Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“So here is all the currency you’ll find in the wizarding world.”

From the distance, The Keepers is a mom and pop bookshop that’s more dust than human. Upon taking a closer look, one would come to a similar conclusion, that is if they can brush off the unnerving chills running down their spine and say hello to the brunette sitting at the register, usually with an open book in his hands.

If someone were to come in right now, they would not find him there. But at the reading area nestled to the right side of the shop, a space with rows of long tables and chairs sitting close to each other, seemingly designed to facilitate communication, collaboration, and community. 

“Wait, hold on. How many sickles make a galleon again?”

The brunette patiently taps the top of the brochure, where it says. “17 sickles, ma’am.”

“And 29 knuts make a sickle?” He nods. “Oh thank goodness, I thought I was never going to remember it all and make a fool out of myself at the magic bank.” 

Mrs. Cromwell is a sweetheart and a Muggle grandma to a pair of twins going to Hogwarts for their third year this September. She is also a kind pastry shop owner who lives right down the street, who always gives Malcolm an extra milkshake, and is starting to develop early signs of dementia, thus explaining the constant forgetting.

He claps for her, and laughs when she tries to shove him on the shoulder. 

Eventually he manages to dodge around her, standing on the other side of the table she took hostage as soon as she came in, lovingly yelling at Malcolm to get your tight butt over here and help me before I lose my bloody mind and start considering buying eggs for 10 pounds a carton.

He likes eggs as much as any teenager, but that is just batshit insane. The world has genuinely gone mad. 

“You’ll be alright, ma’am. I promise. The goblins aren't that scary once you get past the fact that they're crazy smart and they never forget a face.” 

“So they’ll remember me forever if I get my knuts and my sickles confused?” Well, he didn't exactly say— “You know what, this isn't working. Hand over the brochure.”

Not willing to argue, Malcolm obediently hands over the infographic brochure about wizarding world currency, made by yours truly, before quickly slithering out of the way. 

He makes it back to the reception just in time to see the back door open, revealing a rather disheveled-looking Caitlyn Kiramman. Malcolm doesn’t bother hiding his snort, earning a downright nasty glare from his big sister as she tries to swipe what looks to be spider webs from her hair.

“Thought about a makeover?” He grins, his chin on his knuckles. “I hear platinum blonde is really hot this time of year.”

“Merlin forbid I be mistaken for a member of yet another elitist all-magical wizarding family.” Malcolm waves his hand, and Caitlyn is squeaky clean. Although she doesn’t seem very appreciative of his kindness, her glare turns from annoyance to concern. “What did I tell you about using wandless magic out and about?”

“Do it where no one can see me?” 

He gestures around them, specifically the invisible shield they both know is coated into the deepest crevices of the walls. Very Ministry-proof, very outsider-proof, courtesy of Rory Watson. 

Caitlyn looks no less unimpressed than she was 5 seconds ago. He almost fears she’ll throw that clipboard at his head. 

Sensing a scolding, Malcolm resorts to whining. “Oh, come on. I’m 17 years old now. Plus, if I’m going to work as hard as you want me to, which I am, then I should make an effort to practice as much as I can, don’t you think?”

With a sigh and an eye roll he can feel at the back of his head, Caitlyn leaves. Malcolm keeps watch, smiling when he realizes she’s only going to get some water for Mrs. Cromwell, who, by the looks of things, is probably going to be here for a little bit longer.

The Kiramman name might fool a lot of people, but not Malcolm. To him, Caitlyn is nothing more than a big softie. 

The fact that she can single-handedly take down a horde of dark wizards with nothing more than one extremely well-placed Stupefy is entirely irrelevant. 

Leaving Caitlyn to her own thing, Malcolm turns to the front door to see if there's any more customers approaching. Confirming there's no lingering silhouettes outside the window, Malcolm sits down on his chair and pulls out his book.

It's not one he was currently reading, something something Memory Charms, but rather the letter held between the pages. 

He’s just received it this morning when he was eating breakfast upstairs, delivered by a familiar frazzled-looking owl that, on many occasions, has flown into the Gryffindors’ soup bowls. 

Regardless of his work ethic, Errol Weasley is a very sweet soul. Malcolm has no pet of his own, but he might consider changing that after spending 15 whole minutes just scratching the owl’s chin and making him purr.

Malcolm didn't even know owls could purr.

Finally letting the poor thing do its job, Malcolm extracted the letter from Errol’s leg holster. Every bit of drowsiness he might have had waking up so early for training disappears in a puff of smoke, leaving behind only a giddiness he will never admit to experience for as long as he’s alive.

Here’s the thing. Hermione hasn't sent him any owl this entire break, despite Malcolm having already sent two. He suspected she might be busy with her parents or even working with the Order of The Phoenix, so he tried not to be too sad about it.

The way he practically glowed like a wand tip would contradict that statement, but Malcolm didn't give a damn about any of that, heart pounding and his lips split in an uncontrollable grin as he cut the letter clean through with a pocket knife he keeps under his pillow.

What? It's practical.

In her neat and surprisingly curvy penmanship, Hermione’s letter reads,

Dear Malcolm,

I’m so sorry for getting back to you so late. I haven’t received any of your letters until now, because my parents and I were on a trip to France. You should really get your own owl, the postal ones don’t deliver outside the country, you know?

Anyway, I’m sorry again for making you wait so long without news. Your first letter dated two weeks ago, and your last one two days after that. Impatient, are we?

How are you? Has summer been treating you well? 

I bet you’re sleeping in a lot. Did you remember to go to bed early like I keep telling you? Just because I’m not there to nag you now, doesn’t mean I won’t when we’re back at Hogwarts, mister.

How has training been? I hope you’re taking care of yourself and not overdo it. You’re brilliant, Malcolm, but you’re also human. I worry about you. 

As for me, this summer hasn’t been all that enjoyable. I would rather not go into details over a letter, so I’m wondering, would you like to meet up sometime soon?

I’m with the Weasleys now and Harry is coming too in a few hours. We plan on going to Diagon Alley in a few days to support Fred and George’s new shop. Please come, I would really like to see you, even if it’s just for a short while before we board the train back to Hogwarts. 

Let me know. Errol will wait however long for you to write a response, as long as you give him lots of chin scritches. Do try to be patient when you put the letter back in his holster, Errol is very ticklish if you accidentally touch his lower flank.

I hope to see you soon.

Missing you,

Hermione

Malcolm has never been in love, not really, but he reckons it must be something similar to this. Almost half a day has passed, and yet he still can’t put the letter down. 

He rereads each sentence every time he finishes them, and cradles the parchment to his chest every time the back of his eyes sting something fierce. Rory and Poppy were quite affectionate with him, and Caitlyn too, in her own way, but Hermione simply has a way with words that makes his heart race. 

Something hard suddenly hits his head and startles him out of his musings. Malcolm blinks, turns around and finds himself at the center of Caitlyn’s nastiest glares up to date.

“What…?” He asks meekly, swallowing.

“Much as we all would love to hear about the latest development of your situationship,” Mrs. Cromwell snorts, and Malcolm’s jaw drops. How the hell does she even know what that word means? “You have customers waiting.”

Head swiveling, Malcolm just about cringes in embarrassment. 

A middle-aged couple is standing before him, waiting, and their strained smiles tell him they’ve been doing so for a while now. Malcolm hurries to stow the letter back inside his book and shoves the whole thing under the table for good measure, before putting on a smile that even a Malfoy would consider as fake. 

“Hi! Welcome to The Keepers, how may I help you today?”

The woman, who has chestnut curls, gestures over her shoulder. Her husband is only a bit taller than her, and unlike most men Malcolm has seen coming in here with a partner, he stands at her side and not in front, which sadly doesn’t happen all that often.

“Hello, we were introduced to your establishment by an acquaintance. Is it true you provide consultations and reading materials for Muggle-born families?”

“Yes,” He replies shortly, but his tone is friendly and welcoming. “What are you searching for in particular, ma’am?”

“Oh, please. Call me Jean.” She extends her hand for a shake, and Malcolm accepts it. Her skin feels like those that wear latex gloves for a long time every day. Must be a doctor. “And this is my husband, John.”

“How do you do?” John also offers a handshake, Malcolm quietly noting his skin tissues are even more roughened than his wife’s. They must have a practice together.

“I’m brilliant, John.” He grins, giving the man two pumps before letting go, just as he was taught. His smile widens when John’s eyes glimmer in subtle approval, softening when he looks back at Jean. “My name is Malcolm. What can I do for you lovely couple today?”

The way their beaming smiles immediately drop is concerning, to say the least. 

Malcolm doesn’t feel threatened, if he did he would have already pulled out his wand and alerted Caitlyn, but Rory’s shield has stood tall for decades and, for some reasons, Malcolm feels like he can trust these two. 

“Can you tell us anything about Voldemort?”

Three things happen at the same time. Malcolm drops his jaw, Caitlyn drops her clipboard, and Mrs. Cromwell drops to the floor. 

Literally. The poor woman just slid out of her chair like a ragged doll, completely frozen in shock. 

“Cait!”

“On it!” Faster than a hurricane, Caitlyn scoops Mrs. Cromwell onto her arms and pivots towards the stairs. “I’m using your pullout bed!”

“Just make sure to dust it first!” Malcolm yells back, whistling low at how effortlessly Caitlyn carries Mrs. Cromwell across the store and up the flight of stairs. He needs to work on his arms.

“Excuse me?”

Right. Working, he needs to do that.

“So,” He turns back, his smile perhaps borderlining creepy if the way both Jean and John flinch. “Will you please sit down at one of the tables over there? It's going to be a long talk and you’ll probably be grateful you’re already sitting.”

Both of them turn a little pale, but John steps up and gently leads Jean over where Malcolm is pointing. As they walk, Malcolm whips out his wand and waves it in the other direction, levitating a few glasses of water and having them follow him as he, well, follows them.

Jean and John watch the glasses with wary eyes, seemingly unused to displays of carefree magic. Malcolm takes careful note, reaching out to take the glasses in his hands before he hands them over.

It's polite and helps reassure them that he won't spill anything on their persons. A win-win. 

“Alright,” Malcolm shuffles, spreading his legs and placing his arms on his knees. “First of all, I’d like to apologize for whatever that was just now. We usually don't hear his name spoken out loud in broad daylight, I hope you understand.”

“If that’s the reaction you get every time, I can understand why.”

Malcolm smiles apologetically at Jean, nudging towards her a plate of cookies. “We call him You-Know-Who around these parts. Personally I don’t get it, but it helps make people feel less afraid. Mrs. Cromwell, who you just saw, read up about him extensively when she first heard of him as well, which explains the terror.”

“He sounds like a cartoon villain.” John, you have no idea. “So who is this You-Know-Who?”

“May I ask where you guys heard this name from first? Just so I have a frame of reference.”

“From our daughter.” Malcolm’s eyebrows raise high. “She’s a student at Hogwarts, you see. Actually, you might know her, she’s—”

A hand gently lands on Jean’s knee, belonging to that of a smiling John. “Let’s not get distracted, love. We can brag about our amazing daughter once we’re done.”

Malcolm smiles, but says nothing. 

If he had a sickle for every time a proud pair of Muggle parents wanted to brag to him about how they were sure their child was going to grow up to become one of the greatest wizards the world’s ever seen, he’d probably own more than half the stocks in Nimbus Racing Broom Company by now. 

Something about it tastes awfully bitter to him. He hasn’t thought about them in a long time, but sometimes he does wonder what would have happened if his birth parents could have accepted him for who he is. 

Though he is a lesbian, trans and a magical being. Perhaps that’s asking for a lot. 

“We first saw it in one of our precious girl’s journals.” At his eyebrow quirk, John raises both his hands. “We weren’t snooping. She left it on the coffee table where I was watching TV and my eyes saw it written in big, bold letters.”

Jean nods. “When he tried asking her what it meant, she snapped at him, grabbed her journal and fled to her room.”

“And is that unusual?” Malcolm asks.

“No. At least, not until recently.” Jean’s face falls, and Malcolm’s heart twinges. 

“Ever since she was admitted to Hogwarts, she’s been very distant.” John explains on his wife’s behalf, who now looks at her cup of water like it’s just died in her arms. “We barely hear from her for months, and when she gets home, she doesn’t want to talk to us because we can’t understand what she’s talking about.”

It’s not an uncommon phenomenon, if he’s honest. There’s a distinctive line between the Muggle world and the wizarding world that feels almost like two opposite ends of the globe, and as someone who grew up in both, Malcolm knows better than anyone the struggles to integrate the two worlds.

Regardless, this might just be a tad bit out of his pay range, so Malcolm reigns the conversation back in. 

“The name you saw in your daughter’s journal belongs to a very notorious dark wizard in our world.” Malcolm pauses to let his words sink in. “An elitist, self-hating tyrant who couldn’t accept that non-purebloods also have a place in the wizarding world. He started a war in the 70s and was defeated in 1981. A lot of people died. No one knows for sure where he is now, most assume he’s dead.”

There’s no point in scaring Jean and John with recent news. Or so Malcolm thinks.

“People are saying he’s back.”

He doesn’t flinch. “From whom did you hear that?”

“The Daily Prophet.” Of course, he should’ve known. “Honey, will you please?”

Malcolm isn’t surprised to see John pull out the same edition of The Daily Prophet that features the bridge collapse happening earlier this week. Assuming they’ve also read the insides, detailing “Former” Death Eater Lucius Malfoy currently on trial for war crimes. 

Still, this makes things just a tad bit harder than necessary.

