The Hedgehog's Dilemma

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"We are our own dragons and our own heroes. We must rescue ourselves from ourselves."
― Peter S. Beagle

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Chapter One: The Girl & The Muddy Road

Ginny put her hands on her hips, then spread them, doing a quick turn on her toes. "What do you think?" she asked. She was wearing what looked like a collection of blue foam triangles.

Sucking on a mint, Hermione surveyed her doubtfully. "I think you becoming friends with Parkinson has completely warped your brain," she finally said, shaking her head a bit. And honestly, the thought of the wizarding world's Gossip Girl being best friends with Sarcasma, Queen of Snark was terrifying, but Hermione supposed that if the worst that came out of it was some questionable fashion choices, she had no real complaints. "Is that one of hers?"

"Yes. And it's brilliant," Ginny huffed. "I'm not even really asking you. All you wear are cardigans. Draco?" She twisted to look at him hopefully where he was busying himself at the counter.

He didn't even turn around. "No," he intoned, flatly. "Tea?"

Sighing, Ginny dropped her head back in defeat for a moment. "Really? Marco loved it. He wants it for the runway at his expo in Milan. I thought you gay blokes really went for this stuff." She wrinkled her nose a bit. "You know what? I think dating Harry, who wears the same jumper every day, has warped your brain." Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she swept out of the kitchen.

Hermione turned her attention back to her book as the Floo roared to life in the living room.

Draco set a mug at her side. She could smell the faint tang of lemon, and marvelled at the fact that he knew how she took her tea. Two years ago, when Harry and Draco had started dating, he would have sooner thrown the kettle on the floor than offer anyone a drink. Now, she couldn't so much as glance at Grimmauld Place without being given something to sip.

"Thank you," she murmured, crushing the mint between her teeth quickly so the flavour would be gone by the time the tea had cooled.

She was buried in her book when he sat down next to her. For a moment, he just sat there, and she could feel his eyes on her. Knowing, at this point, how much he enjoyed making people uncomfortable, she ignored him and focused on dissolving her mint.

As she curled her fingers around the handle of the mug, he spoke. "I'm not, you know."

"Not what?" she asked, absently.

"Gay."

Sipping delicately at the tea, she winced. The leftover sweetness of the mint lingered on her tongue, and the drink tasted entirely too bitter in comparison. "I know," she said, dismissively. "You're bisexual. You told me that last week. And the week before."

Draco nodded, and she saw his fingers tapping on the mug out of the corner of her eye. "Neither's Potter."

Slowly, Hermione raised her eyes from the book to stare at him, squinting a bit. "I know." She knew she sounded short, but why did he have to start talking about this inane nonsense when she was right in the middle of reading a sentence? "I think I know how my best friend identifies. But thank you, for reminding me. Again."

A look of frustration passed over his face, and he chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment in wordless agitation before he took a gulp of his tea. She stared at him for a second longer, waiting for him to say something (maybe repeat it, again, or something, since he seemed so fond of it). When he just sat there in mute irritation, she turned back to her book, finishing the chapter and her tea.

"I should get going, Harry's taking forever," she sighed. "Tell him I'll get the book from him at work, or something, okay? Thanks for the tea, Draco."

"Of course, Granger," he muttered. Despite becoming friendly with everyone, he hadn't been able to break out of his habit of surnames, and they'd long since stopped correcting him on it. She deposited the mug in the sink on her way out.

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She left early for work the next day, stopping into Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes with a brown paper bag. The shop was empty at this time of day, and the clerk's counter was similarly so. "Ron!" she yelled, glancing at her watch. She wasn't going to be late for his sake.

He popped out of the back, a broad grin on his face that widened impossibly further when he saw the bag in her hands. "Yes!" he cheered, trotting eagerly behind the cash register to grab it from her. "What is it, today? Is it that Asian chicken salad? That was amazing. No, wait. Is it that seared tuna?" He reached in and tried to wrestle the container out. "Salmon? Salmon!"

Eyes widening a bit, Hermione ordered, "Calm down. Honestly."

Inhaling sharply, he closed his eyes, his face contorting a bit as though he were about to burst into sobs. "Oh, great Muggle God, who rules from the heavens and has a flowing Dumblebeard, I thank you for this bounty—"

"Oh, my God." She turned to go.

"Oi!" She glanced over her shoulder at the second level, where George was leaning over the railing. "You're not even dating him, anymore, and you still bring him lunch? Where's mine? If this keeps up, I'm going to think you're not even in love with me, anymore."

