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Chapter Text

Ashes and Aegis

Act I: Sparks and Shadows

Chapter 1: The New Professor

Hermione always thought that side-along Apparition felt like running—that gut-wrenching desire to leave, to escape the snatchers that seemed to almost catch their tail no matter how careful they’d been. Clutching at Harry’s arm while gripping her wand in the other—it was their means of escape, their survival. Not that what she’s doing now is any different. She shook her head, clearing the faint wave of nausea—that magical aftertaste of motion-sickness that always followed Apparition; as well as the small pang of sorrow that this time, it was only two of them travelling. 

She glanced about and saw the familiar sights of Hogwarts’ surrounding pathway—its lush greenery quite subtle in the morning light, the air smelling of wet grass—she could feel the gentle hum of air around them whoosh as the magic dissipated. Hogwarts Castle stood tall in the distance—impossibly tall and grand—looming, waiting for her to come home. Carefully tucking her wand back in her arm holster, Hermione worked to compartmentalize her feelings. And then she occluded, locking each resurfacing memory from her past into tiny, glistening vials in her laboratory.

 “Alright there, Hermione?” Harry smiled at her tenderly—always perceptive, now. Nostalgia and sympathy reflected in his green eyes. Harry just knew. She immediately stopped occluding, lest he call her out on it again. “Reckon you should’ve taken Minnie’s offer to her personal floo or flew on the firebol—”

 “And risk being called Professor’s Pet?” Hermione smiled as Harry rubbed his chest where she elbowed him. “I’d rather have Head Auror Harry Potter escort me in and carry my bags.”

 “What bags?” Holding his hand jokingly, he was caught off-guard when Hermione dropped her beaded bag on it. “I’m going to pretend I’m not holding this.”

She laughed—knowing he would never report her still-there and very illegal Undetectable Extension Charm. “Let’s go. I need to see Minerva first before I get settled in my quarters.”

Together they crossed the quiet grounds, stopping at the castle’s great oak doors. After almost a decade away, just standing by the Grand Hall indeed felt like coming home. With her walls down, the all-too-familiar ache of emotions rose within her, impossible to ignore—loss and longing, love and even hope. But there was no time to dwell on them. Hermione took a deep breath and tried to reel it all in. 

They continued on in silence, both of them lost in their own thoughts. No students in sight as there was still a little over two months before the term starts, they had little to no distractions apart from the usual portraits and ghosts who’ve all taken it upon themselves to look upon them or wave. Hermione frowned; though she appreciated the silence, she detested the reverie-like stares.

 “Ginger Newt!” She practically shouted once they reached the gargoyle staircase, Hermione’s nerves still had not steadied. While Harry raised an eyebrow as she practically ran inside the Head Mistress’ office, he followed along silently. She was thankful—a gratitude that would remain with her, unchanging, through the years.

 “Ah, Professor Granger and Head Auror Potter—come in.” Head Mistress Minerva McGonagall stood up from her table and ushered them in. The familiar sight of her office exuded warmth and comfort which helped calm Hermione’s nerves a little. “Please sit.”

 “Thank you, Head Mistress. But—” Harry handed her the beaded bag tenderly, like he was giving her a bomb instead of a bag. “I’m afraid I must go or Gin will hex me again for missing dinner at the Burrow.” He flashed an apologetic look at her and quietly squeezed her hand. “It’s nice to see you, Professor. I’ll see you soon, Mi?”

 “Of course. Thank you, Harry. I’ll send an owl once I get settled in.”

 “Talk soon.” He gave her a quick hug and turned to Minerva to ask to use her floo. In a flash of green flames, he was gone.

Hermione turned to Minerva. “Thank you for accommodating me so suddenly. I know I initially asked if I could move in before term started but I didn’t specify when. I was planning on going to look for lodging in Hogsmeade—” She accepted the tea from her former professor and drank slowly, the chamomile helping to steady her frayed nerves. “—but something unexpected just came up and there was no time to look for one. Apologies if I’m three months earlier than scheduled.”

 “It’s quite alright, Hermione. We’re glad to have you—and like I said in my offer, we have living quarters available in Hogwarts. Everyone has their own place here—students and professors alike. Hogwarts is home, despite everything.” Minerva smiled tightly, the corner of her eyes glinting a little bit too knowingly.

 “Thank you, Professor.” Forcing herself not to tear up, she almost choked on her gratitude. She glanced around the empty portraits instead of looking at Minerva, curiosity pricking at her.

 “I’ve sent them all away—for privacy.” Minerva answered her unvoiced question. “I meant it when I said that Hogwarts is home. You are safe here, my dear.”

Minerva took her hand, and Hermione—for all her composure and pride—let herself cry silently.

 “Here’s your quarters, Miss Professor.” Mibbin — the small elf smiled brightly at her as she gestured at her to follow as she climbed down the stairs behind the empty portrait connecting the professor living suite to the Defense Against the Dark Arts office. “Head Mistress will be asking one of our resident portraits to move in, Miss Professor.”

She quirked her head in question. “Whatever for?”

 “For password and protection, of course, Miss Professor.”

While she understood that this was the way Hogwarts functioned, having a portrait guard her quarters felt too much like invasion of privacy. She couldn’t help but ask, “Can you ask the Head Mistress not to do so? I can cast my own…precautionary measures.”

 “I will ask the Head Mistress, Miss Professor.” Mibbin smiled and continued her way. Following Mibbin, Hermione was careful not to step on the elf’s long, pink, dress. After years of rallying and even working at the Ministry for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures a few years back, she found it comforting to know that regulations and laws are finally in place for house elves’ welfare.

 “Thank you, Mibbin.”

 “Please call on me if you need anything else, Miss.” Mibbin smiled and saluted her before disappearing with a soft crack, leaving Hermione to glance around her quarters.

Logically, she knew that if not most — all of her previous professors turned peers — lived in Hogwarts but it’s still a wonder to her to know that there really is a room connected to the DADA office. And to think that Gilderoy Lockheart used to live here once upon a time, oh if only 12 year-old Hermione could see her now. That made her giggle a little as she walked in.

The room was spacious, almost like a typical one bedroom flat—except it lacked a kitchen, which, Hermione had to admit, made perfect sense. There was little point in cooking when she’d be eating in the Great Hall or, on occasion, in the Staff Lounge she’d been shown earlier. Not that she was the greatest cook anyways. Trying not to think of the last time she tried to cook for R—, she shook her head and carried on surveying her room. The entire right wall was lined with three floor to ceiling oak bookshelves, with a small closet tucked neatly at the end beside the bathroom door. 

Opposite the shelves sat a loveseat, a tall floor lamp casting warm light beside it, and a coffee table that completed the cozy seating area. Delight danced across Hermione’s face when she noticed the small reading nook nestled by the fireplace. Perfect for wallowing alone.

Venturing further into her actual bedroom, she sat on the queen-sized poster bed after casually flinging her beaded bag on the side table. With a calming exhale, Hermione held out her wand. No words left her lips—only precise intent and determination mingling with her magic. She felt the air grow hotter and heard the doors shudder once, twice then the first ward settled - a lock that would only answer to her alone. And then, another hum—her magic thrumming on her pulse, delicate as her heartbeat. Another flick of her wand spun a series of protection around the quarters; should anyone approach, she would know. In a slow arc, she closed out her spells and the room thickened with serene quiet. The hum of the castle outside softened to nothing—no whispering, no prying ears, no curious portraits.

When she lowered her wand, the space felt safe and sealed, unmarred. Untouched. Like she wanted to be. For the first time in a long while, Hermione allowed herself to breathe.

It took Hermione a few days to truly feel settled—not with her belongings, which she organized quickly. With a few precise spells, all her books and personal items were neatly transferred from her beaded bag to their proper places in her quarters. Instead, she worked hard to adjust to the stillness that was Hogwarts before term: waking up in her cocoon of living quarters, wards humming faintly at the edge of her senses, reminding her that this was peace. Peace that she could have, if only she chose to. 

She made use of her connecting office to plan out the term’s lessons, brushing up on her spells in the DADA room and reading books in her nook-the fireplace lit with her signature blue-bell fire to keep her comfortably warm at nights. Mibbin brought her food daily whenever Hermione neglected to eat. Guilty for relying on Mibbin as her personal caretaker, Hermione made sure to leave her quarters to have her meals. She found herself mostly eating alone or only with the Head Mistress in the Staff lounge. The majority of the professors, as Minerva revealed to her, was still away. Either on well deserved vacations or with their families. There were only three other professors currently in the Castle grounds apart from herself—Professor Sybil Trelawney, Professor Cuthbert Binns and Head Mistress herself. Leaving aside her disdain for Divination, Hermione did not care to make herself known to Professor Trelawney nor did she have any inclination to look for Professor Binns’ ghost.

Her second week, following her short search of her peers, settled into a quiet affair. Hermione set out a daily routine: wake up, check her wards, have a quick breakfast and then do her morning jog around the Castle to the Owlery to send mail to Harry and Ginny. The married couple had been so adamant that she sent them constant updates. Hermione figured, it was the post-partum nesting feeling that left Ginny feeling like she had to take care of Hermione like she was currently doing to little Lily Luna. She obliged, she did not owe anyone anything but her loyalty and friendship to the Potters were something she did not have to force out. Following that, she would return to her quarters to have a quick bath and then resume her tour of Hogwarts. 

Hermione found herself wandering the upper floors, tracing old paths between classrooms that are much smaller than she remembered. The air still held the same comforting scent of old parchment and wax in the Library where Madam Irma Pince would be returning once term started. The tapestries were a mix of familiar old and new ones, some depicting the Battle and others, cheerful scenes to soften old wounds. Portraits and ghosts occasionally gave her salutations, but the more frequently she roamed around, the faster her presence was ignored. By midmorning, Hermione would head down to the Staff Lounge for a quick lunch, sometimes stopping to chat with the house-elves as they bustled about preparing meals. 

Afterward, she’d follow her little self-imposed routine: wandering the lower floors, through the locked Potions rooms and the dungeons and then ending her day by the corridors overseeing the Black Lake. Sometimes, the giant squid would wave lazy tentacles at her, others - it would only be still waters staring back at her. She’d often end her days with an evening run around the castle and each evening, Hermione returned to her quarters as the castle exhaled into silence. The wards hummed faintly at her presence, her books waited patiently on the shelves, and the fire always burned just bright enough to make the room feel alive.

On the second weekend, Hermione Apparated to Hogsmeade for supplies. The village was quieter these days, more subdued, though the smell of butterbeer still lingered in the air. To her surprise, she spotted Professor Neville Longbottom at the far end of the Leaky Cauldron, his arm comfortably draped around Hannah Abbott’s shoulders.

 “Professor Longbottom.” Hermione grinned as she approached the lovely couple, both looked content and happy. “And Hannah, how lovely to see you.” She accepted Hannah’s hug, tentatively giving one of her own in return.

 “Professor Granger,” Neville said in an exaggeratedly deep voice, making his wife laugh at the tone. “Come in, come in. Let me get those for you.” He reached for her bags, motioning for the two women to follow inside.

 “Butterbeer is on me,” Hannah offered, smiling, and together they followed Neville.

Inside, the three spoke animatedly about their classes and jobs—Herbology and DADA, greenhouses that now stretched beyond the castle walls, and seedlings with minds of their own. Hannah filled them in on her new role as landlady of the Leaky, and Hermione couldn’t help but laugh at her stories. Their conversation flowed easily, full of warmth, with no mention of the past, only what lay ahead.

After promising to catch up again soon, Hermione left the couple to themselves, planning to stop by the Shrieking Shack before returning to Hogwarts.

The remaining days that up to the start of term passed by in a blur. Hermione had all of her preparations done when the other Hogwarts Staff came back on their own schedule. She saw old and familiar faces, Professor Flitwick - still the Charms Professor and Head of the Ravenclaw House, Professor Sprout - Head of Hufflepuff House and Advanced Herbology Professor and shared the subject with Professor Longbottom. Neville was in charge of the younger students for Basic Herbology as well as being the Head of Gryffindor House. Madam Hooch would still be in charge of Quidditch and flying lessons while the Head Mistress herself still had Transfiguration. While she had not seen Professor Horrace Slughorn, she knew that he was still coming back.

Hermione was quite surprised to see some new faces too. While Professor Luna Lovegood taking over the Care of Magical Creatures post for Rubeus Hagrid (who went on Sabbatical to enjoy his long-overdue courtship with Beauxbaton’s Madame Maxine in France) was a delightful surprise, she was more caught off guard with the fact that Professor Theodore Nott Jr. had been in his post since after 8th Year as Hogwarts’ Ancient Runes professor. Theodore Nott Jr. was an enigma to her since their academic years. He was always up there with her and  the Ravenclaws in their rankings but she could never seem to remember him in her childhood.

The Castle slowly grew livelier with almost all of the Professors coming back. And once Mibbin let her know of the Staff meeting appointment, a full two months after she went back, Hermione was confident that was ready. She stepped into the staff room, robes swishing softly against the polished floor, and immediately felt the familiar mix of excitement and anxiety she always experienced before entering a classroom. But the unease was different this time. The air was charged, and not only with her own nerves. Eyes trained on the floor, she sat down at her designated place between Neville and Luna. Once she looked up, her eyes met Draco Malfoy’s grey ones across the room and her stomach twisted. While they locked eyes, she saw a flicker of emotions in his. Before she could determine which emotions were there, she noticed the tell-tale sign of occlumency in his before he looked away to face Theodore on his left.

 “Now that almost everyone is here, we can start with a few announcements.” Professor McGonogall started without further ado. Her voice cut through the faint chatter and captured everyone’s attention. She in turn looked at Hermione. “Let’s welcome Professor Hermione Granger who’d be taking over for retired Professor Brindlemore.” Smiles and applause followed her announcement. Minerva continued on, “Professor Slughorn has told me last week that he seemed to be caught up in some personal issues and will not be back until the last few months of term, I would ask Professor Malfoy to be interim Head of Slytherin House.”

 “Of course, Head Mistress.” Malfoy confirmed. His voice calm yet strong at the same time. Whatever composure Hermione managed to gain was disturbed by his voice.

Oblivious to her internal struggle, Minerva continued on, “We still have not hired a professor for Muggle Studies, Professor Binns will be handling those alternatively with Professor Vector until further notice.” She looked at Hermione meaningfully and Hermione felt herself nod. She understood, she was not in any position to take up additional classes. She knew that yet it felt like a small slap to the face.

Hermione tried her best to pay attention but her eyes wandered back to Malfoy in front of her. She couldn’t help but notice how much time had changed him, the years had tempered the arrogance into a calm precision, but the sharpness in his gaze was unmistakable. Malfoy carried himself with that same effortless composure she remembered from her school days, but now it was refined, controlled, as though every gesture had been measured and rehearsed. He was still handsome in a way that demanded attention without effort—sharp features, pale skin, his cold eyes and lips curved just enough to suggest amusement or challenge.

As Madam Hooch went on about the Quidditch schedule, Hermione felt the weight of Malfoy’s gaze before she even looked up. When she did, she couldn’t make herself look away. Their eyes locked— storm meeting earth—and the room seemed to fade around them. The unmistakable tension between them—once full of rivalry and disdain—had transformed into something she couldn’t quite name, a mixture of curiosity and a faintly thrilling pull she was unwilling to acknowledge. And yet, despite the caution and wariness he inspired, Hermione couldn’t deny the pull that drew her toward him. Hermione inhaled slowly, reminding herself to breathe, to focus, to stay present—but it was useless. The past, it seemed, had found its way back to Hogwarts.

Chapter Text

Ashes and Aegis

Act I: Sparks and Shadows

Chapter 2: The Potions Master and His Son

Hermione lingered after the staff meeting adjourned. She watched her peers drift out in twos or threes while pretending to organize her notes, when she barely looked at them.

 “Hermione, would you like to come with us for lunch?” Luna asked, head tilting to the side. She had grown more ethereal with time—golden hair in a loose bun, robes slightly wrinkled, radish earrings catching the light. Neville, on the other hand, had ditched his robes for what Hermione assumed was a muggle suit and tie, looking remarkably dashing. Both of her friends waited patiently, expectant.

 "I’ll catch up.” Hermione murmured, waving them away and tapping her quill against the parchment. An excuse for her mind to wander.

Once the door closed behind them, she was alone with her thoughts. The torches along the walls hummed quietly, smoke from the candles curling lazily toward the ceiling. She told herself she was only collecting her bearings, but her eyes kept straying to the door Malfoy and Nott had just exited.

Professor Malfoy, Potions Master and Interim Slytherin House Head. The title still felt strange on her tongue. As strange as Professor Granger, she supposed. But, Malfoy—she remembered him as the loud, racist and cruel snob from her childhood, then as the cynic young man from their eighth year—angry and bitter, all inherited spite. But the man she had just seen was different, almost like he was someone else. Calm and measured. Quiet in a way that unsettled her far more than any past insult or clash ever had.

It bothered Hermione that she found his presence intriguing. The last time she had seen him had been at the Malfoy “Trial” years ago, a farce conducted by the Wizengamot. His skin had color to him now, faint but real—the sort that came from living not just surviving. His hair, several shades lighter, was swept back in a style that looked both careless and deliberate. Malfoy held himself straight and proud, but without the brittle defensiveness she remembered. Confidence suited him.

And his eyes—Merlin, those eyes—stormy grey and sharp as steel, carrying something heavier than before. Something that felt all too familiar but she couldn't place it.

Draco Malfoy had grown into himself, she realized—quietly, powerfully, with the undeniable grace of something inevitable. She shouldn’t care, and yet his calm, measured presence tugged at her curiosity in a way that was both infuriating and impossible to resist.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, quill forgotten. Why did he still affect her like this?

While magic did the bulk of the work when they started preparing classrooms and the Castle in its entirety for opening of term, Head Mistress McGonagall insisted on the professors manually checking everything on top of preparing what they would be needing for the school year. And Hermione, lived up to her reputation of being an overachieving swot, had already finished with her preparations a month after she got settled back in. In retrospect, she could’ve waited for Neville and Luna so she could have something to do better with her time other than strolling through the silent castle.

One particularly damp and cold morning—waking after another nightmare that started about the war and spiraled into things that she could still not bear to dwell on, Hermione decided to wander around the school instead of just occluding to clear her head.

Wards checked and double-checked; re-applied and reinforced, she stepped out of her quarters and wandered to the Great Hall. Her senses were on high alert, almost as if she was back on the hunt for horcruxes. And then she heard a soft scritch-scratch sound. Not a ghost, definitely not a student. It couldn’t be the elves or the other professors as she was quite near to one of her secret hiding spots-a hallway that leads down to the stairs around the dungeons. She casually slid her wand out and followed the curious sound.

Around the corner, she spotted him. A small boy, no older than three, crouched beside a worn tapestry depicting some long forgotten battle. He had pale blond hair, slightly curled at the nape of his neck. His lips curled into a tiny smile as he appeared to play with a piece of parchment enchanted to fly above his head like a folded paper crane. Her high-wired senses settled by the child’s soft giggles. Slowly, she tucked her wand away and approached the child.

 “Hello,” Hermione greeted him softly-keeping her voice quiet to avoid startling him. “Are you… playing?”

Despite her slow movements, the boy startled. He turned to her, gray-eyes wide and his paper crane dropped to the floor. Moments of silence passed and he still did not respond. An idea formed in her head, moments later, the crane flew around the child’s head. He giggled and smiled at her tentatively.

 “Who are you?” She asked, as much as her heart hammered in her chest, she kept her voice soothing so as not to scare him. Before the boy could answer, both of them turned to look at the end of the corridor where a quiet click clack of footsteps came.

 “Scorpius." Draco Malfoy rounded the corner, looking fit in just a sweater and some black tailored pants. Hermione internally winced, fit?! She must be losing it. But he did look great in light color. She frowned. “Professor.” There was the briefest flicker in his expression—surprise, maybe—before his composure settled back into place; and when he kneeled to look at his son, his stormy eyes relaxed. “Scorp, this is Professor Granger.”

Little Scorpius Malfoy tilted his head slightly-evidently shy but curious. Hermione crouched as well to his level like Malfoy did.