“Yes.” He says slowly. Thinking. “There have been signs of him resurfacing.”

Jean gasps, a low, terrified thing. “And he targets Muggleborns? Like you said?”

He nods, uncomfortable at how both their faces pale. So he says the first thing that pops into his mind. 

“But The Ministry is doing their best to protect us. As of right now, we’re safe.”

His acting must’ve improved, because Jean and John visibly deflate in relief. He feels guilty essentially lying to them, but there’s no point in stirring up panic when he himself doesn’t know for sure the proper course of action.

“See, love?” John nudges his wife with a soft smile. “I told you, the Finch-Fletchleys are probably just on holidays. No need to worry.”

Wait, what?

“I’m sorry, the Finch-Fletchleys?”

“Yes,” Jean nods, her smile taking on the same proud note as before. “Her son is in the same year as our daughter, and he’s also a Muggle-born. We’ve been keeping in contact with them via post for the past five years. I haven’t heard anything from them for a week now, so I got a little worried. But if The Ministry is really doing their best as you say, then maybe I was just overthinking it.”

Shit. 

Shit, shit, shit.

I need to deliver this news to Caitlyn, and the Order, and whoever the fuck else can help. Another Muggle-born family gone missing? This is a premium level of shite.

None of his panic showing, Malcolm conjures his widest grin up to date. 

“What a coincidence. I’m in his year too.”

The couple practically perks up like spring, replacing the tension in the air with something a little more joyful. Malcolm grins, genuinely this time, feeling quite proud of himself.

“Would you happen to know our daughter, Hermione? She’s the top of her year, we’ve heard.”

And his world promptly burns to a crisp.

“Your daughter is… Hermione?” Malcolm gulps, his bravado and casual charm completely gone. “Hermione Granger?”

Jean nods, her smile growing twice as wide.

“Yes. Yes, that's her. Our precious Hermione. Are you friends?”

We had our tongues in each other’s mouths more often than not but, uh, sure? 

“Yes, we’re friends.” He laughs, suddenly incapable of meeting John’s— Mr. Granger’s eyes. Can he tell Malcolm on multiple occasions has stuck his tongue down his daughter's throat? “Hermione is top of our year like you said, though I’d say she’s the most brilliant witch I’ve ever met. Some of our peers call her the Brightest Witch of The Ages.” 

Mrs. Granger does an endearing rapid clap that’s just too adorable not to smile at.

“Our Hermione! Did you hear that, dear? Brightest Witch of The Ages! Isn't that wonderful?”

“It is.” Malcolm chances a look, and finds Mr. Granger already staring at him. “And you, Malcolm?”

He laughs, still awkward, scratching the back of his neck.

“Oh, I’m— you can say I’m high on the ranking as well. I’m a Ravenclaw, so no surprise there.”

The Grangers end up staying for over an hour. 

Malcolm does his best to answer their questions, from his own academic achievements at Hogwarts (they managed to pry out of him the knowledge that he is second place in their year) to the more mundane aspects of the wizarding world (he didn't expect to be extensively interrogated about how magical people clean their teeth without ever going to the dentist) (spoiler: they don't; potions work for a lot of things, this is one of them).

Despite the nerve-wrecking fact that they are the parents of the girl who he really likes, Jean and John Granger are a very sweet couple and it's clear as day how much they love their daughter. 

A part of Malcolm is jealous, which he promptly tries to squash under the boot of his shoes. That's not a feeling he wants to associate with Hermione ever.

Waving them goodbye with a promise to say hi should they meet again at King’s Cross on September 1st, Malcolm closes the door to their shop and immediately slams his head against the wood.

He sadly doesn't get to do it more than once before a voice comes up behind him, practically dripping with amusement.

“Oh would you look at that, a lesbian in its natural habitat.”

It's to no one's surprise that Malcolm decides to walk straight out, heading for the inventory back room. He’d rather deal with spider webs and whatever other 8-legged monsters lurking in the shadows than Caitlyn’s smug smile and Mrs. Cromwell’s conspiratorial laugh.

“Aren't you forgetting something?”

He pauses, grits his teeth. “Accio Hermione’s letter!”

As soon as the envelope lands in his hand, Malcolm slams the door shut, though not before two breathy laughs slip through its crack. 

He’ll take revenge on his obnoxious sister later. Right now, he deserves to reread Hermione saying she missed him for as many times as he’d like.  

He can only hope she’s doing the same. 

—

“Ginny, how many letters can I send before I start to come off as desperate?”

Reclining against the living room chair, Ginny doesn’t stop flipping through The Daily Prophet. Surely, Hermione’s current crisis is way more interesting than whatever Quidditch news in circulation. 

“Probably way more than you’d think, considering the fact that you have had Malcolm Wake wrapped around your pinky since before you even met.”

Hermione winces at the sound of her plate clanking loudly against the sink, quietly hoping Molly Weasley isn’t around to hear and come investigate. Hermione adores the sweet woman, but she can be really weird about doing every-day normal things, especially household chores. 

“I’m being serious over here.”

“And I’ve been saying this for years,” Ginny finally puts down her newspaper, a brow raised high. “You’re pretty, Hermione. People notice you.”

“But without even talking to me?” Giving up altogether, Hermione mumbles a cleaning spell. Her dirty plates are squeaky clean in a blink of an eye. Satisfied, she turns around to face her friend. “Pardon me if I find that hard to believe. Are you sure you haven’t been talking about me beforehand?”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “You’re leading me to get the answer you want and that’s not going to work this time.”

Scoffing to hide her self-conscious flinch, Hermione crosses her arms over her chest.

“And you’re still not answering my question.”

“Come on, Hermione. I don’t know what else I can say that will make you believe Malcolm’s been quietly crushing on you since first year and will gladly write back to you as many times as you want.”

Truth be told, Hermione isn’t surprised by it. On more than one occasion, Malcolm has made his feelings for her loud and clear with his soft eyes and affectionate smiles, and so Hermione’s initial reaction is more of flatter, fluster, and flutter. 

That still doesn’t change how nervous she is about him. But for reasons she can’t easily admit to anyone.

“I don’t know how to do this, okay?”

Hermione swallows, squirming at her own vulnerability. Ginny’s face softening only further increases her self-consciousness, making Hermione have to look away. 

The Weasleys’ Burrow is constantly warm throughout the months, a fact Hermione severely took for granted but no longer after having spent a few weeks in Southern France. 

A thud echoes nearby, Hermione glances over and finds Ginny with her arms cushioning her head on the living room couch. It's a big thing that holds more heart and love than any other place she knows. 

“It's weird, isn’t it? Being out.”

Trust Ginny to never sugarcoat her problems. “Yes.”

“You like it though?”

“I do.” Hermione knows that for sure. “It feels like I’ve been waiting forever to tell everyone, but now that it happened, I can’t help but feel…”

Ginny’s grin turns lopsided. “Like it should be a much bigger deal than it actually is?”

“Yes!” Hermione dives down next to her friend, making the cushions bounce with the sudden addition of her weight. “Why do I feel like this? Did you use to feel this way?”

Everyone knows Ginny Weasley is bisexual. She doesn't flaunt it, per se, but she doesn't exactly hide it either. If anyone asks, she’ll proudly say she is also into girls, and Hermione is left in awe of her friend every time.

“Quite. I was afraid to come out to my family at first— actually, I did it on this very couch. We were talking about visiting Charlie again when I just dropped the bomb out of nowhere. Dad looked like he was about to have a heart attack, but mom only asked Does this mean I can potentially have another daughter?”

Hermione laughs freely, not even a little surprised at Molly’s train of thought. 

“The point is,” Ginny playfully rolls her eyes. As if Hermione can't see the corner of her lips curled up. “I get it. You were expecting your world to end but no one who is worth a damn blinks an eye, it's perfectly fine to feel disappointed.”

“But I shouldn't, right?” Hermione exhales. “I should be grateful.”

Once again, Ginny sees through her right away. “You haven't told your parents.”

Swallowing tears, Hermione shakes her head. 

“I couldn't. Not after our fight before I came here and them practically guilt-tripping me on the way out the door.”

It was a horrible argument that stemmed from the smallest things. Hermione is self-aware enough to realize she isn't entirely blameless, but she remains stubborn in her opinion that this is for their own good.

Which only makes her feel more guilty, especially in light of what she already plans on doing by the end of this school year. Hermione doesn't want to, really, but to keep her parents alive, she’ll do whatever it takes.

No matter what it might cost her in the end.

“Hey,” An elbow softly nudges her in the ribs, startling Hermione out of her thoughts. “Forget about that right now. It's summer, you should be enjoying yourself. How is it going with you and Malcolm?”

The name immediately brings a smile to her face, one that makes Ginny squeal with poorly-suppressed glee. Hermione doesn’t wipe it off, only widening it out of Ginny’s sight as she reaches for the notebook she carries around everywhere these days.

Nestled in between the pages, Hermione plucks out a faintly vanilla-scented letter. She unfolds the parchment, feeling a rush of affection at the mere sight of his messy handwriting, then hands it over to an eager Ginny. 

“See for yourself.” 

Hermione has reread Malcolm’s letter no less than ten times ever since Errol came back with it, and yet still she can’t resist the urge to do so one more time, peering over Ginny’s shoulder.

Dear Hermione,

I’m so glad you’re okay! 

I hear you about getting my own owl. Caitlyn and I are already perusing the list of available ones for adoption (I’m pretty sure Cait is fixated on this tiny tabby thing— are gray owls also called tabby?— because it has her girlfriend’s eyes. I’m going to make fun of her.)

When we meet, you must tell me all about France. I actually know French— Poppy wanted to be a pastry chef, Paris was on her bucket list— we can be ‘that duo’ who annoy everyone around them with random bursts of français :-)) (that’s me smiling) (the extra parentheses is for my dimple) (I don’t know why I just told you that).

I’m doing well, I promise. Cait is making me train extensively to prepare for what’s coming, but she is also making me hot chocolate every time we wrap up to reward me. I really like her sometimes (a lot of times).

Now who’s impatient? 

I’ll meet you at Diagon Alley at whatever time of your choosing. Be ready to be smothered because I, at the risk of sounding like my own sister, miss you something terribly. Don’t laugh at me, okay?

Errol is a perfect gentleman, by the way. He purrs, did you know that? 

I’m counting down every second till we meet again.

Thinking of you,

Malcolm

“This is coming from someone with whom you haven’t even gone out on a date yet?”

Hermione blinks, a bit peeved at having her perfectly accurate envisioning of Malcolm Wake’s pretty, dimpled smile. 

“What do you mean?”

An unimpressed eyebrow rises. “You told me he hasn’t taken you out yet. Was that a lie?”

“No. But need I remind you, we had Fascist Barbie glued to our behinds for 9 consecutive months.” 

“The fact that you chose that name for her while we have an actual fascist at hand is duly noted.” Ginny bats away Hermione’s weak attacks, waving the letter like a declaration. “But the point stands. You haven’t defined things, and yet he already sounds like he’s halfway through making you a promise ring.”

Hermione’s cheeks flare with heat, hiding her face behind Malcolm’s letter that she just snatched back. 

Her feelings aren’t exactly new. Although this is her first time dating since she’s been out, Hermione isn’t a stranger to feeling flutters in her heart when she sees someone she deems attractive.

Hell, one is sitting right next to her. 

But there's something different about Malcolm Wake. But that's what everyone always says.

“That’s just how he is.” Hermione explains, her brain conjuring up images of the last times they spent together after the Battle of The Department of Mysteries. “Gentle, attentive, brilliant, kind, sweet, and—”  

A particular memory surges to the forefront of her mind. 

In it, they're sitting in Malcolm’s bedroom. This is a big deal for Hermione, who has never been and has not known Ravenclaws get their own bedrooms. The scale only grows when the first thing Malcolm says is—

“I was in the middle of first-year Potion class with Snape when I found out I could see traces of ancient magic.”

What follows is 30 minutes of them discussing which magic is categorized as ‘ancient’. Hermione almost feels guilty for getting so distracted, but Malcolm says he was prepared for her curiosity and that Hermione was very cute for following his script to a T.

Hermione is perfectly aware she is being teased, but she graciously accepts the cheek kisses in return for Malcolm elaborating more on how he can communicate with Hogwarts like an old friend.

The memory shifts slightly, showing a more somber moment in between Malcolm having Hermione in his lap as they pour over Rory’s books together. 

Her back is still pressed against his torso, which is how she can hear the subtle hitch of his breath, something he only does when he's trying to collect his nerves.

He did the same thing when they first met in Umbridge’s Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Adorable.

“I’m not that powerful, to be honest. Sure, my magic is a little stronger and I’m more attuned to it than the average Hogwarts student, but if it wasn't for Rory’s training, I probably never would've known I had such a gift.”

“Was Rory your teacher?”

“Hmm. Sometimes it felt like that's all she was.”

Rory Watson is clearly a sensitive spot on Malcolm’s conscience. Someone so powerful and accomplished so much, there could only be one reason why Hermione had never seen her name in between the pages lovingly put on display. 

She didn't want to be known. 

“I love them. Till the end of the world, I would've done everything to keep them with me forever. But something happened. Something bad. And it broke all of us in ways I’m still too scared to think about.”

Hermione doesn't pry. She doesn't need to, not when Malcolm’s grief and self-blame is written all over his face. His eyelashes flutter with newborn tears and taste a lot like love under her lips.

Whatever happened, Malcolm thinks it's his fault. Hermione knows a lot about everyone and everything, her being highly logical allows her to look past extraneous detail and perceive clearly that which others overlook, and she is confident that things aren't as simple as they seem. 

