Author Notes (Dec 2018): I've not been writing much, and I've been missing it. I started by re-reading and, inevitably, editing some of my favorite past works, and I found myself drawn to this story. Both because I loved and still love Dramione, and the exploration of Pureblood ideology (and, let's face it, racism) feels so relevant in this current climate. While the writing has been refined and split into chapters for easier reading, the core story itself has not changed. I hope you can enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing and editing it.

Warnings: R rating. Some HBP Spoilers, character deaths, and a word count that will make you want to prepare a pot of team before you begin to read.

Summary: When the past doesn't keep its peace, one must silence its voice. Except Hermione Granger doesn't know how. Sort of HBP-compliant. AU.

Written in the Ashes

by Callisto Callispi

Chapter 1

The sun faded below the horizon only fifteen minutes before, but it was already dark. Stars littered the night sky, and the golden field of barley before her swayed back and forth with the warm, sticky breeze. The night was warm, the days were steadily getting hotter, and Hermione found herself perspiring even in a loose skirt and a sleeveless lace shirt.

She had always enjoyed the countryside. It was a quiet sanctuary from the always-busy streets of London, a society governed by the movements of a little hand of a clock. Hermione would always be a city girl at heart, but sometimes, the desire to pack up and run away flooded her. It was a foreign feeling – something not entirely welcome but satiable just the same. So she fled.

It was a pocket of a place tucked away safely from the view of the entire outside world, hidden from the passage of time. A small island of a wooden cabin floating about in a sea of gold, drifting whichever way the wind took it. Nothing could disturb the tranquility of this little valley. The nearest forests were about half a kilometer from the house, and animals, excluding the occasional rabbit or two, were no nuisances. Or, rather, they weren't nuisances before.

Hermione spotted, for the third time in four evenings, a little blot against the full silver moon. She waited for a few seconds, hoping against hope that it was a bat. But as the blot got bigger, she clearly discerned the shape of an owl.

With a frown, Hermione retreated into the cabin and closed the door firmly behind her, just as the owl landed on her porch and started pecking on her door.

Obstinately, Hermione decided to ignore the owl and sank into her couch with a novel, as she had for the past two nights. She would wait until it gave up and went away. They always did.

Unfortunately, tonight was not like other nights.

Close to forty minutes had passed. The owl did not leave and its pecking got louder and more erratic. Briefly Hermione wondered whether she would wake up tomorrow to find a part of her door chipped away. No doubt the owl must have its beak enchanted to be harder than bone.

Damn Harry for knowing exactly what got on her nerves.

Hermione closed her book and finally opened the door, eying the owl that was bobbing its head like a drunken woodpecker.

"All right, all right, Hedwig," Hermione said as she took the envelopes from the owl's beak. "You win. Harry will be happy to hear that."

Hedwig hooted wearily.

After making sure that there was no damage done to the beak, Hermione fetched the owl a bowl of water.

As Hedwig greedily gulped down her offerings, Hermione studied the envelopes. One was from Harry, obviously. The other was from Hogwarts. The last one, however, piqued her curiosity. There was no return address, no sender name. She checked both sides of the envelope, and all she could see was her name written in fine black ink. Just her name.

The ink. The handwriting. They both struck her like a wave.

"It can't be," she murmured, pulling the letter away from her face.

Indeed, it couldn't be. It had to be some sick joke.

Hermione stood up and tossed the letter into the hearth and lit a fire. Just as she feared, a burst of green flames lit up the room before the envelope and the contents inside withered into a pile of black ashes.

Hermione didn't think much of it, however. She forced herself not to.

Burying the smidgen of emotion that started to rise in her gut, Hermione turned her attention to the other two letters.

The first was Harry's, the scrawly writing a dead giveaway. He expressed his best wishes and worries on her behalf, even though he was the one who encouraged Hermione's surprise vacations.

Hermione skimmed through the letter, skipping paragraphs that recounted his office duties as assistant to the Minister of Magic. She noted with slight interest that he wrote of a woman, a different one from two months ago, with whom he was having an affair. Hermione rolled her eyes. Should she even bother check if she was married? The poor thing – Harry would tire of her quickly enough before anyone could get too invested in Harry's inappropriate behavior.

Her gaze wandered from Harry's writing, however, and settled on the unlit hearth. Hermione could almost discern the darker ink marks upon the smooth ashes of what used to be parchment.

