing it directly under his chin, “I’m good. Thanks.”

Hermione’s heart swells with pride watching herself – she had nearly forgotten this.

The girl continues, “I’ll never stop working hard – but I will stop giving a fig about what some slimy, slithery prat thinks. When I lift this charm – if the next words out of your mouth aren’t ‘You look nice, Granger’ I will ensure that the Malfoy line ends with you.” She directs her wand to his crotch.

He swallows, something flashing across his face that neither Hermione can decipher in the moment, before grinding out, “You.Look.Nice.Granger.”

“Oh, that’s so lovely of you to say, Malfoy.” She pats down her dress, giving it a small swish. Her tone is sweet as she taps his cheek and steps back, “Happy Yule.” Twirling again, her confidence carries her all the way back to the Great Hall.

She remains in the dream a moment longer, turning to Malfoy, expecting to see hatred stewing on the boy’s face. But his hand is on the cheek she touched, a small smirk forming as the scene fades into a sky blue blur.

Hermione awakes again with a startle.

What in the fu– but before she can make sense of her trip down Yuletide Lane, she’s assaulted by the sound of a countdown.

“...three…two…one! Happy New Year!”

It takes her a moment to orient herself – she’s in one of the Ministry ballrooms – a much less formal affair than the one she left earlier. Realization dawns on her as she notices the kegs lining the outer wall. She remembers this night. It’s New Year’s Eve 1999 and the first Malfoy-funded event since the war.

Glancing down at her fingers, a blue haze trails around them.

Suddenly the voice of Theo thunders in her head just as a blue settles over everything: We’ve gotten varied reports of vivid hallucinations, lowered inhibitions, and, in a few cases, guests stuck in time travel loops.

Great. So she’s to spend the night re-living pointless memories.

She passes a few guests, younger versions of people she hasn’t seen or cared to know for years. No one seems to be able to see her, which she supposes makes sense if this is a true memory. She wanders for another minute before stumbling upon a very familiar mane of curls – herself, at the ripe age of twenty.

She’s sitting on a folding chair alone with a nearly empty glass in her hand. Her younger self leans back against the wall and closes her eyes.

What comes next, she remembers with crystal-like clarity.

“I believe my mother ensured that this event also has spare rooms, if you’re feeling ill.” Draco’s voice cuts in.

Both Hermiones look to him. He looks tired, wan and somewhat nervous. Just a boy.

Something tugs inside Hermione at seeing this version of him again. The war was hard on both sides, but Draco never seemed to be able to fully forgive himself for his part in it.

“Thanks, but I’ll be off soon. Just enjoying the silence.” Her past self says.

“Right. I’ll leave you to it.” He clips, turning to walk away.

“Sorry – I didn’t mean you. Please sit.” She awkwardly points to the seat next to her.

Draco eyes her, settling into the chair a few inches from her. After a beat, he turns to face her, a small smile breaking, “You look nice, Granger.”

Hermione laughs softly, “Nice of you to say, Malfoy.” The echo of their Yule Ball conversation ripples across in a blue shimmer.

“It was very, erm, nice of your parents to…host this event…” she starts, sipping on the final dregs of her glass.

Draco snorts, waving his hand to refill her glass. “Yes, well ministry-mandated use of funds – not sure my mother had this –” he gestures to George Weasley doing what must be his third keg stand of the evening, “–theme in mind when she suggested it. Father nearly requested the Dementor’s Kiss rather than have his money used to feed the entirety of the Weasley family.”

“Bit dramatic, no?"

He shrugs, "Actually pretty standard for Malfoys." 

She smiles faintly, "And you?”

"I’m just here, Granger, trying to make sense of things. And to keep the bloody peacocks from biting guests. Why we insisted on bringing them is beyond me. Feathered menaces.”

Hermione chuckles, “Well. It’s been a lovely party so far. And not one avian injury yet – I think you should take the rest of the night off.”

Draco’s smile widens as he leans in, “Perhaps I will. So…what’s next for The Golden Girl in the coming millennium?”

“For starters – hexing your bollocks if you ever call me that again.” Young Hermione tries to hide a hiccup, her threat immediately losing its effect.

“Do you make it a habit of threatening people’s manhood? It’s very effective.” And Draco does something Hermione cannot remember hearing before this moment – he laughs.

Her heart clenches at the sound.

“Good. And…I suppose I plan to get to work. There’s a lot of…people who still need help.” Her voice softens.

Images of her parents swim to the surface of this memory and Hermone shoves them away.

“The world will be better for it I imagine.” Draco says.

“And you? Any plans?”

Draco looks to her, uncertainly, “I’m not sure I have much of a say in that…”

Young Hermione, sensing Malfoy's shift in mood, changes the subject. “I see. Well. Any new year's resolutions then?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Make it to next year?”

Hermione purses her lips, “Oh, that won’t do. New Year’s is a time for reflection and betterment!”

“I think when you have as much shit to resolve as I do, the act seems meaningless. Why force people into meeting unrealistic expectations?” He avoids her eyes.

“Well, if I may make a suggestion then – for your resolution?” she asks.

“Who am I to refuse the wisdom of Hermione Granger.” He gestures for her to continue.

“Perhaps this year. You resolve to be happy?”

“I don’t think I know how.” He says, looking past her, embarrassed at the admission.

And perhaps it is the effects of the champagne, or how handsome he looks with his hair tousled. Or maybe it is the open vulnerability of his statement – but she leans forward, planting a small kiss on his cheek. “That’s fine. I can show you.” Before she quickly stands and walks off to the dance floor, throwing a shy smile over her shoulder.

Hermione watches young Draco lift his hand to his face, holding her kiss there.

She remembers this boy. And how much he struggled with the idea of love. Of being loved.

The room starts to fade as Draco follows her past self onto the dance floor.

She watches them as something blooms, biting back the pain of knowing that, all too soon, it’ll wither.