 “Hello, Scorpius. I’m Hermione.”

He nodded again and glanced at the still flying crane. “Hello.” He whispered shyly as he plucked it out of the air and hid behind his father. Every so often, he would glance at her-a careful, tentative kind of stare that seemed to see-through her barriers. Like he was gauging her if she could be trusted. Hermione understood, it’s not like she loved to trust strangers at first meet as well.

As she stood up, she took several, respectful steps back as Malfoy did the opposite to his son. His left hand resting lightly on Scorpius’ shoulders, she could see that he was wearing a singular ring-a simple, black band right where a wedding ring should be. “Don’t wander too far,” he said softly. Turning to her, he added, “He’s new to the castle.”

She nodded. Hogwarts was a curious place — especially for a child.

 “I can see that. He’s very cautious, but so brave to look around by himself.” And though she could not look away from Scorpius’ proud grin at her, she couldn’t help but notice Malfoy’s lip twitched—almost a smile. She carried on, “Were you two getting breakfast at the staff lounge?”

Malfoy shook his head, “We’re just about to leave for the Manor.” He glanced at his watch and gestured with his free hand. “In fact, we must get going.” He nodded at her and once she did the same, father and son walked away from her—Scorpius looking back at her before waving out of sight.

For the second time since she’s been reintroduced to Malfoy, she stood there longer than she meant to, her eyes tracing the path they’d taken until it vanished around the corner. It wasn’t sadness exactly, but something adjacent — a hollow tug that felt suspiciously like envy, wrapped in tenderness she wished she didn’t feel.

For Hermione, even in her adulthood, the best part of the Castle was the Library. It was quieter than usual, with the term still a few weeks away, it was the kind of serenity she needed—it was the kind of silence that invited reflection. Or loneliness. Depending on one’s mood. And she was definitely on the latter one. She remembered it being bigger when she was still a student, a refuge with warm air and the comforting scent of parchment. The Library held still as her heels clacked towards Madam Pince’s desk.

She set her stack of returned books on the desk and was halfway sorting them when she heard that soft, hesitant voice.

 “Is this book about dragons?”

She turned, Scorpius stood near one of the lower shelves, a large tome open in his small ands. His blonde hair caught the light like silk and his eyes—grey and wide. Solemn—flicked toward her, wary and curious as always.

 “Yes.” She answered gently, stepping a little closer. “Magical Creatures of the Highlands. It has quite a section on the Hebridean Black—the only native dragon species in Britain.”

He nodded gravely, committing her words to memory. “Father says they’re…temperaturemental.”

She resisted the urge to giggle at his adorable mispronunciation. “He’s right, they are temperamental. Most dragons are, so you have to be patient with them. They breathe fire only when they’re frightened.”

Scorpius tilted his head, “People too?”

Caught off guard, she could only ask, “Pardon?”

 “Do people also breathe fire when scared?” Voice small but serious.

Something in Hermione’s chest tightened — that peculiar ache that came from seeing too much of herself in someone else’s eyes. “Sometimes,” she said softly. “Some shout. Some hide. Some… pretend they’re not afraid at all.”

Scorpius seemed to think about her answer for a moment before nodding. Then, as if remembering his manners, he added — “Thank you, Professor Granger.”

 “You’re welcome, Scorpius.” Feeling a gaze on her, she turned to notice the tall frame of Draco Malfoy standing a few paces behind the boy. He stood there, arms crossed and expression unreadable, as usual. She did see, however, his eyes softened when he looked as his son.

 “Scorpius,” He started gently. “Perhaps, we should let Professor Granger finish her work.”

The boy nodded as he closed the book with such care it made her heart squeeze warmly in her chest. As Scorpius turned to return the book to its place on the shelf, she cleared her throat, “You can borrow it, if you like. I’d let Madam Pince know. She won’t mind.”

Madam Pince would most definitely mind but with Scorpius’ eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas, she held her smile. Malfoy glanced as her briefly. She almost could discern the amusement on him, he knew that the Librarian would mind.

Scorpius looked up at his father, uncertain. Malfoy’s mouth quirked—not quite a smile but something close. “If Professor Granger insists,” he said mildly.

Hermione felt butterflies. She straightened. “I do.”

 “Then we’ll return it tomorrow,” Malfoy answered, and for a moment their eyes met—assessing, but no longer sharp. There was a quiet exhaustion in him, yes, but there was it again, that gentleness. A kind of peace she longed to have.

When they left, the hush of the library settled around her again. But the silence felt different now — not lonely, just… full. And as she gathered her books, Hermione realized she was smiling, faintly, without meaning to.

Once again, Hermione found herself going back towards the library. The stillness of the castle at night was neither comforting nor eerie, but alive. Distracted by her interaction with the Malfoys, she left her binder for this term’s lesson plan.

Madam Pince had long since retired, so the library greeted her in shadow and silence. The smell of parchment and old wood was heavier at night, the air cool and dry.

She was halfway to her desk when she noticed it — a small bundle resting on top of the return pile. A book. Magical Creatures of the Highlands.

They’d returned it already. Hermione smiled faintly, running her fingers over the spine. When she opened it, a folded piece of parchment slipped out and fluttered to the floor.

It wasn’t a note exactly. Just a child’s drawing, done in pale pencil and soft green ink. A cartoon dragon, wings outstretched, perched atop a castle. Beside it stood two small figures — one tall, one small — holding hands. And, in neat, uncertain handwriting at the bottom:

“Thank you for the book.
— Scorpius M.”

Hermione stared at it for a long moment, the corners of her lips curving without her permission.

Something in her chest—gentle and painful all at once. She brushed her thumb over the crude little dragon, remembering his serious expression, his question about frightened people and fire.

Without meaning to, Hermione let her imagination wander. She could imagine it—Malfoy’s voice, patient yet precise, helping Scorpius spell the words right. It should have been amusing, but it wasn’t. It felt tender. Tender enough to have her gasping slightly, the only sound in the vast room.

For the first time since she’d returned to Hogwarts, the loneliness that had followed her like a shadow felt lighter—not gone, never gone—but softened at the edges. And when she left the library that night, she carried the drawing with her.

After making a conscious effort to eat at the staff table for at least one meal a day, Hermione took notice that it was always quieter in the morning. Perhaps, since term has not started, the table was simply slower to wake. The air smelled faintly of coffee and toast.

She slid into her usual seat, tucking her notes beside her teacup. Across from her, Luna stirred her porridge with what suspiciously looked like a quill, smiling to herself.

 “Good morning, Hermione.” Luna said dreamily, without looking up. “You have a bit of dragon dust on your sleeve.”

 “Pardon?” She glanced at her robes.

 “Or maybe toast crumbs.” Luna amended cheerfully. “Hard to tell, really.”

Before she could reply, Theodor Nott dropped into the seat beside Luna—clothes rumpled, he still looked half-asleep—a cup of black coffee in his hand.

 “Merlin,” he muttered. “Do you realize we’ve been up since dawn for three weeks straight now? Term has not even started yet!”

 “That’s because some of us,” Luna said serenely, “enjoy being awake.”

Theo just gave her a dead stare. “You also enjoy lecturing suits of armor about politeness.” He gulped his coffee in one, amazing go.

 “They listen, you do not.” Luna said simply as Theo glared at her.

Hermione hid her smile behind her teacup. Luna was never one to argue against. And if Theo would learn that, his mornings would be much more peaceful. Across the table, Draco Malfoy arrived. Poised and immaculate as ever, though if she looked closely, she could see the faint circles under his eyes betraying a sleepless night. Just like her. He nodded to her in greeting, brief but polite, and took his seat two chairs away.

For a while, the conversation hummed gently—weather, lesson plans and schedules, the reorganization of the Herbology greenhouses that kept Professor Sprout and Neville busy as bees. She kept listening to the others talk but Hermione found her mind wandering by the soft memory of the small dragon drawing tucked safely in her desk drawer.

She wasn’t sure whether to mention it, but when she glanced up, Draco’s gaze met hers — steady, assessing, as though he already knew.

 “Scorpius returned the dragon book last night, it seems.” She remarked quietly, not looking at him and more to the table rather than the Potions Master himself.

Malfoy set his fork down. “Ah. Yes. He was rather determined on doing it by the rules.” A pause, “He said you’d shown him which section it was from.”

Hermione glanced at him, a small smile on her face. “He has good memory.”

Something flicked in Malfoy’s expression—it looked like pride, but it was quickly masked. “He likes books,” he said after a moment. “Not really a surprise.”

Theo smirked into his now empty cup. “Are we talking about your son or you, Malfoy?”

 “Both,” Luna said dreamily, before Malfoy could answer. “Scorpius is very polite. I saw him yesterday in the corridor. He asked if the ghosts could read.”

Hermione’s chest warmed. “What did you tell him?”

 “That some of them still do,” Luna replied. “The Grey Lady, mostly.”

Malfoy huffed—was that amusement? Hermione didn’t know him enough to be certain. Perhaps it was disbelief. She disliked not knowing, but she found herself smiling nonetheless.

 “Well,” Theo grinned, a small teasing expression that made Malfoy roll his eyes at, “If the Malfoy heir plans to start a book club with resident ghosts, I’ll retire early.”

 “Don’t discourage him.” Hermione responded, tone dry. “It would make for an excellent elective,”

 “If you plan to sponsor it, Granger, I’ll warn the Board.” Malfoy answered, mouth quirked. Still not a smile, but close enough. The table chuckled lightly. Even Theo looked faintly entertained.

But as the chatter drifted to lesson timetables again, Hermione caught Draco’s gaze one last time. A flicker—gratitude—before he looked away.

She reached for her tea, willing the sudden warmth in her chest to settle.

It was a small thing, she told herself. Just a child’s drawing. A kind gesture. Nothing more.

And yet, when Luna leaned close and whispered, “You’re smiling again, you know,” Hermione didn’t bother to deny it.

The Burrow had always smelled of flour and sunlight, but the Potter household in Godric’s Hallow smelled of polish and toast — and chaos. When Harry and Ginny first got married, they initially lived in 12 Grimmauld Place. However, a few years later and when they had James Sirius Potter, they decided to come stay Arthur and Molly at the Burrow for James’ first five years. It was the height of Harry’s career as he was in training to become the Head Auror while Ginny was still playing for the Holyhead Harpies. They needed the help and Arthur and Molly were happy to have them back. At the time, Hermione was still with Ron. When Ronald learned that Harry will be living at the Burrow, he decided to go back as well-essentially, asking her to move with him. Hermione shook her head, dispelling any more thoughts of her ex.

A Quaffle rolled past her foot the moment she stepped into the kitchen, followed closely by a blur that could only have been James Sirius.

 “Sorry, Aunt Mione!” he yelled, disappearing into the living room with the ease of someone raised among broomsticks and noise, followed closely by whoosh of air. Hermione could spot Harry’s shoes where his invisibility cloak flittered.

She smiled fondly at their father and son antics as she stepped over a pile of toys and books by the -floor. Ginny Weasley-Potter, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of lukewarm tea and her red hair pinned up in a loose bun with her wand, looked the very picture of domestic exasperation and contentment. When Hermione looked closely, even with bags under Ginny’s eyes, she still had that post-partum glow that had her both happy and envious for her friend.

 “Don’t ask.” Ginny shrugged. “I’ve given up pretending we’re a civilized family here.” She offered Hermione a cup of tea.

 “Thanks. And here I remember you swearing you’d rather die that become your mother.” Hermione teased lightly as she sipped at her chamomile tea that Molly loved so much. “Drinking chamomile, even? You even have the same look in your eyes whenever she threatened me back in fourth year. Are you about to send a howler, somewhere?”

Ginny’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “And you’ve become Minerva McGonagall with much better hair.”

Hermione snorted, feeling her mane. It was tame today, thanks to an entire bottle of Sleakeazy’s. “That’s generous of you.”

They fell into companionable silence. Two best friends just enjoying each other’s company as they sipped their tea, warm light streamed through the window, the air fresh with the morning dew. It was familiar and peaceful—until Ginny’s gaze turned gentle. She knew what was coming, Hermione braced herself. While she she loved Ginny like a sister, she did come with the annoying tendencies.

When she first met Ginny, she was just Ronald’s younger sister, then a housemate, and then her girl best friend. Now, Hermione found in her, a confidant, one of her best mates. Her sister. Sometime after Gin become a mother, she took on a maternal instinct that had Hermione reeling when her little sister become so wise and caring. Here it goes.

 “So,” Ginny started, eyes brimming with curiosity but looking gentler as it usually would. “How are you really, Professor Granger?”

Hermione heard that maternal tone again, she hesitated before answering, “I..it’s different.” Out the window, she could see Harry and Sirius, now flying out on the famed Firebolt. “The Castle feels the same as it did on that last year but it’s also changed. Maybe it’s because I am now a Professor instead of a student—” Maybe it’s because I’m still running, she sighed. Unwilling to voice it out loud, even to to Ginny. “There are ghosts, still. But I think it is a different kind of good.”

Ginny hummed in quiet understanding. She always got what Hermione didn’t want to admit vocally. “And Malfoy?”

She blinked. “What about him?”

 “You mentioned he’s teaching now, as well. Potions Master, right? Never thought I’d see the day". Ginny shrugged. “Never would have thought he’d be a Professor.”

 “Well… neither did I, but apparently he’s started a year before me and even then, he’s assisting Professor Slughorn with mentoring the Slytherin House so he’s, at least, competent, right?” A pause. “He’s bringing in his son this year, the other professors told me. The Head Mistress mentioned it in passing, that Scorpius will be allowed to live with him in his quarters.”

Ginny’s expression softened at the mention of Malfoy’s young son. “I heard about the boy. He’s Al’s age. I think I remember reading about his birth on the Prophet. Sweet child, if the rumors are to be believed. Despite his circumstances.”

Hermione nodded. “Quiet. I see him contently wandering the Castle with Malfoy almost always after him. Scorpius has this—” She paused, searching for the right word. “—gentleness to him that doesn’t quite match the name he carries. Malfoy’s very protective of him.”

She thought back at the limited encounters she’d had with both Malfoy men. Hermione could count on one hand how many times she’d interacted with them and all of it—Scorpius had always been reserved and quiet but warm while Malfoy, for lack of a better word, frosty. He exuded a silent but steady feeling of paternal protectiveness over the boy. If Hermione was a lesser woman, she would have been offended. Okay, maybe she was…a little. It’s not like she’s been dangerous or rude to them.

Ginny studied her over the rim of her cup. “And you find that surprising.”

Hermione offered a terse, if not self-depreciating smile. “I guess, I shouldn’t huh? But I do. Gin, it’s odd to see him like that — patient, gentle, careful. It makes me wonder if I really knew him at all. I wonder if all I know about him is just…circumstance.”

 “Well, you’ve always had a terrible habit of humanizing people, Hermione.” Ginny leaned back. “Maybe we knew of him, maybe he’s changed. Who knows? Maybe you’ll know more when term starts.”

Hermione turned quiet. And that is why she’s asked to visit Ginny. She knew what made her tick. Hermione was afraid of her curiosity toward Malfoy. It was not something she wanted to think about or had time to ponder on. The damn Potions Master shouldn’t be that intriguing.

A loud cry broke her train of thought. Both of them looked up and saw Hermione’s godson, barely-three year old Albus Severus by the kitchen door holding his sister with teary eyes. Instantly alarmed, Ginny stood up and went to her kids.

 “What’s wrong, Al?”

 “Lily woke up as I was reading, Mum.” He started walking towards Hermione once Ginny had Lily.. Hiding behind his godmother, he continued explaining, “I’m sorry. I didn’t wake her up. I was reading softly, I promise.”

 “We’re sure you were, Al.” Hermione assured the child as Ginny nodded in empathy. She hugged the young boy close as Ginny smiled at her gratefully.

 “Lil’s just hungry. Mummy’s just going to nurse her and I’ll be right back, okay?” Ginny excused herself. Once she was out of sight, the boy cried softly and it broke Hermione’s heart a little. Such a young boy for such tender and big heart.

Pulling him onto her lap, she consoled her godson. “Hey, it’s not your fault.” Albus seemed not to hear her so she tried another way. “What were you reading Lily?”

He hiccupped and mumbled, “The Beadle…”

 “That’s great, Al!”

Silence. Albus really had such the softest heart out of the Potter household. She couldn’t let him blame himself, so again, she tried another tactic.

 “Did you know that there is a boy your age at Hogwarts?” That perked him up, so she continued, “He’s not a student of course, but he seems to be enjoying exploring the castle on his own. Quite brave, huh?” She smiled.

 “Brave… unlike me?”

 “Oh no, my dear. Brave just like you. See, there are different kinds of bravery. I think this boy is brave because he’s by himself most of the time but I always see him quietly exploring the Castle, even when he’s just as shy and quiet as you are.” She thought of young Scorpius—almost always by himself when his father was busy preparing for the upcoming term in two weeks. “While you, Al, are just as brave for watching Lily and taking her to your Mum when you needed help. And I think that by that, being brave for loved ones is such an amazing thing to do.”

Albus hugged her tight. “Really?”

They both jumped when Harry responded. “Of course, Al.” He smiled. “Mum certainly thinks so too. Do you want to go see Lily again? I think Mum’s done nursing her so she might be sleeping again.”

Hermione bid her godson farewell with a tight hug and turned to Harry, “Well, I guess I should get going as well.”

 “Yeah, you know you’re always welcome here? And that you can talk to me as much as you do to Gin?” Harry smiled.

She narrowed her eyes. “Of course, I do.”

 “While I do not appreciate you writing to my wife how fit another bloke is—” Harry laughed as she turned beet red. “I think it’s good that you’re seeing Malfoy as just another wizard.” He shrugged. “Just please, do not write poems about him.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though a faint blush was receding from her cheeks. “Hardly.”

Still, later, back in her quarters with only just her thoughts — Hermione found herself thinking not just of Draco Malfoy but his young son as well. The way Scorpius peered at her from behind his father’s robes. Scorpius looked at her with wide, curious eyes that made the color grey seem warm. In contrast, Malfoy’s guarded gaze made her feel like he’s another puzzle for her to finish.

And for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, the Malfoy men kept her on her toes. It surprised her, yet it excited her as well. These conflicting feelings stayed with her longer than it should have.

Chapter Text

Ashes and Aegis

Act I: Sparks and Shadows

Chapter 3: First Clash, Same Fire

The Great Hall looked as glorious as it did when she first walked through it as an eleven-year old, muggle-born witch. Hermione looked up from her seat at the table, there it was, her favorite part of the Great Hall—the infamous enchanted ceiling looked gorgeous—mirroring the clear, starry night they had tonight, with the floating candles making it glitter more. Though it felt smaller somehow—when she knew it wasn’t the Hall that changed, but her.

The four long tables gleamed with polished goblets, cutlery and of course, the air buzzed with the returning students’ excited chatter. All eyes by the new students near the doors—anxiously waiting for the Sorting. At the other end, the staff table stretched wide—familiar and foreign all at once—facing the students.

Hermione took her place beside Professor Longbottom, her palms clammy despite her taking a small sip of Calming Draught before. It had been years since she’d last attended a Sorting Ceremony—and never from this side of the room. She told herself that it was just nostalgia, not nerves. Nor the feeling that every pair of eyes would turn to her when her name was spoken.

As if to ease her anxious anticipation, Headmistress McGonagall stood up and casted a Sonorus. “Welcome back, students,” she intoned. Instantly, the hall fell in rapt attention and the chatter silenced. “As well as our incoming first years. Let us also welcome our new and returning members of staff.”

A murmur of anticipation swept through the students, old and new alike.

McGonagall turned slightly toward Hermione, expression warm despite poker face. “This year, we are pleased to welcome back one of our own. Please join me in greeting Professor Hermione Granger, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor.”

Applause broke out—polite at first, then genuine as it sank in that the Golden Girl, one third of the Golden Trio who saved the Wizarding World—would be their new professor. Hermione smiled, inclining her head slightly, trying her best not to fidget and banishing all thoughts of her appearance from her head. She spent a good four hours on a floo call with Ginny to help her get ready. Dressed in professional silk powder blue long sleeve polo and tailored, high-waisted, black slacks underneath her black robes, she wore a more muggle and casual attire than some of her peers. Her long hair in a fishtail plait, tamed with another bottle of Sleakeazy’s. She even opted out not to wear all of her 11 ear piercings and only left the conventional two—just a simple pair of dainty golden hoops that Harry got for her last year to look more professional.