Regardless, she has the answer she needs, even if he doesn't know yet the extent to how detailed it goes. She’ll tell him if the situation calls for it, but not now.

Not now when she knows she can lean just a little back and will be met with his soft lips. Not now when she can tilt her head an inch to the side and he will know to caress her chin as he kisses her deeper. Not now when she finds her reason to fight in tangling her fingers in his hair and arching her chest so it meets his loving hand.

No. Definitely not now. 

Maybe not ever. If she can help it. 

“I can’t trust him.”

Hermione blinks, surprised to find a solemn-looking Ginny. “Why not?”

It’s a genuine question. But not one Hermione doesn’t already know the answer.

Ginny looks at her like she knows it too. “What happened in the Department of Mysteries, I can’t just look past it. I know what I saw and honestly I’m so fucking scared to even breathe near someone so powerful.” At Hermione’s slight squirmish look, Ginny adds. “I also know you guys know things I don’t and you aren’t planning on telling.”

“Ginny, that’s not—”

“Personal, I know.” Hermione huffs, peeved at being interrupted. “And it’s not like you haven’t done it before.”

Hermione’s heart twinges painfully, because there are more truths to Ginny’s words than even she knows. When she braves a glance, Hermione finds Ginny looking far less angry than she expected. 

That makes her feel even worse.

“For what it’s worth,” Ginny says with a genuine smile. “I trust all three of you. So if you say he’s good…”

Hermione nods fiercely, finally finding her words again. “He’s so good, I promise. He’s the best.” She pauses, words and feelings mixing and matching in her head. “He’s, I, I think I might be in—”

“Good morning, girls!”

Molly Weasley is all beaming smiles and sunny red hair as she bounds down the stairs and into the kitchen. Hermione instinctively sits straight up in greeting, a smile already primed on her face.

“Good morning, Mrs. Weasley.” 

“Morning, mum.” 

Molly nods at both of them with a warm smile, her sleeves already rolled up in preparation. Hermione is faintly aware they’re having a huge dinner today to welcome Harry, who is coming from Little Winging in just a few short hours, so Molly already getting ready to slave away isn’t a surprising sight.

What does surprise Hermione is when Molly forgoes striding into her usual work area to hover by the couch, wearing a smile that spells trouble.

“I couldn’t help but overhear. Are you dating someone?”

A thousand answers on the tip of her tongue, Hermione decides to go for her most honest one.

“We haven’t defined our relationship to be honest, but we’re spending a lot of time together.”

Molly hums. “By the looks of things, you really like him. You haven’t told him that?” Hermione shakes her head. “Oh, why not? With boys, you have to make your intentions clear, dear. They’d be quite oblivious and incompetent otherwise. Girls are a different story, of course.”

In response to Hermione’s silent surprise, Ginny chimes in.

“Mum is bisexual too.” That does explain a lot. “And mum, it's not a boy.”

Molly blinks, her head tilted in askance. “Oh?”

“You remember who I told you helped me fish out my books after some douchebag dunked them in the fountain in my second year?”

Molly’s face quite literally brightens up with recognition, frantically snapping her fingers like a jazz singer.

“Oh, yes. The little thing, what was her name? Oh—”

“He changed his name.” Ginny cuts her off swiftly, wincing at her mother’s scolding glare. “Sorry. It’s just impolite to mention a trans person’s old name.”

Come to think of it, perhaps they shouldn’t be outing the fact that Malcolm is trans to someone else without his permission. Hermione glances warily at Ginny, figuring if she’s known him for longer, then surely she knows if Malcolm is okay with having his identity being told.

“His name is Malcolm Wake.” Hermione continues, half wondering if he’ll ever tell her his birth name as well. Not that he has to, she’s just curious. “He’s in our year and a Ravenclaw.”

Molly tuts her tongue, but thankfully doesn’t object. “Dearie, I already knew. I’m friends with one of his mums.” 

As if she didn't just drop a bomb, Molly proceeds into the kitchen. Hermione turns to Ginny, who looks equally surprised, and together fold themselves over the couch in poorly-suppressed anticipation.

“You were?”

“Of course.” Molly scoffs as she puts on her apron. “Everyone who's anyone is familiar with the Sweetings. Poppy and her grandmother practically built the Department of Care for Magical Creatures as it is today.”

Poppy, yes. That's who Malcolm refers to as mum. He calls Rory by mom. 

“What were they famous for, Mrs. Weasley?”

“Gosh, where do I even begin?” Molly whips out her wand, two frying pans come flying out of the cupboard. “Abolishment of acromantula inbreeding, legitimization of siren and human diplomatic relationships, de-stigmatization of dragons. Your brother Charlie actually went into the dragon caretaking business because of her.”

Ginny makes a curious noise. “So that's where his childhood dream came from.”

“In a way, yes. All thanks to Poppy’s book your father gave Charlie for Christmas.” Molly waves her wand again, starting several fires on her stovetop. “More than that, Poppy Sweeting was an absolute sweetheart. When you all were just getting started at Hogwarts, some of the parents decided to host PTA meetings outside working hours. Poppy never missed a session.”

Eyes glimmering with good memories, Molly suddenly pauses, freezing her stirring of a boiling pot of water. Ginny and Hermione glance at each other, but don’t say anything. 

Eventually the silence is filled again.

“They adopted him, you know.” Molly’s voice shakes a little as she tells them, her face somber. “Rescued him from horrible, horrible Muggles.”

Ginny immediately asks, angry for an answer. 

“How horrible are we talking about?”

But Molly shakes her head. “She wouldn’t go into details, but I imagine it’s something like Harry’s family.”

Both Weasley women turn to Hermione as if asking for confirmation. She can’t in good conscience tell them everything Malcolm has told her, how his birth parents were the first to teach him pain instead of love. 

Thus, Hermione only gives a weak nod. The devastated look on Molly’s face is almost unbearable. 

“We figured.” Molly swallows, focusing back on her cooking. “Poppy never went into details. And Rory was not exactly present.”

“His other mom, right? What did she do?” Ginny asks, mindfully changing the subject. 

Molly hums, a hand on her hip as she looks up at the ceiling. 

“We don’t know much about her, really. I imagine she also worked with The Ministry, perhaps with the Department of Mysteries, given how secretive Poppy tended to be about her wife’s line of work. Rory attended the meetings a few times, and every one she spent bragging about Malcolm and how brilliantly he was doing at school. They were very proud of him.”

The use of a past tense doesn’t escape anyone. Hermione is aware that most wizarding families know each other, thus the majority of them must’ve seen the obituary in the Daily Prophet regarding both of their passings at the start of her fifth year. There was no mention of a cause of death, just that both Rory and Poppy will be missed for their contributions to the wizarding world.

For Poppy, evidently it's her academic research. For Rory, her classified work with The Ministry. Last but not least, their shop. 

“I hear they have a bookstore that caters to Muggles and Muggle-borns.”

“Hmm, yes.” Molly nods, her voice light again. “Perhaps we can all make a trip out there, oh I know Arthur would be thrilled.”

As if summoned, loud footsteps come bounding down the stairs. As the twins practically swarm their mother with breakfast requests, Hermione catches Ron already looking for her before his shoes even touch the wooden floor, his warm eyes shining with the sort of affection that makes her skin crawl, and she’s not the only one. 

“You need to nip that in the bud before anyone gets hurt.”

Sighing, Hermione leaps off the couch without answering. She deliberately ignores Ron’s eyes boring into the side of her head and Ginny’s at her back, favoring rolling up her own sleeves to help Molly with the cooking. 

Anything to distract herself from the inevitability of someone getting hurt, including herself. 

—

Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes is a smashing hit. 

Malcolm could see the store after having taken just one step past the enchanted brick wall, its colorful lights and decorations acting like a Peeves-homing beacon. He walks leisurely towards it, all the while taking in the sight of a, for the first time in probably a long time, barren Diagon Alley.

His heart breaks at the sight of broken windows and kicked down doors, memories flashing through his mind faster than a record player. He remembers his first trip like it was yesterday, escorted and accompanied by Professor McGonagall as he clumsily went about gathering his school supplies, and the next dozen trips with Rory and Poppy by his side. 

Malcolm has countless good memories here. 

Arguing in advocacy for ballpoint pens in Amanuensis Quills to McGonagall’s amusement, hiding behind his parents’ back as they passed by Bufo’s so he won’t make eye contact with the creepy toads on window displays, being nosy about his parents’ business at Crispa Culpepper's Drugs & Preparations and ended up knocking over an entire shelf of Wiggenweld Potions, spending an absurd amount of time loitering at Flourish and Blotts while waiting for his parents to return from Gringotts, and so on. 

Most memorable of them all is the first time he bought a wand.

“Oh no,” Malcolm’s bottom lip quivers, scanning desperately for any sign of the kind old wandmaker to no avail. “They got Ollivanders.”

Malcolm makes a mental note to report back to Caitlyn. Although he can’t be sure why Voldemort would want anything to do with a wandmaker, it’s better to be safe than sorry. 

Dread weighing heavily on his chest, Malcolm shakes it off not unlike a dog and speeds over to the only open store within a mile radius.

Walking into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes feels like stepping out of Knockturn Alley and into Diagon Alley. 

“Step up, step up!”

Malcolm sees the Weasley Twins right away, standing on a counter in matching magenta. Their voices carry effortlessly across the shop without assistance of a microphone or a voice amplifying spell, appealing to the perusing mass with nothing but two pretty smiles and effortless charisma.  

“We've got Fainting Fancies—”

“—and Nosebleed Nougat.”

“And just in time to school—“

“Puking Pastilles!” 

Dodging an incoming Ever-Bashing Boomerang, Malcolm starts weaving through the crowd, eyes darting back and forth looking for his target. Hermione didn’t exactly state where she would be, only giving a timeframe so he knows when to arrive, thus leading him to rely on his observation skill to somehow navigate her in this sea of hormonal and mischievous teenagers. 

Which is proven to be more difficult than he thought. So far, the only people meeting his eyes are his friends from Ravenclaw and Dumbledore’s Army respectively. 

That is until Malcolm’s ear picks up on a rather familiar voice.

“Ouch, Ron! That hurts!”

Following it, Malcolm already has his wand out in preparation for anything that might greet him. No Death Eaters would blatantly wander into a joke-shop in broad daylight, of course, but better be safe than sorry.

He’s been saying that a lot lately. If that’s not telling of the time they’re living in, he doesn’t know what does.

“Ronald, look what you did. Hermione spent hours on her hair.”

“Sorry! I didn’t know it was going to do that!”

Finally spotting them near the same stairs right under where Fred and George are standing, Malcolm takes a second to assess the situation. Upon finding no actual danger, he allows himself a smile and lets his legs move forward without input, trusting they will take him where he needs to go.

Hermione. Beautiful, wonderful, and brilliant Hermione. 

Who still looks gorgeous as ever trying to hide her hair that’s been sizzled and blown up to three times its original size. Malcolm looks around, and sure enough, finds all of her friends at the scene of the crime. 

Ron is clearly the culprit, wearing a glove that presumably lets out a burst of electricity and makes one’s hair go all frizzy. His victim, Hermione, is on the verge of tears, looking wordlessly around for help. Besides her are Harry and Ginny, the former shrugging in resignation and the latter glaring at Ron something fierce.

Malcolm is almost too intimidated to approach them, especially when they’re together in a pack, but Ginny catches his eyes over Hermione’s shoulder and wordlessly beckons him over. Having no other choice, Malcom whips out his wand and focuses on fixing Hermione’s problem for her.

Maybe this’ll get him a kiss. 

“Corrigo.”

Her hair is already back to the way it was before Hermione turns around and faces him. Malcolm’s proud smile is only half-formed before it’s buried in the same chestnut curls he keeps dreaming about at night, his arms automatically going to wrap around her waist and returning her hug.

It will never escape him how good it feels to have her in his arms. Which is honestly very distracting and very detrimental to his productivity, because how is he expected to work on any assignment for Charms or, Merlin forbid, Defense Against the Dark Arts when all he can think about is getting to bury his head in the crook of her neck. 

Malcolm does exactly that, a mixture of her shampoo and her perfume surging up his nose and making his knees grow weak. He isn’t alone, Hermione’s breath audibly stuttering before placing a gentle peck on the skin just under his earlobe. 

He got his wish. 

“Someone missed me.” He whispers, hearing her shake with laughter by his ear. There’s goosebumps everywhere. 

“I really did.” She squeezes his shoulders one last time, before letting go.

Malcolm is reluctant to do the same, but understands she might be uncomfortable with being clingy in front of her guy friends. So he lets her move them however she likes, quietly delighting when she allows him to hold her hand, fingers intertwined.

Lost in her eyes, Malcolm doesn’t notice Ginny telling them she’s leaving. He only later spots her red hair disappearing into a sea of people, thus leaving him with the girl he’s possibly dating and her two best friends. 

Why does it lowkey feel like he’s being cornered?

Still, not wanting to be rude, Malcolm turns to greet both Ron and Harry.

“Hello. What were you guys playing with?” 

In the former's hand is the bright green glove from before. “Electric Shock Shake. One of Fred and George’s inventions.”

“It shoots out small lightning bolts onto anyone who touches it.” Harry explains, brows furrowed. “Though I don't know why anyone would want to touch a green glove for that matter.”

Malcolm chuckles. “Good point. The Muggle version of this is way better concealed.”

“There's a Muggle version?” Ron asks, sounding explicitly astonished.