Those notes were always so short, no more than choppy commands or statements, but she had cherished every one of them as if they were sheets of gold. The handwriting had always been so polished, so elegant…

No. Just stop that.

The other letter addressed to her was sealed with the Hogwarts and Ministry seals. Hermione hesitated before breaking the seal, feeling slightly queasy. Though it had been six years since she severed all connections to Hogwarts, she had to some extent expected to receive such a letter.

After the war, Hermione, a veteran with no university training but too much experience with Ministry politics, had decided to leverage the public support she had gathered over the years. With the help of Harry's popularity, she joined the Department of Magical Education and within a few years centralized herself as the Head Minister of Education. Now, most of Hermione's time was occupied signing and reading through official institution reports from her office desk.

It was because of the damn legislation she had fought for in front of the Wizengamot. Every three years, department agents visited every school operating in the British magical community to observe classes, verify that the professors were up-to-par with Ministry standards, and file numerous summary reports on findings.

This time, she was to go to Hogwarts.

Hermione narrowed her eyes and cursed. For six years, she avoided setting foot in Scotland, but this time, she was left with no choice. The Minister of Magic specifically requested that she go, as Hogwarts, long known for its progressive and oftentimes rule-bending practices in the name of education above all, was barely on the cusp of passing Ministry standards.

The Minister believed Hogwarts was too set in the old ways of teaching, which the public blamed for the rise and fall of the Dark Lord, once an illustrious Hogwarts student himself. Despite the criticism, however, for the several years following the war, everyone turned a blind eye toward the school from which the savior, Harry Potter, had also hailed. But memories were quick to fade, and the Ministry had been trying for the past few years to crack the whip.

Hermione could not sit still any longer. She got up, searched her pockets for her box of cigarettes, and went outside to the porch to smoke.

Hogwarts held many secrets. Some of the darkest of the past decade were hers, and she did not want them to emerge at any cost.

White wisps of smoke escaped her lips, twisting and coiling like mating snakes. It did nothing to calm the feeling of nausea in her stomach.

Hermione stared out into the valley. The barley swayed this way and that, a sea of gold and platinum at the mercy of the volatile breeze.

His hair was exactly that color.

Hermione hissed and tightly reined in her thoughts, though she could not prevent the wave of loneliness that washed over her. It was too late that night to drag the past out into the light. She remained on the porch, suddenly feeling cold despite the sticky humidity, and closed her eyes.

…

Hogwarts was just as she remembered. The castle emerged like a lighthouse in the midst of the dark, brooding hills of the night. Windows honeycombed the tower, spilling out warm, mellifluous light in a gesture of warm welcome.

Hermione had taken the Hogwarts Express with the rest of the students, though as a Minister, she got her own plush compartment. A voice over the intercom announced their arrival to Hogwarts. Hermione stood, lowered her carry-on bag from the overhead compartment, and headed out.

She got off with the first wave of students, mostly the first years. The faces around her were so young, so pure…so clean. Their eyes were clear, almost begging to be clouded with the knowledge that there was a dark wizard, that there was more to the world besides playschool hexes.

The realization that these children were the next generation, who would ultimately affect the post-war society, hit Hermione suddenly.

Students were an amazing force – Hermione knew that for a fact. She and her classmates had contributed to all three main forces of the society that had emerged from Voldemort's revolution: the Death Eaters, the Ministry recruits, and the Order of the Phoenix. They were all driven by their ambitions, their own sense of justice.

But, as she quickly found out, principles such as justice did not exist during a war. Nor did they exist during peacetime. Each day was a fight for survival, and even now, with a gleaming peace treaty on display in the Ministry museum and twenty-two monuments dedicated to fallen and crippled heroes, she continued fighting.

As Hermione watched the anxious first years board the boats, she half-expected to hear Hagrid's loud call: "Firs' years over here!"

But she didn't. Fireflies and little gnome-like creatures led them toward the boats.

As Hermione boarded and sat in the darkness, she found herself remembering again. It was difficult to find so many things changed so utterly.

Hagrid had been one of the first casualties of the war, captured and tortured to death when the Death Eater invasion reached the school. Hermione wondered if they were even able to arrange a proper funeral for the caretaker – no one liked giants.

All that remained was a shadow of the past, and Hermione found herself in the inky darkness of yesteryear…

She was sitting with the boy she had seen on the train before. Butterflies filled her stomach as she bumped into him as the others boarded.