Some of the Gryffindors even whooped and whistled—vaguely reminding her of Fred and George or Jordan and Seamus—and made her smile fondly. The Headmistress hushed them with a stern glance after a few moments of excitement

 “Thank you.” Hermione murmured, voice barely audible over the clapping.

Luna smiled dreamily at her from further down the table and Neville nodded at her with reassurance. Her friends’ support should have eased the thumping of her chest but her eyes drifted, gazing to the other end of the table—unbidden and out of her control.

McGonagall’s tone shifted, measured but still firm. “And as Professor Slughorn has taken a well-deserved sabbatical this term, our Potions department will be fully under the capable guidance of Professor Draco Malfoy, who will also serve as the interim Head of Slytherin House.”

The reaction was immediate, not loud but it was definitely sharp. A ripple of whispers from the younger students, exchanged glances from the older ones who knew of Malfoy as the Potions Master. It was fascinating for Hermione to see that there was definitely a split reaction between the younger students as well as those that already had him as a Professor from the past year or so.

She kept her expression carefully neutral—as she heard whispered names that still carried weight, even now, Post-War. Her heartbeat stumbled once or twice in her chest. Hermione knew what was coming. Slowly, she mentally and emotionally disengaged from it all. It was not the time for one of her panic attacks, however, instead of handling it the healthy way like her Muggle therapist and Mind Healer would have wanted, she fell back to what she knew had immediate success: Occluding.

The world went numb despite the loudness in her ears. And finally, she could her herself think. She assessed her surroundings—detached, objective in her findings. She glanced at Malfoy, who just inclined his head slightly, as if the attention that sent her in a panic attack, only mildly amused him. A flicker of a smile even ghosted his full lips. The candlelight caught in his perfect hair, falling back elegantly, as if it was tempting Hermione to run her hands through it.

When their eyes met, it was only for a moment—brief, unreadable. Then, he looked away and the conversation around them resumed. Hermione blinked hard.

Neville glanced at her, concern in his eyes. “Are you okay?” He mouthed. And only then, she realized that she stopped occluding.

She could only nod in response, smiling tightly, unable to trust herself if her voice would crack. Neville stared at her then offered another reassuring smile before looking back to the Headmistress who was starting the Sorting Ceremony.

Hermione forced herself to focus on the Sorting—but her thoughts kept on straying. She was finally sure why Malfoy’s eyes looked terribly familiar. It was just like looking at her own reflection in the mirror. Something hurt and haunted him, too.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It didn’t.

The first name was called and the Sorting Hat was placed on the young lad’s head. Hermione turned back to look forward but her mind stayed stubbornly in place. She couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something unspoken had just shifted — quiet and invisible, but irrevocable.

Hermione—in spite of her anxiety—had a great time. It was illuminating being on the other side of the Sorting Ceremony. Her nerves finally calmed down once she realized that the Professors made it a game of guessing which kids will be sorted to to their houses. It was even more enjoyable for her once she got roped in by Neville and Luna in playing. Every once in a while, she would be able to correctly guess which House the first year would be sorted into. In the end, Theo had guessed most of them and won. While Headmistress Minerva did not reprimand them, she had the least points because she did not give out her answers for most of the students—only those for the hatstalls, and she had them all 5 of them right.

As the night dwindled down, the Great Hall had emptied considerably, the clatter of plates and fading laughter echoing off the stone walls. Hermione adjusted her robes, tugged her braid over her should, and allowed herself a moment to breathe. Once the older of the Professors had gone, she stood as well, greatly anticipating the long, quiet, walk back to her quarters. Her first calm, quiet time to herself since that morning.

Her relief was short-lived. Faint, mocking undertones of murmuring drifted from near the doors and Hermione slowed her walk. Her hand itched to pull out her wand from its holster, but it would not do good for a Professor to threaten students—however prejudiced they were.

Hermione was not blind nor stupid, in fact she was one of the most brilliant minds in her generation, she knew that the bigotry did not end when the War did. Harry still had to deal with Death Eater wannabes at the Auror Office, a decade after they’d defeated Voldemort. It didn’t help their cause when the Wizengamot resisted all of Minister Kingsley’s efforts to round up all the remaining and suspected Death Eaters, insisting that it would not do good for Purebloods got rounded up. Mock trials were held, those confirmed Death Eaters at the Battle were given laughable sentences—house arrests, fines, wand regulations—the only saving grace they really had was all Death Eaters with confirmed kills (murders!) were sent to Azkaban.

They insisted that the War has been won.

That the peace was enough.

It was not.

Bigotry was still prevalent in the Britain Wizarding World, hatred still run deep—it was only more subtle, subdued. And somehow, that made her skin crawl much more than it did.

Blatant racism, she could fight off squarely. But politics? Hermione wanted out, which was one of the reasons she’d resigned from the Department of Care of Magical Creatures. No matter how much she loved working there, it drained her almost completely out of her drive.

A small cluster of—made her heart ache—young Slytherin students lingered by the wall, smirking as though they were a pack of werewolves who’d caught a morsel they’d intended to eat, to torment. Hermione braced herself. After years of being bullied just because she was a Muggle-born, she was used to such petty acts. The kids’ pale, sharp expressions, eyes glittering with disdain were all too familiar. She recognized the unmistakably rigid postures that came from old, pure, bloodlines—surely, children or relatives of those who had once sought to dominate the Wizarding World.

 “Look,” one boy said, voice carefully intoned but each word dripped with subtle venom. “Half-blooded teachers were passable but I didn’t think the famous Muggle-born would return to teach… us.”

 “She probably enjoys telling purebloods what to do.” A girl responded back, lips curling slightly in amusement.

 “I knew I should’ve gone to Drumstrang.” The third of the trio of students sneered, casually looking her up an down.

 “Too late now, we’re in third-year.” His friend responded, glancing at her boldly, as if challenging her. “I hope she doesn’t teach Advanced DADA. Defense Professor? What a joke!”

Hermione’s jaw tightened. She paused, exhaling slowly and forcing control back. She can handle this. She always have. She was not the nervous eleven-year-old in front of the Sorting Hat anymore.

 “Excuse me,” she said, voice firm and measured—unwilling to let them show how agitated she was. “I suggest you leave immediately, or I will personally ensure that detention is given. All of you.” Hermione fixed her gaze on the students.

They laughed. Hermione’s fingers twitched under the sleeves of her robes. She crossed her arms, adopting what her friends loved to call her ‘intimidating’ stance. The old tension in her chest—one she’d learn to suppress with calming breaths and sharp intellect—was back.

She was about to step forward—wand ready at its holster, her magic reacting instinctively to what it could perceive as a threat—when a shadow crossed the hallway.

Professor Draco Malfoy appeared, as if materializing from the stone itself. He stepped smoothly in between her and the students, posture was exact, deliberate. Each one of his movements controlled, menacing.

 “That is enough,” he said, voice low and clipped. His voice carried authority that filled the corridor without raising it. Impressive.

The Slytherins froze—the first boy audibly swallowed while the others exchanged uneasy glances. Smirks faded and haughty expressions died. With just three words, Malfoy had them scurrying away. They melted away further towards the exit, casting hesitant looks over their shoulders as they recognized how much influence Malfoy had over their lives—in school or after it. The hall fell silent once more.

Hermione whirled toward him, heat rising in her chest, heart beating wildly. “I didn’t need you to do that! I can handle myself perfectly well!”

His expression barely moved. His stern grimace turned into a faint smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips, precise and infuriating. Hermione felt old irritation flare—Malfoy could make the world feel smaller with nothing more than a look and tone of voice. It grated her nerves, which were shot to steel.

 “Of course you can.” He said smoothly, the edge in his voice striking her like a hex she hadn’t seen coming. Jaws clenched, he continued in a too-sharp exhale, “But it’s easier if someone does it for you.”

 “Easier? I do not need protection from anyone. Most definitely not from you. You might have seniority over me as a Professor but I’ve been handling situations like this far longer than—than you’ve ever been in this castle.”

Malfoy just titled his head slightly, lips pressing into a quiet line. Without another word, he turned and walked away from her. His footsteps echoing against stone like measured drumbeat, unlike the thumping fury in her trembling chest.

 “I can handle myself..” She muttered to herself. With a sigh, she fidgeted with her braid in attempt to physically distract herself. Her mind, unwilling to give her respite, wandered to the years she spent here as a student. All the laughter and pain she’d endured combining into one heavy memory. Some tensions at Hogwarts remained unchanged, it seemed. Some scars faded away, but other shadows lingered far longer than others.

From the far end of the corridor, Luna and Theodore approached. Hermione guessed they’d witnessed the whole exchange. Her friend floated towards her, serene and dreamy-eyed as ever, while Theo hung back a bit.

 “That was quite something,” Luna said softly, taking Hermione’s still shaking hands. “You handled it very well, Hermione. Draco…he seemed a bit decisive huh?”

Hermione didn’t answer immediately. She was still simmering, she squeezed Luna’s hand as she brushed past her with a tight-lipped nod, though inside, irritation still burned. She hadn’t asked for anyone’s intervention and the smirk Malfoy had left behind lingered in her thoughts like Devil’s Snare.

Theo leaned back against the wall with casual ease, giving her a low, wry chuckle. “Decisive, yes. Draco never does anything unintentional.” His eyes flickered where Malfoy headed, a curious look on his face. “You just learn to expect it if you’ve spent any time around him. I’m friends with the bloke and half of the time, I still get confused. Don’t waste energy trying to figure him out.”

Hermione’s glare turned toward him. “I’m not trying to figure him out. I’m just… annoyed.”

Theo grinned, shrugging lightly. “Fair. That’s usually enough to keep a distance from him anyway.”

 “I think you stood your ground beautifully,” Luna tilted her head. “It’s not easy to remain calm when students try to provoke you. You were steady and confident.”

There was a time that Hermione thought of Luna as Loony Lovegood. And that was a long time ago. While she could admit that it was Harry and Ginny that were her best mates, Luna was in her inner circle and Hermione appreciated how she was trying to calm her down in her own, Luna-ish way.

 “Beautifully doesn’t quite capture the irritation I feel,” she muttered, more to herself than to them.

Theo chuckled faintly, clearly entertained but evasive. “I’ll leave it at this: Draco has his way of doing things. You just… live with it.”

Hermione chose not to retort and turned to continue toward the staircase. Luna floated beside her, humming softly while Theo remained a few paces back. All three of them quiet. Once they’d reached her floor, she bid them good night.

By the time she was in her quarters, her wards were buzzing in response to her still indignant mood. The earlier confrontation still fresh in her mind. Why does being protected make her feel small? Why does anger come easier than gratitude? She headed towards her shower, intending for a long, warm soak to chase away images of burning silver eyes from her mind.

Sleep came late and thin, her mind replaying silver eyes and mocking laughter until dawn finally broke. As soon as her first classes were done, Hermione walked around the castle purposefully carrying out her rounds, if not for the afternoon sun filtering through the glass windows, it would have felt like she was the Head Girl , patrolling for rule-breaking students. The thought made her smile despite herself. Minerva had told her she would’ve become Head Girl if she hadn’t left back on her 7th year but she thought it wouldn’t have worked as she was one of those rule-breaking, delinquent students.

It had been a long time since she was in a classroom. The students’ excitement and energy reminded her of herself as an eleven-year-old. Now, she moved with authority—guiding, correcting and encouraging them. Hermione felt a sense of pride and that familiar feeling of academic satisfaction that she coveted. She got immensely immersed and laser-focused to ensure that her lesson were well-learned.

After dismissing her third class and getting a bite to eat at the staff lounge, Hermione steeled her nerves and straightened her robes. She inhaled deeply, savoring the quiet before her next challenge: the first session of the joint DADA-Potions elective with Draco Malfoy. Apparently, the governors of the School Board had a say in the curriculum this year—much to the Hogwarts’s staff’s disdain. No one liked it when politicians tried to get involved. Least of all, the professors who had their own way of teaching.

When the Headmistress announced it, no one voiced out complaints. At least, not when Minerva McGonagall looked just about ready to hex the next person who’d talk back. And so, they’d drawn plans on how to agree with the suggestion in curriculum by concerned wizarding families without admitting defeat. It was Luna’s unique perspective and Theo’s shrewd sensed of obligation to be defiant that saved them from future headaches. Luna suggested that they hold joint classes between subjects, while Theo jokingly remarked that they make it electives that are only optional to take—in that way, they’d be maliciously complying. Suggestion taken but it would not affect the students’ actual curriculum if they opted not to.

Hermione sighed as she glanced at her notes:

1. DADA + Advanced Potions

2. Herbology + Potions

3. Charms + Transfiguration

4. Ancient Runes + Arithmancy + DADA

5. Arithmancy + Care of Magical Creatures

6. Cross-Disciplinary Warding Project

The thought of working alongside him still prickled at her nerves—his clipped tones and sharp smirks from the Sorting Ceremony’s hallway incident lingered like a thorn—but she forced herself to focus on the students’ learning. She made her way to the enhanced classroom she would be sharing with Malfoy. The room was set up to be a blend of her own DADA organization and Malfoy’s Potions structure: the wall lined with cauldrons and reagents, half with shelves of defensive implements as well as enchanted training dummies

 "Professor” He greeted, giving her a brief nod. Of course, he was already there. Sitting at one end of the long table at the front of the room, Malfoy looked eerily calm and composed. He opted not to wear his robes and was only wearing simple grey three-piece suit that enhanced his features. “Everything ready on your end?”

Hermione nodded back as she slid in her chair beside him—a few good paces away. “Yes, I’ve organized the materials and handouts. They’ll need clear instructions for both potion work and defensive exercises.” She handed him the pre-approved handout and he took it without another word. Hermione intended to ignore him and read a short novel before the students came in but she did a double-take. “You wear—”

Malfoy huffed. “Yes, Granger. I wear reading glasses.”

 “I wasn’t—”

He gave her a look, it wasn’t exactly it teasing but it felt like it. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

She huffed—willing herself not to blush. She really wasn’t staring! Though it did look good on him. If she wasn’t blushing before, she sure felt her cheeks burning. Hermione huffed and looked away, forcing herself to calm down. Professional, she was a professional, dang it!

Students began filtering in and she easily slipped on Professor- mode, her love for academics filling her with joy and distracting her from troublesome and unnecessary observations about her co-teacher. Hermione moved to the front, giving clear instructions, answering questions, and ensuring that everyone had the necessary materials. Malfoy, on the other hand, was proving himself to really efficient. He had moved among the cauldrons, correcting stirs, checking potion consistency, and occasionally casting a small charm to adjust flame intensity.

Again, Hermione’s brain couldn’t help but notice that his movements were meticulously precise. He spoke in clipped but polite sentences—the perfect picture of a knowledgeable Professor. She felt that familiar irritation again—here he was being a great teacher but still an annoying prat who’d assumed she was a damsel in distress. Evidently, Hermione still held a grudge over the Sorting incident. Even so, she put her feelings on the back burner, reminding herself it was a professional collaboration and nothing more. What matters was the students’ education.

Halfway through the session, a small commotion at the back drew her attention. One Hufflepuff girl had misjudged the timing of a stir which caused her Edurus Potion to bubble menacingly. Hermione held her wand, a Protego almost slipping out but Malfoy beat her to action. He moved swiftly, correcting the student’s technique with minimal words, effectively stopping a cauldron from exploding. Malfoy’s demeanor was another surprise, he was calming and encouraging—still aloof but if she was being honest, that was a good trait to have in a Potions Master. She saw him glance at her briefly as if silently measuring her reactions. Hermione forced herself to ignore it. Professional, nothing more.

As the lesson drew to a close, students tidied their stations, returned their materials and collected their notes. Hermione waved at them goodbye while reminding them of the assigned reading for their next lesson on casting Protego Maxima while stationary. She allowed herself a moment to breathe once all students got out, walking back to their shared desk, she was gathering her personal belongings when she heard a soft knock by the open door.

 “Knock, knock!” Luna appeared from the doorway, carrying her own stack of parchment which looked funnily enough, like the Quibbler. “The classroom looks lovely. It’s nice seeing the two of you work together so effortlessly.”

Theo snorted as he walked in after Luna, he was also carrying another stack of a parchment. Hermione noticed it was full of Arithmancy theories. “Effortlessly? Sure.” His voice dripped with amusement. “Draco, help me activate the runes.”

 “Runes?” Hermione asked as Theo shoved parchment at Malfoy.

 “Yes! Their project last year,” Luna said, climbing onto the table. “It lets the classroom transform like a controlled Room of Requirement.”

Before Hermione could ask more, the room shifted—furniture, shelves, even décor rearranging themselves.

 “Brilliant,” she whisper ed.

 “Right?” Luna beamed. “Perfect for our joint classes. Thanks, Draco.”

 “What am I? Chopped liver?” Theo sulked.

Malfoy gathered his things, casting a disgusted glance at Theo’s spreading chaos. He paused at the doorway, giving Hermione a brief nod before leaving.

The irritation still simmered in her chest, but she straightened her robes and focused on preparing for her next class.

Some challenges at Hogwarts weren’t magical at all.

Some wore grey three-piece suits and reading glasses.

The days passed almost too quickly for Hermione as she held her own DADA classes as well as her joint-classes and mentored students. Unlike when she was a student though, she made sure to spend a lot of her free time with her peers—by the end of her first week of teaching, she felt confident to even call them friends (or reluctant colleagues in Malfoy’s case). The Hogwarts Staff functioned very well even with the Board still breathing on Minerva’s neck about the curriculum. As if they cared about actual education. Hermione frowned.

 “Professor? Did I do it incorrectly?” One, sweet Ravenclaw girl asked. They had moved on to casting Protego Totalum once the class mastered casting Protego while moving and stationary.

Before Hermione could respond that she had in fact, done it right, Malfoy decided to give his two cents—what with his side of the class silent with brewing Wiggenweld Potion. “You have to cast with more intent. What are you trying to do, protect or shout?” He said it in a dry tone, not even looking up from his seat as he marked students’ Advanced Potions essays.

The girl turned red, mumbling, “I see…”

After that incident, the classroom had fallen silent until the end of lessons. The students continuously watching them as she and Malfoy exchanged terse corrections to each one’s teaching techniques. Once the students were off, scurrying away from the room, desperate to escape the tense atmosphere.

Hermione glowered at Malfoy. He had not left immediately as well, his posture sharp as he casted a subtle cooling charm to speed up the process of bottling successful Wiggenweld potions they’d produced. She could feel his gaze on her, the tension between them felt thick—almost tangible.

 “You were too harsh with my students.” She said finally, her voice steady but charged.

One of Malfoy’s eyebrow raised challengingly. “Your students? They’re my students, as well, Professor Granger. And too harsh? I was merely giving advice. They’re capable of following instructions if someone enforces them properly.”

 “That’s not enforcement—that’s intimidation,” she countered, jaw tightening. “Guidance doesn’t mean fear.”

 “I don’t coddle students who can do better,” he replied coolly.

 “And scolding me in front of them produces better results?”

 “I wasn’t scolding. I was… honest.”

 “Honesty isn’t an excuse for arrogance.”

Draco’s smirk flickered. Hermione stepped in, wand subtly ready, pulse racing.

 “You think you can lecture me about control?” he said softly. “You’re trying to teach me something?”

 “I’m trying to stop this class from turning into a battlefield of egos!”

Before the tension could crest, a small voice cut through the air.

 “Father! Professor Granger! Stop!”

Hermione blinked, the tension leaving her body. Scorpius Malfoy stood in the doorway, a toy wand clutched in his little fist, eyes wide and frightened.

She felt that all too familiar ache in her chest and she felt her resolve melting. Her wand tucked back to her holster, she took big strides to reach the boy. A rush of tenderness hit her with painful force.

Hermione crouched slightly, laser-focused on calming the boy. She kept a respectful distance away, offering her arms, “It’s alright love.”