"That's a good thing. It means the delusion is passing," she drawled.

Ron put the container back in the bag, smug. "Hey, maybe if you manage to make her into your ex-girlfriend, she'll start bringing you her leftovers, too. I put five whole years of my life into these leftovers. Five years that I'll never get back." He caught Hermione's narrowed eyes and swallowed. "And the five happiest years of my life. Obviously."

"Keep it up, Weasley. It's just as easy for me to write George on that bag as it is to write Ron."

He clutched the bag to his chest. "If you bring him lunch, I will set it and this shop on fire, and then we'll all die penniless and destitute because of your turncoat ways, Hermione. Is that what you want? Also, I'll have wasted the food. Unless you count turning it into charcoal as simply repurposing it," he murmured, thoughtfully.

She waved, smiling humourlessly. "I'm going to go ahead and leave while that train of thought misses the station. Bye."

"Thanks, luv!" he called after her, as she shouldered the door open and stepped back out into the bitter autumn air. Maybe she should stop bringing him lunch. But cooking for one was impossible, and bringing Ron leftovers both delighted him and kept him from eating greasy fish and chips on a daily basis.

Sighing, Hermione trudged down the sidewalk. At least she had work to look forward to.

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She was purely and utterly focused when hands slammed down on either side of her, hitting the desk like a thunderclap. She swallowed a scream, jumping and clasping her hand to her throat.

Harry chuckled. "Hey."

"Oh, my God," Hermione hissed, turning a bit to dig her elbow into his side. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

He was still laughing as he shied away from her elbow. She had to admit, as much as his attraction to Draco Malfoy confused her, it had at least brought a smile back to his face after the war. After several years of watching him flit in and out of depression (something Ginny had not even felt up to the task of dealing with, after a while), seeing him so happy was more than enough reason to not question his relationship with the tetchy blond.

Besides, she supposed she saw the appeal. Draco was a handsome man, and Hermione supposed she could see how his petulant brattiness might be endearing. If she squinted, that is.

"I couldn't resist," Harry admitted, completely unrepentant.

She rolled her eyes, shooting him a mild glare as she turned back to her work. She sighed heavily when he leant on her desk, scooting between it and her. When she scowled up at him, he offered her a grin. "You skipped lunch, didn't you?"

"No," she muttered, taking care to hold his gaze so he wouldn't sense the lie.

His eyes narrowed a smidgen as he stared into hers. "Liar," he accused. Groaning, she slumped back into her chair. "What did I say was going to happen if you skipped lunch, again, Hermione?"

"You were going to stop crumpling my papers with your bum?" Straightening, she shoved at his hips, and he allowed himself to be pushed off of her parchments so that she could tidy them up and put them at the far corner of the desk, out of harm's way. He crossed his arms, ever-patient, and she wrinkled her nose when she realised he wasn't going away. "Do we have to?"

"If I don't punish you, how will you learn?"

She hesitated. "I'll eat double lunch tomorrow."

"That's not how nutrition works," he scoffed. "Up. Up, up." She sagged as he grasped her arms, trying to become dead weight as he yanked her up. It didn't work, and he dragged her out of her seat with ease. Pulling her out of her cubicle and steering her down the corridor, he leaned into her boss' office to announce, "I'm stealing Miss Granger for her lunch hour!"

"Good," Halfweather shot back.

Harry beamed, curling his arm around her shoulders and exuding an obnoxious amount of cheer as he led her towards the lifts. "What did we learn today?"

"That your boyfriend has turned you into a prat."

"We learned that when you skip your lunch, I make you take your full hour and waste even more of your time," he corrected, patiently. "I don't understand why you don't just take the lunch you make Ron and eat it at your desk if you're so obsessed. I'll get food on my papers," he said, in a falsetto, perfectly in time with her. He herded her into a lift and hit the button for the ground floor. "Yeah, yeah, let's go."

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They ended up in line at a sandwich shop. It hadn't taken long for Hermione to get over her snit and start talking about how she was pushing for house-elves to make a living wage. He listened with half an ear, having heard it all before, his eyes on the sandwich sign as he tried to figure out what he wanted.

"And then who comes in? Malfoy. The older, ruder version; not yours," she huffed, her face pinching with instant dislike. "And, surprise surprise, he does not agree with my initiative."

"Well, you probably should have seen that coming."