He cursed under his breath, baring his white teeth in annoyance at the jostling of the boat.

Hermione's eyes widened at his vulgarity, and the two caught each other's eyes. He stared at her for a brief moment, his face expectant, as if daring her to scold him.

"It's always like this," he said in a blasé drawl after a while, though Hermione had caught the glimmer of excitement in his eyes before. "I know some of the older students here, and they say that the boat ride is the most boring part of the night."

Hermione smiled stiffly. This was her first real test of social niceties. The earlier run in with the two boys as she was helping Neville find his toad did not go well at all. She got the impression that she had come on too strongly. She would not make the same mistake again.

"This really is nothing new to me, you know. I'm already familiar with these parts of the school. Father and I visited loads of times."

The boat finally started floating when Hermione spoke up. "There is the Sorting Ceremony to look forward to."

The boy laughed smugly and drew back his hood. Even in the dark, he was luminous. His hair was such a fair color – it gleamed like pure gold. "I already know where I'm going. Slytherin, of course. All the respectable pureblooded family members go there. The crème de la crème, as the French say."

Hermione just barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes, but she could not help blurting out, "Well, if you're considering yourself a French dessert, it seems your definition of respectable is a bit skewed."

The boy's eyes narrowed, and Hermione felt herself flush. She couldn't believe she said that. It was snappy, catty, and not even that witty!

But to her surprise, the boy burst out laughing and held out his hand. "My name is Draco Malfoy. You have a lot of nerve to say something like that to me."

Hermione, though shaking inside, shook his hand firmly. "Hermione Granger. I speak my mind. Oftentimes to a fault."

The boy called Draco smirked. "You're not suitable for Slytherin, then. We never speak so boldly."

Hermione smiled. "All cloaks and daggers?"

"To be sure."

She remembered nearly bursting with glee because she was so sure she found a friend in this arrogant, confident boy. "Are you truly as sly as they say Slytherins are?"

Draco paused for a moment before answering slowly, "It's expected I get into Slytherin. All of my family members were Slytherins. I suppose I'm right for the house, and if I'm not, I'll have to accustom myself to its expectations. Being pureblooded is not as easy as it was one hundred years before. Or at least, that's what my father says."

Hermione had not understood the implications behind his words. She tried, but it was impossible for a girl fresh from a muggle family to truly comprehend a boy raised in a pureblooded world.

They did not speak for the rest of the boat ride, though Hermione wished that they would. But she was optimistic. They were in same schools. They would surely meet again. And when they did, she was determined to befriend him and learn from him as he would surely learn from her. She had read somewhere that purebloods and muggle-borns did not get along very well, but she was confident she could change that unattractive statistic…

The boat jolted to a halt as it hit the edge of the dock. She stood and carefully stepped out onto the slippery dock. Guided by the warm glow of candlelight, she entered into the castle.

Home was Hermione's first thought. The stairs, the ghosts, the lights…all seemed like visions of a happier past.

"Miss Granger!"

Hermione turned to face the staircase. "Professor."

Professor McGonagall went down the stairs swiftly, her cloak swirling elegantly behind her. She had aged considerably, Hermione noted silently. The wrinkles on her face, once merely faded lines upon skin, were now deep crevices. Her hair was almost completely white, though it was still tied back into a tight bun. Her hands, now veined and blemished with liver spots, grasped Hermione's.

The old woman stared at her former student fondly for a second then kissed her cheek. "Welcome back, Miss Granger," she said warmly.

Hermione squeezed the woman's hand, saying with a voice thick with emotion, "It's wonderful to be back."

The Professor, now Headmistress, McGonagall smiled. "It's been too long. Six years since the war ended, nearly nine since I've last seen you."

The students began to file in.

"Yes," she said quietly, her hand slipping from McGonagall's. "A very long time."

The headmistress, ever subtle, placed her hand gently on Hermione's shoulder and said gently, "The Sorting Ceremony is to start soon. Dine with us in the Great Hall at the professors' table."

The infamous Sorting Ceremony. Hermione felt a wave of emotion that rendered her momentarily speechless. It was like submerging one foot in a lake of memories and the other in a running stream of the Now – one always remained and the other always pushed forward.

"All right. But I hope we can speak later. As you said, it's been too long."