Scorpius ran into her arms. She gathered him gently, smoothing his hair as he clung to her. Draco stiffened at the sight—something vulnerable flashing across his face before he masked it again.

 “No more fighting!” Scorpius insisted, voice trembling as he held on.

 “No fighting,” Hermione whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his hair.

Hermione stood, still holding Scorpius. “We’ll continue later,” she said, firm but softened.

Draco nodded once, offering to take his son from her and she obliged, even though she wanted to hold Scorpius longer.

And like a ceasefire marked, the moment dissolved, only leaving a tender moment behind.

That evening, in the warm, familiar chaos of the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione slumped into a high stool, braid slipping over her shoulder. Hannah placed a steaming mug of firewhisky in front of her as Luna and Neville looked up expectantly.

Hermione exhaled—then exploded. “He smirked at me. SMIRKED. As if I’m incapable of running my own classroom!”

Luna sipped serenely. “Perhaps Draco exists to test the quality of your character.”

Hermione groaned. “He just might be a magically enhanced ferret with opinions.”

Her friends laughed at the dig, then Neville patted her shoulder, “You’ll handle it. You can take him.” He shrugged defensively when his wife hit his head. “What? She could, she’s the DADA Professor and not him for a reason.”

Hermione giggle as Hannah shook her head. A second glass loosened her reservations and by the third, she was dramatically reenacting Draco’s “ridiculous eyebrow raise of superiority,” nearly toppling from her stool.

By her sixth or maybe tenth drink—Hermione couldn’t remember, she was finally escorted her out. Both Luna and Neville took one of her arms when she declared that she was not drunk, just strategically intoxicated!

They trudged back to Hogwarts in a comfortable silence of bouts of giggling from Hermione and Luna as they all joked about.

But halfway through Hogsmeade, she froze. Two figures approached: Draco and Theo, carrying bags, moving with their usual demeanors.

Fueled by firewhisky courage, she waved wildly—losing her sanity for a bit.

 “HELLO! PROFESSOR NOTT! PROFESSOR MALFOY! BEAUTIFUL WEATHER!”

Theo snorted. Draco’s expression flickered—annoyed? amused?—before settling back into that maddeningly neutral mask. Hermione bowed. Nearly fell. Recovered. Bowed again.

 “Merlin’s pants,” she muttered as they passed. Theo laughed out loud but Malfoy didn’t stop. Didn’t quip. But his faint eye-crinkle suggested he would definitely remember this.

Back in her quarters, the warmth of the Leaky faded. Hermione sat on her bed, braid undone, robes loosened. And suddenly the mirth was gone—replaced by loneliness, grief, and all the heavy things Hogwarts walls had a way of amplifying.

Her hands trembled.

A single tear slipped down her cheek. Then another.

And Hermione Granger—brilliant, strong, terrifyingly controlled—sobbed into her hands, alone with the crushing ache of memory and longing, protected only by her careful wards that somehow, felt more like a cage instead of the safety that it was supposed to be.

Chapter Text

Ashes and Aegis

Act I: Sparks and Shadows

Chapter 4: Old Scars and New Walls

Never mind that Hermione had a little break-down from the past week, the next Monday opened up with another DADA-Potions class. As if to add insult to the injury she’d still been trying to heal, it was the first Gryffindor-Slytherin session since term started.

Once again, she got ready for the day whilst cursing the Wizengamot.

Hermione stepped into the classroom early, chalking out spell diagrams on the blackboard. She’d barely finished checking the cauldrons when Malfoy swept in with a rack of vials, robes crisp, expression unreadably neutral.

She did not turn, “I’m done with my prep.”

“Great.” Malfoy replied, tone quiet but cutting. “It’s bound to be a great session since we’re both so prepared.”

Hermione inhaled sharply, keeping her back to him as he slid in his seat. “Let’s try professionalism today. It’s early.”

“That’s usually when I’m at my best,” he said dryly.

She turned. His eyes flicked to her—then away just as fast. The tension between them felt unusually tight this morning, thin as parchment.

It was always this way with Malfoy in the short time she’d been in his presence. He would be aloof and quiet, sometimes supporting and dare she say it, charming—but his cold side still shone the brightest. However, it was only with her that he seemed so untouchable. Malfoy was not like this with the other professors. He was actually friendly with them—all of them except her, which grated her nerves in a way she didn’t think was possible. She did not desire his attention or friendship in any shape or form, but the small part of her that yearns to please everybody has been taking small beatings since meeting him again.

Hermione set her jaw. “Students will be brewing Volatile Mist Draughts which will disperse into an obscuring fog. My class will then counter with Mistura Expello for defensive visibility. Straightforward.”

“Your own spell? Have they mastered that? Perhaps we can have them brew a less potent potion instead to counter with a more defensive spell,” He retorted back, continuing, “Half of these students can barely brew cough tonics, there’s bound to be explosions.”

She didn’t know if he was belittling her own spell—one she’d created back in her Ministry days, looking for Magical creatures in the wild to take into protective custody—or her teaching methods. It angered her a little, that lack of trust in her or her students.

“Whilst we share this class, I do have their own separate classes in my DADA sessions. They’re capable and Mistura Expello isn’t flimsy.” She shrugged, trying to appear unbothered. “To ease your worries, I’ll take point on crowd control.”

“Wonderful.” His tone sharpened just slightly. “That’s what you do best. Contain disaster.”

Hermione stilled. Something in his voice wasn’t mocking—just tired. Something defensive curling inward.

She exhaled, “Malf—”

But the door opened, and the first pair of students filed in—Slytherin green, Gryffindor red. Both stiffened when they realized they’d be paired. Hermione stepped forward before he could say anything. “Welcome. Wands away until instructed. Cauldrons on the left, defensive partners on the right.”

Malfoy moved behind the demonstration table, uncorking vials. “If you value your eyebrows, follow instructions exactly.”

A Gryffindor boy muttered under his breath, “What, like your old ones?”

Hermione heard it. Malfoy heard it. The class turned still.

Malfoy didn’t react—not visibly, anyway. But something in his spine went rigid.

Hermione cut in sharply. “Ten points from Gryffindor. Apologize. Now.”

The boy reddened. “Sorry, sir.”

Malfoy ignored the boy, not acknowledging what just transpired. He didn’t look at her. “Let’s begin.”

The lesson launched into organized chaos.

Fog swelled from cauldrons, shimmering pockets of silver cloud that obscured vision and, in two cauldrons, erupted in harmless but dramatic poofs. Hermione walked around the students. “Wand stance steady—shoulders down—Mistura Expello on my mark—”

Malfoy was there instantly, wand raised. “Finite combustia—”

Before he could finish, Hermione stepped into the blast radius and cast a shield with a speed that startled even herself. “Aegis!”

The shattering cauldron ricocheted harmlessly off her barrier. Hermione lowered her wand. “All right. Who forgot the stabilizer?”

A Slytherin girl raised her hand sheepishly.

“Five points from Slytherin.” Malfoy exhaled through his nose. “Stabilizer is not optional unless you want to maim your classmates. Again.”

Hermione shot him a warning look. He ignored it. Malfoy, as it turned out, was clinical in his teaching methods but Hermione could admit, his no-nonsense behavior worked. When students didn’t get their potions right, he was there to correct and to ask them to try again until they got it right. Draco Malfoy was a perfectionist and he demanded it from his pupils as well.

Hermione leaned over to check the girl’s cauldron when Malfoy’s hand shot out—not touching her, but close enough to graze the sleeve of her robe as he pulled her sharply back.

“Careful,” he murmured.

Hermione blinked. “The steam isn’t corrosive—”

“The glass is,” he said. “Look.”

A shard lay exactly where her hand had been about to rest.

Hermione swallowed. “Oh.”

Their eyes met for one fraction of a second too long.

Something flickered there—worry immediately smothered beneath sarcasm. “I’d prefer not to have to explain to McGonagall how the Defense professor lost a finger,” He said flatly.

“Well,” Hermione murmured, pulse unsteady and heartbeat erratic, “we wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

Before he could respond, the classroom door banged open.

Flitwick’s squeaky voice carried over the fog.

“Professors! Apologies for the disturbance, Minerva requests a Professor Meeting! The reinstation of the inter-house dueling tournament is being requested by the Board of Governors.”

The students erupted into excited chatter.

Hermione straightened. “Class dismissed. Begin cleanup.”

“If anyone leaves potion residue on my tables, I will personally see that your cauldrons melt next lesson.” He gave a sharp glance to the students eager to get out of the room to, no doubt, gossip among themselves.

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Professor.”

“Fine. I will melt them politely.”

She had to bite back a laugh—unfortunately, he saw the twitch of her lips and closed off immediately, as though he’d revealed too much.

She turned toward the door before the moment grew noticeable to anyone else.

As they walked out together—parallel, untouching, but too aware of each other—Hermione felt the strange knot in her chest tighten.

The Inter-House Dueling Tournament meeting was short but tense and the preparation afterward even more so. Days (and nights) grew longer. Hermione cursed the Wizengamot even more. To her, the Tournament was just another excuse for them to claw their way into Hogwarts. And Minerva, bless her heart, fought tooth and nail. They’d relented to the Tournament, yes—but they drew the line at Public Viewing.

She truly owed her former Professor for that. Hermione’s haven was safe for now. While her friends knew of her plan to accept the DADA position, it was not announced to the greater Wizarding public. To her knowledge, the Prophet still has no clue where she’d gone since abruptly withdrawing from public scrutiny six months ago.

Tournament Prep however left her completely exhausted and anxious, so one weekend, Hermione decided to leave her quarters earlier than usual, hoping the quiet would settle her nerves. But the moment she turned the corner near the north stairwell, she froze.

There he was, that tiny blond boy wandered aimlessly down the corridor—two mismatched socks, hair sticking up in soft tufts, clutching a toy dragon by its wing. His eyes were glassy with sleep and confusion.

“Scorpius?” she said softly. While she didn’t have many interactions with Malfoy’s son, Scorpius left a lasting impression on her. Such innocence he radiated both drew her in and terrified her. The boy was just a stranger to her but she felt a pull to him like no other—like Scorpius was summoning her with an accio whenever their paths crossed.

He looked up at her, startled, then relaxed. “Professor Granger,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

She felt her chest tighten almost physically painful—warmth tangled with something else, something older, something hollow.

She knelt. “Where are you supposed to be, sweetheart?”

“…Breakfast,” he admitted. “I goed the wrong way.”

“That’s alright. Even adult wizards and witches get lost here.” She held out her hand instinctively. He took it, tiny fingers curling trustingly around hers.

She swallowed hard and forced her voice steady. “Come on, then. Let’s get you to the Staff Lounge.”

Scorpius walked beside her, silent but comfortable. Once, he bumped on her leg and giggled softly to himself. When they neared the stairway, Hermione leaned down to adjust his falling night-hat. The intimacy startled her—how natural it felt, how fiercely she wished it didn’t.

She did not hear Malfoy until he was nearly upon them.

“Scorpius—Salazar, there you ar—” He stopped dead, his eyes gazed from Hermione to his son. His face flashed with relief so sharp, it almost looked like panic. It lasted for only a few seconds before he smothered it. He then looked at their hands.

Hermione released Scorpius immediately. “I found him near the north corridor.” She kept her tone professional.

“Thank you.” He responded stiffly which made her feel defensive.

Scorpius tugged his father’s robes. “Father, Professor Granger showed me the way. She fixed my hat too.”

Malfoy’s jaw tightened further. Hermione felt heat rise to her cheeks—his discomfort ignited hers.

“You shouldn’t trouble Professor Granger,” Malfoy said more sharply than necessary.

Hermione bristled. “It wasn’t any trouble at all.”

He nodded—jerky, defensive. “Even so.”

Scorpius looked between them—his eyebrows scrunching in worry not befitting a child his age, sensing something adult and complicated. Hermione forced a gentle smile for him. It almost cracked her. They needed to remain civil, like they’d discuss the last time Scorpius saw them together—they were fighting. It would not do good for the child to see them bicker again.

Malfoy nodded tersely, then led his son away, hand on the boy’s shoulder—too protective. Hermione watched them go, her throat thick.

Hermione turned back around, intending to calm herself before she’d see anyone again. However, by the time she reached the staff room, Hermione still felt raw beneath the surface, almost everyone in present. Luna, Theo, Minerva, Flitwick. She only sighed in relief when she noted Malfoy was not present.

Luna perked up the moment Hermione entered. “Chamomile with moonflower. You look like you need it,” she said brightly.

“I do?”

“Yes,” Luna answered kindly, handing her a steaming cup. “I see traces of Nargle-fur on you—” She dusted Hermione’ shoulder. “—you already have Crumple-Horned Snorkacks lingering around, I don’t want the Nargles to bother you, too.”

“Thanks, Luna.” She smiled, taking the cup and sitting down beside her friend. Hermione was pretty sure Snorkacks and Nargles were not real but with her time in the DCMC widened her perspective when she saw a lot of magical creature species she’d thought were fictional. She’d never question Luna’s infamous creatures—no matter how silly they sound.

“Long morning?” Theo lounged on Luna’s other side, one brow raised. His tone a little too knowing for Hermione’s comfort.

Before she could answer him, Malfoy entered the room with Scorpius perched on his hip. The entire room visibly softened at the sight—everyone always softened around Scorpius.

Everyone except Draco, who stiffened when the boy shyly waved at Hermione. In stark contrast to his father, Scorpius greeted her so warmly it made her smile, “Hello again, Professor Granger!”

“Good morning, Scorpius.”

She almost rolled her eyes when Malfoy shifted the boy a little closer to his chest, instead, she just looked away quickly—it didn’t offend her. It didn’t hurt. It. Did. Not.

The Headmistress cleared her throat, sharp and intuitive eyes boring on the back of Hermione’s head. “We have a few incidents to review from the past few days.” Then she pointedly looked at the Potions Master.

He did not look at Hermione but she could feel his attention–still sharp and just as cutting. It broke through her barely controlled annoyance. Incidents, they said. Students were probably gossiping about how the Potions Master scolded her in her own subject or how they’d argue when the class was dismissed.

As Minerva continued talking to the other professors when both she and Malfoy blatantly ignored the elephant in the room, Scorpius pointed at his father’s sleeve. “Father, can Professor Granger sit next to us?”

Malfoy froze. Hermione’s breath caught.

“No,” Malfoy said quietly, “Professor Granger is busy.”

Hermione stared at her mug. She didn’t know why it stung. It shouldn’t have. Not even a little.

After the War, Minister Kingsley, on the account of her contributions to their victory—pushed for the Ministry to send specialized Healers from St. Mungo’s to Australia to try and repair what she’d obliviated. This was after she’d turned him down to take a post in the Ministry unlike Harry or Ron who’d immediately accepted their Auror Training. Hermione was grateful to Kingsley. Since he took action quickly after gaining his seat as the Head of the Ministry, the specialized Healers from St. Mungo’s managed to restore her parents’ memories but their trust and relationship with Hermione had fractured.

Still, it was still more than she’d ever hope for—so when the opportunity arrived, she decided to go to Australia to repair what she broke. That decision almost cost her friendship with Ron but Harry fully supported her. And so she went to Australia to grovel.

While she was there, slowly and painfully rebuilding her relationship with Drs. Jean and Harold Granger’s, she worked part-time for their small practice as their secretary. It bored her to the ends of earth. But she endured and it took time. Long days—littered with a lot of Magical Healing and Muggle therapy sessions, stretched to even longer, colder nights…but eventually, Jean was the first to break the ice.

“Are you just going to waste your time part-timing for us?” Jean casually asked her over dinner as she handed her the breadbasket and Hermione froze. “Weren’t you going to save the wolves or elves from discrimination and slavery?”

“I—” Hermione stopped, unsure—her heart beating painfully in her chest. She knew her mother. She did not just bring things up on a whim. This "small talk” was planned. A glance at her father confirmed it, Harold had always been the more relaxed out of them but he looked just as uptight as Jean. They’d decided on something. That frightened her.

“I thought I raised my daughter well enough not to be a quitter.” Jean’s voice was soft but firm.

“As your parents, we’re supporting you in whatever you want to do, Minnie.” Her father added, voice just as soft—a little more unsteady. “Do you honestly find it fulfilling to be here? Or are you just staying because of us?”

Hermione said nothing. She did find the work unsatisfying but knew in her heart that she would hate herself if she left them again for her own selfish reasons.

Jean slid her a pamphlet. “I’ve—” Her mother’s voice broke. “While I love that you are here spending time with us, it breaks my heart that you’re holding yourself back.” Taking Hermione’s hands, “We love you—staying in the past and being stuck would hurt us more. I’ve…I’ve been corresponding with that Kingsley fellow. He said he’d offer you a job but you declined.”

“Mum—”

“Hear us out, Minnie.” Harold reached out to her as well, squeezing her hands. “We’re not asking you to go back to the UK immediately. Take a look.”

On the table, she saw Kingsley’s official Ministry stamp on one of the letters and the open pamphlet read, “University of Melbourne" and another letter bearing the official logo of the Australian Ministry of Magic.

“Kingsley’s been kind enough to let us know some of you options. He’d reached out to us and then to the Australian Ministry of Magic.” Jean continued, her voice steady and determined. “They’d work out something, your Hogwarts NEWTS? They’d found a way for it to be recognized as Bachelors Degree in Psychology in the Muggle Scholastic records. You can continue your life.”

“I do want to…” Hermione refused to acknowledge the tears that Harold wiped off. “I just don’t know if I can go back to Britain without you…”

“Oh honey, we’re not asking you to.” Her father scooted closer to her. “Your mother and I… we’ve decided to go back with you to the UK. Well, you just have to give us at least a year or two to settle everything here and pack up. Which is why we were suggesting you study again. Here in Australia—before we move back home.”

Once they’d had that talk, she had pursued her Master’s Degree in Law, Ethics, and Public Policy in the University of Melbourne. And in 2001—she had published her dissertation in “The Anatomy of Prejudice: Legal Morality and the Failures of Justice in Post-Conflict Societies.” before moving on to her Independent Magical Research Fellowship for the Australian Ministry of Magic specializing in : Advanced Defence and Magical Law Integration before 2001 ended.

When they’d finally settled all loose ends in Australia, Murphy’s Law fucked her over again. Though her parents had forgiven and accepted her back, they were never fond of magical travel. Maybe it was penance, or the gods just screwing about—but the plane Jean and Harold boarded had crashed.

Hermione remembered the call: the official voice, calm but clipped, giving details she barely registered. The letter that followed bore both Muggle and magical seals, confirming what her mind refused to accept at first. She hadn’t been there. She hadn’t been able to say goodbye properly. The world had moved on while she stood frozen, clutching a scarf her mother had knitted for the flight.

The grief was quiet, lodged somewhere deep and private, surfacing in the smallest moments—a plane overhead, a postcard from a friend, even the faint smell of lavender on a warm day.

Shaking herself free of the memory, Hermione set her jaw and looked around the hallway.

The fire crackled—the smoke filling the room and her head with images of a burnt aircraft. The plane was recovered, somewhere in the Indian Ocean but no bodies were recovered. The smell was just her brain torturing itself again. Afterall, she’d buried empty caskets and not burnt bodies.

With a deep breath, she pushed the memory aside, straightened her robes, and reached for her wand, dispelling the rapidly growing fire in one non-verbal spell. She’d asked a student to take their Headmaster to Madam Pomfrey, Neville arrived quicker than her, he’d stopped the explosion by the Portrait but fell badly on his ankle. The had prefects herd out all students down to the Great Hall.

Hermione’s wards reacted to the shift in magic earlier—the magical disturbance coming from the corridor by the Gryffindor Common Room Portrait entrance. So, she’d sent out her patronus to inform the other professors as she headed to her old House. She knelt, lowering her wand to the scorch marks spiraling outward from a single point.

Conjured fire, misfired shield—it could be anything, but if it was unsanctioned spell-testing, Merlin and Godric help the students responsible for this. She’d only started having the older students read through the theory of casting basic fire-conjuring spells. And if this was one of her students, they’re in for a whole month’s worth of manual labor detention with Filch. Leaning closer, she saw the residue slimmer faintly—chaotic, unstable, young magic.