Hermione’s spinning now in an ocean of images. Their life together playing out before her in the form of stolen kisses and tender moments; falling asleep on his chest as he reads to her; Draco lifting her up from her workbench and bringing her to bed; Hermione crying out in ecstasy as she arches into his pumping form. Then, Draco holding her tight as she screams in frustration, another failed experiment. And then a final image of two caskets being lowered into the ground, Draco holding a stoic Hermione’s hand tightly.

She wakes in her room, disoriented and alone.

The room looks a mess. On the floor, there’s an emerald green gown laying crumpled in a heap. She’s just about to inspect it when a voice calls out.

“Mi? You here?” She whirls, coming face to face with Draco, her eyes widening in shock at seeing him back in this room.

“Draco?” She starts to walk towards him. Did he follow her home? Suddenly she’s desperate to talk to him, whether to kiss him or scream at him she isn’t sure – when he steps right through her.

Oh what the fuck!

She looks down. Still in her jimjams and sporting her corpse-like glow. Fantastic.

Hermione watches as he takes stock of the room before his gaze settles on the dress and then the ensuite door – the sound of running water next door. A devilish grin cracks his face as he quickly undresses and steps into the adjoining room.

Hermione stares, entranced by the way the muscles in his back and arse ripple. She takes a deep inhale, appreciating for the first time in years how beautiful this man is. The sleek curves of his body showcase scars etched along honed muscle. His face, relaxed now, still shows signs of stress scratched into the soft lines around his eyes and mouth.

But there's still so much light there, shining and beautiful.

Draco spent years forging himself to fit some preconceived mold, never considering that he was already perfectly crafted. And she had loved his foibles and fortes because they made him him.

With a shuddering breath, she follows him into the steam-filled bathroom.

His voice comes out low and deep, sending a jolt of arousal through her. “You were supposed to wait for me.” He opens the shower door and steps inside.

She can hear her own voice reply from inside, “Have you ever known me to do as I’m told?” There’s a small slapping sound and a giggle.

Hermione closes her eyes, imagining the scene unfolding behind heated glass, the sounds of her younger self growing louder as the deep timber of Draco’s taunting is lost amongst the shower sprays.

Then, quite suddenly, she’s there. In the shower, as her former self – a voyeur no more.

What the fuck?

She has less than a second to realize what’s happened before the feel of possessive hands run and the length of her sud-soaked body.

“Perhaps I should punish you for taking my favorite part of the evening away, hm?” He murmurs.

Her breaths are heavy as he pulls her roughly against his body, his cock firm against her back. She grinds against it, the words coming easily to her in this bizarre, fever dream. “A-and what part was that?”

“Unwrapping my New Year's present.” Teasing bites make their way up the column of her neck, sending an electric shock directly to her cunt. She moans as his hand comes up around her throat, lightly squeezing. Tilting her head back onto his shoulder, his other hand slides through suds, tugging on a nipple before trailing down to circle her clit. She mewls again, fingers tightening on her neck, reveling in the vibration of it.

“Mmm, I love feeling those pretty sounds. But it doesn't quite make up for starting without me.”

Hermione’s brain fizzles as his hand dips lower into her heat, short circuiting any clever retort. “I shall resolve…” she gasps as they slowly slide into her, “To let you undress me every night…” she moans.

“Mm. Good girl. But, I think I have some better resolutions for you in mind.”

“Ooh?” She can feel herself skirting the sharp edges of an orgasm, his fingers pumping in and out while fingers pulse across her neck, pushing her closer to the precipice. Behind her she can feel the rutting of his cock against her soap slicked arse and she tries to lean forward, needing more of him. “Tell me.”

He turns her, lifting her to press against the cold tiles of the shower, easily sliding himself inside her in one smooth glide, their collective moan ricocheting off the walls. “To never go another day without my cock between these thighs.” He thrusts up, his ridged head catching the softness of her front wall, as he swallows her cry of pleasure in a heated kiss.

“To spend all our nights together, stealing my heat in bed,” she lets out a breathy laugh – he always loved being her little spoon.

His pace increases and she can feel them both toppling over the edge. “And,” he grunts, “To never go another day without hearing me tell you how much I love you.”

She screams in pleasure, tears she doesn’t remember crying rolling down her cheeks as she pulls him in for a kiss.

Draco lowers her, keeping her pinned as the evidence of their resolution spills down the insides of her thighs. She gives a breathy sigh, “Happy New Year, darling.”

“Mm. I think 2003 will be our best year yet.” He drops his head to hers, panting, before starting to properly clean them both.

She hugs him close, “I love you.”

“I’d hope so. Otherwise, you’ve been a very generous roommate.” He throws back, kissing her through a wide-tooth smile.

Hermione giggles as Draco places her on the shower bench and lowers to his knees. “Draco, I’m so tired. I don’t think I have another in me.”

He looks up at her and she’s nearly bowled over from the sight of pure adoration there. “You never asked me for my resolution.”

She smiles, dropping her head back as he adjusts her legs over his shoulders. “And what do you resolve, my love?” She gasps as his tongue dives deep, sucking and fucking the remnants of their combined spend. “I resolve to be happy. With you. Always.” He flicks her lazily with his tongue. “Oh and to have this cunt three square meals a day. Every day.” Her laughter turns to moans once again as he quickly brings her to the edge.

The euphoria of the moment is too much to handle and Hermione feels herself being wrenched away from the couple. Any feeling of lightness and love she had experienced washed down the drain as the world fades again.

When the light returns, the scene is bathed in obsidian blue. She finds herself standing in the center of an ornate, expansive office.

She knows this place.

Looking around, she remembers the feel of cool, leather-clad furniture against her heated skin, doing nothing to soothe the fire in her veins on this particular day. The dying embers of the fireplace trying - and, as always, failing - to give the space a sense of warmth.

As her eyes track over to the large mahogany desk, she startles, before quickly remembering this is a dream. There, sitting central to it all, is the king.