The headmistress nodded, and Hermione steeled herself to enter the Great Hall. She had not taken a scanty three steps, however, when she heard the professor call behind her:

"There is a reason for everything, Miss Granger. Please try to understand."

Hermione turned, a questioning look on her face, but the headmistress was already greeting the new students. She debated whether she should stay and wait or go. After some consideration, she went, though she already hardened her heart to meet whatever trials faced her.

…

The Great Hall was decorated as it always was at the beginning of a new school year. The silken house banners glistened, and the long tables were crowded with older students with the spot nearest to the podium vacated for their new house members.

Hermione walked a familiar path down the long hallway toward the podium, upon which the Sorting Hat was settled.

She had worn that hat those many years before. That hat had determined her friends, her alliances, giving her a great big push toward a certain future. What would it say now if she settled it on her head? Would it be different from what it had said so long ago?

"Bravery. I see much of it. A tendency towards success with the drive to go with it. And quite a mean streak you have there. Oh…but what is this? Ambition. Oh yes, I see much of that. The desire to prove yourself, the desire to earn the respect of your colleagues…"

The professors' table was nearly full, and some gasps of surprised recognition greeted her as she walked up the stairs. Those Hermione had known before rushed up to her with kisses and warm embraces. Professor Flitwick even had tears in his eyes, which touched Hermione deeply.

A great number of others shook her hand with polite, bewildered smiles of a first-time-met fashion on their faces. Eight out of each ten professors were new.

Hermione sat down at the end of the table, the rest of the vacant seats quickly filling up with newly arriving. Madame Pomfrey was among the later arrivals, and Hermione could barely recognize her with her nurse's cap off and her hair let loose. The nurse approached Hermione with a warm yet weary smile – she was a tired woman, just like the rest of them after the war.

The war affected so many people – it was frightening to consider how many lives it destroyed or forever altered.

The smile did not remain on the nurse's face for long. The grand doors of the Great Hall slammed against the back walls, and Hermione jumped out of her chair on instinct. And though the war had ended several years ago, for a second, she thought it was an explosion.

But when she looked toward the entrance, even an Avada Kedavra could not have frozen her so utterly as did the person who ran into the Great Hall.

Hair as fair as the moon. Skin as pale as alabaster. Eyes as stormy as a hurricane.

The professors murmured a bit, though they all seemed to expect his arrival.

Hermione could not move. She could not speak. The blood drained from her face, and the walls she had built for six years crumbled to sand.

He was running toward the professor's table, fixing the neck of his cloak and combing his hair back with his fingers. If she could have, she would have cursed him into oblivion right there, but she could barely control her own breath.

Quickly making his way up to the table, he apologized profusely for his tardiness while greeting everyone at the same time. Professor Flitwick shook the man's hand sternly and welcomed him back. Madame Pomfrey's lips pursed disapprovingly and demanded if he had been out in the quidditch pitch again with that cold of his. Some of younger (and older, for that matter) female professors stared at the young blond man wistfully, smiling brightly as he shook each of their hands.

He finally reached Hermione, and she teetered between bursting into hysterics and fainting on the spot.

His eyes were still the same color, and they bore into hers, just as they did in her deepest, darkest dreams. He reached out his hand, and Hermione stared as if it were a serpent about to lunge at her.

She thought she had finished with him.

It wasn't possible.

The other professors stared, murmuring at Hermione's snub of his offered hand, but all she could think was that he was…should…be a ghost. He had to be.

"Have you come here to raise the dead?"

"Hello," he said finally, lowering his hand when she obviously would not shake it. "You must be the Ministry Inspector."

Hermione barely managed a nod.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Draco Malfoy, Professor of regular, OWL-prep, and NEWT-level Potions."

Hermione's mind raced in circles. Professor? Potions? How was this possible?

Draco frowned at her lack of response. Obviously, he did not like being ignored, but all the same, he offered her a slight bow of the head before turning away.

"Granger," she said suddenly, stopping him in his tracks. Her voice was quiet and gravelly. "Hermione Granger. Head Minister of the Department of Education." She breathed in, regulating her voice. "I look forward to seeing you."

Draco stared at her over his shoulder, any semblance of warmth gone from his eyes. His look was cold and calculating. "Likewise."

