Archive of Our Own

I:

It was his scent that she recognized first.

It’s clean, at first- almost citrusy.

Then, beneath it, the unmistakable scent of leather and tobacco.

Scents and memories blend together like ink and water, bleeding into one another until they are indistinguishable from each other.

The sense-imbued concoction is stowed away in the brain for future reference, sometimes growing dusty in the far reaches of memory until at last it is unearthed after years of careful maintenance.

Hermione can still remember her first time at Hogwarts, and the rich smell of butter from the kitchens and petrichor tinged with iron seeping from the ancient walls. The olfactory memory is so deeply imbued in her association with Hogwarts, she can hardly bear to smell butter without yearning for the school’s infamous bread rolls.

His particular smell did not conjure such pleasant memories.

She wondered at how he always smelled so undeniably masculine, even as a young boy in school.

At first whiff, she was struck by the immediately familiar and nostalgic scent’s presence in her decidedly unfamiliar surroundings. She had inhaled a healthy lungful of this smell in her adolescence, sitting in front of him in potions as he whispered cruel comments about her hair and rushing by him in the hall where he always managed to spare her a sneer.

The next thought that occurred to her, is the horrifying and sobering fact that she remembers his smell at all.

Was this childhood bully really so consequential in her life that she should have his scent memorised, neatly filed away for her brain to pluck out and identify at a moment’s notice? Not just the top notes either, no, she knew exactly how it aged on the air, oxidising and combining with potion steam or the brisk wind off the Black Lake.

If she had smelled just a hint of it in her Amortentia sixth year, she really couldn’t be sure if it was actually in the potion, or just because he was standing right next to her.

Regardless of the myriad of emotions the seductive citrus-leather-pureblood- ‘my father will hear about this’ cologne brought forth, she was concerned with facts and logic first. Her brain was positively spectacular at identification. She read hundreds, if not thousands, of books a year to make sure that skill stayed sharp. And so, Hermione knew, within milliseconds, that she had just stepped into the sphere of Draco Malfoy.

Or…ran, as it was.

But, if there was any question at all as to the identity of the man before her, there was of course the unmistakable Malfoy-esque noise he made when she collided with him. In a mixture of shock and nostalgia, Hermione stumbled backward after bouncing off his chest and landed squarely on her arse.

“Are you alright?”

Blinded by the bright Sunday morning sun behind his head, she brought a hand to her forehead as a shield and got her first glimpse of the man in three years.

He was tall.

And still blonde.

Almost insultingly so.

Didn’t most people lose the platinum hue with age?

Undoubtedly the Malfoy’s had bred that pesky occurrence out of the bloodline generations ago.

He wore impeccably tailored Muggle clothing, and the lean lines of his frame had him looking as if he’d just stepped off the pages of a magazine.

He looked older- of course.

But there was something about the way he held himself- so self-assured. None of the insecurity nor arrogance of a boy just breaching two decades of life. He held himself like a man twice his age, yet youthfulness was evident in the slight tilt of his lips and unblemished, porcelain complexion. But mostly what struck her was the small smirk on his face.

No, not a smirk.

A smile.

She had seen him smirk countless times in her life, but they were always cruel and at someone’s expense. The expression on his face now…there was no crease between his brows or malicious curl to his lip. Just- a gentle smile.

Care-free.

It seemed unfair that he was here. This was her safe haven. Her place to get away from it all.

Regardless of the seven million people she shared this city with.

Hermione had moved to New York after finishing her residency at St. Mungos to start her fellowship at the foremost wizarding hospital in America.

There were tears, of course, at her final farewell with Harry and Ginny. But with Ron’s recent assignment to Wales and their mutual breakup six months behind them, Hermione felt ready for a fresh start. It had taken everything for her to not abandon Britain in the years following Voldemort’s fall. The chaos and corruption of the Ministry, the lingering ideas of blood-purity amongst most elites, and the apparent stagnation of her life in all aspects made her quite resentful to the place she’d become a witch. Her parents were still in Australia, not missing a daughter they’ll never remember.

And so she had left.

She had lived there for a year now. And her small social circle had shrunk to one solitary member- Crookshanks. That was how she liked it, actually. Prioritising work over everything else, coming home to her cat to have a quick read before dinner and bed by 9:00 pm.

Such was the life of a 23-year-old Hermione Granger.