She scoffs. No. The puppet-master. Pulling his strings to satisfy his own carefully choreographed performance.

A light knock on the door signals the start of the show. Hermione watches Lucius Malfoy look up, waving a hand to open it.

Unruly curls and the much younger, still hopeful, face of Hermione Granger enters the room, making her grand debut.

“Really? This one? I’ve a lifetime of fuck ups but this is the one we want to revisit?” She calls out, not even sure to whom. But the nightmare ignores her, continuing to play itself out.

“Miss Granger. Right on time.” Lucius purrs.

Her younger self – a child really – rolls her shoulders, that self-righteous optimism practically vibrating in the stinted space between them. “You were expecting me?” Her chin lifts defiantly.

“Yes. Though truthfully, I expected you sooner. I sent my summons to Draco two hours ago.”

Hermione flounders at the man’s cool response.

Gods, what a naive fool she had been, thinking she could affect anything.

“So then you know why I’m here.” The girl continues.

Lucius leans back in his chair, taking her in, his brow entreating her to continue.

She bites her lip. “I’m here to ask…for your help.”

Lucius’ eyebrows raise, infinitesimally, “My help.” He leans forward, “Miss Granger, you’ll need to provide me with a far more convincing argument if I’m to understand your desires here. Or my role in any of them.”

She takes a steadying breath. “Draco said he’s being forced into marriage. And – I’m here to ask – because I don’t know that he will – that he’s allowed to make his own choices.”

“I’m not sure you’re in much of a position to barter.” Lucius replies, sounding bored.

She sees a flash of something cross her former self, a brilliant blaze of defiance burning away any good judgment she may have employed; setting in motion the next twenty years of her life.

And rather than watch her repeat her life’s greatest regret, Hermione simply closes her eyes and listens, helpless to change anything.

“I know him – know his heart. He won’t accept this.” The girl stammers out. “But he loves his family and it will kill him to choose. Please. There has to be another way.”

“I don’t doubt my son believes he has…strong feelings.” He waves a hand in her direction. “But he’s young. And love and marriage are not synonymous.”

“You would risk his happiness for some stupid family tradition.” She balks.

“I would risk his happiness for his life, Miss Granger.” His words are clipped.

“What?”

Lucius gives a long suffering sigh. “What Draco failed to relay to you in your haste to buzz about where you are not needed, is that if he does not produce an acceptable heir – the consequences are…steep.”

“Will this kill him!? That’s barbaric!”

“It’s my understanding that you’re considered an intelligent woman, yes?” He tsks. "There are worse fates than death where magic is concerned. This plan was set in motion long before you were even a speck of dirt in your father’s eye. And Draco has known of this arrangement since before he came of age.”

She stiffens, this information had been new to her at the time.

“Oh? Did he not tell you? Seems the sort of thing to share with your loved ones.”

“You made the deal! You can unmake it.” She exclaims.

“I realize…your kind wouldn't understand the complexities of such an arrangement. But there are certain powers at play – tied to his magic – that would make his life more challenging should he…deviate.” He scans her body, clearly trying to rattle her further. “Changing it would result in similar consequences.”

“So there’s nothing to be done?”

He studies her closely then. “You can allow him to move on. My son may believe his feelings for you to be genuine. But as you said, he loves,” he pauses, the word seeming to catch on his tongue, “his family. He’ll do what he must.”

“And if…I don’t. He could have an heir…with me…” her voice wavers, and something deep within Hermione aches with longing as she hears those words fall flat.

“Alas, the stipulations are quite specific– your child wouldn’t suffice. It requires a more suitable partner.”

“Then I’ll wait.” The words rip from her throat, painful and rash. “Wait for him to…have his heir and then we can be together.”

“So that he can resent his child for keeping him away? You would let your infatuation tear apart the potential for a real family to take root?” His esteem for her seems to grow, “That’s quite ruthless of you.”

“He would never…”

“If you agree to stay out of his way until he fulfills his contract, I'll make it worth your sacrifice.” His tone all but implies bribe.

“I don’t want your hush money.” Her anger flares.

“Not at all. I’ll provide for whatever pet projects you have for as long as you wish – research you so desperately need backing for. It’s my understanding the Ministry can only offer so much to cover their Golden Girl’s knack for pissing away funding.”

“That won’t be necessary…”

“If memory serves, you weren’t able to quite achieve the results you were hoping for with your own familial trials, correct? Think of the families you can save.”

Her eyes harden, hatred pooling in them as she fights to keep her composure. “And after it’s done. We’ll be able to…”

“Ride off into the sunset? If that’s what he wishes. Yes. Once he fulfills his marital contract and, of course, produces an heir.” Lucius stands, coming around the desk, eyeing his prey as she dangles helplessly, struggling to find a way out.

“How long is…a typical marital contract?” Her voice is soft, defeated.

Lucius gives a small quirk of his lips before answering, “Standard pureblood marriages are only five years.”

Her hackles rise just as her younger self exclaims, “Five years? But that’s –”

“Such a short amount of time in the grand scheme. Especially where true love is concerned. Draco would be honoring family tradition and you would be able to give all your attention to your passions.”

“Would we – still be able to see each other?”

“Do you think you can – without ruining his chances?”

“I don’t know. But he’s my best friend…” Tears start to well in her eyes and Hermione wants to scream at the girl for showing such weakness.

“I’ll make assurances.” He adds, off-handedly.

Before she can ask what this means, Lucius straightens. “I applaud your efforts in coming here tonight.” His ringed fingers lightly tap the edges of the table. “But this is for the best. Think of how focused you can be without the distraction of trying to be something you’re not.” A small roll of parchment unfolds before them, as he produces a blade from thin air.

“What is that for?” She asks, eyeing the knife.

“Would you rather seal the deal with a kiss?” His face implies that that may very well be an option.

“No. Of course not!” she stammers out, approaching the desk.

Lucius leans into her from behind, his solid frame caging her, not fully touching, before long fingers wrap around her wrist.