Looking back, Hermione couldn't even remember how she endured the rest of the evening. When she was called up to introduce herself to the school, she mechanically thanked them all for their cooperation. She couldn't see the faces of the students. She could not recall even one name of a student sorted into Gryffindor. Food didn't taste like anything to her. Only he occupied her mind, and Hermione did not like it.

Hermione, once in a while, stole quick looks at Malfoy. He smiled more than she remembered, even though they seemed slightly forced. The women around him, however, would be in a fit of giggles as he charmed them. Hermione expected to be scared, confused, or even angry. But a feeling so foreign to her, something that had not visited her for almost a decade, hit her. Jealously.

Malfoy wanted to play, did he? Just like him – always wanting a part in the cat-and-mouse game.

They had a challenge, the two of them.

Just like old times before, during, and now after the war.

But this time, there would be no stalemate. One would have to fall.

…

The first class Hermione observed was Professor Flitwick's OWL-preparatory Charms. She sat in the back of the class in a nice cushioned chair, a notebook on her lap and a quill perched between her fingers.

For the first hour, she watched and listened attentively. The war had been driven on propaganda, and the Ministry thought that the best way to avoid conflict was to be as unbiased as possible, with very special emphasis on student education.

Other than for a few instances, Hermione did not doubt Professor Flitwick's competency. His lessons plans strayed from neither Ministry nor Hogwarts standards. She checked his name off the list easily.

When the second hour rolled around, Hermione already felt her eyelids grow heavy. It was harder than she remembered to stay awake while class was in session. The sun beat against her back and the classroom flushed gold and beige in the afternoon heat. The air was hot and stuffy – it was like breathing against a damp pillow.

Hermione wiped the sweat from her forehead and breathed out, checking her wristwatch. Over forty minutes left.

Would it be rude to take a step outside? She had already finished her analysis, and she was going to fall asleep right in her spot if she didn't move.

Despite her misgivings, Hermione decided to try and carry on in the class. She assured herself that she'd wait until the professor was finished with his lecture to get up to cause the least amount of distraction.

She had forgotten how much Professor Flitwick enjoyed speaking.

Her eyes slipped into darkness as she groggily reassured herself that only two short minutes of keeping her eyes shut would relieve a bit of her fatigue. As the warmth drugged her muscles, the tip of her quill collected black ink on her notebook, the blot getting bigger and darker against her parchment like a growing nightmare.

The first envelope came by owl.

"Point Echo. Come alone."

And she went to that Point Echo – an abandoned hideout once occupied by Death Eaters, then Ministry forces, and then the Order of Phoenix, all in rapid succession before the Order too finally cleared out as the swampland flooded closer and closer toward them during the hot, rainy season of summer.

Hermione blearily opened her eyes, finding herself a lot cooler. The sun had set slightly, and the shadows lengthened. The little hand on her watch declared that only three minutes had passed. Professor Flitwick continued his lecture. Just a few minutes more couldn't hurt, and Hermione closed her eyes once again.

The bog was clammy, dark, and uncomfortable. Her cotton tank top was damp with perspiration and humidity. His hair, usually soft, stuck heavily to his forehead.

She threw the envelope at him. The corner hit his chest, and the envelope fell to the wet, marshy ground.

"…You're scared. You're desperate. I will tell you right here and now that I won't help you," Hermione snarled.

Draco bared his white teeth, looking more like an animal than man. His eyes glinted as the few beams of sunlight penetrating the quagmire lit them, and Hermione directly challenged his gaze, fearless.

Had he entranced her with those eyes? Because she never remembered saying yes.

But her fingers were curled around his hand.

Two little traitors in the fog

plotting dange'ous foul for all

It had been made a nursery jingle afterward, though Hermione could not imagine for the life of her why.

Sometimes she re-visited that bog in her dreams. The paths that led to Point Echo, where they had joined their hands in that filthy and extraordinary promise, were impassable, tangled with weeds and thorns. But, as with all dreamers, Hermione found herself blessed with unknown omnipotent powers and always managed to reach it. The journey always took place at night, the full golden moon gleaming like a hungry wolf's eye. It was just as humid, just as warm as that night.

Looking over her shoulder, Hermione saw the shadows of ghosts. They never frightened her – she was far too beyond mere fear – but she always feared being caught. Even so, she slowed her pace for them, perhaps in penance to their memory.

When she turned to look forward, Hermione stopped.