“We keep telling you, Ronald.” Hermione huffs, and Harry nods. 

“I thought you were joking.” He takes off the glove, waving it around. “How would it even work? Is this like that thing you guys kept talking about, uh, electricity?”

“Not quite.”

Malcolm tentatively opens his hand for the glove, and thankfully Ron gives it to him without objection. He puts it on, feeling absolutely nothing. 

He zaps himself, and feels shivers running down his spines. It feels almost like the lightning bolt he summoned in the Department of Mysteries, but a thousand times weaker. 

At least his hair is intact. That's odd.

“In the Muggle world, these would be called joy buzzers. It's all practical. So there’s a very small disc, barely the size of a pebble. Inside it is a coiled mainspring, and you wear the disc in your palm. When you shake hands with another person, a button on the disc releases the spring, which rapidly unwinds creating a vibration that mimics an electric shock. It's completely harmless, mostly done to startle someone and not hurt them or their hair.”

Malcolm’s quite proud of that last one, thinking himself witty, and so he expects at least a light chuckle. When there is nothing but silence, he looks up from his fiddling and finds three pairs of eyes staring at him in various degrees of surprise.

A mortified flush creeps up the back of his neck, making him wince.

“Sorry. Was I rambling?”

“No.” Hermione answers first, almost automatically. Her pretty mouth is ajar and her eyes shimmering something that explodes the goosebumps on his arms far more effectively than the Electric Shock Shake. “I didn't know you knew so much about this.”

He shrugs, squirming from the attention. He genuinely only wanted to give a fun fact, not turn this into a whole lecturing moment. 

“I grew up with electricians, and I really like science.”

Only paying attention to Hermione, Malcolm can see directly how her pupils dilate. He’s a little confused at the sudden change, even more so by the implication, but is soon distracted by how she bites down on her bottom lip as she watches him.

“You’ll have to tell me more about it.” She says, like a promise.

He gulps, nodding. “Of course.”

A scoff puts a crack in their little bubble. “Well, this has been nice. I’m just going to leave.”

Ron storms away before any one of them can say anything. Harry looks like he’s about to follow, but doesn't.

This, somehow, surprises Malcolm the most. 

“Harry?”

“I’ll catch up to him in a minute. I just wanted to talk to you.”

Malcolm has no idea why he’s only now seeing it. The Boy Who Lived looks the happiest he’s ever seen him, with his green eyes shining bright behind his glasses and his posture more relaxed and carefree.

Harry looks like he’s a second away from pulling Malcolm in for a hug, and perhaps the only reason why he doesn't is because Hermione is still stuck to him like glue. 

“My godfather is alive and I have you to thank for it.” 

Right. Hermione never quite explained to him how Sirius Black became, or was already, Harry Potter’s godfather. But Malcolm will gladly take it at face value, if that means Harry can get away from the aunt and uncle who clearly hates their kind. 

Still, this means he knows it was Malcolm behind that little feat in the Department of Mysteries. And he has to be very careful about what he says next, lest Voldemort can see this memory at a later time.

“You’re very welcome, Harry.”

Perhaps a bit curt, but it seems enough for Harry, who gives them both a smile before he throws an awkward thumbs up and hurries to catch up to Ron. Which leaves just Malcolm and Hermione all on their lonesome.

“So your friends don’t like me.”

Do they have better things to talk about? 

Yes.

Does it bother Malcolm more than he’s trying to make it seem?

Also yes. 

“That’s not true.” Hermione immediately says, full of conviction. “Harry likes you. Ginny likes you too. And Neville.”

He huffs a laugh. “The best you can think of is Neville?”

“Don’t be mean.” She scolds him, though he hopes she knows he’s only joking. “And so what? Who cares if they don’t like you. I like you.”

A smile comes easily to him, and so is the decision to let go of her hand. He doesn’t let her question herself, wondering if she said or did something wrong, but instead readily welcomes the startled squeak she makes as she is pulled closer to his chest.

They're quite similar in height, but Hermione still has to look up in order to meet his eyes. Blinking under long eyelashes and her hands on his chest, Malcolm has never thought she looked more beautiful. 

“You like me?” He asks, sounding far too happy with himself.

“Of course,” She answers, her words hurried and whispered. She’s blushing, how adorable. “I thought that was obvious.”

He hums, mumbles a spell under his breath, and delights when hers hitches in recognition. The hand hovering over her hip slides to wrap around her waist. When she gasps, he squeezes and uses the same grip to pull her in for a kiss.

Perhaps his mom didn’t have him using the Notice-Me-Not charm to distract everyone else while he kisses the living daylights out of a pretty girl in mind when she taught it to him, but hey, practical application. 

Besides, Rory’s probably done the same thing with Poppy. Their PDA would’ve been outrageous had he not thought them so cute, so he can't imagine how annoying they must've been when they were still horny teenagers.

He chuckles into their next kiss, which promptly turns into a low moan when he feels hands cup his face and fingers card through his hair. 

Not only that, she even tilts his head so she can kiss him deeper, and he’s about damn close to pushing her against the shelf to equal the playing field. 

But he doesn't. Because as brilliant as he is, the charm will wear off soon and he would rather not let the rest of the world know what Hermione Granger looks or sounds like when she is being snogged. 

“Sorry,” He apologizes, panting, as they gently break the kiss. There’s still some of his saliva on her lips, slick and a tiny bit swollen. He probably looks just as disheveled. “You look beautiful. I couldn’t resist.”

On Hermione’s gorgeous face blooms an adorable smile, toeing between the line of bashfulness and pride like a ballerina. Malcolm hugs her tighter.

“Don't be.” She murmurs, tugging his sleeve, as if wants him even closer.

He kisses her on the cheek, feeling her smile widen under his lips. It feels like a bullet shot straight through his heart.

He then kisses her temple, asking in the most gentle way possible. 

“Was that okay?” 

Unlike him, Hermione has only been out for a very short time. Last year, after their little but dramatic display of affection in front of everyone at the Great Hall, Malcolm noticed Hermione had been hesitant about touching him.

He didn’t take it personally, knowing the struggle of revealing who you are and thinking you would be judged differently for it. But as far as he knew, outside of a few asshats who promptly got detention as soon as they opened their mouths, no one gave her trouble for it. 

Still, he wants to check in on her. 

“I haven’t exactly told my parents.” She answers, sounding almost guilty. But then she grins, and it feels like Malcolm has been imagining everything. “But I feel better. Freer, really. Like I’m on top of the world and I can do anything, or be anyone.”

He nods, understanding that better than anyone. “That’s how I felt when I had top surgery as well.” He kisses her again, a brief peck on her lips that lingers for just an extra second. “You’re doing great. If no one’s told you yet, I’m really proud of you.”

Malcolm has had two great parents who constantly told him this. It’s only right that he does the same for the girl whom he adores with his whole heart.

Hermione smiles, but her eyes are teary. Malcolm doesn’t want to see her cry, so he tries something else.

“So, about your friends hating my guts—”

It works. “Oh, shush.” She slaps him on the cheek, laughing when he tries to dodge. “Come on, let’s go join Ginny and you can see for yourself that I’m right.”

To no one's surprise, Ginny is a much better sport than her brother. The first thing she says when she sees them approach, holding hands, is, “You two are so cute, it's almost annoying.”

Malcolm happily accepts being the wallflower of Hermione and Ginny’s conversation, bouncing from Hermione’s first public relationship to Ginny’s current one with Dean Thomas. 

Harry and Ron join them eventually, chit-chatting about finding some Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder they certainly will make a use for. Malcolm occasionally chimes in, otherwise knowing where he’s not welcomed and sticking to Hermione’s side. 

Eventually the store becomes way too crowded for comfort, and Ron suggests them all to leave. Malcolm isn't sure if he should follow, but Hermione needs only pout before he’s the one leading them out the door.

Just like before, the stark contrast between Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and the rest of Diagon Alley is downright disorienting. Especially so now that the sun has fully set, and the only natural light around comes from the silver moon. 

A gust of wind sneaks up on him, and Malcolm squirms in abrupt discomfort. Something about this unnerves him, gets under his skin. He swallows a harsh breath, feeling his heart thundering away in his chest.

What is happening to him? 

“How are Fred and George doing it? Half of the alley is closed down.”

“Fred reckons people need a lot of laughs these days.”

“I reckon he’s right.”

Malcolm tries to keep up, even nodding in agreement with Hermione’s mournful statement at the state of Ollivander’s shop before he follows them inside. But he just can't seem to shake the dread lingering on his skin.

Closing his eyes, Malcolm tries to utilize his other senses, just as how his mothers taught him, and looks around for danger. 

There's nothing but walls and walls. Nothing that should make the hairs on his arms stand straight up. 

Malcolm gulps, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the dark a little faster. 

There.

A shadow.

A head and a pair of eyes and… pointy ears? 

Malcolm blinks, and just like that, it's gone. 

He tries again, looking frantically around. 

But it's no use. All he can hear is the squeaking of the wooden floors as they walk further into the vandalized shop and the way his heartbeats are going absolutely crazy. 

He sees a swirling as the universe morphs and fixes itself in less than a second. He feels his fingernails scratching human skin and breaking it apart like paper. He tastes metal and copper on his teeth, pouring down his lips.

Ah, he knows where he’s seen this before.

That day two years ago, when he almost died. When he put his parents on their deathbeds. 

No.

No, no, no.

Not now. Please.

I haven't had a spiral in months.

Why does it have to be now? 

Malcolm gasps for breath, unconsciously squeezing Hermione’s hand tight. That's what finally gets her to look at him. 

“Are you okay?” She asks in a whisper, breaking ranks from Harry and Ron. “You’re sweating, and shaking.”

“No, I…” He blinks, and she's not there. No one is, it's just him and that man and— he needs to get out. Now. “I’m sorry.”

Before she can say anything else that will make him stay, Malcolm lets go and runs out of the abandoned shop. He can hear her calling for him, saying his name in the same worried tone that makes his heart bleed, but he can't afford to stop.

If he stops, he’ll catch him.

If he stops, he’ll kill him.

If he stops, he’ll kill them. He’ll kill them all, he’ll kill them, he’ll kill them—

The last thing Malcolm remembers is the universe morphing into disfiguration before fixing itself. The Keepers is cold and pitch-black when his body rematerializes itself, and there’s no one else around. 

Malcolm wants to believe otherwise, wants to remember only the good times. 

Wants to remember coming home crying because some douchearse third-year was making fun of his new dress shirt, wants to remember being given hot chocolate as he sat reading in front of the fireplace, wants to remember eating at a table full of food and full of life, wants to remember training sessions that ended in piggyback rides and making funny faces, wants to remember the smiles and the love and the hugs and the love and the kisses and the love—

Malcolm says the only thing he can.

“Mum? Mom?”

No one answers.

Of course no one answers.

It’s cold, pitch-black, and there’s no one else around.

Malcolm finally cries, the weight of his loneliness and his fear crashing into him with the subtleness of a bull. 

It’s cold, pitch-black, and his mums aren’t here.

They haven’t been here for a very long time. And they never will ever again.

—

Dear Hermione,

I’m writing this letter to inform you that I’m alive and in one piece. I went home immediately after I left. 

I’m so, so sorry for leaving you in the middle of Diagon Alley. I’ll explain in detail when we meet again at Hogwarts, I promise. I hope you’re not mad. 

Ardently yours, 

Malcolm

Hermione only allows herself one more reread before she tucks the letter away in a secret compartment of her enchanted bag. Her hand grazes Malcolm’s other correspondences that she’s quietly collected over the months, but ultimately decides to reach for her book instead.

It’s a moot decision, considering her brain isn’t absorbing more than five words despite Hermione being able to read at 250 per minute and only getting faster as she gets older. 

A useless sigh escapes her, one that startles her dozing cabin mate, even though she tries so hard not to draw attention to herself. 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Just yet another thing she failed. 

“Nothing in particular.”

“Are you sure?” Harry, bless him, tries so hard. “I can hear the steam coming off your head over the sound of Ron’s snoring.”

Sure enough, as if just waiting for his cue, their cabin is filled with Ron’s thunder snores. 

Hermione still cringes at the volume as well as the gurgling undertone, meanwhile Harry remains as cool as a cucumber, having long accustomed to the sound after years of sleeping over at The Burrow. 

Shaking her head in exasperation, Hermione turns back to Harry.

“I’m fine, Harry. Just thinking.”

“About Malcolm?” Her eyebrows shoot past her forehead, making Harry chuckle. “You have a distinct look. It's hard to miss.”

Hermione makes a sound that can pass as both a scoff and a laugh.

“I most certainly do not. You’re exaggerating.”

Harry shrugs, his smile teasing. “If it helps you sleep at night.” Then softens. “Is he okay? He left in quite a hurry the other day.”

She deflates, sadness quickly replacing fluster.

Malcolm genuinely looked so scared that night. Hermione keeps replaying the events leading up to it for clues as to what could have triggered him so much, but ultimately comes up short. She has a feeling Knockturn Alley is the catalyst, and the scar on his face connects all the scattered dots.

Hermione is still missing quite a lot, so the big picture frustratingly escapes her. Not just because she can’t stand not knowing something, but also because this puts her in a helpless position where she can’t help him when he so clearly needs her. 

“He says he is, but I don't know. Malcolm’s never been one to be forthcoming when he's upset.”

“Comes with the territory of being an orphan.” Harry says like it's nothing, like it doesn't break Hermione’s heart in half to know two of her favorite people suffered so much. “Did he get home safely at least?”

Hermione nods. “Went straight there after he left Knockturn Alley.”