Hermione looks to her own hand, feeling the phantom touch.

“The terms are as we discussed?” 

“One marital contract for a lifetime of funded work.” He responds.

“And, he’ll be happy? ” The girl asks.

“As any Malfoy can be.” 

Then, the blade presses into her index finger, both versions of her wincing – one from the brief moment of pain the other from understanding its lasting effects.

His lips are close to her ear as he whispers, “Love is a fairytale, Ms. Granger. And anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.” The words are soft, caressing almost.

The door swings open, just as a single drop of blood lands on the parchment.

“Mi? What are you doing here?” Draco steps inside, taking in the scene.

“Draco. Just in time. Miss Granger and I were just finishing up some business before we usher in the New Year.” Lucius reaches into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief to offer her.

Her younger self cuts in. “Draco – I had to. For you.” She doesn’t look at him.

Draco steps towards them, “Hermione, nothing he has to offer is worth entertaining. Please tell me you didn’t agree to anything.” But even as he says the words, he eyes the parchment on the desk, understanding dawning.

She steels herself. “You have to marry, Draco.”

“No. I don’t. There are ways to avoid –” he starts.

“Miss Granger.” Lucius cuts in, “It seems my son and I have some additional business to attend to. I’ll have my solicitors check over this contract and have the funds submitted to your vaults by week’s end.”

“I told you. That wasn’t necessary.” Her voice is small as she avoids Draco’s eyes.

“A Malfoy always honors his word." He waves a hand and the parchment pops out of existence.

“Funds?” Draco asks, his shock ebbing, replaced by a look of simmering anger. “What does he mean?” Draco looks between the two, and Hermione’s scarred-over heart rips itself open again.

“Mi?” he asks.

“Miss Granger has agreed to support our family traditions in exchange for our family's financial support for future research.” Lucius helpfully supplies.

“I see.” Draco clips.

“Draco – it’s not like that! I don’t even want any money! But after, we can–” She feels a strange pull then, the words growing insurmountably heavy on her tongue.

She looks to Lucius who seems unbothered by her poor articulation, pleased even.

‘Assurances' he had said.

That bastard.

The girl turns back to Draco, tears starting to flow.

Hermione watches, touching her own face, feeling wetness there.

“You have to do this.” she cries.

“Why couldn’t you just trust me to figure this out–” Draco bites out.

“Why didn't you tell me about the betrothal!”

Draco pales. “I...was afraid I’d lose you.”

“I suppose it’s a moot point now.” She says woodenly.

An array of emotions cut across Draco’s features then, each one reopening the wounds she thought long–ago healed.

His next words twist the knife that she so willfully inserted into her own heart. “Seems again, any part I could have played in making decisions in my life has been taken away.” His beautiful, steel gray eyes dull and he is once again the dejected boy from the turn of the millennium.

“Draco I lo–” But the words remained tethered to her tongue.

Hermione screams into the memory. “I did it for us! To give us both a chance to be happy!”

But Young Hermione doesn’t say this. She can’t say anything. Her face crumbling as she’s surrounded by a listless cold – sealing their fate forever.

Dimly, she recognizes the sound of a crowd counting down, excited voices cheering as they usher in the New Year.

Each number dragging them closer to the next chapter of their life.

Where there'd be no more shower romps. No more making plans for future countdowns. No more whispered professions of love into the early hours of the morning.

No more them.

The room swirls, and she’s in darkness, Hermione’s last vision of Draco, head bent, being forced to accept the choice she made for them.

Her breaths come ragged as she tries to ground herself.

Even her normal subconscious knew to steer clear from that memory. Apparently this blue ball monstrosity had no such qualms.

She is going to murder Theo for this.

—-----------

Hermione comes to with – again – the sound of raucous laughter around her. She spots yellow gems glimmering in the display from her earlier prank, the familiar blue tint faded but present in the edges of her vision.

She’s back at the Manor.

Before she can make heads or tails of her situation, she’s ushered by some unseen force to the patio, stopping in front of a roaring fire where a group, well into their cups, is deep in conversation.

They appear not to notice her.

Someone asks, “Alright Weasley, Marry, Fuck, Kill – exes edition. Granger, Brown, Vane?

Ron Weasley, looking every bit the ponce in a heinous purple ascot, scratches his chin. “Merlin – erm. Marry Brown, Fuck Vane…Can I fuck then kill the last one?” Alcohol-infused laughter rumbles through the group.

Hermione seethes. Fucking wanker.

“Oi Ron! C’mon mate.” Harry scolds, snuggling up to Pansy on the outdoor loveseat. Ron looks only mildly abashed.

Hermione turns to her friend, grateful for his defense when he adds, “She’d probably be too focused on work to know which act was happening.” The group chitters in agreement.

“Et tu, brute?” Hermione scowls.

Ernie MacMillian elbows Ron, “Not what I’ve heard! McLaggen says she’s a solid fuck!”

Hermione watches as a few others nod in agreement.

“Oh, like you’ve all never needed to let off some steam?” She scoffs.

Another guest asks, “She can’t be all that bad – she’s developed so many lifesaving charms.”

“Yeah, ruining her own in the process.” Ron mutters.

Harry sighs, “She’s not. She’s just been through a lot – lost sight of what’s important.” Hermione watches Harry squeeze Pansy’s hand, mirroring a clenching in her chest. “And, I won't abandon her. She’s got no one else now – gotta be pretty lonely.”

Hermione’s indignation at the conversation stutters at hearing the pity in her once friend’s voice.

She has people. Assistants, co-workers and Theo, of course. She isn’t lonely. But at this thought, the haze flickers in disagreement.

“Well enough of that depressing shit.” MacMillan cries. “Davies – Marry, Fuck, Kill – Hagrid, Filtch, Flitwick? The group half groans, half laughs as her body is whisked away again.

When she next stops, she’s in a private room, where a small fire is roaring. A familiar coif of brown waves is bent over a bar cart.