Hermione broke from her reverie about the rather dismal state of her social life when she remembered she was staring completely agape at the man before her. He looked down at her slightly confused for a moment until realisation dawned on his aristocratic features. His eyes widened by a hair, and if not for his high breeding she was sure his jaw would’ve dropped.

“Granger.”

It was a statement- not a question.

Still clearly baffled, he offered her a hand to help her up.

She was sure that somewhere the tether connecting her to reality had snapped.

Although had she expected him to push her back down and spit on her once he realised who she was?

Really, they were both adults now.

She tentatively accepted his hand and grew insecure about her clammy palms. His warm, dry hand engulfed hers. Even after she got back onto her feet, her fingers lingered in his palm, all at once in awe of his proximity and inexplicable humanity.

Apparently, he had wanted some sort of response, rather than sheer mortification and she gathered her scattered thoughts like leaves in the breeze and finally spoke from her already open mouth.

“Malfoy. What are you doing here? I mean- I’m sorry about running into you, I wasn’t looking where I was going…”

“Are you okay?”

Once again, reality, or at least reality as she knew it, was clearly not aligned with the current universe. She had never known Malfoy to particularly care about anyone’s wellbeing, much less hers.

“I’m fine, thank you. I’m so sorry once again- oh!”

In her daze of momentary insanity, she had failed to notice the paper cup he was holding, whose contents was deposited all over his crisp white oxford.

Instantly she began rummaging through her pockets for napkins and produced one crumpled tissue.

She made a face.

“Come, there’s a café nearby where I can get you another cup of tea- and you can clean up.”

Malfoy made an indiscernible expression but lowered his chin to let her lead the way.

It was a short walk to the small French café, but the entire way her mind was racing.

What was Malfoy doing in New York?

What was she thinking, offering him another cup of tea?

Were they going to drink tea together?

Had she just initiated a date with Draco Malfoy?

Thank Merlin the charming blue and white awning of Le Rayon de Soleil loomed ahead.

She ducked into the shop with a soft jingle and pointed Malfoy towards the washroom as she approached the counter. She ordered them a pot of tea and took a seat at her favourite table tucked in a nook near a window.

And waited.

When she first moved to New York, she had stumbled upon this little café and sat for hours, drinking long-cold tea and people watching through the window.

She liked to see the sorts of people that frequented her neighbourhood- college students, eclectic artists, the rare businesswoman wearing smart shoes, or a huddle of tourists trudging through the snow. Sometimes she would bring a book and devour it over a pot of oolong.

But most days, when she found herself in this little shop, it was because she was missing home.

Despite the pain that being in England caused her, it would always be the place she grew up, met Harry and Ron, and learned she was a witch. The shop reminded her of the Burrow a bit; warm and welcoming, always a hot kettle on and buttery biscuits placed neatly on a tray.

The café, her flat, they all made New York feel like home to her.

But it never could be that for her- not while she still felt like a foreigner in her own city, admiring shop windows and tall buildings with the awe of a child.

When the cold started to seep in, as it would in a few weeks, Hermione yearned for the hearth in the Gryffindor common room, yearned for just a hug from Ginny, or anyone other than her cat.

The two friends passing by the window now looked close to her age, and their arms were linked together striding quickly down the lane. When was the last time she had gone out with a friend like that? She couldn’t remember.

She considered her dishevelled appearance in the window’s reflection.

She was wearing her ratty gym clothes; a pair of leggings and a light jacket.

Her hair, of course, was sticking out about her face in a million directions. You could barely even tell that she had tried to tie it up.

She was just about to rummage through her pocket for at least a lip balm when she saw Malfoy in the reflection.

She turned to face him.

He had cleaned his shirt. Slowly, he sat down in the usually empty seat across from her.

He leaned back in his chair and surveyed her quizzically, apparently expecting her to say something. They avoided eye contact until the pot of tea was deposited on their table.

“I didn’t know you were in America.”

“No.” he sighed, turning to gaze out the window on passerbys.

“What are you doing here?” Hermione tried to inject enough vitriol into her question that he’d react in typical Malfoy manner, but he hardly blinked.

“I work here. And I’m studying, too.”

“Work? Since when has a modern Malfoy had to work?”

He smirked. He knew she was trying to rile him up.

And he wasn’t responding to it.

On purpose.