“He Apparated.” Not a question but a statement. 

One Hermione has no choice but to agree with.

How could she? They were all there, and unless Malcolm ran back inside George and Fred’s shop, unlikely in such a distressed state, the only way out was via Apparition. A useful skill they won't get to learn in school until this year.

She nods. 

“Do you think he can Apparate inside Hogwarts as well?”

Malcolm Wake is a lot more powerful than he comes across, and she is the only one who knows the true extent, because he trusts her enough to tell her these things.

Hermione only reports back what is absolutely necessary, but she feels very wretched still. 

“I don’t know.” Hermione pauses, unsure and angry at herself for being unsure. “I don't like lying to him.”

It's the truth, despite her actions. Hermione wants more than anything to tell Malcolm, but she can't. There's more than their lives at stake, the world’s. 

Most importantly, the boy sitting in front of her. Who thankfully looks very understanding. 

“We’re only telling Remus and Sirius. We can trust them, I promise.”

The Order have no idea who stopped Bellatrix Lestrange’s Killing Curse and they have been trying to rectify that as hard as they can. 

Every member except Sirius Black, who was close enough and smart enough to connect the dots Caitlyn and Malcolm tried to scramble. The masks looked identical at first glance and in the midst of fighting for their lives, but the one helping them by the Veil of Death clearly wore silver while the one down at the foot of the hill wore blue.

Hermione herself didn't realize the subterfuge until Sirius pointed that out, after revealing he let Remus in on the little secret as well. At that point, she knew she couldn't give up Caitlyn and endanger their entire covert operation, so she did the next best thing. 

And it's been tearing her apart ever since. 

“That doesn't change things.” She looks down at her lap, finding the earnestness in Harry’s green eyes unbearable. “He trusts me. If he knew we were feeding the Order information about him…”

Whatever Harry was going to say next is brushed aside in favor of quieting down as Ron begins to stir. They both watch silently, sighing in relief when they realize Ron isn't going to wake up.

Hermione adores him, but Ron gets so weird about Malcolm that it's not worth sitting through a few unsubtle eye rolls.

“Do you want to stop?”

“No.” Hermione answers right away, clutching the book in her hands like it's her lifeline. “I know what we’re doing this for. You don't have to remind me.”

Hermione doesn’t tell them the whole truth. Just that Malcolm is special and can do special things. 

No mention of ancient magic. No mention of Rory Watson. No mention of Caitlyn Kiramman and the Unspeakables. 

Just that Malcolm is special, and he can help them win the war. 

We have to protect you, Harry. 

You’re The Boy Who Lived and we have to keep it that way. Whatever it takes. 

“You know that's not what I’m doing.” Harry sounds offended. Way to go, Hermione. “From the beginning, I’ve told Sirius this wasn't necessary. I trust Malcolm now, and I know you do too. Whatever power he holds, he’ll only use it for good. You don't have to do this.”

It's like she said, it doesn't change anything.

The simple fact that Malcolm is so powerful means he could be a danger to all of them, whether he likes it or not. Sirius, and subsequently Remus, wants to keep a close eye on him and his unique magic in the hopes of keeping him from straying to the dark side plus having a secret weapon they’ll pull out at the last minute against Voldemort and his brewing army.

Hermione understands. Hell, she even came up with the same plan months before, but the end just doesn't quite justify the means anymore. 

How could it, when she’s actively lying to someone who she thinks she’s fallen for. 

Hermione sighs, adding steel in her voice. Hopefully Harry listens. 

“I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

When she turns her head, Hermione finds Harry looking at her with furrowed brows and downturned lips. His disapproval hurts the same way everything has been recently.

She braces herself for his rebuttal, mentally preparing several ways she can get herself out of the conversation, when Ron finally stirs awake.

“Wow, that was a good nap.”

Harry’s eyes remain on her even as he addresses Ron, as if taunting her. 

Hermione smiles, not showing her teeth. “Welcome back to the land of the living. We should change, the train will arrive soon.”

If there's one thing Hermione knows for sure, it's that Harry can't stand the awkwardness whenever Hermione and Ron cannot talk to each other like civilized people. Malcolm has been a sore spot for a long time between the three of them, all for different reasons, and he knows if he brings him up now, Harry will only subject himself to a tension so thick not even Godric Gryffindor’s sword can cut through.

So Harry sighs, and Hermione’s smile widens just a centimeter in victory. 

“So what was Draco doing with that weird-looking cabinet?”

—

Dear Malcolm,

Thank you for letting me know you’ve made it back safely. 

Are you sure you’re alright? You looked very scared in Diagon Alley, and while I understand there are things you can’t tell me, I want you to know you can always come to me should you need me. 

I will always be here for you.

We won’t be seeing each other again until September 1st. I sound like such a cliche, but I miss you already. Thank you for coming out to meet me for just a bit, even if it ended not very ideally.

I’ll see you at school.

Yours, 

Hermione

Malcolm rereads the letter one more time, making this his 32nd, and thinks he’s about to be dumped on his arse as soon as he sets one foot onto Hogwarts ground. Sure, there’s nothing in here that would indicate such a sentiment from Hermione, but Malcolm quite literally bailed on her in a moment when they could’ve used his help.

What did they find tailing after Draco Malfoy and his mum, by the way? Malcolm never came around to asking, feeling it wasn’t his place after essentially abandoning them in the midst of it. 

Sighing, Malcolm rubs his temple with his thumb. Not even a day into the new school year and already he’s having a headache.

“You alright there, Mal?”

At least he has company. “Yeah, I’m good. Thank you for asking, Neville.”

Neville Longbottom is even taller than he was last year. Malcolm has no idea why that’s the first thing that comes to his mind when Neville first poked his head inside his cabin, sheepishly asking if he could sit here after all the others were full, but it is. 

Perhaps Malcolm is just jealous.

“Are you sure?” Neville asks, his big brown eyes glimmering with genuine concern. “I have a pick-me-up in my bag if you want it.”

“I’m alright, thank you,” Malcolm politely declines, folding the letter and putting it back in its intended binder. “I should keep a clear head, we’re almost there anyway.” 

If his calculations are correct, they should arrive at Hogsmeade in less than half an hour. Malcolm is prepared to let the cabin sink back into silence, is almost glad for it, but ultimately doesn't get his wish granted.

“Hey, Mal?”

Holding back a sigh, Malcolm turns around from gazing distantly at the view outside the windows.

“Yes?”

“Are you doing okay?”

Malcolm swallows a lump that comes out of nowhere. “Of course. Why wouldn't I be?”

Neville squirms, but his face is determined. It's how bravery is supposed to look, going beyond your comfort zone. 

Malcolm wouldn’t know anything about it. 

“Well, we didn't exactly hear from you after what happened at the Ministry. I just want to know if you're coping with it fine.”

“Oh,” He exclaims rather lamely. “Yeah, I’m fine. I got knocked out by some Death Eater halfway through. Stupid, right? I woke up in St. Mungo’s the day after. Clean bill of health, so they said.”

Malcolm actually quite enjoys lying, particularly when he knows he has to. This entire speech he came up and rehearsed with Caitlyn, who gave her stamp of approval not without kissing him on the forehead before she left for work.

The only person who knows the truth, or rather is told the truth, about what happened that day is Hermione, and only because Malcolm knows she’d be relentless in her search for answers and that’d get her in even more trouble.

Both Malcolm and Caitlyn shouldn't have underestimated Harry Potter, but what’s done is done. He personally trusts his friend to know what's best, since Harry will be spearheading this war whether he likes it or not, and what comes after that is tomorrow's problem.

“Okay, if you say so.” 

Malcolm can tell Neville doesn't believe him, reminding him of Neville’s suspicion about his extraordinary magic. Promptly, Malcolm changes the topic.

“Enough about me. What's going on with you? How has your grandmother been?”

Before they know it, the Hogwarts Express is stopping. Malcolm sits back for a few more minutes, seeing no point in trying to squeeze through the crowd of overexcited first years and other impatient peers. 

In that time, Neville bids him goodbye so he can catch up to Luna, who’s been making rounds selling The Quibbler and should be getting off any second now. Malcolm doesn't quite foresee the two of them in a romantic relationship, but he supposes teenage years are for exploring.

Getting to the castle is uneventful and painless. Malcolm is joined by juniors from various houses, so he spends the five minutes it takes to get from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts by taking a nap.

It must've been a really good one, because Malcolm just about jumps out of his own skin when he feels someone tapping him awake.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Wait. He knows that voice.

Groggy and tired, Malcolm barely pries his one good eye open to identify who’s speaking to him. He promptly slides off the carriage in shock once he does. 

“Vi?”

Violet Wickett is always impeccably dressed whenever Malcolm sees her, and now is no exception. Looking extremely dapper in her charcoal one-piece suit and her bright red hair styled in a half-mullet, Malcolm thinks she would look more at home in a queer music video than the hallways of his school.

“Hey, it’s good to see you again.”

“You too.” Malcolm says and means it. “What are you doing here?”

“Working.” Vi tosses a thumb over her shoulder, Malcolm realizes in the direction of the castle. “Dumbledore assigned Aurors to be stationed at Hogwarts for the school year. We’re here to keep you guys safe.”

“And you’re starting off by doing a search?” He gestures vaguely at the other students standing awkwardly around some more Aurors, looking very uncomfortable. “I don’t know if you had being friendly and approachable in mind, but I can tell you right now this isn’t how to go about it.”

Despite the attitude, Malcolm still willingly hands over his bag. 

Vi takes it with a grateful nod, the tip of her wand glowing a bright yellow as she examines it with a scrutiny better suited for a Death Eater interrogation. 

She aims it at Malcolm next, who huffs and puffs while spreading his arms out not unlike when one’s at the airport.

“All clear.” Vi declares, handing Malcolm his bag. Before he can fully put it on, Vi leans in and, automatically, so does he. “Do you have a minute? I want to talk about something important.”

Malcolm did have a late lunch, so he’s not particularly famished right now. 

“Sure.”

Vi tells her co-workers to cover for her, who in their right mind names their children Loris anyway, before ushering Malcolm up the stairs. As a former alumni herself, Vi knows exactly where to go, and so Malcolm isn’t surprised when he is pulled to a stop in a corner that’s famously hidden in the blind spots.

It’s an optimal place for snogging in public. Malcolm doesn’t want to think about how she knows about it.

“Wanna tell me how you’re an Auror again?” Malcolm starts, vibrating with curiosity.

“The Ministry is running low on people.” Vi quirks an eyebrow at his brief confusion. Ah, the missing cases. “Head of Auror personally reached out to me, she’s a family friend who used to be close with my dad before he passed.”

Malcolm nods. “Is she also…”

Vi nods. “That’s specifically why she wanted to station me here. She knows about your little fight club and so do the members who were there that day in the Department of Mysteries.”

Figures. They didn't exactly do much to keep that a secret in the aftermath.

The Order accurately suspecting one of said fight club members to be the masked figure is also a potential recipe for disaster. 

“And are they causing Caitlyn trouble?”

“You bet. They don’t know who you are for certain, but there was only one masked Unspeakable who went with us that day. They’ve been trying to contact Caitlyn for months, and she was last publicly seen here.”

So the subterfuge worked. 

“She’s been with me.” Malcolm confirms. “We’re training, so I can learn to keep my new powers under control. When the time is right, I’ll join you properly.”

“Right now you’re our secret weapon.” Vi nods in understanding, then chuckles. “Snape used to say he could teach people how to put a stopper in death.”

“I’m a bit ahead on that account, and I don’t even need an Outstanding in Potions to get it.” Malcolm brags with a tiny amount of smugness. If Caitlyn was here, she would have smacked him on the head. “We trust you for a reason, Vi. I hope you can remain a part of this.”

It’s perhaps one of the least subtle threats he’s ever made, but Malcolm has to say it. Vi understands though, nodding with a solemn expression on her face.

“I’ll do my best to be your insider in the Order and the Ministry.” Malcolm instinctively bows to her as a thank you. “And while I’m here, if you need my help with anything, just let me know. I’ll try to the best of my ability, but I can’t stress this enough, Malcolm, there’s no place safer for you right now than Hogwarts.”

That’s about as good of a way to tell him to stay inside the school grounds as any. 

“Understood.” He moves to exit the corner, but turns around for one last thing. “Oh and if I hear you hurt Caitlyn in any sort of way, just remember I can cut you in half without even raising a finger.”

Whether or not she remembers he can actually do that, Vi only nods. Pleased with himself, Malcolm skedaddles back into the light, and promptly runs into who he’s been simultaneously dreading and looking forward to seeing.

“Malcolm! Hi!”

Even in her school robe, Hermione looks dazzling. Even more so when her whole face practically lights up upon seeing him.

Malcolm readily opens his arms to accept her hug, placing a small kiss on her temple. 

“Hello, you look even more beautiful today.”

“I do not.” Hermione laughs in his chest, briefly squeezing him before pulling away. Just a few steps behind her is Ron, who rolls his eyes at them before leaving. Malcolm raises his eyebrow, and Hermione shrugs. “He’s just in a bit of a mood.”

“I salute your effort in sticking to that narrative despite all evidence saying otherwise.”

In response, Hermione slaps him on the shoulder, ending up blushing when Malcolm takes that hand and raises it to his mouth. It feels so natural being affectionate with her, in ways he is sure he hasn’t ever felt with anyone, that it completely slips his mind how they aren’t alone.

“Well, aren’t you two cute.”

Looking more casual than he feels, Malcolm waves his other hand. Hermione, however, is much more polite.