Hermione lunges forward. “You! And your stupid fucking balls! I’m going to mur–” Just as she’s about to lay into him, Theo turns and walks right through her, dissolving her into blue mist as he floats two tumblers to the other side of the room.

She whirls, ready to unleash a slew of profanities he would be unable to hear, when her eyes land on Draco, leaning forward, hands tugging roughly on his hair.

“So, it didn’t go well?” Theo asks tentatively.

“No mate. It didn’t.” He glares, grabbing the tumbler angrily.

“Hm. Well. Maybe some more time – she’ll come around.”

Draco scoffs, “We’ve had twenty years.” Then more quietly, into his tumbler, “I don’t need more time. I need to fucking move on.”

Hermione watches Theo study his friend, “I never understood why you let so many years pass.”

Draco drops his head back, giving a beleaguered sigh, “Seems my father was rather thorough in ensuring my marriage stick. He added an additional five years to the standard marital contract for Tori and I.”

Hermione and Theo both exclaim, “That bastard!” She flew headlong into his trap without even realizing the actual ploy.

Then, a more damning thought occurs.

“And after?” Theo voices the question Hermione cannot.

“I tried. Scorp was just about to start school and I thought…maybe there was a chance for us. But she refused to see me – preferring to only meet or conduct business with other Malfoys.”

Hermione closes her eyes, whispering to deafened ears, “I was alone – and you came five years late!” She realizes now that he hadn’t; she just hadn’t known. Her naive heart shattered every day after his supposed five years was up.

So she devoted herself to her work – the paltry prize offered in his stead. Losing herself and her friends to it entirely.

“You gave up then?” Theo prods.

“There was nothing to give up. Not anymore. I read enough headlines to know she had fucked her way through wizarding London before I could do anything about it. And, I never expected her to wait, not after the way I treated her…” He looks in the flames, pensive. “Do you know what would've happened if I didn't marry Tori?”

“I assume it was steeper than missing a weekly allowance?”

Draco laughs, but it’s an ugly, cold sound. “Yes. The contract was linked to my magic. The Malfoy family magic actually.”

Hermione’s eyes widen in shock.

“I would’ve given it up in an instant for her though. And Lucius knew it.”

Hermione feels herself shaking, tears running down her cheeks as she hears the pain in his voice even after all these years.

“And then tonight. I get another chance. Just moments after Tori and I dissolved our contract this evening...how’s that for fate?” Draco murmurs.

“Perhaps it’s kismet…” Theo offers, hopefully.

Draco gets up, frantically pacing the room. “It’s not like it makes a bloody difference. That woman. That is not Hermione Granger.” He points angrily at the door. “That’s – I dont know who the fuck that is – some selfish, loveless…” He’s panting, his anger coming to head. “She just looked at me like I was insane for…feeling anything. For thinking…”

“It’s been decades, Draco. Can you blame her?”

“No.” He says. “Fuck!” He squeezes his eyes shut, and across the room, a crystal decanter explodes in a burst of shards and amber liquid.

She moves closer, anger and frustration across his face, matching the scars in her heart.

“Draco.” She breathes.

“It doesn't matter.” He snaps. “She made it very clear where her priorities lie. And it isn’t with me. It never was. She will never be the woman I loved again. Not anymore.”

The emotional whiplash hits hard as the room starts to dim. Hermione watches Draco fade from her life.

Again.

Her feet seem to move of their own volition, carrying her down the hall towards the front entry. Angry tears are streaming down her face and for once that night, she’s grateful no one can see her.

Just as she reaches the foyer, a flash of blue catches her eye from underneath a nearby table, stopping her retreat.

“Oh thank Christ.” Dropping on all fours she rubs stubborn tears from her eyes, reaching underneath for the missing glass orb. “Potentials – more like fucking ball of horrors. I could kill Theo – like I needed to see any of that!”

She continues to threaten her absent friend just as her fingers brush against something cold and smooth, it manages to roll away. Bugger.

“Selfish?! Fucking bastard. I’ve never done a damn thing for myself.”

A voice from behind cuts into her murderous rant.

“Are you alright?”

Thwack. Her head connects with the underside of the entry table.

“Ow – fuck.” She rubs her head, adding this transgression to her list for Theo, before turning to face the interruption to her horribly shitty night.

A wave of nostalgia overtakes her as she stares up into the face of the man she once loved.

“Gods, sorry didn’t mean to startle you.” Warm hands envelop her upper arms as she’s pulled to her feet, her eyes adjusting as the pain in her head ebbs.

But she’s wrong. This man is not Draco. He wouldn’t hold her like this. Not anymore. Though her body seems to be delayed in its realization of this fact.

He makes sure she’s stable, his hands giving one soft squeeze before releasing her and turning to grab something off the table. When she looks back, the pleasant visage of Scorpius is smiling down on her.

“Wait, you can see me?” She knows she sounds insane the moment the words leave her lips, but the last few hours of revelations and reunions has left her reeling.

He looks real. Certainly felt real while he was touching her, the pressure of his fingers on her arm still lingering. But so did Draco, in the shower – she immediately doesn't trust it.

Scorpius gives her a quizzical look before a small smile cracks his lips, “I always see you, Professor Granger.” She feels the intention more than hears his words, a distant thud echoing around her as the air between them seems to glow, a faint twinkle of fairy lights up above.

Another dream then.

His voice is friendly, happy even, as he takes her in. But her treacherous mind seems to skip on the word ‘professor’ – her body reacting far more than is prudent given the last hour of disappointment.

"Just Hermione now, please. I haven’t been your professor for quite some time.” She runs a hand down the front of her gown, an attempt to distract herself from the flash of shameful thoughts she’s having.

He follows the slow trail of her fingers, catching on the folds of golden silk. His tongue runs the length of his teeth and she hears the soft clinking of metal against them.

Light blue eyes snap back to her face and his smile widens. “I suppose not. Hermione then – were you leaving?” He gestures towards the front doors, a look of disappointment on his face.