“I like it, actually. I don’t know what I’d do with myself otherwise.”

“Where are you studying?”

“Columbia.”

"Pardon?" 

“Columbia University- it’s uptown.”

“Yes, I know what and where Columbia is. I’m wondering what you’re doing there.”

He paused.

“Studying.”

At that, Hermione scoffed and took a long sip of her tea. Malfoy took the opportunity to prepare his own cup, leaving it black.

“What exactly are you studying?”

“Economics. And philosophy.”

Hermione’s eyes almost bugged out of her head.

“Surely not Muggle philosophy?!”

“Do they offer wizarding philosophy at Columbia? If so, I’d be very interested in taking that class.”

She rolled her eyes and swallowed her chuckle behind a sip of tea, but the small glimmer in his eye proved he’d noticed her amusement.

The first crack in her frosty facade.

They sat there in relative silence until the pot of tea was empty, and the unspoken words between them started to make the small café feel chokingly small.

He started to put on his coat, straightening his pristine wool lapel with perfectly groomed, long fingers. Once she caught herself staring, Hermione turned toward the window as he began to leave, still trying to piece together the events of the past half hour.

There were a couple of teenagers walking past, one gesturing wildly while her friends laughed. She was gazing away from him, chewing on her lip when he spoke.

“Would you like to go for a walk?”

She looked back at him, surprised as he offered his hand to her for the second time that day. What was he playing at? But, it wasn’t like she had any other plans for the day. And something about him intrigued her.

“What?”

“A walk.”

“...Alright.”

They exited the shop and headed towards Washington Square Park. Their inner compasses tugged them along as they walked in brisk lock-step. Hermione was lost in her thoughts, wondering what they were doing and why she’d embarked on this walk with Draco Malfoy. He, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy basking in the gentle hum of the waking city. They entered the park, toward the square slowly filling with skateboarders and street performers.

The air smelled like burning leaves on the wind, and Hermione drew in a breath deep in her lungs.

“It’s beautiful here in autumn,” she said.

“Yes, it is.”

“How long have you been in New York?”

“About four months. I came at the start of the summer.”

She stopped for a moment to watch a guitarist propped against the fountain, crooning a melancholy tune.

We are alone, just you and me
Up in your room and our slates are clean,
Just twin fire signs,
four blue eyes.

She tossed a few dollars from her purse before carrying on.

“And how do you like it here?”

“It’s refreshing, actually.”

“Oh?”

She turned to send him a questioning glance.

He was walking with his head turned towards the musician, seemingly enthralled with the song. He met her eyes when he finally turned and huffed, not insincerely.

“It’s rare for me to be someplace where people don’t have preconceived judgments about me. Besides the fact that I’m a pompous English arse.”

“Well, of course, they couldn’t miss that.” Hermione retorted, noting his unmistakable posh English drawl.

He nodded in amusement, and she felt something cold and jagged inside her chest start to melt. She couldn’t help but notice how his lips quirked ever so slightly into a smile at her quip and yearned to know what made the guarded man grin.

They both stopped to browse through the library carts on the sidewalk of the Strand Bookstore.

“Did you know they have two extra floors for magical books? You have to tap a book on Muggle magic tricks and-”

“- say abracadabra, yes, I know. Real comedians, these Americans.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“I visited when I first arrived. Theo brought me.”

Now, this surprised her.

“Theodore Nott? He lives here as well?”

“Yes, we are both studying here. He’s in the MACUSA Auror training program.”

She nodded at this and continued perusing. She picked up a copy of Atonement, her favourite book. There was also a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets with a foreword by a literary editor she’d been following for a while. After a few minutes, she had collected quite the pile, while Malfoy was still standing in the same spot reading a Critique of Pure Reason by Immanuel Kant.

He was nearly halfway through.

“You haven’t actually read through that much, have you?”

Malfoy gazed at her lazily beneath his lashes. His expression of pure patronising boredom jolted her back to their Transfiguration classroom.

“Obviously not, Granger. I’ve already read it. Just rereading one of my favourite passages.”

“Do you…like Kant?”

She had always found his cynical view of human nature rather depressing.

“Well, I wouldn’t claim to like him. But I certainly find many of his theories compelling and true to an extent. Do you like Kant?”

“I’m not sure that I do. His outlook is a bit pessimistic, no?”