“Oh, Auror Wickett. I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s just Vi. Auror Wickett was my father.” Vi smiles to show she only means well. “Hello, Hermione. I hope you’ve been well.”

Hermione nods, unconsciously tugging on Malcolm’s sleeve. “The same to you. Did they have you posted here along with the Aurors? I was searched on the way in.”

“Malcolm can fill you in on everything I just told him.” He grins showing his teeth, making both Vi and Hermione chuckle. “Alright, as much as I like to stay and chat, I gotta dash.”

He offers a goodbye fist bump, one Vi accepts with amusement shining in her eyes.

“Have a good night. And hey, if you happen to search a blonde boy named Draco Malfoy, make sure to frizz him up a bit. He’s having a rough day and I want to make it worse.”

Already walking down the steps, Vi throws over her shoulder, “I’m not abusing my authority for some petty teenage revenge.” but the smile she doesn’t try too hard to hide tells Malcolm she’s heard him loud and clear. 

Malcolm turns to share his joy with Hermione, and finds her already looking back at him.

Like a film, her beautiful face scrunched up in worry, shrouded in the shadows, flashes through his eyes. He can feel the guilt bubbling in his stomach and making it hurt, so he pulls up all the courage he normally doesn’t have and opens his mouth.

“Hermione, I’m really sorry about that day in Diagon Alley. I should've at least told you what was going on, but I felt so out of control, I had to get away. I’m really, really sorry I just left you there.”

He almost expects her to be mad, to yell at him even. But there's a hand cupping his right cheek and soft lips kissing his other one. 

Malcolm gasps, blinking back tears. He hadn't even realized he was tearing up.

“All’s forgiven.” She says softly, her breath warm and minty pressed against his skin. “For future reference, I prefer my apologies with dinner and flowers.”

The tension in his chest lifts itself up like a hippogriff. Malcolm lets loose a burst of laughter that echoes in their little corner. 

He looks at the girl he so adores, and when he finds himself the center of her attention, what else can he do but be brave?

“Hermione, would you like to go on a date with me?”

Hermione grins, and suddenly he doesn’t feel so alone anymore. 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

—

15 minutes before she’s supposed to be picked up for their first date, Hermione is striding into the Gryffindor Common Room.

She was ready 10 minutes before that, but at the vehement suggestion of Ginny who smiled wickedly as she pointed out the smallest bruise on her shoulder blade, switched to an off-shoulder piece that proudly displays the mark and shows off even more skin than usual. 

Blushing, Hermione insists on covering herself up. Ginny sighs in exasperation before begrudgingly allows Hermione to put on a cardigan, claiming Malcolm will give her his jacket if she gets cold. Which is not an awful thought, therefore Hermione agrees.

What she didn’t agree to is the way all eyes fall upon her as soon as she descends the staircases. Hermione deliberately avoids Ron’s the most, feeling awkward and uncomfortable in his unabashed staring, and makes a beeline for the empty spot on the long couch next to Harry. 

Who gives her a wide-eyed gaze she tries not to think too much about.

“You look good, Hermione.”

“Thank you,” She smiles at him, shy in a way that she hasn’t been since she wore that blue dress to the Yule Ball in fourth year. “I have a date, hence why I’m a bit dressed up.”

A body plops down on the arm, Hermione immediately recognizes it’s Ginny just from her perfume.

“She looks like a princess, doesn't she?”

Harry laughs, a tad awkward. Boys will be boys.

“Yes, I suppose she does.” 

Ginny scoffs. “Typical.” Ignoring poor Harry left in a state of confusion, Ginny leans down to whisper in Hermione’s ear. “You look smoking. Malcolm’s going to want to eat you up as soon as he sees you.” 

The same ear glows beet red at Ginny’s crass. “Why would you say it like that?”

“Because it makes you blush.” Ginny chuckles at being shoved, but doesn’t budge. “Oh alright, so where are you two going?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Hermione replies, curling in on herself to contain the butterflies in her chest. “He just said to be ready by 4 this Saturday and wear something comfortable.” 

Another redhead joins their clique. Hermione tries really hard not to cringe when she realizes it’s Ron.

Adding yet another sickening feeling to her stomach. Since when has she grown so uncomfortable around one of her best friends?

“You don’t suppose Wake’s getting a Thestral to take you flying? Extravagant and showy, that sounds like something he’d do.”

“As if the Aurors will let him walk 2 feet from the gate on a non-Hogsmeade weekend.” Ginny rolls her eyes. “Besides, Hermione hates flying.”

Both Ron and Harry gasp, as if this is news to them. Hermione narrows her eyes. 

There’s no way they didn’t— “You hate flying?”

The sigh that leaves her is tired and, upon further inspection, a little sad. 

“Is there a problem, Ronald?” 

Ron blinks at her tone, offense written all over his face. “What’s up with the attitude? I was just asking.”

“Forgive me if I mistakenly assumed my best friends of six years would know this simple fact. There is a reason why I never took up on your offer to fly around The Burrow.” 

Next to her, Harry squirms in clear discomfort. Ginny, well, she just looks happy to be here.

Ron’s surprise is slowly morphing into annoyance. Although sad to admit, Hermione is much better equipped to deal with this than any bubbling feeling inside him. 

Neither of them get to engage in their usual verbal sparr however, attention span cut midway by the sound of gossip. The Common Room is suddenly filled with it, to the point where even the paintings on the walls have stopped what they were doing beforehand. 

Ginny perks up to check, and Harry follows suit. Hermione intends to do the same, but her friends plop back down almost as quickly as they rose.

The twin ear-splitting grins they wear will probably haunt her for the longest time.

“Your carriage has arrived, princess.” 

Someone gasps. It's probably her.

Someone swoons, it most certainly is her.

For at the entrance to her common room, there stands Malcolm Wake in his most dashing. 

Hermione has always quietly thought black is his best color, which would explain why it’s his favorite. But the sight of him in a sapphire vest overlaying a white button-up shirt paired with dark black trousers that show off his curvy hips and tight behind changes everything. 

“I told you he’s going to look like he’ll eat you alive. I was right— ouch!”

Leaving Ginny to moan in pain from the force of her smack— she’s a Quidditch player, she’ll be fine— Hermione hurries over to where Malcolm is, who she only now notices is also holding a bouquet of flowers.

As if him showing her up with the most romantic gesture someone their age could pull wasn’t enough, upon a closer look, Hermione comes to the realization that the flowers in his hands are her favorites.

Tiger lilies, which symbolize confidence and pride. For the first time in a long time, Hermione feels both those things in spades.

“You’re making it very difficult for me not to kiss you senseless in front of everyone.”

Although brazen in his own way, Malcolm more often than not is easily flustered. It’s surprising considering he’s the one more likely to say cheesy things and mean them with his whole heart. 

But as it is the case, if Hermione were to verbalize her desire for him in any way whatsoever, Malcolm is immediately reduced to a stuttering, blushing mess. Looking at him now, all pink cheeks and shy eyes, Hermione can’t picture him to be the powerful being that she knows he is, who is capable of ending the world as they know it with a mere snap of his finger.

He won’t. She trusts that he won’t.

But that doesn’t change anything.

“Maybe we can save that for later?” Malcolm asks, making no attempt to hide the interest in his eyes as they roam her body. “I would like to take you somewhere.”

Fighting goosebumps, Hermione goes to link their arms. There’s someone swooning in the background, Hermione is sure it isn't her this time, making them both blush brighter.

“If you’d give me just two minutes to put away the flowers?”

“Of course.” Malcolm nods, then glances warily around them. “Do hurry. I fear I might become fish bait if you don't come back within the next 30 seconds.” 

Hermione chuckles, gently taking the bouquet and suppressing the urge to stick her nose in between the petals. Not now.

“You’ll live.” With a sly smile, Hermione leans in so her lips graze his ear. His audible gulp is almost as delicious as the gasp sounding from across the Common Room. “You're so strong and capable, surely you can handle a few hyenas.”

She says as she gently strokes his bicep through his shirt, the muscles tightening and flexing underneath her touch. 

Something hot sparks alight in the pit of her belly, mirrored by the same flame she can see in his eyes. They really shouldn't do this in public, but as she has come to realize in recent years, a little danger is always worth the risk.

“Be back in a flash.” Hermione ends their impromptu staring contest with a squeeze of aforementioned bicep and a peck on Malcolm’s reddening earlobe. “Don't miss me too much.” 

Malcolm exhales, hard and shallow and eyes full of want.

“Impossible.”

Heart in her throat, Hermione hurriedly rushes upstairs. She doesn't want to take too long, thus whipping out her wand and whispering Aguamenti into a random plastic bottle lying around. 

In less than a minute she is already bounding back down. 

And just in time, as poor Malcolm is surrounded by not one, not two, but three Gryffindor girls their year, all eager for gossip.

He looks up almost immediately as she rounds the corner, and heaven above, she’ll never forget the way his whole being brightens upon seeing her for as long as she lives.

What is love if not feeling seen?

“Alright, alright,” Hermione swoops down like Prince Charming rescuing her Damsel in Distress, once again linking their arms. “We’d like to go on our date now. Goodbye everyone. Say bye, Malcolm.”

“Bye.” 

Help me, Merlin. He’s so adorable. 

It takes Hermione a great amount of inner strength to last until they’re all the way out of the Gryffindor Tower and walk past a classroom she knows for sure is abandoned. Then and only then does she give into her pent-up desire and push him up against the nearest wall inside said classroom.

The noise he makes into her mouth is that of pleasant surprise, a startled squeak that lasts only a millisecond before he catches up to what she wants to do and kisses her back with equal force.

With her hands pressed against his lower chest, Hermione easily takes control of the moment, languidly swirling her tongue in his mouth and subtly grinding her front against his. The fingers clutching her hips like a lifeline squeeze almost to the point of pain, further fastening the blood rushing to her head and making her dizzy. 

They don’t stop even when they break apart for air, both equally stubborn and unwilling to be the first to surrender. 

Hermione doesn’t mind, lost in the pleasure of feeling his abdominal muscles tightening through the fabric of his shirt. Malcolm feels similar, she reckons, if his hands sliding into the pockets of her jeans before squeezing are any indication. 

It’s all fun and games until one of them moans the other’s name, and Hermione knows she needs to put a stop to this before things get out of hand.

Naturally, as if they’ve been doing this for years, Malcolm and Hermione slow down their kisses to a more breathable pace. By the time oxygen is back in their lungs, they each look like they’ve gone a quick round with a Graphorn. 

“If I knew getting you flowers was going to get me such positive results…”

Hermione peers up under her eyelashes, mesmerized by the dopey, dimpled smile Malcolm wears and how his hair frames his gorgeous eyes. Her hands move without her consent, reaching up to feel that smile on her skin.

He’s going to be so hurt if he ever finds out, isn’t he?

Blinking back tears, Hermione tries for a smile. “Where are you taking me?”

The dimple deepens, showing off a hint of canine Hermione and her tongue are intimately familiar with. 

“If you have to ask, you’ll never know. If you know, you need only ask.”

It takes her one, two, three seconds to find the answer.

“The Room of Requirement.”

He nods, beaming. All sunshines and pride and— 

She doesn’t deserve him.

“Specifically, a special person’s version of the Room of Requirement.”

Hermione thinks she knows, but the actual answer is so much cooler. 

The concept of an open space changing and adapting to whatever a person has needs for it has always fascinated Hermione. Hogwarts: A History hadn’t given her much information outside the bare basics, and their brief time with Dumbledore’s Army didn’t really afford her the time and space she needed to explore the room to her heart’s content.

Clearly Rory Watson didn’t have such troubles. 

“My mom was given access to the room when she was first admitted to Hogwarts in her fifth year.” Malcolm explains, on his arm a huge picnic basket that Hermione is dying to look through. “Professor Matilda Weasley used it a lot when she was still in school.”

Eyes on the marbled ceiling and various decorations scattered across the room— is that a gargoyle statue?— Hermione is a second late to process Malcolm’s words.

“Did you just say Weasley?”

“Yeah,” Malcolm nods. “They’re one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain, part of the Sacred Twenty Eight. You didn’t know this?”

Hermione shakes her head, already vibrating with curiosity for knowledge she hasn’t acquired yet.

“The Sacred Twenty Eight is a subcategory of the Pureblood Directory, in which details the twenty-eight British families that were still "truly pure-blood" by the 1930s. No one knows for sure who wrote it, but most suspect it to be Cantankerus Nott.”

“As in Theodore Nott?” 

Hermione actually holds no grudge towards the boy. He’s pretty okay for a Slytherin and he’s also brilliant. 

“The one and only.” Malcolm steers Hermione further inside, now stepping into what she presumes to be the main room.

Hermione spies with her little eye; a tall wooden desk that is easily the length of two standard ones in their classroom, a magical sewing machine for some reason, a coffee table and enough chairs surrounding it for casual meetups, a few pots of plants watering themselves, a fancy-looking telescope, a punching bag, and lastly, a skateboard. 

Malcolm lets Hermione survey around for a little longer before he continues.

“The Weasleys are famously against the list and their inclusion, but it still stands that they are from a long-standing family line of all-magical humans. My moms went to school with two of them, Professor Matilda Weasley who taught Charms and a Garreth Weasley, who I believe got Rory in detention several times for trying to poach from their Potions professor’s stash to various degrees of success.”

Gosh, Hermione desperately wishes she has a recorder with her. 

“Who else is on there?” Hermione asks. “Is Harry?”