She threw her hands up. "What does he even care? He can't afford to pay his elves? He has money coming out of his pores! Turkey and swiss!" she barked at the poor sandwich-maker, who jumped a bit. Hermione winced. "Sorry, sorry, I'm— it's— not you, I'm just— in general..." Fading off and realising that the poor girl was just staring at her, wide-eyed, Hermione gave up.

Pressing his lips together to keep the smile down, Harry murmured, "Roast beef. Cheddar. Thank you. It's the principle of the thing, Hermione. He just doesn't believe that elves should earn wages. It has nothing to do with his ability to afford it."

"That's insane," she enunciated, her hands forming frustrated claws in front of her as she struggled to remain calm. "He is so infuriating. I've never met a man whom I so dearly wanted to shove into a waste compactor."

Harry blinked. "Star Wars?"

"Yes," she admitted. She'd watched it the night before.

"You need new DVDs."

"My DVDs are fine. Will you focus? Lettuce, tomato, and mustard," she told the sandwich girl, tiredly. "I need someone on my side who can counter Malfoy's rich-boy clout."

"Lettuce, mayonnaise... Onions? Onions," Harry decided. "And what, someone who can't be bought off by Malfoy's pile of riches? Do you want me to help you find a unicorn, while we're at it? Perhaps a phoenix, or two? Jesus, himself?"

"Well, at least I have your oh-so-helpful sarcasm to see me through," she said, tersely, grabbing a bag of crisps and fishing for her purse.

"I've got it," Harry said, and Hermione let her purse drop back to her side as he paid, grabbing some bottled waters out of the fridge before heading to the table. He followed her with the tray, squinting at her jalapeno crisps with distaste. "I don't know how you can stomach those."

"I don't know how you can stomach Draco, but I am polite and kept my incredulity to myself," she sniffed.

His grin was immediate. "Really? You have no idea how I can stomach him, huh? What was that thing you said last New Year's, while you were pissed out of your mind, about his arse—?"

"That was a joke," she interrupted, feeling her cheeks heat. "Also, I was drunk and being stupid."

"Oh, right, of course. So when you said that thing about it looking like it was chiseled by Michelangelo—"

"Harry—"

"—and then being discarded for being too perfect, that was just you joking," he finished, in a perfectly innocent tone. "I suppose you grabbing it was just you joking, too, huh?"

She scrubbed her hand over her face, mortified. "Alright. So he's fit. That doesn't mean he's not obnoxious."

He held up his hands. "No argument, here. I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page about your jokes, is all. I'd hate for us to have a miscommunication."

She unwrapped her sandwich with a scowl. "You know, I really hate you."

"Oh, you really don't," he returned, confidently, his grin returning so widely that it put dimples in his cheeks. When her scowl intensified, he leant forward and booped her on the nose, yanking his hand back before she could slap it out of her face.

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When her mobile rang, she jogged for it and then crammed herself into the corner of her bedroom — the only place in her flat where she got reception. The magic made things go a little crazy in the building. "Hi, Dad."

"Hello, Lambchop. Are you still popping by on Sunday for your mum's birthday?"

"Yep." The call began to get choppy, and she shoved herself harder into the corner of the room until it evened out. "What'd you get her?"

"Bracelet."

She snorted. "Creative, as usual," she said, biting back a faint smile. When Rose Granger failed to hint at things she wanted with an appropriate lack of subtlety, she received jewellery. After over thirty years of marriage, she'd learned her lesson and now just stuck a picture of what she wanted on the fridge with a magnet. She must not have specified this year.

"You're one to talk," David retorted. "Let me guess: A gift certificate to a restaurant."

The pause was as guilty as it was indignant. "No," she managed, after a moment of spluttering. "I got her something much better than that. Thank you very much."

"Oh really? What is it? I can't wait to hear."

Another pause. "You're cutting out," she said, primly, although the connection had never been more crystal clear than in that moment. "Better hang up. Bye, Dad!" He was laughing when she hung up, her nose wrinkled. She had four days to come up with a different birthday present, and now she was also saddled with a gift certificate to a restaurant she didn't really want.

The next birthday she even knew about was Ron's, and it was all the way in March. The gift certificate expired on December 3rd. "Damn it," she grumbled, setting her mobile down and stalking back into the kitchen.

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Harry leant back in his chair, peering at her over his steepled fingers. "How much is it for?"

"Two hundred and fifty. Pounds," Hermione added.

His eyebrows shot up. "Wow, you are a good daughter."