She could always appreciate how this Malfoy never tries to hide his feelings, wearing them openly and often in class.

And now, he’s looking at her like she’s something precious, important even.

“Yes. I can’t stand these events.” But her voice trails off as she looks at him. Was she leaving? Suddenly she’s unsure she wants to.

“I know what you mean, so much pomp and self-congratulations on simply making it to the end of another year – managed to escape with a small souvenir though.” He brandishes the bottle, “Shame you're leaving, wouldn't mind sharing with someone who isn't a blowhard.”

Her mind flashes to the image of Scorpius’ nibbling another woman's ear as he watches her. “And your date…she didn't blow hard?”

He lets out a surprised burst of laughter at this. “No. Gods. Just a…friend.”

She eyes him skeptically.

“A good friend.” He shrugs innocently, offering his arm. She takes it, unable to deny his charm. So appealing in light of so many heart wrenching revelations.

They walk a few paces in silence, reaching a clearing. He wandlessly charms a blanket on the ground, conjuring a few fairy lights to float overhead before popping the bottle to offer her the first swig.

“What, no crystal? Narcissa would be aghast.” She takes it, gulping down the crisp bubbles that go seem to go straight to her head.

He chuckles, grabbing the bottle back. “I’ve learned it’s best to nod along but never actually do as you're told when dealing with my family.”

She smiles, though his words hit hard, as she recalls how difficult that had been for her and Draco. Hermione hurriedly takes another sip just as Scorpius leans in, bumping her shoulder.

“I have a bit of a confession.” His clean scent wraps around her like a warm blanket, comforting – necessary in the chill this night has brought.

“No better time than the new year to come clean.” She encourages.

“I’ve always had a bit of a crush on you.”

She looks up, his face open and unashamed. “Oh?” Her tone quiet. “Well I think you may be the first in a long while.”

“That’s surprising.”

“It’s really not.”

Draco’s words are still reverberating through her. Selfish. Loveless.

“You’re successful, driven, intelligent. Not to mention were the lead in most of my school boy fantasies.” He gives a half smile.

“Most?” She asks, unable to resist the draw of him.

“Alright – all of them.” He chuckles, the sound rich, and genuine.

She snorts, “Gods you are – honest. A rarity in your family.”

He weighs her words, feigning mock offense. “I’ll have you know honesty was extensively covered in my private lessons – it may have been sandwiched between bribery and corporate espionage, but definitely discussed.”

Hermione gives the first genuine laugh she’s had in ages. It feels foreign, out of practice for so many years.

His smile widens, along with the chasm in her chest, as he nearly morphs into someone she knows he's not. “It’s not one of the highly publicized Malfoy traits – but I mean it. You're stunning.”

“Thank you…” she answers, uncharacteristically shy in the face of his forwardness.

He continues, “And when am I going to get another chance to try to woo you?”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“Well apparently not well enough if you have to ask.” He laughs again, the sound achingly familiar.

“You’re doing just fine. Quite an impressive bit of charm work you did.”

“I had an excellent teacher.”

It may be the twisted feeling of nostalgia being around a carefree, charming man that reminds her so much of the love she lost, but she finds herself leaning in.

Her lips meet his, hot and eager. And she melts, lost in the feel of him. Her tongue chases the line of his full bottom lip, seeking entry, just as his hand threads tightly in her hair. Hard metal meets her probing and she lets out a soft gasp, pulling the piercing into her mouth. He grunts, as she releases his tongue, a soft, “Fuck,” falling from his kiss-swollen lips.

Cheers can be heard in the distance and he pulls away in a breathless huff. “It’s almost midnight,” he chuckles, subtly trying to adjust the growing bulge in his trousers.

Hermione snorts, giddy off of his enthusiasm, “I’ve been through enough of those this evening – they’re nothing special.”

The dreamy man leans down, unphased by her strange wording. “Let’s change that.” He presses her back on the blanket, lips and tongue colliding again as she feels firm hands slide down her dress. His ring clicks against her teeth, the vibration of it sending a jolt to her core. She moans into his mouth, needing to feel it everywhere.

A small, dwindling part of her brain reasons that this is wrong. That this isn’t the man she wants – nor the one she deserves. But a darker, more twisted desire leeches into those thoughts as she opens her eyes. He’s bathed in moonlight, indigo rays dancing off his blonde waves, giving him the look of an angel.

His fingers slip beneath the slit of her dress, finding her knickers already drenched from two generations of Malfoy fantasies crashing into one impossible moment.

His lips find her ear, giving a nip, “Would you like to see what else I’ve learned, Professor?”

For tonight, in this place, she reasons why not? Tomorrow would only signal the start of another year of loneliness. Why not allow her subconscious this last gift?

She breathes, “Show me.”

In an instant, he’s opening her, placing a leg on his shoulder as fingers circle her entrance and slowly press in. Cool metal and tongue find her clit immediately eliciting groans of pleasure from them both.

“Oh my gods.” Is all she can manage as he laps at her, circling and sucking with a single-minded focus.

Hermione drops her head back as the pleasure washes over her.

She barely registers the distant countdown marking the end of the year. Or the curious lack of blue haze as she screams out her pleasure.

The room is dark when she wakes. Her body is still teeming from her dream with Scorpius but her heart feels like it’s been laid bare.

She hadn’t felt so many emotions in years. ‘Sphere and Nows’ – more like Nightmare Nads. She snorts. Theo’d probably like that one.

She waves her hand, testing the air. No blue.

They must have contained the incident.

Running a hand through her hair, she winces at the tender roots, before gliding it down her neck and shoulder. Smooth silk greets her as she discovers her body is wrapped in a negligee. The silk seems to continue over the bedding and under lush velvets.

A bolt of panic runs through her. Where the fuck am I?

Throwing off the covers, she rips open the curtains. The room is large, cold, and most definitely not home. Grabbing a nearby robe, she pads her way to the door where light is pouring in through the cracks.