The sound of boots on stone echoed behind her, her shoulders tensed as she stood back up.

Of course. Malfoy.

He rounded the corner with all the elegance of a man who hated being rushed—wand in his hand, coat half buttoned and hair slightly mussed up, as though someone’s hands had been in it earlier. His appearance added to her growing discomfort.

“I got your patronus.” He said, tone clipped.

“I already have it covered.” Hermione replied, wand waving as she contained the area of interest.

“You’re welcome,” Malfoy muttered, as if she had thanked him.

Slowly dusting off her hands, she retorted back. “I didn’t thank you.”

“Good,” he snapped. “Wouldn’t want to confuse you.”

Hermione’s frustration bubbled up, she was already on the brink of Occluding but her patience was wearing thin. It was too much— not after Scorpius’ little hand around hers that morning, not after a memory of her parents attacking her out of the blue.

“Confuse me?” she said sharply. “About what, exactly?”

Malfoy's jaw tightened. “That you don’t have to fix everything alone. Apparently.”

The hallway seemed to shrink around them. The dying sparks on the floor hissed like punctuation. Hermione’s pulse stuttered, He didn’t get to say things like that—not in that tone, not after everything.

“You assume everything here is about you.” She said, voice frosty with anger.

Malfoy huffed out a humorless breath. “You’d be surprised what people still assume about me.” The bitterness in his voice drew her up short. It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t posturing.

It hurt.

Hermione stepped closer before she realized she had moved. The cold stone air hummed between them, the disturbance forgotten. “Malfoy—”

But his expression shuttered instantly. She’d seen doors close with more warmth. His gaze flicked—quick, involuntary—to the sleeve of her robes. Her robes from that morning, it still smelled faintly of peppermint, of Scorpius’ hug.

He looked away quickly, breath hitched. It was barely a tremor but she saw it anyway. There was a struggle in his expression that Hermione couldn’t name.

“Your technique for reading residue is sloppy.” He said, tone unusually tender. He raised his hand to perform his own spell, not dispelling hers but instead, complementing it.

Her technique wasn’t paltry. And he knew it.

Hermione swallowed, throat thick with reasons she didn’t want to inspect. “I—I’ll file a report,” she said, forcing her voice to stay steady.

“Of course you will.” His reply was sharp on the edges—but underneath was something else.

Not anger—it was not even disdain.

Something tired. Something like the memory of weariness. Something like longing pressed thin under years of discipline.

He nodded one and turned, cloak snapping behind him—heading back down the corridor before she could decipher the look she was sure he hadn’t meant to let slip.

Hermione took a breath, alone once again in the empty hallway. The fire put out and the floor scorched, ash decorating it like wild ivy. The disturbance had been contained.

But her heart was not.

A prank gone wrong—the students responsible, a couple of seventh-years were reprimanded, severe detentions served. And so life continued. With Neville being injured, Hermione was roped into being Gryffindor’s proxy dueling coach for the Inter-House tournament.

Hermione held practices in the afternoons—right after her joint lesson with DADA and Potions. She ran these sessions with professional precision, at least on the outside.

Inside, she still felt hollowed. But she was Hermione Jean Granger, so did what she did best—soldiered on.

“Let’s review the defensive stance—Rowan, elbows in—No, tighter—good.”

She moved between students, correcting technique, keeping her breathing steady. After a boy cast a Stunner too forcefully, Hermione lifted a shield charm—

And froze.

The sound—too close, too sharp—dragged a memory from somewhere deep and buried. Her heart lurched. For a split second she wasn’t in a classroom—she was somewhere darker, colder—

“Professor?” a girl whispered.

Hermione blinked hard. The room returned. Her students looked on, some in curiosity and some in confusion. She shook her head.

“Yes,” She said tightly, “continue practicing. Just a headache. I’m fine.”

A lie—it burnt her throat. She thought of dark manors with falling ceilings, of damp and cold tents in forests. Hermione thought of the dimly lit airport offices, of private and somber Doctor’s offices.

Finally, she thought of curious grey-eyes, of the boy’s small hand in hers. Hermione thought of how easily that softness had undone her walls.

She thought of how it terrified her.

Hermione dismissed practice—once the Gryffindors were off, she started her way back to her quarters and climbed towards the stairs, battle-tired and weary. Halfway through, she sat on the moving staircase, needing just a moment—to breathe.

She’d barely closed her eyes when Theodore dropped into the seat—step beside her, seemingly out of nowhere. His elbows rested on his knees, eyes looking at her knowingly, “You look like you’re running yourself into the ground.” He said lightly.

“I’m fine.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a terrible liar?”

Hermione let out a humorless sigh. “Did you need anything, Theodore?”

“Theo.”

“Huh?”

“Just call me Theo.” He shrugged. “And no, I don’t need anything.” He looked at her as if he was studying one of his complex arithmancy equations. “But I think you do.”

She stared ahead, jaw tight. Maybe it was because Theodore looked a little like Harry—with his unruly hair and kind eyes, or maybe it was really just fatigue but Hermione heard herself admit, “I saw Scorpius this morning. He’s adorable and all but... he reminds me of things.”

Theo nodded slowly. “He’s a good kid.”

Hermione swallowed hard, unable to speak.

Theo continued, softly, “Draco’s trying. That’s all. He’s learning how to be… human again.”

And? She wanted to ask. What right did he have to be an ass to her—she didn’t pose a threat to Malfoy’s son. Instead, she replied tersely, “I don’t care about Draco Malfoy’s journey to humanity.”

Theo’s smile was small but sad. “Maybe not. But you care about the boy.” Theo patter her back comfortingly. “It’s not easy to not love Scorp.”

Hermione didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

The days continue in the same, exhausting routine. She held her DADA classes and joint classes, and mentored the Gryffindors for the tournament. With her schedule packed, Hermione often returned to her quarters late. As she rubbed her throbbing temples, walking through the dim corridors felt more like an annoying task. If only they could apparated within Castle grounds, she would’ve done so long ago. Instead, she trudged forward.

Malfoy appeared ahead, pacing sharply, tension radiating off him.

She halted, despite herself. Hermione was not someone to ignore a person clearly in distress. Even if the wizard was the most annoying prick she’d had the misfortune to meet, “Is everything alright?”

He startled at her voice, then exhaled. “A student stole Scorpius’s toy dragon. I’ve been… dealing with it.”

Her guards down, she blinked. “Is Scorpius alright?”

Malfoy froze, grey eyes boring into hers. That question—spontaneous, gentle, genuine—hit him with visible force. His face shifted, something fragile surfacing that he was unable to crush down.

“You don’t have to worry about my son,” he said, soft and sharp—a contrast as always, just like him.

Hermione felt her cheeks redden as she recoiled. “Good. I wasn’t.”

She winced.

A lie.

And they both heard it. Silence stretched, thick as the fog in the Forbidden Forrest—oppressive, daunting.

Malfoy sighed, then lowered his gaze. His voice softened—barely. “Thank you. For that morning.”

It shouldn’t have felt like a confession.

She inhaled sharply, audibly. And that broke the calm. In an instant, he clammed up again—and before anything else could shift, he shut himself down again, spine straightening, mask returning.

“Goodnight, Professor Granger.”

Curt. Professional. But Hermione felt the lack of actual disdain or malice.

He turned and walked away, footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Hermione stood in the dim light long after Malfoy was gone.

And with considerable effort, every wall she’d ever built rose quietly back into place—

higher, heavier, colder—

because she needed them now

more than ever.

Chapter Text

Ashes and Aegis

Act I: Sparks and Shadows

Chapter 5: The Weasley Question

Hermione returned to her quarters that evening—Malfoy’s voice still in her mind. The way he bid her good night stirred up an old memory of their eight year. Odd, she barely remembered her last year as a Hogwarts student but she could faintly recall almost always seeing Malfoy at the Library. They never spoke, of course. But he was always, quiet and—dare she admit it, almost two decades later, a comforting presence in the dark room. It made her stomach flutter, unnerved—Hermione trudged down the silent corridors, her footsteps echoing softly against the stone.

She was barely in the DADA classroom when a soft flutter behind her caught her attention. A small, tawny owl flew at her and perched on her shoulder. It blinked at her expectantly. Hermione adjusted her bag and looked around for owl treats, curious—despite herself. The only people she knew who’d know to send her letters in Hogwarts were Harry and Ginny. Or George. Or Charlie.

Once she’d given the owl some biscuits she had left-over from lunch, it dropped a rolled parchment tied with a crimson ribbon in her hands. It bobbed its head once and then flew away.

She immediately recognized the familiar handwriting. Her chest tightened—a mix of dread and anger burst through her.

Ron.

Untying the ribbon, she unrolled the parchment and read,

 “Hermione,” it began, “I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, and maybe you’ve moved on entirely—but I can’t not reach out. I had been looking everywhere for you, and now I’ve heard you’re at Hogwarts. I don’t know if I’m asking for anything, not forgiveness or understanding, just… acknowledgment. I hope you’re managing. And I hope, somewhere, you’re not shutting us all out completely.”

Her fingers trembled slightly, and she paused, staring at the words. Memories she had long tried to compartmentalize pressed forward uninvited. He’d ended the letter with his new address—she choked on her disbelief.

Occluding, Hermione folded the letter back slowly, her mind momentarily lost in the past and the lingering tension of it all. A faint cough made her start, and she realized three things. One, Malfoy was now standing by the hallway, stormy gray eyes boring onto her, expression carefully neutral. Two, she was still by the classroom door—trembling with quiet fury and resentment. And three, he broke through her occlusion.

Hermione gasped, the pitiful sound piercing the standoff they had. She saw it then, concern in his eyes. However brief it was.

 “Profe—” Malfoy paused, hesitating. “Granger, are you—”

 “I’m fine.” Hermione hated that her voice trembled, she should be better than this, no breaking down in public. “I’m fine.” She turned away from him, desperate to regain composure—to be alone, just as she’d been used to.

As she felt her emotions shift wildly from anger to embarrassment to searing pain, Hermione felt her eyes grow hotter than her face. Not now! Not now! Not in front of Malfoy—

 “Then—” He turned, actually listening to her silent plea, “Have pleasant dreams, Granger.” His voice sounded like honeyed silk in the dark.

She blinked, momentarily blind-sided by how docile and cooperative he was being. Then she felt the tell-tale sign that someone cast a spell.

Hermione—Brightest Witch of her Age, DADA Master, yada, yada— had developed an uncanny ability to sense whenever other people used magic around her. Pretty handy for someone who’d run away from snatchers and went on wild goose-chases for errant magical creatures. She never thought it would be a useful quirk to have as a Professor. She’d feel whenever her students would cast spells and in times, Hermione would be able to predict and counter potentially disastrous spell work. Curiously, it appeared her 6th sense worked on Malfoy as well.

Working closely with the Potions Master, she’d unwillingly become familiar to his…tells. Just like the man himself, Malfoy’s magic felt—curt, reserved. Complicated.

The spell he’d cast started as an unnerving cooling sensation from her arms that travelled to her chest, getting warmer and warmer—reminding her of comforting afternoons spent reading old tomes in the Library. Faintly, she thought she’d smell spearmint, too. Too distracted by the unusual familiarity of it all, Hermione did not have time to ponder how spell he’d cast to make her feel so…calm as she stared at his retreating back.

As Hermione slumped by the door, she’d seen him glance back at her—grey eyes appearing more silver in the moonlit sky.

She’d never known that silver was such a warm color.

Not until that night.

By the time Hermione arrived in the DADA-Potions classroom, the filtered sunlight had already started to slant through the tall windows, casting ominous shadows across the students’ tables. The students filtered in, their energetic chatter about that evening’s First Joint House Dueling Competition practice. Hermione paid them no mind, her focus was elsewhere—still replaying last night’s events and recalling Ronald’s audacious letter.

She set her bag down with a little more force than intended, catching Malfoy’s attention immediately.

 “Didn’t get a good night’s sleep?” He asked, voice low, cutting through the ambient noise of the classroom. It wasn’t exactly a question even though it was phrased as one. Hermione got the feeling that he actually expected her to have had a restful sleep the night before. His tone carried the weight of notice—the kind that only someone who knew her well enough to read subtle shifts could manage.

That bothered her, heat pooling in her belly. Malfoy was someone who should not be used to her mood shifts. He was not supposed to sound…concerned.

Straightening her robes, she cleared her throat, “Just as well as I could. I’m just reviewing today’s lesson plan.” Hermione kept her voice even, hiding her hands under the table—trying to keep the tremor from his sight.

His eyes followed her carefully, assessing. “Lesson plan,” Malfoy repeated, flat and precise—a note of skepticism in his tone. “Right.”

She shot him a sidelong glance, just a fraction of defiance flaring within her. Hermione did not have it in her that morning to quarrel. “Everything is under control, I’ve got it.” she answered quietly, “As always.”

Malfoy’s gaze did not waver, not for a second. In fact, it intensified. As if he was studying a NEWT-level Potions exam instead of asking for her welfare. It lit a Hermione decided to meet his gaze back.

There was a moment of stillness—both of them aware, unspoken, of the tension hovering like a charged wire between them. He finally inclined his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, and moved toward the demonstration table.

Hermione forced herself to focus on the students. Half of the class, still brewing Volatile Mist Draughts while the other half practicing chanting counter-spells. She roamed around the room instructing pupils with her wand stuck in her hair to keep it from exploding wildly—and reminded herself to breathe. And yet, she could feel him there, a shadow just behind her awareness—watching, not saying anything. Maybe he was noticing the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her hands lingered too long over a vial, the way her eyes darted as if seeking escape from memories she hadn’t fully buried.

 “Granger,” Malfoy’s voice soft just behind her—he was standing much too close, she could almost feel the silhouette of his robes on her back. His tone was almost too casual for their proximity. “Some of the reds are having trouble with their wand work. Ensure they keep their wands steady…” His voice trailed off, a subtle reminder, layered with caution and attention.

Hermione nodded sharply, “I’ve got it covered.” She replied as she moved away from him, pulling her wand from her hair—moving to intervene at one of the Gryffindor students’ table.

As she guided the student’s hand through the proper wand stance, she caught Malfoy shift in the corner of her eye: He was standing perfectly still, arms crossed, observing—not the students, but her. There was no mockery, no arrogance or even challenge, just…. scrutiny. It unnerved her more than she cared to admit.

Her pulse picked up. Feeling flushed, Hermione forced herself to calm down and resisted the urge to turn back to Malfoy—to…what? Ask him why he’s watching her so intently? Was it because he saw her almost break down over a fucking letter? Instead, she complimented students and ignored Malfoy and his charged gaze.

Her mind working overtime to refuse to wander about Malfoy’s behavior or Ron or the letter itself. She couldn’t afford to be distracted. Not with Malfoy here—not with every glance felt like a mirror reflecting what she refused to confront.

The lesson continued in tense silence punctuated only by the occasional direction or correction. Hermione’s heart hammered in ways the students couldn’t see, every small movement of Malfoy’s hand, every tilt of his head, every subtle exhale, telling her he knew she was still preoccupied. And the more she tried to maintain control, the tighter the knot in her chest became.

By the time they were halfway through the session, Hermione had found herself standing much closer to the Professor’s Table than she had intended—the letter still boring a hole in her mind. She met his gaze for just a second longer than necessary before she looked away.

She felt the weight of the unspoken linger—acknowledgement, concern…and something she couldn’t name threading between them. She cleared her throat, lifting her wand to signal the next round. Malfoy’s eyes never left her as he stepped back, allowing her the stage—yet the tension remained, heavy and unbroken.

Hermione inhaled, steadying herself. Focus. You can handle this.

The classroom fog swirled thickly as Hermione continued to move between students, correcting stances and checking wand alignment. The Volatile Mist Draughts shimmered, curling upward in silvered clouds that obscured vision just enough to make precise movement essential.

But as the students began the next exercise under her careful instructions, she could still feel his gaze—constantly following her, its intensity something she couldn’t shake off.

Then it happened.

A Slytherin girl misjudged the heat of her cauldron. The Mist Draught erupted with a violent hiss, smoke spilling faster than Hermione could calculate. She pivoted instantly, wand up, a shield charm ready, but the blast shifted unexpectedly, ricocheting off another cauldron and heading straight for the demonstration table—where Malfoy was then adjusting vials.

Hermione didn’t hesitate.

 “Aegis!” she barked, stepping forward, wand sweeping in a precise arc. The blast struck the shield with a thunderous crack, sending smoke and sparks swirling around her.

Malfoy reacted at the same moment, moving to flank her, wand out—but the confined space forced them almost shoulder to shoulder. His arm brushed hers as he adjusted his stance, close enough for the heat of his body to press against hers. Neither of them flinched—the moment passed, but the proximity left a charged echo between them.

 “Careful,” Malfoy muttered, just loud enough for her to hear, eyes locked on the rearing cauldron.

Hermione’s jaw tightened, pulse hammering—but her voice remained steady, clipped. “I’ve got it,” she said, adjusting her wand. With a flick and a practiced incantation, the threatening cauldron stabilized, the mist curling safely into harmless swirls.

The students froze, wide-eyed, as the air cleared. Hermione’s shield charm still shimmered faintly, warding the remaining sparks. Malfoy’s arm lingered an inch from hers, as if unconscious of their closeness, but the air was charged. He said nothing further, letting her take the lead. Hermione lowered her wand deliberately, stepping slightly away, chest rising steadily. She had handled the chaos. Entirely.

 “Impressive,” he said finally, voice low—private. The single word carrying weight beyond mere observation of skill. His grey eyes met hers, and for a heartbeat, the students might as well not have been there.

Hermione looked away. She turned to the students, giving them a precise directive: “Back to your stations. Focus. Mistura Expello on my mark—steady hands, wands at the ready.”

Heartbeat unsteady, she continued on—doing what she’d always done best. Compartmentalize.

After particularly charged classes and Tournament practice sessions with Neville’s lions, Hermione was eager to rest or at least, take a small respite. Even if it was just a late lunch at the staff lounge. She had thanked Mibbin when she’d given her chamomile and lavender tea.

Thankfully, the room was as peaceful as it could be, the low hum of the fireplace the only sound as Hermione sipped her tea. Malfoy was there, perched at the far end of the table, reading through some parchment with the faintest crease of concentration between his brows. Luna fussed over some small, impossible creature she insisted needed tending in the corner, and Theo was nowhere in sight. Minerva had stepped away to deal with an urgent Owl delivery.

Hermione’s owl, the one that had been with her since her Ministry days, landed with a soft thump beside her cup, holding a small, tightly folded parcel. She frowned, tugging at the string gently, noting the familiar handwriting—Molly. She’d expected it. After Ronald, his mother was next to reach out.

She hesitated, feeling the weight in her chest before the paper was fully unfolded. The contents fell into her lap—a miniature knitted sweater, soft and red, almost unbearably delicate.

Hermione’s fingers froze over it, her throat tightening painfully. She knew immediately that Molly meant no harm. That it was meant to comfort, meant to remind her of hope—but all it did was press open a wound she had carefully closed over months of silent mourning.

The room seemed to tilt, the light suddenly too harsh. She could feel Malfoy’s gaze from across the table, faintly curious, but he did not speak. She barely registered Minerva returning, notebook in hand, and a puzzled glance from Luna at the unusual hush falling over her.

Hermione swallowed hard, her hands shaking slightly as she pushed the sweater back into the tiny box. Her chest felt too tight to breathe fully. Without a word, she pushed back from the table.

 “Professor Granger?” Minerva’s voice was careful, gentle, noticing her sudden movement.

 “I… I need some air,” Hermione said, voice barely above a whisper. She turned sharply and bolted from the lounge.

She heard someone moved to follow—probably Luna, but as Minerva’s voice rang out, “She needs to be alone, Professor Malfoy.” Hermione could only be grateful to her superior.

She didn’t look back. The corridor stretched endlessly before her, quiet except for her hurried steps echoing against the stone.

Tears pricked at her eyes—sharp, unbidden—but she did not let them fall, not yet. She found a small alcove near the north tower, hidden from all passing students and staff. Kneeling there, she allowed herself a single, shuddering breath.