"Thank you. It's nice to finally be appreciated. So..." She shot him a winning smile. "Care to buy it off me? I think Draco would even like this place; it's pretty posh. The kind of place where you bring in a gift certificate for two-fifty and you still end up fishing out your wallet. He'd have to wear something Muggle, of course."

"Hmm. I don't know. Full asking price for a gift certificate you can't use?" he asked, sceptically.

She slumped against his desk, groaning. "I swear, you have become so insufferable since that blond idiot sunk his claws into you," she complained. "What do you want?"

"Come with us."

Shaking her head emphatically, she said, "Nope," complete with a popped 'p.' "Absolutely not. I'm not going to sit around while you two have a date around me. I'll be trapped there by societal conventions, unable to escape while you two make doe-eyes at each other. I'll be utterly miserable."

"It won't be a date," he promised. "And you won't be the third wheel. He's always complaining about how my friends are riff-raff and we don't do anything nice as a group. This way, I can shut him up."

"How can you sit there and say with a straight face that I won't be a third wheel?"

"I promise."

Her nose wrinkled. "Can we bring Ginny?"

"I am not stepping a single foot outside with her in public until she purges Pansy from her closet," Harry said, grimly. "Besides, I want to go this Saturday, and she'll be at her fashion expo, wearing something completely ridiculous."

"Ron?"

"Is closing on Saturday and chews with his mouth open."

Hermione made an exasperated noise. "Some fourth person, then. If I have to sit across from you while you two play footsie under the table, I will go home and shut my head in the oven," she swore. "I haven't dated anyone since Ron, and I don't need you two flaunting your happy relationship at me in close quarters."

"You have become so bitter," he said, wonderingly. "You haven't even been single two years yet, and you are just a pile of bitterness wrapped around a burgeoning cat lady."

She straightened from his desk with a huff. "Forget it."

Harry laughed as he grabbed her wrist, keeping her from stomping out entirely. "Listen. I'll buy it off you. I'll treat you to dinner at some posh restaurant. And we will sit there and talk about house-elf rights right in front of him. You can't tell me you don't find the thought of that a little appealing."

Hermione tilted her head a bit, considering it. Watching Draco get all tetchy might be kind of fun. "No snogging in front of me," she ordered.

"I will not snog Draco in front of you," he promised, gravely. He waited, eyebrows raised.

She inhaled deeply, pursing her lips in thought. She supposed there were worse ways to spend a Saturday night. And honestly, as much fun as it was to complain about him, she really did like Draco; he was actually rather funny and charming when he hadn't worked himself up into a snit. "Alright," she agreed.

Harry smiled, excitement flashing over his expression. "Wear something nice. Something he won't make fun of."

"That's impossible," she informed him, crisply. She could storm into that restaurant in something straight out of a magazine, and Draco would still find something rude to say about it. "That man could find fault in the Mona Lisa."

He started chuckling, not having much in the way of a rebuttal, and she patted him on the shoulder and headed back towards her own department. At least she got the gift certificate taken care of. Now she just had to figure out what to buy her mum, instead. Something to do with gardening, she supposed.

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"What about these ones?" Ron picked up a packet, hopeful as ever.

Hermione glanced at them. Carrots. "She has those," she said, as she'd said about the last six seed packets Ron had tried to get her to buy. He put them back with a sigh and reached for strawberries. "Too high maintenance."

He stopped reaching, throwing his hand up in wordless frustration. "I give up. Since the woman has the world, apparently, just get her a card."

"I am not getting my mum a card for her birthday."

"Hermione, I'm no good at present-picking," he began, and she turned to glare at him, her lips thinning. Increasingly desperate, he pointed out: "Remember your birthday three years ago? Remember when I got you that headband with the cat on it?"

"You are earning your lunches. Help me find something, or go back to eating a family-sized bag of crisps every day at noon," she grit out.

Sighing, he turned back to the seed wall. He pointed. "Those."

"Has them."

"Oh, Merlin, someone kill me," he whispered.

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She did end up getting the strawberries, if only because she was pretty sure her dad would disown her if she brought any more vegetables into his house. Besides, as high maintenance as strawberries were, she thought her mum might enjoy the challenge. Then, worried the strawberries weren't enough, she also got a pot for them, and some soil.

After assembling it on her kitchen table, Hermione looked at the dirt-smudged pot doubtfully. She was glad she'd had the foresight to put some newspaper down, because it was messier work than it really looked like it would be.