She stills as she enters a familiar office, finding a man bent over his desk.

“You?” she accuses.

Lucius looks up, his expression unreadable. He says nothing, only the lift of his dark brows as a response.

“Wh-what am I doing here?” she pulls her robe more tightly around her, suddenly –horrifyingly– aware of the lack of knickers under her gown.

“Currently? Interrupting my work.” His eyes rake her body, and a shiver runs through her.

She shifts on her feet, feeling uncomfortable and exposed in front of the man responsible for her misery.

A flash of Draco's conversation comes to mind then, “You lied to me! The contract! You said it would be five years! Standard marital contract!”

He stands, fingers tapping on the shaft of his cane. “I may be a lot of things, but a liar is not among them. You simply failed to ask the right questions.”

“Was I really so terrible – such a disgusting option for your son – that you couldn’t let us be together in the end?” She grits, hands fisting by her sides.

He approaches her with predatory grace. “Contrary to what you may think, I did have Draco’s best interest in mind.”

“I loved him!”

Lucius seems bored by this display. “Yes. A defining feature of yours. But you also showed something far more telling that night.”

“And what was that?” she practically spits.

“Ambition. A true desire to reach an end goal no matter who you crushed in the process.”

“I never meant to hurt Draco! He’s all I cared about!”

“Oh yes. Demonstrated it beautifully – going behind his back and ignoring his wishes. Did you even consider him before storming in to be the hero? I may have misled you initially, but tell me little wasp, am I truly to blame for everything that came after?”

Her brain whirls, rejecting his statement. He is twisting things, trying to confuse her again.

“Wh-where is Draco? I need to speak with him.” She demands. “There's been a misunderstanding –”

“Oh? It was very clear to me what was happening when I discovered you single cunt-edly ruining a relationship between father and son.”

She scoffs, “You and Draco never had a real relationship. It was just business for you. Always!”

His head cocks, a curious gleam flashes across the obsidian green of his eyes.

“Perhaps.” He walks towards her, the click of his cane echoing her discordant heartbeat. “But Draco and Scorpius? Now there was a bond I thought unbreakable. Until you.”

“Wh-What? No…that…wasn't real…” But her words fade as the lingering sensation of metal on her cunt, blonde hair in her grasp, and sky blue eyes looking up at her with desire takes hold.

“Poor Scorpius. To hear the woman who ruined his family ties referring to your tryst as nothing…”

Lucius continues his slow approach, her body responding on an instinctual level even as her mind reels from his revelation.

“Lucky for you, I'm a much more forgiving Malfoy. When you came to me, desperate for help – you were quite eager to prove your worth.”

“I don't believe you. This is just another nightmare! Theo! Theo will know!” She swipes her hand, desperate now to see the haze she had come to hate. But nothing happens.

“Oh, Mr. Nott is aware. And I’m not sure he cares to help you either. Not anymore.”

Her brain stutters to a stop at hearing this. Theo…gone?

“No…” she whispers.

“I suppose I should have expected this on today of all days – my sentimental little whore.”

“How dare you!” But even as she says the words, she feels a tingling awareness run through her. A jolt of desire at his taunt. “I-I could never be with a monster.”

His lips form a hardline, “A monster, am I?”

There’s a click of his cane as he steps closer.

“Was I the monster who turned my son into a cockless fool, chasing after you for years. Ruining any chance at true happiness –”

“He didn't want me anymore! Stopped caring–” her breaths are coming in heavier, reliving Draco's conversation with Theo.

‘She will never be the woman I loved. Not anymore.’

But hadn’t she pushed him away long before then? He came to her when he could. Even wanted to talk that night – but she was so stubborn, choking on her self-righteous rage.

Lucius is looming before her now, his fingers wrapped tightly around the head of his staff.

“Was I the monster who chose work over a supposed love?” Another step, “He really believed you’d wait for him, too.” His voice comes as a whisper, fear rising in the easy way her body responds, her eyes fluttering shut as his words cut through her.

Her stomach twists at the shame of accepting her years long deal with the devil. She had craved the work, the success – the distractions. But for what?

Draco’s words thunder through her head again, ‘What good is success if you’ve no one to share it with?’

Lucius presses on. “Was I the one who convinced you to face fuck my grandson? Clearly desperate to feel Malfoy lips on your sullied cunt.”

Her eyelids fly open. “No – I…” She flounders, replaying her time with Scorpius. She had convinced herself it was a dream. But oh gods, had it been?

Or had she been so desperate to feel good again? To risk tasting that forbidden fruit? Even after learning what her actions had done, she sought comfort in the arms of the most impressionable Malfoy, ruining him in the process.

She has no defense – feels how right his words are. Scorpius – dream or not – had reminded her so much of Draco. She runs a hand over her face, finding tears streaming – shame and loathing giving way to clarity.

“I think the nightmare may be in realizing that I'm not the only villain in your story.” He’s inches from her now, his broad chest brushing against her hardened nipples. Cold fingers graze her neck, pulling her sweat drenched curls to the side as he inhales her scent. “Tell me, are you feeling desperate again?” He leans in, his tongue tasting the salt on her cheek.

She rears back, slapping him hard. The pain is immediate in her hand, throbbing and potent. Necessary.

But as his head whips back, she feels the ache pulse deep in her core watching his tongue slowly laps at the drop of blood pebbling.

His smile is vindictive. “There she is. My spritely little wasp.”

She glares at him, her hatred boiling over – though no longer for him alone.

“You used to be worth something, didn't you, Ms. Granger?” His words float over her, “And, now you're only worth something with a cock in you. But as long as it’s a Malfoy cock your cunt doesn't seem to mind.”

“No. I loved…love Draco.”

In an angry flash, his staff is between her legs, pressing into her exposed cunt beneath the scrap of clothing she has on. He swipes it in one practiced move, brushing the tip of her swollen clit before pressing harder still with delicious precision. She gasps at the feel of it, her eyes locking with his – hating herself for wanting more.