“Maybe at first glance. But with all the evil in this world, does it not have a shade of truth to it? And, the power of conscience and moral responsibility makes it possible for us to be good. If we work for it.”

She nodded thoughtfully, before heading inside to pay for the books. He walked in alongside her and noticed her selection as they waited in the long line of tourists.

“I rather liked Atonement. One of the best books of the past few years.”

“You’ve read it?!” Hermione nearly recoiled in shock. “It’s a Muggle love story!”

“Yes, well, the title and blurb led me to believe there could be some philosophical insight to be gained from it. I wasn’t really wrong, in a way. I have a copy you can borrow if you like.”

“Oh, er, thank you. Actually, I already have one. I just like this cover a bit better.”

He smirked and plucked the book of sonnets from her arms.

“Ah, Shakespeare. Still haven’t quite gotten into his work yet. Hamlet hit a bit too close to home for my taste. Thank Merlin my father didn’t become a ghost.” He had a rueful smile on his face, but the pain behind his eyes was evident.

Hermione blinked before remembering Lucius Malfoy’s Wizengamot-mandated Kiss.

He’d been at Azkaban for a few years after the war ended, waiting for the Wizengamot to get to all the imprisoned Death Eaters. His trial began and ended within two hours, and he’d been Kissed not a week later.

The Malfoy heir hadn’t been in attendance.

She wasn’t sure how to respond to his statement, so she quickly paid for the books and they left. As he held the door open for her, his unbuttoned sleeve slipped down his forearm to reveal a grey, smudged tattoo.

She froze in front of the exit, eyes locked on his Dark Mark.

A slideshow of memories played across the back of her eyes as she squeezed them shut- her first time seeing the Dark Mark, smearing the sky like an omen of death - the stark black mark on Snape’s arm - fleeing from Snatchers as they screamed Mosmordre, wands aimed at the sky.

Her hands began to tremble, fear from years ago assaulting her senses. Noticing her change in demeanour, Malfoy hastily pushed his sleeve down.

But it wasn’t soon enough.

The memories began to fade away, but she couldn’t forget the past that his Mark signified. Despite the cordial banter and small talk they’d engaged in, she couldn’t forget about his history. What he had done to her, what his father had done, what that woman had done…

These were things she could never forget, no matter how many hours she spent in the solitude of her flat or sobbing her eyes out in therapy.

He muttered an apology once she broke from her trance, and followed behind her at some distance. Resisting the urge to run from him right then and there, she turned to look back at him and tightened her lips in the mockery of a smile. He’d seemed remorseful enough at the fact she’d seen the Mark. And they’d been getting on well enough up to this point. But what had she been thinking, following him on this trek through the city?

Luckily, the hustle and bustle of Union Square distracted them from each other, and they gravitated towards the small stands selling all sorts of trinkets and the farmer’s market. Hermione admired a selection of hand-made gemstone rings, while Malfoy perused the market. He had seemed charming enough at first, but of course he did. That infamous pureblood upbringing truly made a charismatic man.

It didn’t help that he was distractingly good-looking.

But all that doesn’t mean he regrets what he did, or that he’s changed at all! All these thoughts rushed through her mind, barely appreciating the necklace she was holding.

She wondered again at how exactly he ended up here- the explanation he had given her hadn’t quite satisfied her curiosity.

She remembers the day she visited the Statue of Liberty, sick of sitting in her flat on her day off, and boarded a ferry for the glorious goddess she saw through mist most days. Standing at her unshackled copper feet, the river breeze picked up and swirled Hermione’s hair around her shoulders. The imposing shadow of the colossus comforted her, welcoming her to the promised land. At that moment, she had been reminded that regardless of your sins or troubled past, the shores of New York would embrace you with oppressive noise and blinding lights.

She tasted bitterness on her tongue at the thought that Malfoy had enjoyed that same freedom.

Did Lady Liberty know he had started a War that had killed thousands?

And if she had, would an invisible shield have repelled him upon entry, sending him soaring across the Atlantic back to his miserable Manor? She chuckled at the image of a limp ragdoll with blond hair being punted off the island of Manhattan.

Suddenly, something in the corner of her eye caught her attention.

Malfoy was standing at a fruit stand, glaring at a carton of apples. He rotated a bright green apple slowly in front of his face, before grimacing and replacing it on the pile.

