Chapter Text
Art by Flyora
Prologue
The voices were at it again. Whispering. Not loud enough for her to make sense of the words, but loud enough to just about drive her mad.
I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.
Merlin, please just let me be okay.
Specific forms never accompanied the voices in her dreams, only amorphous shadows. And as they surrounded her, she cowered. Leave me alone.
But they never listened. They plagued her dreams, or perhaps, more accurately, her nightmares. She couldn’t help but imagine that maybe if she could just understand them, the voices would stop. All they wanted was to spill their secrets. In their efforts though, they forced her to now keep a secret of her own.
Yes, the voices were loud enough to just about drive her mad, indeed.
Hermione once again awoke with a scream already in her throat.
***
An Encounter
The sky over the bright waters of the Mediterranean was a wash of pink and orange as the sun finally, almost lazily, dipped below the horizon. The cool April air soothed Hermione’s heated skin and played with her riotous brown curls that she had never quite been able to control, despite the overpriced smoothing tonics littering the counter in her small suite—the cheapest in a hotel this nice and still more for her to be spending than was probably wise—and the number of taming spells she’d memorised from the pages of Witch Weekly. A stray curl stuck to her lips just as she reached for her wine glass. She quickly tied her hair into a loose bun atop her head before trying to once again take a sip of the rich Bordeaux.
The lanterns floating around the terrace became just a bit brighter as the sky slowly continued to darken, allowing Hermione to still be able to make out the other patrons seated at the round tables. Witches and wizards alike were both decked out in beautiful garments, a mix of traditional robes and more modern, Muggle attire. While Hermione had on one of her nicer pieces—a camel A-line dress with a plunging neckline and full skirt that she had found during a solo excursion to Selfridges on Oxford Street—she still felt a bit out of place. The Hôtel du Vignoble in Monte Carlo attracted some of Wizarding Europe’s wealthiest, either here for a holiday or simply visiting via Floo or Portkey for dinner at its upscale restaurant.
Muggleborn Hermione Granger with her lowly Ministry job and studio flat in Diagon did not exactly qualify as high society. Nonetheless, she was determined to make the most of the rest of her lea– no, holiday.
As her eyes continued to roam her surroundings, she caught sight of a startling shock of white-blonde hair and felt her pulse skitter. She wondered for a moment if her eyes were playing tricks on her, if they were simply worn out from a day squinting against the sun’s glare on the turquoise sea. Maybe it was her mind that was to blame. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time recently that she feared she couldn’t trust it.
She continued to stare as the maître d' led a tall wizard in a finely fitted black suit—a Muggle suit—to a small table across the terrace. His pale skin practically glowed against the stark black of his attire. And sure enough, Hermione knew that hair, artfully tousled and a little longer than it had been in school, and knew the face it framed. Sharp cheekbones and chin. Eyes that she knew were the dark grey of storm clouds over the Thames but that currently remained fixed ahead of him, not meeting the curious gazes of the rest of the guests. It turned out that even here, hundreds and hundreds of miles away from the society of Wizarding Britain, Draco Malfoy attracted attention, apparently whether he wanted it or not.
Hermione didn’t believe in fate or destiny or that the universe had some great plan for everyone. She believed in chance and the choices one made in the face of it. While she loved her two best friends, they weren’t destined to be in her life. They were thrown together by chance—a magical school, a house of red and gold, a troll in a bathroom—and then stayed friends by choice. And when a tight-knit trio became only two, that had been a choice too, though not her own.
Perhaps fate never appealed to Hermione because believing in it took away her sense of control. And who was Hermione Granger—Golden Girl, Brightest Witch of Her Age, Champion of Muggleborns—if not someone who was in control? Of her mind, her path, her life.
And yet…
Yet, Hermione could not help but feel a sense of destiny, or the planets aligning when she spotted her old bully not thirty feet away from where she sat now, here in Monte Carlo, here where she came to escape… well, it all.
She knew she was staring, and she was sure he must be able to sense her eyes boring into the top of his head as he sat, directly facing her but now with his gaze fixed determinedly on the menu in front of him, still avoiding making eye contact with everyone around him. She could just make out his lips moving as he said something to the server who had just come over to take his order.
Hermione didn’t even look up as her server placed her meal—seared scallops with grilled asparagus—in front of her, just mumbled a quick merci.
Now without a menu, Malfoy had turned his gaze out over the white marble balustrade to the beach and sea beyond. The sky had faded to a deep purple, and a few stars were just beginning to wink into view. As she studied him under the soft glow of the floating lanterns, Hermione was struck by how beautiful he was. While his individual features were sharp and pointed, a collection of planes and angles, the overall effect of them together was somehow ethereal . Even amongst all the beauty of their surroundings, he looked like he didn’t belong, like he was too much for this place.
Her meal forgotten, Hermione considered her next move. Should she approach him? What would she even say? Hello, Malfoy. Remember me? Last time we were this close, my friends and I were saving you from certain death in a burning Room of Requirement despite the fact that you and your ilk bullied us mercilessly for six years? And before that, you stood by as your unhinged aunt carved a slur into my arm? Any of this ringing a bell?
No, she was in no mood for that type of confrontation.
Should she just sneak out? She could probably make it to the French doors leading back into the lobby without attracting notice since his attention was turned toward the sea in the opposite direction.
Just then, the universe made the decision for her.
When Hermione turned her attention back to Malfoy, she started at the sight of storm cloud eyes… fixed directly on her.