Lifting the staff between them, she sees it’s glistening with her arousal.

He gives her a dubious look. “You can lie to yourself all you want. But your greedy cunt will always tell the truth.” He shoves the staff towards her face. “Open.”

She does, without question. That dying voice of protest snuffed out by the evidence of her lust.

“Taste your truth,” he demands. Her tongue dutifully licks the hard wood, eyes never leaving his.

“That's it – clean it up like the good whore are.” He sneers, “Dripping for me even as I tell you how you ruined the Malfoy family.” A hand digs into the flesh of her hip as he grits out, “I’ll ask again. Are you feeling desperate?”

“Yes.” The word sinks to the bottom of her stomach. Settling there, taking root, squeezing what little sense of hope Hermione has left.

She tries to pull away, fight it one last time, but he wraps his hand around her throat.

“Good.” Harsh hands turn her to face the desk, the silk of her chamise the only softness she feels as the intricate patterns on the edge press hard into her hips. She scrambles to keep herself up, her breaths coming in heavy. 

Spider-light touches trail down her spine. It’s familiar, though far from soothing.

“Now. Let's start this new year off right, what do you say, little wasp?” He doesn’t wait for a reply as her gown is rucked up roughly, his fingers digging in now, opening her bare arse to him. She fails to bite back the moan that escapes her at feeling something more than this ache of self-loathing.

He runs two fingers through her slick, leaning forward to present it to her again. “A whore, through and through.”

“Oh gods! Yes.” she bucks angrily back, pushing him away as she seeks more friction.

He brings his fingers to her lips, pressing her harder into the desk, and she willingly obeys his unspoken command. The taste of her own arousal mingling with the salt of more tears.

The worst part is that she knows she wants this. Needs this. Deserves this.

“Tell me, wasp. Do you still need to feel love?” She feels him run the tip of his cock through her slick. 

“N-no.”

“Do whores deserve to be loved?” He hovers at her entrance.

“N-no.” She pushes back into him, arching herself upward. “P-please.”

“This is all you’re good for now.” He plunges into her, the stretch of him a delicious pain she's not known she's needed for so long.

A scream rips through her, fingers digging into the wood as he buries himself further.

“This is what you deserve.” His voice comes in a ragged breath as she presses herself harder against him, his pounding relentless.

‘She has no one.’

‘She will never be the woman I love.’

This is what I deserve.

Her cries of pleasure and anguish drown out the sounds of bells in the distance, signaling the start of new year and life.

Loveless and forever alone.

She’s falling, her arms flailing, desperately trying to slow her descent. Between her screaming, she registers a voice calling out.

“Hermione. Hermione! Wake up!” Warmth surrounds her as she jostled.

She bolts up with a start, swinging her arm wildly, her fists connecting with something firm.

“Ow! Fuck!”

Blinking the sleep from her eyes she realizes she knows that voice.

“Draco?” Her voice is hoarse.

He groans, holding his nose, “Yes. Fuck. It's me.”

“S-sorry…are you alright? She looks around, realizing she's on the floor of the Malfoy foyer, half draped over his lap, her breaths coming in huffs as she fully comes to from her...nightmare.

He wiggles his nose, “Nothing I haven't survived before.” He helps her to sit. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she shudders, the lingering sensation of rough hands fading. “I am now. What- what happened?”

“My father’s fucking peacocks decided to start the new year early – destroying Theo’s display. He’s dealing with it - but he asked me to check on you – said you took one home. I found you here on the floor.”

“You came for me?” She asks, warily.

He starts to move away, “Yes. Look. I don’t like how we left things…but if you’d rather I go? I can let Theo know you're alright…”

Flashes of her night threaten to crash down on her again and she scrambles to pull him back. The words breaking free. “No wait! Please. I…wait–what year is it?”

“Fuck. Maybe I should get a healer.” he mumbles.

“Draco?” she asks. “The year?”

“It’s been 2025 for about fifteen minutes now. Are you sure you’re alright?”

The weight of this news crashes down on her in stunning, blue-less technicolor. It's the New Year. And he's here with her. She never left – hasn't ruined everything. Her future is still very much her own.

“No.” She answers honestly. “I don't think I have been for some time…” Turning to him suddenly, she blurts out, “I’m so sorry. For everything!”

“Christ, how hard did you hit your head?” he asks with concern, his touch light on her temple.

She tries to sit up more, “Don’t be an arse. I’ve had a rough night. And I’ve been thinking…”

“Generally if it’s done while unconscious, it's called dreaming, love.”

Love?

“No more dreams. No more waiting. I’ve been so selfish. And so focused – I let our chance slip away.”

“Mi–”

“Please let me finish.” His teeth snap shut. “I don’t know that we deserve a second chance. Or that we’d even like the people we are now.”

“Okay…” he gives a resigned breath.

“But I also know that I never stopped loving you. I tried…for years to move on. Forcing myself to stay busy trying to make losing you mean something.” She meets his eyes. “But like you said, what good is that success if I have no one to share it with?”

The silence that follows isn’t long. “I have been an unapologetic arse for years. Expecting too much of you when I never deserved your loyalty. I shouldn’t have said what I did earlier– it was unfair to assume that your happiness was mine to take.”

“But I’m not happy...” The honesty burns, but she keeps going. “I haven’t been for twenty years.”

He frowns, pensive. But she knows that face well enough to see the hope blooming there, too. “Well that won't do. Have you…made any resolutions?”

A small smile crests her lips at the question.

Her breath catches, “No. But I’m open to suggestions?”

He brings her closer, and in his arms, she feels twenty years’ of regrets lighter. “Perhaps, we just try to be happy.”

“I…don't think I know how…” she murmurs into his chest.

Warm fingers brush her cheek, tilting her head up.

“How about this time, we figure it out together.”

There isn't a countdown or fireworks. But when Draco's lips meet hers, she falls into something new anyway.

And it’s something much, much better.