Her grief was private, raw, unshared. No one could know—not Malfoy, not Luna, or Theo. Only Minerva understood.

And in the echoing silence of the alcove, Hermione let herself feel it fully—the loss, the absence, the sharp ache that not even time or distance could dull.

The door creaked quietly in the distance. She stiffened. But it was empty. Only the stone and the shadows witnessed her pain.

Clutching at the package, she let herself collapse inward, alone with her sorrow.

The corridors had long since emptied by the time Hermione left the alcove. The castle felt colder than before, or maybe she simply felt more exposed.

Her hair had fallen loose around her, a soft curtain that hid the worst of her expression. She kept her gaze trained on the floor, breathing measured and slow—just enough control to pass for composed. She'd scrubbed the tear-stains from her face with the edge of her sleeve until only the faint sting beneath her eyes remained. With luck, no one would look too long.

She didn’t hear footsteps—only the subtlest shift in the air, a disturbance she recognized without seeing. She almost flinched when Malfoy’s voice cut through the quiet.

 “You missed the staff briefing.”

His tone was low, practiced into neutrality. It allowed her the illusion—however thin—that he wasn’t taking stock of her blotchy eyes, her drained posture, the way she seemed one breath away from unraveling.

Hermione swallowed. “I needed… air.”

Malfoy said nothing to that. No judgment. No probing. His silence wrapped around the space between them, strangely steadying.

He moved to walk beside her, but a half-step behind—as if letting her set the pace… or giving her room to retreat if she needed it. Close enough to intervene. Far enough to be professional. It shouldn’t have made her heart push against her ribs, but it did.

 “McGonagall asked me to inform you,” Malfoy continued, tone still maddeningly even, “that the Governors arrive at dawn.”

She inhaled, sharp and shallow. “Of course they do.”

 “And to inspect your curriculum.” A pause. “Ours, technically.”

Her stomach twisted. She wasn’t ready. Not remotely. Not with Ron’s words still clawing under her skin—not with Molly’s tiny knitted ghost tearing open a wound she couldn’t survive revisiting.

She forced her voice steady. “I’ll prepare.”

 “I know,” he said simply. No doubt. No hesitation. Just quiet confidence she didn’t feel she deserved.

They reached the junction that would split them—his path down to the dungeons, hers up to her quarters. Hermione slowed. Something about the empty corridor, the dim torchlight, the echo of her own breathing felt too fragile to disturb.

Malfoy noticed.

 “Granger.”

He didn’t touch her—he never did. But the way he said her name made something inside her pull taut. Careful. Deliberate. Almost gentle.

 “You’ll want to sleep,” he said, voice unusually tender. “The students begin the preliminary bouts right after breakfast. It’s going to be… loud.”

Hermione let out a breath—something between a huff and a laugh. “Luna said they’ve been practicing cheering charms.” Her voice was thin but wry. “She said the lions have been practicing ‘vibrational victory chants’ for the tournament.”

The corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitched. Barely there. But real.

 “She would call it that,” he said softly.

Silence settled again—thicker now, but not uncomfortable.

Hermione shifted her weight, suddenly aware of the cold biting through her shoes and the inexplicable warmth blooming stubbornly in her chest. “Good night, Malfoy.” She inhaled deeply, spearmint, again.

He inclined his head—not the sharp, aristocratic tilt she remembered, but something gentler. Respectful. Familiar.

 “Good night, Granger.”

She turned toward the stairs, telling herself not to look back.

She failed.

Malfoy was still there.

Hands in his pockets. Shoulders tense in the faint torchlight. Watching her with a look he tried very hard to disguise as mere vigilance. As soon as their eyes met, he looked away and headed toward the dungeons, steps brisk, retreating into shadow.

Hermione exhaled shakily.

Tomorrow would bring the Governors.
Tomorrow would bring the tournament.
Tomorrow would bring noise, scrutiny, eyes she didn’t want on her.

But as she reached her quarters and closed the door behind her, something flickered inside her chest. Small. Fragile. But undeniably alive.

Resolve.
Not the loud, triumphant kind she’d taught herself to wear like armor.

This was quieter.
Threadbare.
Stubborn.
Hers.

She wasn’t ready. She might not be ready for a long time. But tomorrow, she would stand in that arena anyway.

Chapter Text

Ashes and Aegis

Act I: Sparks and Shadows

Chapter 6: The Child in the Corridor

Hermione was no stranger to nightmares. In fact, they’d shape the most of her life. First as a child soldier battling a war against a maniacal bigot and his merry band of equally racist lap-dogs, then as a grieving orphan…and most recently, as a woman who had lost her stillborn child.

Which is why, it came as a surprise that she woke up with none. No damp tents or running through the woods, no sunken airplanes—no cold and barren baby nurseries.

Yet her wards hummed wildly the moment she rejoined the land of the living.

Outsiders.

Gently, she rose from bed and started to prepare for the day. Hermione dressed with deliberate defiance. Denim jeans, black turtleneck tank and a Gryffindor ruby-red cardigan. Trusty white sneakers. Perfect for running and kicking threats away.

Wearing muggle clothes made Hermione feel anchored—ready to take on the day.

Smiling to herself, Hermione tied her hair in a high pony and then slipped on her usually hidden assortment of earrings she owned. With her mane out of the way, golden hoops and studs glittered proudly—her own subtle armor to complete the look.

Muggles coped with alcohol and Wizards do it with potions. Some inked tattoos or sigils into their skin.

Hermione pierced holes in her ears the muggle way—each one a reminder that her body still belonged to her. Pain and control, wrapped neatly together. Her muggle therapist understood better than any Mind Healer ever had.

And they looked good. That helped.

She left her quarters and was double-checking her wards when the familiar sound CRACK! of apparition startled her.

Mibbin appeared by her elbow in a pretty, yellow sundress.

 “Good morning Miss Professor Hermione, miss!” The elf chirped, looking a bit frazzled. “The Headmistress asks Mibbin to take you to her office."

Her pulse quickened as she took the elf’s hand, Hermione closed her eyes and steeled herself.

They reappeared in the Headmistress’ office. And as she opened her eyes, she saw that most of the Professors were present as well. Malfoy, Luna, Theo. Flitwick and Sprout.

 “The Governors,” Minerva said, without preamble. “arrived earlier than what was agreed upon. And they’ve brought Prophet reporters.”

Hermione froze.

 “They’ve made it clear as well that they’re requesting a word with Professor Granger as the newest DADA instructor.”

Of all the things she wanted this morning, media attention was at the bottom of her list. Minerva’s apologetic glance her way confirmed it—there was no escaping this time.

Luna, bless her heart, took her trembling hands. Grounding her with steadfast comfort. At the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Theo subtly put his arm around Malfoy.

And then, she noticed him.

Seething.

Actually also shaking with barely-contained anger.

 “Ridiculous. Coming here of all places.” She heard Malfoy mutter under his breath. His lips in a sneer, marred with disgust.

Hermione blinked, her panic momentarily pushed aside. Why was he reacting like that?

As Minerva laid out logistics, Hermione’s mind drifted unwillingly to the Board of Governors. If memory serves her right, then Lucius Malfoy was still a member—politics had kept him out of Azkaban longer than she thought fair.

She shouldn’t be bothered why Draco Malfoy’s reaction to possibly seeing his father was something closer to disdain rather than joy. It painted a complete opposite picture of the proud Slytherin boy who worshiped his father before.

Her gaze lingered too long.

His eyes caught hers.

And for a moment, Hermione felt her face flush—heat climbing from her neck to her cheeks, feeling juvenile in her embarrassment.

But then Malfoy…smirked. Then mouthed one word silently:

 “Picture.”

The Great Hall transformed as the long tables vanished. In their place stretched an enormous dueling platform encircled by shimmering wards and floating score counters. Students flocked to the stands. Some cheering, some gossiping. Excitable, young, energy from her students kept Hermione from bolting. The Governors sat by Professors’ table with the Headmistress, Flitwick, Sprout and Pomfrey.

As discussed, the younger of the Professors have been tasked with overseeing the Tournament. Theo and Luna stood on her right while Malfoy was on her left.

Hermione swallowed, tugging her cardigan nervously. Her face set in stone, it was the only tell she’s bothered by the Prophet reporter lingering behind them.

Hermione scanned her roster. “First official duel—Elliot Wood from Gryffindor against Maribelle Cresswell, Slytherin.” she announced, amplifying her voice with Sonorus.

Theo whistled low. “Bold choice starting with the kids who have been trying to hex each other during breakfast.”

Luna hummed dreamily, “I do hope they don’t summon a Ring-Legged Vapour Sprite again. The last one nearly ate the punch bowl.” Her eyes sharp, glancing about the room.

Malfoy huffed. “I am not cleaning up anything today. Least of all some sprites.” He glanced at Hermione, lowering his voice. “Keep your wand up. If Wood panics, he swings wild.”

Hermione arched a brow. “I taught half his counter-charms. He’ll be fine.”

His lips twitched—something between a smirk and something far gentler. “It’s not his abilities I’m worried about.”

Before she could defend Wood, the duel began. The boy struck first—too fast, too sloppy. Hermione had barely inhaled before Malfoy murmured, “There,” and flicked a stabilizing barrier in front of Maribelle, invisible to all but her trained eyes.

She shot him a narrow look. “You’re interfering.”

 “I’m preventing a hospital visit,” he murmured back.

Maribelle recovered quickly, her spell looping elegant silver arcs—Hermione felt a swell of pride. With a clean, sweeping “Expulso Aeria!” she disarmed Wood, his wand skittering across the platform.

The Gryffindors groaned as the Slytherins cheered. Hermione raised her hand, “Winner: Maribelle Cresswell!”

A quill scribbled rapidly nearby. Hermione stiffened—the Prophet reporter, James Flint, had wormed his way closer, scribbling even faster as his eyes went back and forth between her and Malfoy and then to Luna and Theo. Obviously and might possibly forming stupid assumptions about the four of them with far too much imagination.

Theo muttered under his breath, “Circling like a dung-beetle around an unattended truffle tart.”

Luna nodded serenely. “Dung-beetles do prefer shiny things, and Hermione has been very shiny lately.”

Hermione sighed, choosing to ignore it all. “Eugene Fortescue versus Wilhelmina Abbott.” She called out. Two Hufflepuffs in their third year. Both good-natured, nervous, twitchy.

She stepped forward to explain the rules but Malfoy brushed past her. His arm—of all the days to leave out his robes, he just had to show off his toned arms!—grazed hers, spreading a curious warmth in her. Hermione blinked, what toned arms?

He addressed the students in a smooth, clipped tone: “No explosions above waist level, no curses below the belt, and if you plan on fainting, warn someone.”

As the both of them stepped back to their places, Hermione lifted an eyebrow. “Below the belt?” She did not have enough interaction with the two students to know their tells yet.

 “Trust me,” Malfoy said dryly. “Hufflepuffs get creative.”

Luna added dreamily, “Especially when they’re frightened. They panic sideways.”

The duel started—and it was surprisingly good. Eugene cast a precise “Glacius!” that iced the tiles. Wilhelmina dodged, landed cleanly, and returned fire with a “Confringo!” that yanked Eugene off his feet.

Hermione flicked her wand, cushioning his fall before he cracked his skull with a non-verbal spell.

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “Too soft,” he murmured, “that was not going to injure him, you know?”

Hermione resisted the urge to elbow him.

Barely.

Wilhelmina won with quick thinking and a neat disarm. The Hufflepuffs roared.

Flint leaned over to Luna. “Professor Lovegood, care to comment on the Hogwarts staff’s… coordination?”

Luna just smiled at him. “The staff—” She looked at Hermione and Malfoy, “have excellent skills. But there are Nargles everywhere and Hesitails.”

Theo barked out laughter as the Prophet reporter blinked back stupidly.

Hermione didn’t know what the fuck was a Hesitail but she found herself grateful to her friend. By her side, Malfoy was looking too amused for his own good.

And the matches continued. Two Ravenclaws were next. True to their house, the match was as flashy and ambitious but strategically executed.

Hermione winced when one conjured a flock of angry paper cranes that dive-bombed the other.

 “Creative,” Draco drawled.

 “Unstable,” Hermione countered.

 “Ravenclaws,” Theo muttered. “They’d set themselves on fire for extra credit.”

Luna tilted her head. “Only on Tuesdays.”

Hermione snorted. Loud enough that Flint turned to her once again. Malfoy stepped subtly in front of her—addressing and reprimanding the duelists to keep their spells to non-fatal ones but his back blocked the reporter’s view.

She glanced at Theo who was watching his mate silently with a curious expression on his face and when Hermione caught his eye, there was a knowing glint in his.

Malfoy’s actions, no matter how confusing they were, made her stomach flip.

It wasn’t obvious protection.

But it was protection.

And she did not know what to make of it, so she put it on the back of her mind. The fourth duel was featured fraternal twins from Gryffindor—Troy and Tempest Warrington, who reminded her faintly of the Patil twins, quiet in their own way.

Suddenly—BOOM!

Confetti exploded across the Hall.

Hermione groaned. “Patil twins, my ass. These two are more like Fred and George.”

 “Gryffindors.” Malfoy said, lips almost curling into a smile. “You should know.”

She caught herself from smiling because that tone felt a little too teasing, playful. Before she could retort however, Flint inched closer again, addressing her directly.

 “Professor Granger!” His raised quill raised like a weapon, a floating camera behind him. Lens adjusting, she braced herself.

As the camera flashed, Theo stepped right beside her with Luna in tow, effectively blocking a photo of her face from being published in the Prophet’s morning issue.

Hermione shot the reporter a venomous look of her own as Malfoy stood tall behind her, grey eyes glinting darkly at Flint.

The reporter swallowed.

 “Professor Granger,” he tried again, voice suddenly shaky, “a comment on—”

 “You’re interrupting the duel,” Malfoy drawled lazily. “Bad timing. Bad manners.”

Theo held out his wand, sending a cushioning charm towards the dueling students, but did not put it back to its holster. Luna smiled sweetly. The reporter paled.

Hermione said nothing.

She didn’t have to.

While overseeing the duels were something quite enjoyable, Hermione was thankful for a quick respite. As they paused for lunch, she—along with her colleagues, promptly made quick exits towards the Staff Lounge before Flint could even start his request for a quick interview.

He still tried.

 “Hermione… Professor Granger! A few words on your disa—”

Theo casually past by him, intentionally colliding shoulders with the man, “Oh no, look at that! I didn’t see you there…in fact I can’t hear you, tragic!”

Luna didn’t even break her stride as she dragged Hermione with her. “He really should hydrate,” she said lightly. “Reporters lose moisture faster when they’re desperate.”

Malfoy on the other hand, didn’t bother with subtlety. As they stepped inside the Staff Lounge, he flicked a lazy wandless charm behind him. While the door slammed shut with such decisive finality, the Headmistress shot him a warning glare but said nothing as she effectively held back the Governors with the House Heads.

Hermione pressed her back to the door, exhaling shakily. The tension in her shoulders slowly unwound.

 “Is it always this exhausting?” she muttered.

Theo collapsed dramatically beside her. “Only when governors wish to play ‘Who can piss the farthest from his house’ and reporters smell coin.”

Luna drifted toward the tea service. “Or when Wrackspurts sense emotional turbulence.” She turned toward Hermione, soft-eyed. “You’re buzzing with it today.”

Hermione tried to chuckle but it came out thin. “Luna, everything sets off Wrackspurts.”

 “Not like this,” Luna said simply.

Hermione looked away, busying herself with pouring tea she didn’t actually want.

Malfoy leaned against the long table beside her, arms crossed, posture casual. His voice dropped low enough that only she would hear.

 “You’re shaking.”

 “No,” she lied automatically.

His eyes flicked to her hands around the teacup. Steady, but only because she was gripping it hard enough to crack the porcelain.

He didn’t call her out on it.

 “You should eat.” Malfoy nodded to the stack of wrapped sandwiches. “You’ll need your strength for the afternoon matches lest you faint. And Flint’s bound to be even more unbearable after lunch.”

For a moment, Hermione forgot how to breathe. She’d gotten so used to taking care of others that when someone took care of her, it spun her out of loop. Merlin knows, Ronald never did…

She swallowed tightly. “You know I’m not that fragile, right?”

He didn’t smirk this time. “I’m aware.”

Before she could respond—thank Godric, Rowena, Helga and Merlin—Theo cleared his throat loudly.

 “So.” He pointed at the door. “If we stay in here for the next forty minutes… do we think Flint will starve outside or multiply?”

 “Multiply,” Luna said without hesitation.

 “Brilliant,” Theo groaned.

Hermione hid her smile by taking a small bite of the sandwich. Warmth spreading through her chest from the small and frankly quite odd bubble of safety she found herself in.

The afternoon matches began with a tall Gryffindor girl with a fierce ponytail and a Hufflepuff boy who looked far too gentle to be holding a wand. Hermione had taught them both. She knew the girl had raw aggression and the boy had startling stamina.

A dangerous combination.

 “Begin!” Malfoy barked at them.

The Gryffindor launched forward almost immediately, her Shield Charms slamming into place as she lobbed three rapid Stunning Spells. The Hufflepuff countered with a tidal wave of defensive magic—golden barriers blooming like petals.

Hermione heard Flitwick chuckle from behind them. “Excellent form! Mr. Abbott has been practicing.”

Sprout sniffed, pleased. “Hufflepuffs can be quite formidable when underestimated.”

Flint, apparently recovering his courage, slunk closer again. This time however, he chose to address the older Professors.

 “Professors,” he said, quill poised, “what can you say about Professor Granger’s mental state given her… troubled history?” Flint had the audacity to flash her a smile. “And can you comment on the reason why she has been evading the public by hiding here in Hogwarts?”

Hermione tensed, spine straightening. Before she could respond, Sprout turned with the kind of smile that terrified grown Death Eaters.

 “Her what, dear?”

Flitwick turned to the reporter, wand raised to his chin. “I believe what our colleague means to ask is: how dare you?”

The reporter blinked. “I—I’m simply—”

 “—overstepping entirely,” Flitwick finished, his voice suddenly razor-sharp. “And disrupting the competition.”

Sprout stepped forward. “You are not to speak of any professor’s personal history on school grounds. This tournament is for the children. If you can’t respect that, you will wait outside.”

The reporter opened his mouth.

Professor McGonagall’s voice sliced through the air from across the hall:

 “Is there a problem?”

The reporter closed his mouth.

Hermione exhaled slowly.

Beside her, Malfoy was sarcastically saying, “I almost feel sorry for him.”

Theo shrugged. “Don’t.”

Luna handed Hermione a small Butterbeer cork as if in offering. “For grounding. It keeps you from floating away.”

Hermione accepted it silently, hoping they could see how grateful she felt.

Two Slytherins took the stage next: a lanky boy and a small, intense girl known for her wicked accuracy. They bowed with the kind of controlled grace that she’d seen Malfoy exhibit when they’d practiced before.

 “Begin!”

The girl was fast. Almost too fast. She darted sideways, her hexes slicing through the air in perfect, measured arcs. The boy countered with elegant shield rotations, each angled defensively but cleverly redirected. Scratches and scorch marks adorned the arena ring.

Hermione murmured to herself, “That’s advanced for their year.”

Malfoy smirked slightly. “I tutored both.”

 “Oh,” she said. “That explains it.”

His eyes slid to hers. “That surprises you?”

She faced him, fully looking at the man beside her. Hermione knew he was a great duelist. A master Potioneer. An amazing Professor. Of course, he would tutor his house. “Not really, no.”

Her voice came out gentle—a compliment, if he can recognize it.

She hoped he did.

Malfoy looked away first, and Hermione thought she saw a pleased tilt of the lips.

The last duel involved two third-years who used far too many charms and not nearly enough self-preservation. Exploding cushions, conjured fog, accidental jelly-legs, anything under the sun. Hermione lost track halfway through.

The crowd roared.

Even Minerva rubbed her temples.

Then, of course, Flint decided it was his moment to strike again. He approached Hermione directly this time, looking smug despite his failed attempts.