Malcolm shakes his head, to her surprise. “Not anymore. Harry’s great-grandpa, Henry Potter, was quite pro-Muggle when he was alive. It also doesn’t help that Potter is a pretty common surname amongst Muggles as well. Fun fact, did you know that the inventor of Skele-Gro was an ancestor of Harry?”

While Malcolm goes on about Skele-Gro, Hermione takes a closer look at what are essentially Rory Watson’s relics. 

She starts with the desk, immediately smiling upon finding the twin shelves stacked to the brim with books. She recognizes a few titles as prequels or sequels to the ones in Malcolm’s dorm room, but also spots several dozens more that she can’t fathom him ever developing an interest in.

“Was Rory into crocheting?”

“Poppy was.” Malcolm leans back against the wall, his picnic basket left to sit on the coffee table in the center of the room. “She made me a beanie when I first came to live with them. It was a size too big and Rory fixed it for me while teasing me about being so little, I couldn’t even reach her waist.”

Malcolm is telling the truth, because lo and behold, nestled safely in a crook is a picture frame of their family. Hermione looks between it and him for permission, only picking it up once Malcolm nods in approval.

First-year Malcolm Wake was indeed very small and so very cute. Hermione can feel a grin splitting her lips open, mirroring the one on Little Malcolm’s face.

The people in the picture aren't moving, something Hermione rarely sees in the wizarding world. It appears Malcolm is more attached to his Muggle roots than he seems. 

“You kinda look like them.” Hermione points out, leaning back and, sure enough, is promptly cushioned by Malcolm’s broad chest. 

“You’re very sweet,” A head lands softly on her shoulder, his warmth spreading all over. “But I am adopted.”

She whines, adamant in her astute observation. “You do! Look, you have Poppy’s ears, and you and Rory have the same dimple. Yours is just a lot more prominent.”

He makes a soft hum that tickles, hugging her around the waist. She falls into his embrace easily, their fingers intertwining at her stomach. 

“I actually got it from my birth father.”

Hermione freezes, but she tries not to be lest he can feel it. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” He nuzzles deeper into her neck, as if saying it's okay for her to be angry. “People used to say I look exactly like him. I have his hair and his smile. I have her eyes and her nose. Daddy’s precious little… girl.” 

The worst thing is, Hermione can see it perfectly.

An older gentleman with the same fluffy, tousled jet black hair and Malcolm’s smile. An older woman who has straight blonde hair and Malcolm’s dark blue eyes. 

Hermione can picture this too, that man stomping on Malcolm’s fingers until the bones break and that woman standing by, doing nothing, and letting the fingers heal crooked over time.  

If only they had enough love for him too. 

Hermione makes a pained noise, one that Malcolm promptly shushes by briefly kissing her on the mouth.

“Don't worry about it.” He turns her around with minimal effort, smiling when she puts her arms on his shoulders. “Can I tell you a story?”

A bit shy at being the center of his attention, Hermione only nods. Her fingers play idly with the baby hairs at the back of his neck. 

Malcolm continues. “Soon after they met, Rory and Poppy sniffed out a huge poaching operation in Hogsmeade. They went in guns blazing, took down a dragon fighting ring in the process, and took it upon themselves to rehome all the animals that were stolen.”

The sigh escaping her is that of pure awe. “You have the coolest parents.”

“I do.” He nods easily. “Which is why I’m going to show you one of their coolest discoveries as of late.”

Vivariums. 

The discovery in question is vivariums. Four of them, to be precise, magically enchanted like a pocket dimension used to house all sorts of magical creatures until Rory and Poppy could find them a suitable home.

Hermione's poor brain is overstimulated by everything she is shown; there aren't anymore animals, but the magnificent mountain view in the grassland vivarium, the white waves in the coastal vivarium, the dark woods in the forest vivarium, and the gorgeous moon in the swamp vivarium.

They decide on the grassland vivarium to have their picnic, and once Malcolm puts down all the food he painstakingly prepared today, Hermione lets loose about everything that’s been bothering her lately, feeling the safest she’s ever been. 

“Not only did he use the book to completely cheat his way into getting Liquid Luck, he even had the audacity to ask me if I recognized one of the spells written in it. When I tried politely asking him if I could see it, he wouldn’t let me! Something about the binding being fragile, as if I looked like someone who would ever cruelly damage a book in that way just because I’m a little bit peeved.”

Just for the record, Hermione spent a total amount of 2 hours in the bathroom getting ready for today’s date. 

Her hair is done up in the way she knows Malcolm secretly adores, a half-up bun that compliments her neckline and her jaw, with a few strands that frame her face. 

Just as he told her beforehand, Hermione is also dressed casually. 

A pair of dark jeans that sit right on her curves and rest on her hips, plus a small midriff revealing just a glimpse of skin under the fabric that she swears makes him stare several times. The off-shoulder white blouse is, begrudgingly, all Ginny Weasley’s work, showing off more skin than she’s used to and the mark, his mark, proudly on display like she isn’t afraid to let the whole school know he’s been necking her in between classes. 

Which isn’t entirely sure. 

Hermione is scared of a lot of things, Malcolm Wake included. But something about him also makes her feel brave, a dichotomy of emotions she is sadly not mature enough to dissect at the moment. 

Lack of a better thing to do, Hermione makes the most out of her time with him. 

Hoping that once this is all over, he will be able to forgive her for being afraid. 

“To make matters even worse, Gryffindor was awarded points during Potions yesterday thanks to him. My cauldron of Wiggenweld Potion was practically textbook perfect, but somehow Harry knew to add Horklump Juice and Dittany Leaves. Professor Slughorn took one look at his cauldron and said, Golly gee, Harry, I’ve never seen a better-brewed Wiggenweld Potion since Professor Snape was still learning under my tutelage. Excellent work, my boy. At this rate, you’ll be aiming for my job next. 30 points to Gryffindor!”

The subsequent snort that escapes Malcolm comes from deep inside his nose, making him choke on his own laugh. He isn't met with compassion when he finally recovers from his laughing fit, Hermione’s face scrunched up in a disapproving pout.

“I’m not laughing at you,” He says, giggling still. “I’m laughing with you. Did Slughorn actually say something as cheesy as golly gee?”

Hermione sucks in her bottom lip, trying not to smile. “I might have taken some artistic liberties,” Malcolm’s guffaw resumes with vengeance, whose folding body is entirely unaffected by the slaps on his shoulder trying to get him to stop. “You’re missing the point!” 

But Malcolm is already rolling around laughing, not a care for his date pouting up a storm right above him. It takes him a while to recover, and by the time he does, Hermione is grumpily finishing the entire tub of strawberries coated in chocolate he brought.

How did he know this was her favorite? Must be Ginny’s doing. 

“You’re so cute.” He says, watching her eat. 

She gives him the nastiest side eye he’s ever gotten, self-aware enough to know its effect is somewhat lessened with chocolate smeared on her lips and a strawberry bulging her cheek. Malcolm waits, very patiently, and as soon as Hermione swallows the fruit, he reaches out and swipes at her lips with his thumb.

Her mouth drops as if startled by his boldness, giving the impression of opening up and inviting him in. Malcolm leans forward, and Hermione does the rest. 

Malcolm moans first, like always, but this time he has the additional defense that is the sweet taste sticking to her mouth. Hermione never likes to fall behind anyone in anything, muffling her own noise by tilting his head with her hands, slotting their mouths even closer to each other.

Even after all this time, he still shakes as he reaches out to hold her. But she goes willingly, always does when he opens his arms, and she crashes against his chest just as easily as the waves to a shore. 

It feels like cosmic. 

Their kisses go from tender to languid pretty quickly, by now knowing by heart how the other likes to kiss and likes to be kissed. For example, Malcolm loves having her suck on his tongue, and Hermione particularly enjoys when he kisses her hard but fast, quite literally not allowing her to breathe. 

It's why she always breaks first, and looking at the disheveled mess beneath her, she almost expects him to do more. 

Why does he never do more?

“This was a wonderful first date.”

Malcolm sighs, as if in relief. “Really?”

Hermione nods, though it's hidden as she burrows into the crook of his neck. Malcolm receives her easily, leaning further back and letting them both lie down flat on the picnic blanket he prepared beforehand. 

“Really.” She replies. “I mean, you showed me your mom’s Room of Requirement. I can't begin to tell you how much that means to me.”

“She would’ve loved you.” Hermione’s poor heart melts hotter than the chocolate she just ate. Malcolm is just so sweet. “Actually, you know what, she definitely would. You remind me a little bit of Poppy.”

She peers up at him, curious and a lot flattered. 

“How?”

“You’re both very fierce, for starters.” He begins, already laughing at her unimpressed gaze. “You’re resourceful, brilliant, and you have a good heart. You’re willing to do whatever it takes to protect those you love, and you don't let anyone tell you it's wrong. She was a Hufflepuff, you know, but you’re both brave in a way that scares me sometimes. I think that's what drew me to you in the beginning.”

The idea of her being anywhere near as brave as Poppy Sweeting is ridiculous. Hermione almost laughs, but doesn’t want to give Malcolm the wrong impression. 

“You’re saying you like me because I remind you of your mom?”

Malcolm’s cheeks immediately color in embarrassment, which satisfies Hermione greatly.

“Don’t laugh at me.” 

“I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing with you.” She throws his words right back at him, cackling joyously at the pout he doesn’t intend on making go away. Eventually she goes easy on him. “Do continue. I really like hearing you talk about your moms.”

“I used to hate talking about them.” She didn’t expect that at all. “Don’t get me wrong, I was so grateful they decided to take me in, but everyone and their mother knew them and I… I felt like a fraud.”

Hermione makes a noise that’s half between a hum and a groan, suddenly feeling more seen than she has ever been standing in front of a mirror.

“I’ve felt the exact same thing for six years.”

“Because you’re Muggle-born?” Hermione nods, gaze distant. “You know that’s all rubbish, right? What the likes of Malfoy say about us.” 

“I don’t make it a habit to listen to them, to be honest.” Malcolm kisses her temple, and she leans into his affection. Trying to tell herself he’s proud of her. “But I understand it’s more difficult for you.”

He doesn’t deny it. “Rory and Poppy helped. It also helped that I took up magic like a fish to water, though looking back, I can't tell if it's because of my gift or me.”

Hermione waits a beat to choose her words, before she tentatively asks him.

“Did they know you were special when they adopted you?”

“They didn't look surprised when I told them about it during the holidays. I think Rory was scared.”

The scoff she makes comes naturally and without filter. 

“Geez, I wonder why.”

Embarrassment comes later when she realizes she’s undressing Malcolm in broad daylight. He doesn’t make any move to reject her, so she takes it as permission to unbutton his shirt all the way down his chest, revealing the awful wound he got protecting Harry and Sirius from Bellatrix Lestrange’s Killing Curse.

“When you told me about what happened in the Department of Mysteries, I thought I was going to be sick.”

Malcolm blinks, as if surprised. “You were?”

“How could I not be?” Hermione scoffs, almost scolding. “One minute you were there where I could see you. The next, you were gone and some masked figure took you away. I was beside myself with worry.” 

Hermione can’t look away from the burnt mark on his chest no matter how hard she tries. 

She doesn’t remember much about that day, not really, but she does remember connecting the dots upon seeing two masked figures on opposite ends of the chamber and feeling all the blood draining from her face.

Right after Bellatrix Lestrange exploded into pieces, Malcolm had collapsed. Hermione didn’t scream his name, but she sure as hell wanted to, especially when Caitlyn came running and snatched him away before she could see if he’s okay. 

It wasn’t until over 24 hours later that she got to see him, and by then, she was too distracted by the attention she put upon herself by kissing him senseless in the middle of the Great Hall to focus on anything else.

Although they’ve made out countless times, it’s only now that Hermione really gets to see the injury he sustained. Specifically the white streak shaped like a lightning bolt in its dead center. 

“If I had a nickel…” She mumbles, mostly for herself but he hears it anyway.

“Does this make me the Chosen One too?”

He winces at the slap she makes directly on the scar. Hermione’s heart twinges with guilt, but not enough to stop glaring at him, which immediately prompts him to say—

“Sorry.”

“You better be.” She huffs. Still, she isn’t a monster, leaning down and kissing the injury better. “What did Caitlyn say about treating this?”

Malcolm’s eyes dart upwards, his cheeks an adorable shade of pink. “It’s made by magic, so no point in trying to erase it. Lots of lotion to keep the skin moisturized, but otherwise I can leave it alone for the most part.”

Hermione hums, displeased. “Would dittany essence help?”

“Like what you used on my hand last year?” She nods. “I doubt it. My mom still has injuries caused by magic that never went away.”

That’s not a suitable answer. 

No, not at all. 

“There must be something in the library about this, maybe in the Restricted Section. I’ll ask McGonagall, she can get me another slip to Pince if I make it sound like I want to become a Mediwitch at St. Mungo’s.”

If there’s one thing about Hermione that’s always been obvious, it’s that she loves planning. Her brain simply works that way, she supposes, wheels of a machine greased to ignition by the flow of logic. 

Just like every body of water, sometimes things spill, and Hermione has to rush in order to contain them before they slip through the cracks and disappear into the abyss. 

Very rarely has she found people who are patient enough to wait, or rather, deem her worthy enough to wait for. Malcolm Wake isn’t the first, far from it, but he is the only one to not have blinked every single time she does something deemed too nerdy.

Such as writing in her journal in the middle of a romantic first date. 

Hermione almost forgets she’s not alone, coming back to reality only when Malcolm asks the one question she’s been dreading. 

“What about you? What are your parents like?” 