He waited at the center of the bog, the center of Point Echo, fair hair and pale skin glowing with the moonlight, as if he were a prince from the stars. His stare was condescending, and Hermione lashed out.

"Are you here to play Jesus?" she said.

"If I were to play Jesus, you would be my Judas," he would reply.

When Hermione opened her eyes, the room was quiet. She wondered where she was and why her back was so sore. Then her eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed red. Oh, dear lord, she had fallen asleep!

She stood up, gathering her papers, seeing that the desks and chairs were empty in front of her.

Oh. Fucking. Merlin.

Her first day on the job in her old school, and she had utterly proven her incompetence. She sat back down in her chair and buried her face into her hands. What was wrong with her? The Hermione Granger she knew never fucked up so badly. The Hermione Granger she knew would have finished the job quickly and efficiently. That was how she got to where she was today – Head of the Department of Education, respected by her peers and the wizarding community. She used to be untouchable. She used to be unstoppable.

She was slipping.

Hermione retired to her room. It was five o'clock, and she had a few hours' time to compose herself before dinner started. First off, she would have to apologize to Professor Flitwick. Then, she would have to fix her Ministry report. That bloody quill tip made a huge inkblot stain all over her notes!

Hermione couldn't stand this.

She picked up the pack of cigarettes from her cloak pocket and headed outside to the quidditch field.

…

The sun was hanging low over the hills, softening the evening breeze with a gentle sprinkle of warmth. Hermione sat in the second row of the quidditch bleachers, her legs drawn up on the headboard of the chairs in the row below her, and laid back into her own headrest. She watched as the clouds steadily darkened in hue from blue to purple, cigarette settled gingerly between two fingers. In a desperate attempt to calm herself, she tried to pretend she was back at her country cabin, her sanctuary. It wasn't working.

"Only faculty members are allowed in this area at this hour."

Hermione sat up and quickly put out her cigarette, finding a familiar face scrutinizing her.

Draco Malfoy.

Her eyes widened, but this time she maintained her voice and her wits.

"Surely exceptions can be made for a Ministry official who is an alumna from this very school."

Draco, donned in a pair of grey slacks and a white, long-sleeved button-up shirt stared at her with hooded eyes. "Have we known each other before?"

Hermione felt her pulse quicken at his blunt question but forced her expression into one of mild interest.

He approached her, hands in his pockets, though Hermione knew, from the tension in his gait, that they were balled into hard fists. "Your face seems familiar."

Hermione bit the inside of her mouth before saying, "Yours doesn't."

He approached the foot of the stands and paused, eye-level with her. "Why does it seem like you're lying to me?"

"Perhaps you are a naturally suspicious person," she said.

"Who are you really?"

"Why would you ask me such a question?" Hermione said. "Especially when you know my answer will prove quite unsatisfactory. I can you tell you with plain honesty that I am no one special – just a regular person, trying to live and trying to survive at the same time." Hermione paused. "Just like you."

Draco's lips pursed slightly, a telltale sign that he was getting frustrated. Though Hermione did not know how much Draco had changed, if he was half the reflection of his former self, he would channel his anger to focused calculation and extract what he wanted from her. Hermione quickly changed the subject.

"You're rather young to be here. Have you always wanted to be a teacher or is this a temporary occupation?"

That seemed to catch him off-guard. Good.

"I…I truthfully don't know," he replied. Then he paused, seeming to weigh his words. "It's an unexpected vocation, but I suppose I can't complain. It's earning a living."

Hermione quickly decrypted this statement. Unexpected vocation: someone had deliberately offered him a job as a Potions professor since Hogwarts professors were never hired through "Need Help" ads (the Defense Against the Dark Arts vacancy a notable yet only exception). Not complaining: a departure from his usual entitled self. Earning a living: no wealthy relatives left alive to pull him out of financial quarries.

"I'm a rather lost case, really," he said, digging his hands deeper into his pockets and scraping the soles of his shoes against the stone floor. "Literally lost."

Hermione remained silent, but he did not continue. She sat back and stared out into the horizon, curious as to what exactly transpired since she saw him last.

"How intriguing," she said finally when he clearly was not set to continue, pulling out another cigarette. She offered one to Draco, but he refused. She lit the tip with her wand and stared at him. "Why are you lost?"

Draco smirked slightly. "Why do you smoke?"

That response threw her a little off guard, but Hermione rallied. "I asked you first."