 “Professor Granger, sources say you—”

 “Enough.” McGonagall had appeared at Hermione’s shoulder like a stormfront.

 “You will not harass my staff.”

The reporter sputtered, “But the public—”

 “The public,” McGonagall said, “is not my or any of my staff’s responsibility. They can read whatever sanitized nonsense you publish once you leave these grounds.”

Hermione stared, forcing her eyes not to water. Minerva suddenly reminded her of Jean, of how fiercely they protected their own.

The reporter attempted one last angle. “Is it true that Professor Granger’s emotional instability is—”

 “Get. Out.” It was clear Minerva was not only address the Prophet.

The Governors on the balcony stood, affronted.

And the entire Hall went silent.

Lucius Malfoy led them—robes pristine, hair silver and still perfect. Time had been kind to the man, he aged well, like wine. Aside from his slight limp, he still looked as imposing as when Hermione first met him. Behind him, the other Governors followed like a parade of self-importance.

Malfoy stiffened beside Hermione—spine iron-straight, jaw clenched. He didn’t look at his father.

Lucius, however, looked directly at him and then glanced at her. 

 “Professor Granger,” he drawled, “I hear the Prophet is simply desperate to speak with you.”

McGonagall stepped forward, gaze glacial.

 “Lucius,” she said coolly, “you will not address my staff without my invitation.”

Lucius tilted his head. “Merely offering my… concerns.”

 “Unnecessary,” McGonagall snapped.

Another Governor chimed in, “The school board finds it concerning that Professor Granger’s past trauma—”

Malfoy cut him off sharply. “Her trauma?” His voice was lethal. “You mean the war she helped end?”

A murmur rippled through the hall, students whispering among themselves.

Lucius’ eyes narrowed. “Draco—”

 “Don’t.”

Lucius’ mouth thinned at the sharpness in his son’s voice. A few Governors shifted uneasily.

Hermione felt the air tighten, the wards around the dueling platform humming faintly in response to the spike of tension. Draco wasn’t merely irritated; he was coiled—like something long-restrained had snapped taut.

Before she could form a sharp retort, Draco stepped forward—just half a step—but enough to place himself subtly, deliberately between her and his father.

 “Careful,” Draco murmured.

Lucius’ eyes darted to the positioning. His brows lifted—just barely. “I am being careful.”

 “No,” Draco said, voice chilling, “you’re being insulting.”

The Great Hall seemed to hold its breath.

Theo took one step closer behind Hermione, wand in hand. Luna moved beside him, serene but sharp-eyed.

Lucius’ voice remained smooth, almost bored. “I’m merely suggesting,” he said, “that the Prophet’s interest in Professor Granger may raise questions about her… readiness. And that Hogwarts should exercise prudence.”

Hermione sucked in a breath.

That—that was a direct attack. Disguised flimsily as civility. It hit harder than she expected.

 “Professor Granger’s readiness,” Draco said, enunciating each word like it was its own blade, “is unquestionable. And if you’re worried about public opinion—deal with the Prophet yourself. You’re a Governor, are you not?”

A flicker of something—annoyance? surprise?—crossed Lucius’ face.

 “You are unusually defensive today,” Lucius observed.

Malfoy didn’t flinch. But Hermione saw his fingers curled into a tight ball.

Minerva stepped forward before Lucius could draw breath again. “The Governors have seen enough for today. The preliminaries will continue at a latter date. Until then, this Hall is for students and staff only.” Her tone brooked no argument.

One by one, the Governors straightened their robes and began a stiff retreat toward the doors, muttering indignantly. Flint trailed behind them, quill finally still for the first time all morning.

Lucius lingered, he turned and spoke just loud enough for his son to hear.

 “You may ignore tradition,” he said quietly, “but it will not ignore you. Scorpius deserves stability.”

Malfoy went rigid, his jaw clenched hard enough that Hermione thought the muscle might snap.

 “Your time is not infinite.” Lucius continued.

 “That is none of your business.” Malfoy replied, barely audible.

 “I shall see you and my grandson on the weekend. Your mother will be waiting.”

Malfoy said nothing, only blankly staring at his father. Hermione knew the look. Occlumency. She knew it calmed the emotions but it dulled your senses. It was not a surprise to her that Malfoy…missed to notice his son staring at them through the Hall’s doorway, standing by the corridor.

She did not miss how young Scorpius accurately read the room.

And ran as fast as his short legs could.

Hermione didn’t hesitate.

She ran after the boy, ignoring everything else.

Chapter Text

Ashes and Aegis

Act I: Sparks and Shadows

Chapter 7: Professional Distance

Hermione’s feet were moving before she’d even fully thought it through. All the commotion behind her in the Great Hall forgotten. Something in the boy’s expression tugged at her heart—it was familiar in a way she couldn’t just place.

  “Scorpius!” she called, hoping her voice was soft but urgent.

The boy—she just knew how heartbreakingly perceptive he was—bolted down the long corridor, shoulders trembling as if expecting someone to chase him with reprimands.

Hermione didn’t shout again. She just ran.

Her sneakers once again proving how reliable they are as she barreled through the hallway, her footsteps pounding quietly on the stone floor, cardigan flying behind her. She saw little fists swiping at little eyes, his breath hitching as he turned the corner toward an unused antechamber.

She slowed as she reached the threshold.

The boy was curled under the Professor’s table, knees pulled up close to his chest. Pale hair fallen over his face, trying so hard to stay quiet.

Trying not to take space.

It broke her heart.

Hermione knelt, slowly—careful and gentle, not making a single movement to make her seem threatening.

  “Scorpius,” she murmured softly. “It’s me, Professor Granger.”

A tiny sniffle is what she got, he didn’t look up. But he did not move away as well.

Hermione slid closer, still not touching him. “It’s alright to be upset,” keeping her voice calm, she sat in front of him—heart beating hard from all the emotions crashing into her. “You did nothing wrong, I promise.”

  “Grandfather…” he hiccupped, “was loud.”

Her heart tightened even more. Lucius never raised his voice—but his tone was louder than volume. It spoke of disdain, control and judgement. Sharp words always made the deeper wounds.

She exhaled. “Yes,” Hermione agreed gently. “He was.”

  “Father…he gets like that too.” Scorpius finally looked up and Hermione could see his eyes, all puffy and red while his lips wobbled, “He gets loud when Grandfather’s around.”

  “Does that make you scared?” she whispered.

He nodded. “A little…but he’s never loud with me.”

Hermione reached out her hand—palm up. “May I sit with you?”

After a moment of deliberation too solemn for a three-year-old, Scorpius scooted forward and placed his small, warm hand into hers. Hermione’s breath caught.

She gathered him gently into her arms—slowly, so he didn’t feel ambushed. Scorpius pressed his cheek to her shoulder almost instantly, as if he’d been waiting for someone soft to lean on to.

Hermione rocked him lightly, instinctively. “You’re safe,” she whispered into his hair. “I promise.”

His small fingers clutched her cardigan. “Father’s mad.”

  “No,” Hermione corrected softly. “I think,” she paused a little—”I think your Father’s…hurt.”

Hermione only knew of Malfoy’s predicament. She’d only heard from others that he was a Widower. That he was married to Astoria Greengrass because of Pureblood arranged marriage but she did not know him or her, personally.

She did not know a lot of things about Malfoy but if there is one thing she’s certain about, it is that you cannot hide grief. It takes one to know one…

To his credit, Malfoy wore his better than she could. She only got glimpses of his pain. On the other hand, he’d seen her breakdown multiple times.

Scorpius peeked up at her. “Is Daddy gonna cry?”

Hermione brushed a stray curl from the boy’s forehead. “I think he’s trying very hard not to.”

That seemed to satisfy him. Children understood more than adults gave them credit for.

  “You look scared too…”

She froze. Children really do see too much, and Scorpius was no exception to that rule. But she made her voice steady, “Sometimes grown-ups get overwhelmed too.”

He inched closer, slowly trusting her calm.

  “Is Father…angry at me, too?”

Hermione sighed, “No, of course not, Scorpius.” Pressing her chin atop his head, she continued, “Your father loves you. Everything he does is for you.”

Scorpius relaxed a little in her arms.

And from the doorway—

Someone exhaled sharply.

Hermione looked up.

Malfoy stood there. Frozen. His usual mask was cracked right down the center. His expression washed raw, startled, and vulnerable.

Scorpius shifted at the sound. “Father?”

Malfoy blinked, stepping forward as if waking from a spell. “Scorp,” he whispered, voice too soft from her memory.

Scorpius didn’t run to him. He held tighter onto Hermione.

Malfoy’s breath hitched—barely—but Hermione heard it. He approached slowly, like he was nearing a wounded creature he didn’t want to startle.

  “Is he alright?” He asked her, voice still soft—still vulnerable.

Hermione nodded. “Just startled. He saw the confrontation.”

  “He shouldn’t have.”

  “No,” Hermione said gently, “but he did. And children feel things…deeply.”

Malfoy crouched beside them, and Hermione felt the warmth of him even without touching him. Scorpius leaned slightly toward his father—still clutching Hermione’s cardigan.

His eyes flicked down to that sight. Hermione felt heat bloom up her neck. Then, he placed his hand on his son’s back, gently. “I’m here, Scorp.”

The little boy reached his free hand out to him and Malfoy held it, almost reverently. Like it was the most fragile thing in the world.

  “See, he wasn’t mad at you,” Hermione whispered to Scorpius, still cradling him. “Just…worried.”

Malfoy looked at her, grey eyes meeting hers. Under the dim lights, his eyes seemed as if they glow silver.

  “You ran after him,” he murmured.

Hermione swallowed, her calm broken by how he looked at her. “Of course I did.”

  “You didn’t hesitate.”

  “No,” she said. “Of course not.” He did not answer.

The three of them sat quietly, no words needed for comfort. After a while—Hermione lost track of time, too distracted by the day’s events to actually keep track, Scorpius’ breathing evened out, calmer now. His grip loosened, but he didn’t pull away from either of them.

Hermione brushed a hand over the boy’s arm in small, soothing circles. Malfoy watched the motion like it was a spell he didn’t understand.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly. And it wasn’t formal or curt. It was…just raw. “Granger…thank you.”

She looked up—and their eyes met. The still of the night contrasting how wildly her heart hammered in her chest. The cold floor fighting the warmth slowly spreading from where their arms met to her chest.

Hermione cleared her throat, tearing her gaze away. “We should get him somewhere quieter.”

He nodded, but didn’t move. Not yet. “Right. Yes.”

His gaze returned to her—again, unguarded, something warm and bewildered simmering beneath the tension.

Hermione held Scorpius a little closer as she noticed they boy had fallen asleep. She gave a last gentle squeeze before gently passing him into Malfoy’s waiting arms.

Malfoy steadied the boy with one hand, his other brushed Hermione’s wrist.

Hermione’s breath stuttered.

Malfoy’s fingers froze against her skin—warm, calloused, careful—and neither of them moved for a half-second too long.

Then he swallowed and whispered, “We…we should go.”

  “Right.” Voice equally as soft, Hermione moved away as she stood with him.

They walked in silence. Not unfriendly or awkward, because why should it be?

Hermione led the way out into the corridor and Malfoy followed, Scorpius curled in is arms, cheek tucked against his father’s collar.

She kept her hands clasped behind her back—willfully ignoring the phantom warmth that lingered when she held the boy.

They’d reach the stair landing before Malfoy spoke again, “I’ll take him to my quarters,” shifting Scorpius’ weight on his chest as he turned to face the corridor leading towards the Potions Hallway near the hallway to the Slytherin Common room. “Minerva has called for a meeting in her office. Staff only, the governors have been sent away.”

She nodded. “I’ll let them know.” Hermione gestured to Scorpius before starting up the stairs, “I’m sure Theo can fill you in later…or I can.” She shrugged, trying and failing to appear nonchalant.

Malfoy did not comment, but there was an upward tick to his lips as he gave her a look—something like gratitude or pleasant surprise on his face.

Then he hesitated. Not long, just a heartbeat.

  “Granger.”

She turned.

  “You…” He swallowed, the word catching. “You were good with him.”

Hermione felt the warmth crawl up her throat again. “Children just…need kindness.” She attempted a neutral tone. “Anyone can give it.”

  “Not everyone does.” Malfoy whispered, then a bit louder, “Thank you.”

And he was gone, disappearing behind the torchlit curve.

Hermione exhaled and allowed herself one second, to feel the unusual but pleasant shock of Malfoy’s gratitude before she headed to Minerva’s office to face the aftermath.

The gargoyle leapt aside the moment Hermione approached, but she still hesitated before climbing the stairs. Her hands were steady—years of practice—but her pulse was a traitor. She’d left Malfoy and Scorpius barely five minutes ago; she still felt the warmth of the child’s weight against her chest.

Minerva’s voice floated through the thick oak door.

  “…alight, We have…several matters to discuss…”

Hermione schooled her face, and knocked.

  “Come,” Minerva said.

Every head turned as she stepped inside and sat just beside Luna who gave her a comforting smile.

Professor Flitwick cleared his throat, “The confrontation in the Hall—”

The Headmistress lifted a hand. “Handled. The governors have been escorted out. Their…more volatile members will not be reentering the castle without several layers of permission.”

Professor Sprout huffed. “Lucius Malfoy’s behavior was appalling. Frightening the boy like that—he’s his grandson for heaven’s sake!”

Once again, Hermione felt everyone glance at her. She kept her face steady.

  “He’s alright,” Hermione said, though her voice was softer than usual. “Just overwhelmed.”

Theo leaned back in his chair. “Because you sprinted out of the Hall like a Gryffindor on fire.”

Luna smiled dreamily at Hermione. “You were followed by Puffling Wisps. They only appear around people who run with good intentions.”

Theo blinked at her. “…Puffling what now?”

  “They look a bit like floating teabags,” Luna clarified.

Theo stared at her. Luna smiled wider.

Hermione didn’t deny anything. She nodded to Theo, focusing on the desk. “Scorpius was overwhelmed. Anyone would be.”

Minerva straightened. “Now—onto the tournament. The first batch of preliminaries are complete. We will hold the final batch tomorrow, as discussed. Filius and Pomona, along with Professor Longbottom and I will proctor it.” She sat down and gestured for them to do so as well, “Stage Two begins in two weeks. Initially we were only supposed to do the standard Wizarding Duels but after today’s events, we need revise the tournament itself.”

Flitwick conjured the parchment blueprint onto the table and as they all turned to discuss the next stage—The Gauntlet Run, after the preliminaries—Hermione took the time to breathe.

Everything went so wrong so quickly. The tournament was only supposed to be a one-time occurrence. Just to satiate the Board of Governors. But they’d brought the Prophet—vultures for media frenzy—to ensure that the spectacle would continue.

Out of all the ten rounds they had, three of those matches had malfunctions. Wands firing off before students could even utter a spell, sudden bouts of explosive magic that did not come from the actual spells the students used.

It was only thanks to their hypervigilance that they’d prevented injuries.

Hermione folded her arms. “We need more staff stationed along the mezzanine. At least two per corridor.”

  “Seconded,” Theo said immediately. “I saw Bratton try to Apparate sideways during his duel. Merlin knows what he’ll do in a maze.”

Flitwick sighed. “Indeed.”

Luna added gently, “And some of the students are carrying a lot of worry-mist after today. It makes spells…drift.”

Theo turned toward her, brows raised. “That’s…actually a good point.”

Luna brightened. “Thank you, Theodore.”

Theo swallowed. Then shook his head, his brain running as fast as hers, “Someone has to be sabotaging us.”

Hermione turned to him, “I agree and I’m not saying this because Flint was targeting me.” She looked at Minerva. “It’s more than that, the Prophet…I do not think the Prophet is the saboteur.”

  “Might be the Governors.” Theo added, malice in his tone. “Draco mentioned it was unusual for them to suddenly take an interest in our curriculum. Besides, the last time they did was when Draco took his post. Must be political again.” He shrugged.

  “I think,” Minerva replied carefully, “that too many things went ‘coincidentally’ wrong at the same time. Regardless, tomorrow’s batch will be stricter. No external observers. No reporters. I’ve barred Flint for the next forty-eight hours.”

Theo let out an appreciative whistle. “Historic.”

  “I expect professionalism from all of you,” Minerva said, looking pointedly at him.

Minerva turned to Hermione last. “Especially you.”

Hermione lifted her chin. “Of course.”

But Minerva’s gaze softened. “I know today was… taxing.” Minerva waved away tournament blueprint with a flick of her hand. “Filius and Pomona, you will handle enchantment revisions. Theodore, coordinate student volunteers for corridor construction.”

Theo saluted lazily.

  “Luna,” Minerva said, “Please monitor the castle’s temperament. If more tension-creatures gather, inform us.”

  “Of course,” Luna said brightly.

  “And Hermione,” Minerva finished, “Can you brief the staff after breakfast? Draco and Neville will rejoin us then.”

  “I can handle it.” She said, resolutely. Facing her colleagues, she continued. “Thank you, for all your support today.”

She received comforting smiles back. Luna grabbed her hand, “Of course.”

Minerva cleared her throat. “Right. Tomorrow we reconvene at seven sharp for final ward checks. Go and rest, all of you. You’ll need it.”

Chairs scraped. Flitwick left first then Sprout. Theo lingered only long enough before following Luna out the door.

Only when the door closed did Hermione let out a slow, shaky breath.

Minerva pretended not to notice.

  “Hermione,” she said gently, “do take care of yourself tonight.”

  “I will,” Hermione answered.

But as she stepped out into the dim corridor, she knew the lie tasted too familiar.

As the Preliminaries drew to an end, Hermione thought it would get a little quieter. Instead, Hogwarts thrummed with the kind of electricity Hermione had only ever seen before Quidditch finals or spontaneous Weasley pyrotechnics. Everyone was well-aware that Professor McGonagall would be announcing the Top 10 duelists that morning—the ones moving on to the Gauntlet Run.

Hermione took her usual place at the staff table, trying not to look as tired as she felt. She’d barely sat down when she caught the unmistakable sound of whispering from the Gryffindor table.

Not just whispering but actually hissing gossip.

  “…you’re mad if you think it wasn’t a fight,” a fifth-year boy who looked too similar to Lee Jordan declared. “My cousin in Hufflepuff said he saw Lucius Malfoy storming down the corridor like he was about to hex someone’s hair off—”

  “Storming?” his friend scoffed. “He doesn’t storm. He just… appears.”

  “Yeah, well, he appeared furious, then Professor Granger came out of nowhere—”

Hermione choked on her tea.

Across the hall, Ravenclaws weren’t even pretending to hide their interest.

  “I heard Professor Malfoy stepped between them,” a girl whispered, quill halfway to her lips. “Like actually shielded her. With his arm.”

  “That’s not shielding,” her friend countered. “That’s—what did the Daily Prophet call it? Optic management.”

  “Either way, it’s still romantic!”

Hermione’s eye twitched.

At the Slytherin table, things were worse.

A group of fourth-years huddled together, faces bright with awe and entirely too much enthusiasm.

  “—and my sister swears Professor Malfoy’s father actually bowed to her,” a boy said breathlessly.

  “He didn’t bow,” another said. “He inclined his head.”

  “What’s the difference?”

They all nodded like this was sensible.

  “And Scorpius was there too,” someone added, lowering his voice. “He looked like he’d been crying. Professor Granger was holding him.”

Hermione stared resolutely at her plate. This is fine. The children are feral but fine.

Neville leaned over from the next seat, face lit up in amusement. “They’re talking about the incident again, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” she muttered.

He patted her arm sympathetically. “Well… at least they think Draco defended you.”

  “That is not better,” she hissed.

  “Could be worse. They could think you defended Lucius.”

She groaned as Neville laughed.

At the Ravenclaw table, a new rumor sparked like wildfire.

  “I heard Scorpius calls her just ‘Mione.’”

  “He does not.”

  “He does! My sister in Potions heard it!”

Hermione rubbed her temples. She had been here for exactly six minutes.

The doors to the Great Hall opened—thank Merlin—and the Headmistress strode to the podium. Conversation died instantly, all rumors for her forgotten for now.