Throughout her years at Hogwarts, it had been an inside joke amongst Gryffindors that Malfoy had at least one green apple a day. It was nearly laughable that this random quirk of his seemed unchanged despite the years.

What else about him was unchanged since Hogwarts?

His blood prejudice? Well, obviously not, because he’d asked her on this walk…

Unaware of Hermione’s eyes on him, he finally selected an apple he found acceptable and bit into it after giving the vendor some cash.

She couldn’t ignore the way the muscles in his jaw and neck flexed as he ate the apple, and his glittering white teeth sinking into the pale flesh. She found herself transfixed, fingers weakly clinging to the edge of the jewellery table.

As he turned to search for her, their eyes locked.

His were like molten silver, heated despite their cool shade.

Hermione found herself frozen in place, analysing this man that she thought she understood.

As she continued to stare into his unfaltering gaze, she realised how little she actually knew about him. She knew she should feel disgusted, admiring the beauty of a man who had done nothing but harm to her in her life.

But he was challenging that, wasn’t he? He was fighting against the haughty Malfoy ideal that was the only thing she thought of upon hearing his name.

She had been questioning his character but nothing he’d done had proven he still cared about blood status. The only remnant of his dark past was a hideous scar that he’d received as a mere teen. It was impossible to remove it, short of cutting off the affected limb. Thus far, most of his actions had failed to align with the Malfoy she had grown to know at Hogwarts and during the war.

He was surely clever and very bright, as he had been in school, but now there was this streak of softness in his steely demeanour.

It was inexplicable and completely intriguing to her.

She wanted to yank the aristocratic veil from his shoulders, peel back the Occlumency that had guarded his eyes since the moment he saw her, and tear his cool and collected facade to shreds.

It wasn’t fair that he seemed so tranquil when every day she felt at risk of falling to bits.

The paltry green cast of a changing street light had her sinking to her knees and shaking until she was drenched in sweat. Once, on her way to work, a head of black curls had crossed her path and she’d been catatonic for days, curled up on her armchair, stroking Crookshanks while her tears fell. The persistent emptiness in her chest was steadfast no matter how she tried to fill it with alcohol or one-night stands.

She finally tore her eyes away from him when he smirked around a piece of apple, a small bead of juice dripping down the corner of his mouth.

Oh god.

The melting feeling in her chest had molten liquid pooling in her lower abdomen. She felt hot all of a sudden, despite the fair breeze. She scurried away and tossed the jewellery back on the table, heedless of the vendor’s cries of outrage.

Hermione continued through the stands, occasionally pausing to look through the wares, as Malfoy followed at a distance.

She barely paid any mind to the tchotchkes as her thoughts continued to race around her walking partner. She pushed aside the offence of his Mark for now. It was something he couldn’t change. Until he showed that he still held any of his old beliefs, Hermione was willing to give him a chance.

After all, they had come this far.

Resigned to letting him redeem himself, she marched ahead, amused as he tried to weave through the bustling crowd to keep up with her. They walked around the whole square for nearly a half-hour until they came to a large archway with stairs descending down, with streams of people entering and exiting. Realising where they were, Hermione turned to Malfoy, finding him closer than she had expected.

She had a mischievous look on her face.

“Have you used the tube yet?”

Malfoy’s eyes tightened in suspicion before she was running off to the nearby subway station. Hurrying down the stairs, she turned back to see him standing hesitantly underneath the archway.

“We’re going underground?”

“Fear not Malfoy, I’ll protect you from any stray basilisks. Come along now!”

She quickly swiped her MetroCard and showed him through the turnstile. They huddled on the platform, his eyes darting around in concern at the ominous rumbling coming from somewhere farther down the tunnel.

“Are we getting on a train?”

She had to shoot him a warning glare when the train came squealing around the corner and he reached for his wand in alarm. As they squeezed onto the busy car, Malfoy sneered comically as strangers brushed against him. He seemed particularly displeased that the homeless man in the corner of the car was snoring loudly and taking up a whole row of seats. He leaned down to hiss in her ear as more people crammed onto the train. His lips were close enough that she could feel his hot breath on her cheek.

“This is utterly barbaric, Granger. They do have Floo’s and Portkeys in America.”

As the doors began to close, she found her nose mere inches away from his chest, and internally tried to calculate the exact height difference between them in inches.