He paused, probably considering just how important Hermione's own answer was to him. "It's like living in a dream. Some things, upon sight or just feeling, are so familiar, even though you can't really understand how or why. Other things, I wish so desperately to remember that it hurts, but I cannot. I was a soldier. That's what they told me."

Hermione narrowed her eyes and wisps of smoke slipped from her lips. "They?"

Draco looked suddenly uncomfortable. "The Mediwizards at St. Mungo's. I was hit with some sort of spell – they can't identify it. I woke up in the infirmary bed, and I remember them saying they thought that I would never wake up. I recalled some things… The name of my mother – but not her face. How to brew a noxious potion that would kill a man in half a second – but not even the simplest flotation charm. Such complex things yet such little good they do for me."

Hermione frowned. He truly wasn't supposed to wake up.

"Someone from Hogwarts came to me a little over a year ago. The headmistress. She told me that I had once been a student here. I hadn't even known that the school existed."

"So now you are here," Hermione concluded.

Draco did not reply and turned toward the sky. Despite everything he had told her, Hermione could not believe how little he had changed. Secretive and aloof, as always.

"Why did you start smoking?"

And just as insistent.

She took in another drag. "Stress."

Draco shot her a wary look that, she had no doubt, he used on students who neglected to pay attention during his class.

"I was also in the war," Hermione said, attempting to clarify without really clarifying. "There are things that some see…that some do… Nothing is ever easy with some types of knowledge."

"Were they horrible, the things that you had done?" Draco asked quietly.

Hermione shrugged, shoving the tip of her cigarette against the armrest with a bit more force than was needed to put it out. "They were necessary." Hermione looked up and into his eyes. "I don't regret what I've done."

"You remember, though."

"You may be lucky that you don't."

Draco would wonder later if she meant that he was lucky for not remembering his wartime deeds…or hers.

"Have we known each other before?" he asked once more.

She showed no reaction. But her heart thrummed. "I've told you already. No."

Draco stood right in front of her and leaned in, his face inches from hers. "You're lying. Or you're hiding something."

"Believe what you will."

He did not move. Hermione didn't either, but perspiration slithered down the back of her neck. It was a hot night, and with him inches from her, she felt the heat and pressure more acutely.

After what seemed like an eternity, it was Draco who retreated first.

"You smell of tobacco. It's unattractive," he drawled, and Hermione stared up at him in shock. Well that was too familiar for her liking. He smirked easily.

"Well, Professor, no one forced your face right against mine," Hermione snipped, collecting her cigarettes.

How was it that even after suffering a spell that wiped out nearly all his memories, Draco Malfoy was still the Draco Malfoy she had known in school and on the battlefield for so many years?

Draco shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets once more and looked up. Stars littered the sky and the clouds now glowed silver with the moonlight.

Stars littered the black sky. Hermione lay in the flowerbed of an empty field, staring up at the pinpricks of light as if searching for Heaven's gate. She liked to be outside on nights like these. The bloodshed seemed like a surreal nightmare when she lost herself in the quiet long enough. The moon emerged from the clouds and bathed her in its silver light, as if she were its goddess playing on the mortal earth.

"O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable…"

His warm body curled against hers. He fit against her so perfectly. Sometimes, it frightened her that when the time came, she would not be able to do what she needed to do.

"Tell me what you are thinking."

Hermione smiled slightly. "I'm not thinking anything."

"You hide too many things."

Hermione turned toward him, her face inches from his. Her lips grazed his chin as she spoke. "Believe what you will."

The memory struck her like cold water, unbidden and wholly unwelcome. Hermione shook herself slightly. The ghosts had considerable power here, especially with one standing right in front of her, glowing like a prince from the stars. She had to stop this. She was getting too close. It was her greatest folly six years ago, and she would not commit it again.

"It was nice speaking with you," she said finally, a clear dismissal.

"It was nice working with you."

His gray eyes flickered slightly, and Hermione suddenly wondered if he too had heard that.

His smile was that of vengeance and incredible insult.

The professor's lips twisted into a forced smile. His eyes were unreadable.

His eyes were unreadable.

"I'll be seeing you around, then."

"I'll be seeing you again."

He left with a wave of his hand, his other hand stuffed in his pocket, fisted around his wand. Hermione already knew his habits, and though it did not make it any easier to deal with this Draco Malfoy, it was easier to prepare herself for the worst.