Minerva cleared her throat. “Good morning. As you know, the Preliminaries are now complete. Twenty duelists entered this stage… and only ten will move on to the Gauntlet Run.”

A nervous rustle ripple through the Hall.

  “The Gauntlet,” Minerva continued, “is a comprehensive magical obstacle course. It tests reflexes, spell fluency, strategy, and—if we are being honest—common sense. All of which some of you have in more abundance than others.”

Several students laughed nervously.

Minerva unrolled a parchment. “The following students have qualified.”

Hermione glanced down the staff table. Malfoy wasn’t looking at her. Not even a glance in her direction but he also wasn’t not look at her either.

He was doing that baffling, annoying and perfectly composed neutral mask she was used to when he wanted to appear unaffected.

They had not spoken to each other since the incident—not really, just the usual classes going on. Tension always lingered between them but no one acknowledged it.

Hermione figured, it was nothing. They were just colleagues. Just workmates, they were professionals.

She wasn’t bothered. Not by him or the students. Not by the gossip or the silence.

No, Hermione was perfectly fine.

Minerva read the first name. Applause erupted.

As the list went on, Hermione’s eyes drifted across the Hall, only to find the older students sneaking glances at her again, whispering behind hands. She frowned. She thought being the center of gossip was bad when she was first rumored to be Krum’s girl back in fourth year, this was

Neville leaned in, whispering, “Honestly, it’s not your fault.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “The rumor that Lucius Malfoy told you, quote: ‘If you’re going to steal my son, at least do it with dignity.’”

Hermione slammed her forehead into her folded arms.

Neville winced. “Oh. You heard that one already.”

  “I have not stolen anyone's son.” she said, voice muffled.

  “Try telling the students.”

Hermione lifted her head, steeling herself. It’s not like she’d done anything wrong. She wasn’t stealing anyone’s son, damn it! She Luna and Theo walk through the rear doors, quietly discussing among themselves. When the pair saw her, Luna waved at her while Theo smirked.

She tried to telepathically ask for rescue. If she could not get it from Neville—the traitor, she might get it from her sweet friend, Luna.

As Luna sat beside her, she said, “It’s just Falltwitchers, Hermione. They adore romantic tension.” She even patted her hand. “It’ll go away in a while.”

Neville and Theo shared a laugh and Hermione wished for death.

Minerva’s final announcement echoed across the Hall.

  “And with that, our Top 10 duelists are confirmed! The Gauntlet Run begins in a week. All competitors will report to the castle grounds for orientation at noon.”

The Hall erupted in cheers and applause.

Hermione exhaled.

The next phase of the tournament had begun. She felt a gaze on her and when she turned, she saw Malfoy looked away.

She faintly heard squealing coming from the Ravenclaw table and shook he head.

And, apparently, so had the school-wide assumption that she, Malfoy and Lucius were entangled in some dramatic triangle of politics and emotional devastation.

Wonderful, just what she needed for the year.

By midmorning, the castle had finally settled into something resembling routine. Students shuffled between classes, gossip simmering down to manageable levels. It was easier to ignore and only three first-years asked her if she was “engaged to Professor Malfoy yet”.

Progress.

Sort of.

Hermione pushed the joint-classroom door open just as Theo had finished activating the runes to adjust the room for their first ever Ancient Runes + Arithmancy + DADA class. It was a stark contrast, of course, to her joint sessions with Malfoy.

Gone were the rows upon rows of cauldrons and shelves with potion ingredients. Instead, the room was neatly arranged with the students’ chairs and desks lined in perfect precision. Only a short table was designated as the instructor’s table and there was a raised platform in front of the ceiling to floor black boards.

Neat diagrams already drawn on the boards—sigils, numeric runic chains and probability-glyph matrices. All in an order she couldn’t name.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You color-coded the arithmantic sequencing tables.”

Theo didn’t look up from his seat. “Yes, well, if we’re teaching fifth-years how not to collapse a runic field, clarity is helpful. I prefer my students to keep their eyebrows.”

Hermione smiled despite herself. “I didn’t peg you for a perfectionist.”

  “Please,” Theo said dryly. “I was raised by Purebloods. We’re taught to alphabetize trauma before we can walk.”

She snorted.

Students filtered in—quiet at first, then whispers rose like steam off a boiling cauldron.

  “…they were totally alone in the corridor!”

  “…but why would Lucius Malfoy shout at her…it doesn’t make sense…”

  “…maybe Professor Granger’s secretly…”

  “…my sister swears it’s Professor Nott she’s…”

Theo froze mid-quill-stroke. “Oh no. They’ve dragged me into the triangle, haven’t they?”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Apparently.”

He sighed. “Do you want me to loudly declare my undying devotion to Luna in the middle of class? It might redirect the narrative.”

Hermione blinked. “Are you devoted to Luna?”

Theo’s ears turned faintly pink. “In a… theoretical capacity.”

Before she could tease him, Luna drifted in—humming a tune that had no discernible rhythm. She laid a stack of revised creature-sighting forms on Theo’s desk.

  “The Falltwitchers are clustering again,” she said cheerfully. “They get excited when they sense unresolved romantic tension.”

Theo and Hermione both stiffened.

Luna blinked. “Oh, not between you two. You two feel like matching bookends. Very compatible. Very non-romantic.”

Theo choked on absolutely nothing. Hermione nearly dropped her chalk.

With a bright smile, Luna spun on her heel and floated out. Theo stared after her like someone had just rearranged the laws of physics in front of him then at the stack of papers for their joint Arithmancy + Care of Magical Creatures class after Hermione’s.

Hermione waved a hand. “Professor Nott?”

  “Hm?”

  “You’re staring.”

  “No, I’m… contemplating strategies.”

  “Oh, a strategy to confess?”

  “I said strategies.”

She grinned. “Same thing.”

Theo refused to answer so Hermione clapped her hands once and the class snapped to attention.

  “Wands out. Today’s joint module is on Runic Defensive Precision & Tactical Response. Pair up, please.”

Theo stepped forward, flicking his wand. “And Pendergast, if you overload the stabilizing sigils on my desk again, you will be writing a four-foot essay on arithmantic rebound coefficients.”

The class snickered.

Hermione turned to the chalkboard, slipping effortlessly into lecture mode. Different diagrams blooming under her wand as Theo demonstrated wand arcs and sigil-casting sequences beside her. Their rhythm was smooth and practiced: teacher beside teacher, movements synced, explanations dovetailing naturally.

Halfway through the demonstration, Hermione felt it—that prickle of being watched. She glanced up.

Some students weren’t watching the lesson.

They were watching her.

Then Theo.

And then, the doorway—where they probably expected Malfoy to come through.

Hermione caught herself also watching the doorway, as if someone would actually stand there. But why would she want him there? There was nothing, absolutely nothing—between them anyway. Not talking to Malfoy was messing with her head. Even if she did not want to talk to him anyway.

She also felt an unusual pang of longing for the young Malfoy. Hermione had also not seen Scorpius in a while. She…for lack of a better word—missed the boy.

Still, for now there was this—chalk dust on her fingers, Theo muttering about “inelegant glyph symmetry,” students bickering over wand alignment.

Hermione anchored herself in it.

  “Alright,” she said, stepping back. “Let’s begin practical drills.”

Theo conjured a shimmering row of runic-stabilized practice targets. “Try not to destabilize the stonework. I only just finished recalibrating it.”

Hermione smiled faintly.

Lunchtime in the Staff Lounge was never this loud. Hermione tried, truly, to enjoy her stew. But every time she lifted her spoon, someone would whisper her name.

Or Malfoy’s.

Or Theo’s.

Or Luna’s.

For Godric’s sake. Students gossiping was one thing…but this? She’d rather face another basilisk on her own.

Neville slid into the seat beside her, wearing a long-suffering smile of a man who had witnessed enough Hogwarts drama to earn hazard pay.. “Rough morning?”

  “The students have created four separate conspiracy theories about my non-existent love life,” Hermione muttered.

  “Four?” Neville blinked. “Last I checked it was three.”

She pointed her spoon toward the enchanted staff bulletin board where someone had pinned a parchment labeled “Romantic Probability Calculations, Updated by Ravenclaw Fifth Years”.

  “The Ravenclaws added a fourth,” Hermione said. “Something about the Bookish Pureblood meets Bookworm Muggle-born.’”

Neville made a strangled noise. “They’ve paired you with Theo now?!”

  “Apparently,” she said through clenched teeth, “because we ‘move in sync during joint demonstrations.’”

Neville choked on his tea laughing.

At that moment, the staff lounge door creaked open and in walked Theo with Luna beside him—Theo looking faintly rumpled, Luna describing with calm delight how “chalk-dwelling Glyphwobblers tend to cling to Arithmancy robes when professors are stressed.”

Hermione stabbed a carrot and braced herself. Here it goes…who knew Professors at Hogwarts participated in this kind of nonsense?

Sprout whispered to Flitwick, “Luna always brightens when she’s with him.”

Hooch muttered, “Nott goes pink every time she says anything whimsical.”

Even Vector snorted into her tea. “The students think it’s a triangle now—Granger included.”

Hermione wanted to sink through the floor. “Make it stop.”

Neville grinned. “Absolutely not. This is the most entertainment I’ve had since Peeves locked me in a greenhouse with a lovesick puffapod.”

Theo made his way over, face already strained. “Hermione, please tell me why three separate third-years asked if we’re ‘arithmantically compatible as co-instructors.’”

Luna patted her comfortingly. “It’s the Falltwitchers. They get confused when too many adults in one room refuse to acknowledge their emotional energy.”

Theo went faintly pink in the ears and Hermione just groaned.

And then—because destiny enjoyed torturing her—Draco swept into the staff lounge with perfect composure, Scorpius trotting beside him clutching an apple like a rare treasure.

Every professor in the room stopped mid-chew.

Neville leaned in, gleeful and unhelpful. “Ten galleons this makes it worse.”

As if Neville was a Seer—not that Hermione believed in that nonsense, the elder Professor actually did make it worse.

  “…you can just feel the tension!”

  “…they might be courting you know..”

  “…given their history, I bet it’s a long time coming…”

Hermione stared at Neville disdainfully. Painfully ignoring Malfoy but she waved and smiled softly when Scorpius shyly waved at her.

  “…see! Even Scorpius sees it!”

She closed her eyes and pinched her nose as Neville laughed so hard he nearly slid off his chair.

Hermione decided to slip out of the castle to get some fresh air. The Castle’s atmosphere had grown thick with gossip and speculation that even her well-meaning co-workers meddled.

She needed quiet—the real kind, and so she went to the Black Lake.

The water was clam, slate-grey under the almost setting sun. Hermione plopped down against a familiar boulder. Knees up and breathing in the cold air steadied her.

She didn’t hear footsteps, so she startled when a small voice called out.

  “Professor Granger?”

She turned.

Scorpius stood a few feet away, holding his apple from earlier, expression hesitant—as if afraid he’d stumbled somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.

Hermione softened immediately. “Hello, Scorpius.”

He approached, not climbing onto the boulder until she nodded. Then he sat beside her, legs dangling, tiny boots brushing the rock.

  “Are you hiding?” he asked with childlike bluntness.

Hermione huffed a soft laugh. “Just taking a break.”

The boy hummed, “Father…hides sometimes too,” Scorpius revealed, swinging his legs. “Not here…but he does it when he’s thinking too much.”

Hermione looked out over the lake. “I can… understand that.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. A giant squid tentacle broke the surface lazily before sinking again.

Scorpius took a small bite of his apple, then said, quietly:

  “Did you ever lose someone you… really liked?”

Hermione’s heart tugged. “Yes,” she said honestly. “I did.”

Scorpius nodded as if confirming something. “Father says Mother loved the lake. And that she was brave. And kind. And that sometimes he still misses her, but that missing… can be good too.” He paused. “Because it means you remember? I don’t…I don’t understand that.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “Your father is right. Missing someone you loved is… a way of keeping them close.”

Scorpius looked down at his apple. “Maybe I don’t remember her right…I only remember her hair. And maybe her voice when she sang to me.”

Hermione swallowed hard and placed a hand gently on his back. “Those are real memories. And you don’t have to remember everything. What matters is knowing you were loved. And you are.”

Scorpius leaned into her without thinking, small but warm, trusting in a way that wrapped around her chest.

  “Father...remembers a lot,” he murmured. “But he gets quiet when he thinks about her. Like the lake looks quiet now.”

Hermione stared out over the water, “Sometimes quiet is good. Sometimes it means you’re making space for the memories.”

Scorpius nodded slowly, processing this with the seriousness only a small child can muster.

After another moment, he asked, “Do you think Father is lonely?”

Hermione inhaled. “I think… he’s doing his best. And sometimes even very strong people feel lonely.”

Scorpius considered this, then softly said, “I don’t want him to be lonely.”

Hermione smiled gently. “He’s not as alone as he thinks.”

A breeze brushed past, stirring Hermione’s curls and Scorpius’s pale hair together for a brief second. It made her heart start longing again—stop it, Hermione!

Scorpius broke her out of her misery, “You’re not lonely either, right?”

Hermione blinked at him, surprised. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you look like Father when he’s thinking too hard,” he said. “But… nicer.”

Hermione laughed softly, warmed despite herself. “I’m alright. Truly.”

Scorpius smiled, satisfied with that answer.

They stayed there a while longer—two figures against the grey water, sitting in a shared pocket of peace.

Eventually Scorpius hopped down. “I’ll tell Father you’re thinking quiet thoughts.”

Hermione bit back another laugh. “Thank you.”

As he scampered off toward the castle, Hermione watched him go—feeling strangely lighter, as though the lake had taken some of her worries and tucked them beneath its calm surface.

Hermione slipped into the staff lounge feeling calmer after her moment by the lake. It lasted all of thirty seconds.

Sprout leaned in immediately. “Dear, Scorpius told me you were ‘thinking quietly with the lake.’ Lovely spot for bonding.”

Hermione blinked. “He… said that?”

Vector smirked over her tea. “Children don’t say things like that unless they’ve observed something.”

Neville snorted.

Theo entered just in time to hear Hooch say, “Frankly, I think Hermione and Nott are the most compatible. Have you seen them co-teach?”

Theo nearly walked back out.

Luna drifted in behind him. “Oh no,” she said pleasantly, “Hermione and Theo feel like matching bookends. Very coordinated.”

Hermione groaned. Theo put his face in his hands.

That was all the invitation the staff needed. They restarted their earlier debacle. This time, however, louder and more…unhinged.

Hermione put her head in her hands. “Please stop.”

Theo whispered, horrified, “We’re being discussed like Quidditch teams.” The horror in his tone almost made Hermione smile.

Almost.

And that was when the door opened.

Minerva walked in—Harry right behind her.

Both froze.

Minerva stared at the chalkboard where Vector had drawn a triangle labeled D–H–T. Harry looked at Hermione. Then at Malfoy who was arriving behind them. Then back at Hermione.

Neville, far too cheerfully, said, “Evening! Ongoing Staff Debate on Hermione’s Love—”

Hermione cut him off with a nonverbal spell.

  “Why.” Minerva exhaled through her nose.

She gestured helplessly. “I am not participating. I am the topic.”

Harry grinned, delighted. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

Hermione glared at him until he shut up. Minerva cleared her throat and it was blessed silence.

All of one minute passed before Sprout spotted Harry, “Ah! Potter! Excellent. Fresh perspective! Minerva refuses to answer, you can do instead.”

Before Harry could answer, Sinistra swooped in. “As a trained Auror, surely you recognize emotional synergy. Draco and Hermione—undeniable.”

Flitwick shook his head. “Nonsense, nonsense—Potter, look at them. Granger and Nott have synchronized wand work. It’s statistically significant!”

Hooch chimed in, “Not as significant as Nott and Luna! Did you see how he looked at her during lunch?”

Neville snorted through his nose.

Hermione covered her face with her hands. “Harry, I am begging you—take me with you. Arrest me. Please.”

The professors forgot about Harry as he did not answer them, instead, he leaned toward Hermione. “Are you—dating someone? Or… someones?”

Hermione hissed, “I’m dating NO ONE.”

  “Tragically.” Theo muttered and Hermione turned her glare on him. “What? You brought me into this mess!”

Luna sighed. “Yet, she’s not dating anyone. Yet.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay, last I checked I was leaving my best friend all hopeless and lifeless here and now, Hogwarts becomes a soap opera.”

Hermione grabbed his sleeve. “Please make them stop.”

Harry looked around at the professors—now loudly comparing wand compatibility charts. He patted her shoulder.

  “Nope,” he said cheerfully. “You’re on your own. This is hilarious.”

Hermione glared betrayal at him.

Harry grinned. “But I’ll be back for the Gauntlet next week. The Aurors will be supervising per the Headmistress’ request. And for moral support.”

Neville, from the floor: “Bring popcorn!”

Hermione groaned.

  “You’re okay though? Really?” Harry’s smile softened as he leaned in.

  “I will be.”

Harry squeezed her hand. “Good. Because whatever happens—date, duel, drama—I’ve got your back.”

Hermione smiled—small, tired, real.

Harry stepped out of the lounge with a wince after nodding to Minerva. “You know… on second thought… maybe the next dark wizard can wait. This is much scarier.”

Hermione nodded solemnly. “Welcome back to Hogwarts.”

Her footsteps echoed softly on the stone floor, parchment pressed lightly to her chest. Hermione decided to take the long way around to her quarters, just as a breather after the whole Staff Lounge fiasco.

Truth be told, it was kind of funny. Gossip and debates over her non-existent love life was ridiculous. Afterall, it did not hurt her in anyway.

Besides, it took her mind off of Ronald and his audacity. Another letter came that afternoon and she had not opened it. No, not yet. Hermione had to focus—on lesson planning, on spell sequences, on anything other than wandering thoughts—but the castle had a way of making even a short corridor feel like a minefield.

Voices carried around the corner before she had taken three steps.

Low, sharp and definitely malicious.

  “…and did you see how clingy she is with Scorpius?”

  “She’s only here for attention, you know. Pretending to care. Mudblood pretending to care.”

  “I heard she’s filling his head with nonsense about—”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around the edge of her parchment. She froze. Anger and frustration surged quietly under her skin. She considered stepping forward, confronting them, setting them straight—but paused. Not here. Not now. She was a composed professional and she would not stoop down to these vicious kids’ pathetic level.

Then a voice, sharp and cold, cut through the whispers.

  “That is enough.”

Hermione’s stomach clenched. Malfoy.

She leaned against the wall, making herself seem smaller than ever and listened.

  “You speak about my son with disrespect,” Malfoy continued, his voice low but cutting through the corridor like a blade. “And about Professor Granger. I will not tolerate it. You will think carefully before you speak of them again.”

The students stammered, muttering half-hearted excuses. The force in his presence—made them shrink back. One by one, they slunk off, muttering under their breath.

Hermione exhaled quietly. Not moving yet.

  “Granger. You can come out now.”

How had he noticed her? She’d casted a Disillusionment spell!

As if to answer her thoughts, Malfoy continued, “I heard you and… you’re not the only one skilled in Disillusionment.”

Hermione peeled herself from the wall and took a glance at him. His eyes met hers—his gaze sharp and guarded.

  “You didn’t have to defend me.” She said, voice softer than she’d intended. “I could do that myself.”

  “And you shouldn’t have heard that,” He replied. “Besides, they have no right to speak of Scorpius, or of you. And I will not pretend otherwise.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened. “I do not need protection.”

She didn’t know what to make of his actions. First, he thanked her then avoided her for days. And now? He defends her? What right did he have? He has no right!

Deflection—convenient for hiding emotions—and Hermione used it effectively, like a spell she’d memorized.

  “No,” he admitted quietly, voice dropping just enough to hint at restraint. “You don’t. But sometimes, you only learn boundaries when someone enforces them.”

  “I am aware of boundaries,” she said evenly, voice steady, posture rigid, pulse quickened despite her control. “Are you?”

Malfoy froze but the storm in his eyes never left. “I am.”

The corridor went silent.

His gaze lingered, then—as he exhaled and stepped back, he Occluded. Composure returned, his mask intact. Malfoy walked away without another word.

Hermione allowed herself a slow, controlled exhale. Boundaries, my ass.