Had he always been this bloody tall? He towered over most of the other commuters on the train. She could feel the body heat radiating off of him and -

The train jolted forwards.

In her distraction, Hermione had failed to grab onto the subway pole. She nearly tumbled into the person behind her, (almost proving to be a bumbling public nuisance for the second time that day!) but Malfoy caught her. He pulled her to his chest protectively, smirking at her beginner mistake. Hermione resisted the urge to jerk her arm away.

His long, perfectly manicured fingers were wrapped around her left forearm, digging into the poorly healed scar adorning her inner arm.

Surely he hadn’t forgotten.

At the pained look on Hermione’s face, horror flashed over his, and he dropped her wrist like she was harbouring a contagious disease.

In a way she was.

Dirty mudblood…

She turned away for a moment, rubbing her arm.

Where his fingers touched felt like she’d been branded.

But the scar hadn’t ached in years, so it must’ve just been in her head- that phantom burning, the stinging pain of a blade piercing her skin.

She could still feel tendrils of thick, dark hair brushing against her clammy cheeks, wet with sweat and tears and blood.

Furious roaring in her ears, followed by unbearable, crippling pain.

Roaring in her ears,

Crippling pain.

Roaring,

Pain.

Roaring,

She was jostled from her temporary paralysis when Malfoy’s voice rose above the loud chatter of the busy train car.

“Granger, let’s go!”

He gently pushed against the small of her back and led her out of the subway.

She didn’t stop hearing the wicked cackling ringing in her ears until she gasped a lungful of fresh air above ground.

“What happened to you down there?”

He was looking down at her with a very concerned expression, silver eyes searching her tear-stained face.

After a few deep breaths, she realised they had ended up exactly where she’d wanted to be. Ignoring him, she hurried to her favourite secluded bench overlooking the Central Park duck pond. As she sat down, she swiped at her wet cheeks, hoping her eyes weren’t too bloodshot.

“I’m a bit claustrophobic…sorry, didn’t think about that before we got on.”

Malfoy gave her an incredulous look, before sighing and sitting down on the bench next to her.

She swallowed, avoiding his eyes, and unconsciously rubbed her scar through the fabric of her jacket.

Unable to acknowledge his questioning stare, she tilted her head to the sky to watch the birds flitting between red-leaved, sun-bathed trees. Their sheer weightlessness captivated her for a minute, basking in their utter freedom and dangling it like a prize above her. She would never be free from the war; not while a reminder of it was permanently written on her skin. Even its phantom pain still pulsing in her flesh mocked her, sneering that no matter how many oceans she crossed, she could never escape her. They sat slightly apart for a few moments until she noticed him looking at the fallen bag of books between them.

Before she could say anything, Malfoy pulled the book of sonnets from the bag and flipped to what seemed like a random page. He started to read softly, almost to himself. Hermione scooted slightly closer in an attempt to catch what he was saying.

When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
Oh, love’s best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told.
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

By the end, Hermione felt her eyes wettening anew, and she turned to him, his face slightly blurred.

He slowly closed the book, before placing a hand over hers on her lap. She glanced down and hesitantly knit their fingers together, inhaling deeply.

“I thought you said you didn’t know Shakespeare?” A small smile grew on her face, but he looked at her solemnly.

“On that day in the Manor, I would’ve traded places with you if I could. I am so-”

“She would’ve killed you then. And what good would that have done?” she croaked, the lump in her throat turning her strident voice to a whisper

“I wish it had been me. I’ve sinned in my life, many times. I have cheated death though I’ve yearned to go beyond the veil. Even when you were bleeding out on the floor in front of me-”

He faltered here, throat catching on his words, “I could see that you were still…”

He swallowed hard before turning to watch the tourists feeding the geese.

They sat there for a moment, hands still pressed together before she reached for the book between them.

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising…

As she read the last few lines, she caught his gaze. He was staring raptly at her, guilt in his eyes, and hesitantly, she brought cold fingers to hold his cheek. When the palm of her hand brushed against his cheekbone, he closed his eyes, wincing at her touch.

…Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

When she finished, her hand fell back to her lap. Slowly, he turned away. His face was screwed up in discomfort, eyes unseeing as he seemed to be lost in his thoughts. The silver fissures in the slate grey of his eyes bled with years of guilt and pain before his mask of Occlumency settled back into place. With no words left between them, they sat on that bench in silence for some time, their shoulders just barely touching.