She wrapped it carefully in tissue paper, and murmured, "Good luck in there."

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Saturday night found Hermione squeezing into one of the few dresses she actually owned. It was black, and plain, and one with several practical uses. It was also a little tight, and she grimaced a bit as she struggled with the zipper. Finally, she sucked in a breath and grabbed her wand, forcing it the last inch or so by magic until it locked.

Her face scrunched a bit as she twisted around in front of her mirror. She hadn't noticed herself gaining any weight, but then again, her work clothes were generally shapeless and (as she'd just discovered) fairly forgiving.

Maybe this was just a hallmark of turning twenty-five. It was all downhill from here.

"God, I am becoming a cat lady," she whispered to her reflection, horrified. She was going to have to start going on walks, or something. Or maybe she'd learn how to run. Properly, that is, not the terrified sprinting and screaming she'd done throughout the war.

She tried to imagine herself in those tight running shorts and made a face at the mental image.

Twisting her hair up into a bun — she knew it was only a matter of time before her hair came bursting right back out of it, but she could usually get it to behave for a couple of hours, at least — she surveyed herself one last time in the mirror and regretted not trying on the dress earlier in the week. Draco was sure to notice the extra stone and would most certainly have a blast needling her about it. Well, it was too late to try and get anything else, now, so she just shrugged helplessly at herself and headed for the Floo.

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"I'm here!" Hermione yelled, stepping into the living room and dusting the ashes from her hips. Harry appeared at the top of the stairs and held up a finger to indicate he needed a minute, and she waved him away as she headed for the kitchen, thirsty.

Draco was already there, at the table. He did a double-take when she entered, a sneer already etching itself onto his handsome face. "Merlin, Granger, do I need to take you shopping?"

Plastering a plastic smile on her face, she yanked the fridge open. "And it is just a delight to see you, as well, Draco. I'm great, thanks ever so for asking." She leaned down a bit to survey the selections and plucked the container of apple juice out.

"You've gained weight."

Hermione slammed the fridge closed, turning to narrow her eyes at him. "I wish I could say you've gained any manners," she grumbled. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to comment on a woman's weight?"

He watched her fish for a glass and fill it up, a scowl seared into her expression. "Touchy, today."

"You are so annoying. Harry should be inducted into a sainthood for putting up with you," she growled. "And yes, I know. Alright? I am well aware that I'm getting all fat and shapeless and horrifying. Please feel free to never bring it up again."

Draco stood, his eyes climbing up her body as he took a few steps towards her. "It's not that bad," he assured her, lazily. "Made your breasts bigger."

She'd been about to take a sip, but paused, lowering the glass to say, "You're an absolute animal."

He plucked the glass out of her hand, smirking when she squawked indignantly and holding it out of her reach when she made a wild grab for it. "I mean, it would be better if you didn't try and stuff them into that off-the-rack monstrosity and into something with a hint of class, but overall, I've no complaints." He took a leisurely sip of the juice.

Leaning against the counter, she offered him a tight smile. "Please. If I were wearing anything that earned more than a passing glance, your ego wouldn't be able to handle the lapse in attention. You'd expire on the spot."

"You vastly underestimate me."

"Give me that," she snapped, snatching her juice back. It was half-gone, but she drained the rest of it anyway in one quick swallow so that he wouldn't have the chance to take it again. He watched her, his eyebrows rising just a smidgen as she finished her gulp and headed for the sink. "Do you have to take some sort of class to be quantified as this obnoxious? Is there a certificate?"

"You drank after me," Draco murmured, still standing where she'd left him.

"What?"

He pivoted towards her a bit, his head cocked. "You drank after I did. You've never done that," he pointed out. "Something about gems—"

"Germs," she corrected, squinting at him. "And I don't worry about that sort of stuff with friends, just strangers." In fact, she was trying to recall whether or not she'd ever before shared a glass with him. She couldn't remember, but then again, it wasn't as though she'd been keeping track as closely as he clearly had been.

He ran his tongue over his lips. "I see."

Hermione squinted harder. Just as she was opening her mouth to ask him what on Earth he was gassing on about, Harry entered, looking excited and quite dashing in his suit. "Ready?" he asked, sounding a little breathless. He must have run down the stairs. "You look nice, Hermione."

"Oh, please," Draco muttered. He didn't do anything to try and shy away from the slap Harry landed on his arm, his green eyes narrowing in brief warning.

When Harry turned his gaze back to Hermione, the smile returned. "Let's go."