Memories of last summer come crashing in like tidal waves, and Hermione is left struggling for breath. 

“When Professor McGonagall came to our home asking to take you away, you gave us your word and promised you wouldn’t leave us behind.”

“Well things changed, alright? You don’t understand.”

“Because you don’t want us to!”

“Sweetie, we just want you to talk to us. Don’t you love us anymore?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, you know what’s not fair? Us having to beg to be let into your life. You’re gone for 9 months and every time you come home, it feels like I’m looking at a stranger.”

“Then perhaps you should’ve taken the hint and accepted that I’m no longer the child you thought I was.”

“That’s because you’re always our little girl.”

“I grew up! And it’s time you do too, alright!”

“Hermione!”

It’s been a while since she thought about it, about them in general, and the guilt surging back up is so painful she almost hunches over in agony.

As it is, Hermione only laughs and looks away, lest Malcolm can see it in her eyes.

“What about mine?” 

“I told you a lot about mine. Both pairs, even.” He did. He’s so brave. He should’ve been the one sorted into Gryffindor, not her. “I was hoping you could tell me a bit about yours.”

“Not much to tell, I’m afraid.” Hermione doesn’t stop writing in her journal, scribbles of nonsense that don’t even look illegible. The tears she holds back are starting to hurt. “My parents are dentists. They live in London.”

Malcolm’s always been perceptive, but it looks like he misses something this time.

“What are they like?” Please. Stop. “You mentioned in your letter you didn't have the best summer. Was it because of them? Would you like to talk to me about it?”

Knowing Malcolm, he would call this playing dirty. 

Knowing Malcolm, he would’ve tried to push her away when she practically threw herself at him, quite literally mauling his lips and holding his face hostage with her hands. Knowing Malcolm, he would’ve tried to say something when she stuck her tongue down his throat and snuck her hand down to touch his abs. Knowing Malcolm, he especially would’ve done something when Hermione took off her shirt.

Alas, Hermione is a very lucky girl, and Malcolm Wake is putty in the palm of her hands and the lace of her bra.  

Any conversation he might want to have promptly disperses, and Hermione spends the rest of the date understanding the hype of getting to second base. Being a teenager has its merits. 

—

News of Katie Bell’s backfired attempted murder spreads like wildfire.

Malcolm can't go anywhere in the castle without hearing about it, paintings and peers and even Hogwarts herself is committed to stoking the flame. Hermione should know a thing or two— the three of them are once again involved in shenanigans, to no one’s surprise— but they’ve both been so busy with school work they hardly have had a chance to meet. 

Malcolm is so looking forward to it, because Hermione had asked him on a second date and this time she’ll be the one organizing. 

He had immensely enjoyed the last one, down to the part where he got to see her shirtless. But the way she none-too-subtly tried to distract him from asking about her parents remained in the back of his mind, growing claws. 

Something really bad must’ve happened, because he can't imagine someone like Hermione would ever act this way towards two people she loves most in the world. Maybe he’ll have Caitlyn pop in to check on them. 

Lost in thoughts as he exits the dungeons after a gruesome two-hours of Muggle Studies, Malcolm is just about to make his way back to the Ravenclaw Common Room when he bumps into someone he never thought he would, or at least not willingly.

“Ron Weasley?”

Last he heard, Gryffindor’s latest Keeper was a neck-and-neck choice between the ginger boy ambushing him and Cormac McClaggen. Malcolm personally prefers the former (Cormac is practically Draco Malfoy with a thicker head) and has been meaning to congratulate Hermione’s best friend for the achievement.

That is if the aforementioned best friend can stop looking at him like he personally killed his rat. 

(Where is that little bugger anyway? Malcolm hadn’t seen it since third year. He almost missed the sound of Crookshanks screeching like the frightening terror that he was whenever he passed by them in the Transfiguration Courtyard.)

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Malcolm asks first, instinctively looking around for one beautiful curly-haired girl. 

Evidently Ron notices. “She already left. Knowing her, she was probably going to the library for some more light reading.”

Malcolm doesn’t even get a second to ask before Ron is thrusting forward a thick book. He doesn’t recognize it by the author nor the title, but by the cover which he’s seen popped its head out of Hermione’s bag a dozen times.

Sure enough, when he opens it, the first page reads Property of Hermione Jean Granger, 1996. Malcolm closes it with more tenderness than before, curiously looking up at Ron.

“Hermione left it in Potions class.” Ron finally answers, rolling his eyes. “Thought you could give it back to her.”

Malcolm nods, still unsure where this conversation is going. 

“Of course. I’ll do that in a bit.” 

He goes to head there immediately, but Ron is deliberately stepping in his path and blocking his way. Malcolm’s fingers twitch, a foreboding sense of danger prickling at the back of his head and urging him to pull out his wand.

Which is ridiculous. This is Ron Weasley, Hermione’s best friend. He wouldn’t hurt him. 

Still, he looks around for any sign of life. The hallway is, for once, fully empty of people. Shit. 

“Ron?”

“Wake,” No first name, gotcha. “Where on earth did you come from?”

He’s been expecting I know what you are or I think you’re up to no good or even the classic what is your intention with her, but where did you come from?

“Are you asking about my hometown, because I could’ve sworn it’s still written in my birth certificate. Been a while since I went back, so I can’t say I remember, but I’m pretty sure the house number starts with 47—”

“I don’t give a bloody damn about what hole you came out of.” Ouch, rude. “I want to know why all of a sudden, after six years of not even knowing you exist, Hermione is sticking to you like glue.”

Malcolm exhales. “There actually exists a concept of getting to know someone you previously didn’t. What exactly are you trying to say?”

In response, Ron narrows the distance between them. It’s only thanks to his hard-earned facade training that Malcolm doesn’t even flinch, though anyone who looks into his eyes will clearly see his pupils dilating in fright. 

Ron, thankfully oblivious, lowers his voice and squares his shoulders. Malcolm can recognize an intimidation tactic from a mile away. 

“Hermione is head over heels for you. Harry looks at you like you just gave him back his entire world. We all suspected you, but those two are too smitten with you to even remotely say anything bad about you these days. Not me, I know this is all too much of a coincidence.”

Malcolm swallows, and hates himself for doing so. 

A few stragglers start walking by, but pick up their paces at the mere sight of a confrontation. Malcolm half wants to pull one of them back, but figures this is something they should keep to themselves.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck are you trying to insinuate? That I’m some apprentice Death Eater planted in Hogwarts to get in between the three of you?”

Ron sneers, taking one step forward. Malcolm’s fingers suddenly itch, rubbing them together in a hasty attempt to calm down whatever it is threatening to arise in him. 

“That’d explain a lot, doesn’t it? Who knows, maybe you were in cahoots with that Bellatrix Lestrange. Maybe it wasn’t the Killing Curse she actually used, you just planned it all so everyone would think you stopped it. Or are you going to explain to me now how a mere teenage witch like you could have done something only Harry ‘The Chosen One’ Potter did, and even then he didn’t do it intentionally?”

Malcolm’s breath hitches, giving Ron the exact opening he needed.

That doesn't mean he’ll go down without a fight. 

“Ronald Weasley, I genuinely don’t know what you’re talking about. I was knocked out halfway through that battle and was taken to St. Mungo’s.”

Ron doesn't hesitate before throwing Malcolm’s words back in his face. 

“Very convenient story, even more convenient that no one saw you in that brief fifteen minutes where spells were flying sparks. Were you really at St. Mungo’s or were you with You-Know-Who?”

At this point, Malcolm has started to grow dizzy with fear. He’s not afraid of Ron Weasley, more that he’s afraid of the domino chain of events this will cause if he doesn't do anything remotely competent to stop it. 

Determined not to let any of it slip, Malcolm tries for a different approach. Anger. 

“I would never work for him.” His voice trembles with poorly-suppressed emotion, dramatically shaking his fists clenched at his sides. “You’re way out of line.”

“Hermione said your parents passed recently. Did they really die of old age or did your freaky powers do the job just fine?”

How dare you. 

Embarrassingly, humiliatingly, tears burn in his eyes.

Malcolm doesn’t dare describe the noise that just left him, a hybrid between a sob and a scream. He’s even more scared to see the flashes cycling through the lens of his brain and sparks running through his veins, instead trying to concentrate on the only thing he can control.

Anger.

He lets himself be blinded by it, so much so that he doesn’t see his own clenched fist begin swinging back and get ready to thrust forward. 

He’s so close to smacking his entire hand into Ronald Weasley’s smug face, when something huge snatches him by the waist and forcefully tugs him back. Malcolm tries to fight it, but he can’t, and that familiar caged-in helplessness only makes him feel more miserable.

“Let go!” He says. Screaming, more like it. “Let me go!”

But the force holding him back from doing anything stupid is too strong, too warm. It feels like he’s being hugged by a tree. 

“Malcolm, calm down! Whatever this is, you can resolve this another way. What would Hermione think?”

Just as quick as it lit itself alight, the fire in his chest cools and turns to ashes. Malcolm is left shaking, almost hyperventilating, and Ron Weasley looks like he just handed over a hundred thousand galleons on a silver platter.

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you.” He says, backing away. Smiling like he won. “She’ll see it eventually, who you really are, and she’ll come back to her senses.”

“Fuck off!” Malcolm snaps, unsure if he’s angrier at his provoker or himself. “Gosh, you foul-mouthed pig-brained idiot, get the fuck out of my sight before I blow your head off!”

Malcolm tries one more time, but Neville’s grip is surprisingly strong for someone of his tender nature. With a grin that practically splits his lips open, Ron turns to walk away. As if that wasn’t enough, he just has to rub salt into the wound by whistling as he goes. 

Some wild noise escapes Malcolm the minute Ron disappears around the corner, as if him just being out of sight is enough proof of Malcolm’s incompetence. 

Luckily for him, Neville lets go. 

Malcolm immediately whirls around and bares his teeth. “What the hell was that for?”

“I should be asking you that.” Neville, bless him, still stutters when he tries standing up for himself. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I could’ve smacked that slimy grin off his face.” He summons all the wills he doesn’t have so he doesn’t start pointing fingers. “Why the fuck did you stop me?”

Neville blinks. “You’re mad if you think I wouldn’t have. In case you forgot, physical assault lands you in detention. Worse, you can get arrested and tried in front of the Wizengamot as an adult.”

Neville is only stating facts. Above all others, Malcolm should know better than to get into a physical fight he doesn’t know if he’s capable of stopping. 

He did once, and that is the reason why he can see Thestrals. One would think he had learned his lesson.

Essentially backed into a corner and without a good argument, Malcolm does the second thing he does best. 

“Fuck this.”

He runs. 

Malcolm vaguely hears Neville shouting his name and something about a book, but he’s too busy crying to listen. 

Hogwarts is kind, has always been, even when he doesn’t deserve it. And so by the time he exits the dungeons entirely, Malcolm is persuaded into entering a secret passage behind a painting of a kindly smiling armored knight and, from there, quietly makes his way into the Room of Requirement.

Only it’s not his mom’s. Nor is it Dumbledore’s Army.

Malcolm looks around, finding nothing but space. It's the exact opposite of Rory’s room, barren of any furniture and anything that makes it seem alive.

It's empty. Like the bottom of a pit, or the belly of a monster. It breathes like one too, in sync with the rise and fall of his chest. 

Hogwarts speaks to him then, a soft plea for him to dump his upset here where it's safe. Malcolm doesn't know how to tell her he hasn't felt safe since his parents were gone. 

Tears spring to his eyes then, a mountain of pain in his chest as he wishes, he wishes, that his moms were here to tell him what he wants to hear.

Malcolm lets out a cry, then a sob. His knees buckle and he crashes undignified towards the cold, hard floor, his hands bunching the dirt like he’s trying to claw his way down to below the earth, where they are buried for eternity.

Tears come easily then, each of them more fat and pathetic than the one that came before. Malcolm gasps for breath, clutching his heart as if to prevent it from collapsing. 

Out of nowhere, a shock startles him so badly he loses his balance and actually falls on his ass. Malcolm hurriedly wipes at his face with his sleeves to get rid of the tears, looking around to see if he can find his attacker. 

It’s still just him. 

Is he going mad?

“You didn't…” He calls out weakly, eyes on the ceiling. “Was that you?”

Hogwarts tells him no, and she's a little offended that he even thought that to begin with.

Malcolm winces, bows his head in apology. Just then, he spots his hands nestled in his lap. Or rather, the spark of silver on his tips.

“What the fuck?” He raises both to eye level, slowly putting them close together and— “Jesus fuck!”

The zap upon his fingers touching is, surprisingly, not unfamiliar. Malcolm knows he’s seen this before, grew up watching Rory light up the night sky with lightning storms and lulled to sleep in the warmth and safety of Poppy’s embrace. 

“I can make lightning…” The fuck is he even saying. “I can make lightning with my bare hands.”

Hogwarts cheers in his ears, but the only thing Malcolm can feel is fear.

Rory once said, with great power comes great responsibility. It’s a quote from a Spider-Man comic book, one that Rory kept on display despite Poppy’s insistence otherwise. Malcolm hadn’t understood then, but he does now.

He sees it for what it is now.

A warning. 

A threat. 

That if he’s not careful, he can bring the world to its knees with a snap of his fingers. If he’s not careful, he can destroy everything and everyone he’s ever loved. If he’s not careful, he’ll become the monster they’ve always said he was going to be.

Malcolm gulps, curling up into a ball, not unlike a child. Tears stream down his cheeks, mouth calling for help from people who would never come. 

Just what on Merlin’s green earth is he going to do now?