The high afternoon sun had just reached its zenith when, with a sigh, Hermione stood and wiped her palms on her thighs.

“Come. There’s more I want to show you."

When their eyes met again, an unspoken understanding passed between them. Though the sorrow still lingered behind his cold visage, his frosty gaze cleared and he slowly blinked at her. And took the outstretched hand.

“Let’s go.”

II:

Malfoy had been wary to allow them back on the subway, but after Hermione’s repeated assurances that she would be fine, they began their journey back downtown.

They didn’t need to speak, sitting crammed between throngs of people, both enjoyed observing their fellow travellers.

A smart businessman speaking loudly into his flip phone.

A young couple, utterly entwined with each other, giggling.

An old woman, smiling to herself as she watched Hermione occasionally bump into Malfoy’s shoulder with the lurching car.

She closed her eyes and rested for a bit, lulled to the space between consciousness and sleep by the gentle rocking of the train. Reflecting on their conversation in the park, she realised the vulnerability he had shown her.

The Malfoy she knew at Hogwarts would’ve never read her a sonnet or held her hand.

Regardless of the years, he was still guarded. The guilt he felt towards her was painfully evident, after he admitted his emotions towards that day in the Manor.

The iciness between them was far from gone. But for some reason, she felt herself fanning the flames of forgiveness.

She felt a nudge on her shoulder and heard the conductor’s gravelly voice echo through the speakers crooning Canal Street.

Malfoy had clearly never been to Chinatown, judging from his look of awe when they emerged from the subway.  They squeezed between narrow vegetable and fruit stalls, and cartons full of ice and raw fish. It was an assault on the senses, people chattering in at least three different languages, flashing plastic toys tottering noisily on the pavement, and people packed onto the street like sardines.

Malfoy finally shot her a panicked look when he saw whole roasted pigs hanging upside down in a restaurant window.

Hermione rolled her eyes and tugged him down a cobblestone alley, lined with Chinese characters in neon lights. She pulled him into a small, warm restaurant that smelled divine. If he was surprised at their destination, he didn’t show it, and obediently followed her to a dimly lit booth.

“I hope you're hungry.” She remarked, after reciting a laundry list of dishes to the waiter from memory.

“Always.” He replied, a smirk growing on his face.

Before long, the wobbling table before them was piled high with all sorts of dumplings, noodles, soups, and saucy vegetables. The frigid mood between them began to diminish as warm soup and steaming dumplings filled their stomachs. As they dug in, Hermione described each dish and Malfoy tasted each experimentally, regardless of how exotic they were.

“My parents always used to take me out for Chinese food. There was a rather good restaurant near our house. So, on my first free weekend in New York, I was determined to find the best Chinese restaurant I could.” She said, absent-mindedly placing more noodles onto his plate.

“You did very well.” He was on his third serving and showed no signs of slowing down.

“Well, well, is that praise from THE Draco Malfoy?! I simply must let the owners know!”

They both laughed, some of the animosity between them diminished in the hours spent in each other’s presence.

“Have you brought your parents here yet?” he asked innocently.

She felt a cold piercing in her heart but choked back her emotions.

“Um, no, unfortunately not.”

“They haven’t come to visit you yet? I suppose that’s not strange considering the state of-”

“No, that’s not why.”

His chopsticks froze halfway to his mouth when he heard the thickness in her voice.

“I actually, ah, obliviated my parents. I moved them to Australia before the war, to protect them. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to find a way to reverse the spell. That’s, um, why I’m focusing on memory reversal for my fellowship. I think we could figure it out…figure out how to fix it.” She swiped at her running nose and looked away from his piercing eyes.

“You are lucky that you have those good memories with them. Even if they never remember, you always will- a blessing and a curse. They moulded you into the woman you are today. That’s quite a feat. You’ll find a cure. I would bet my entire vault on it.”

She forced her lips into a smile, despite the grimace on her face. She had had time to come to terms with her relationship with her parents. It was still painful to imagine them never knowing they had a daughter, and that she had wiped their minds.

But he was right.

Even if she never found a solution, their impact on her would endure whether they knew she existed or not. And surely she could find a way to be in their lives without them knowing she was their daughter.

“What about your mother?” She asked half-heartedly. His eyes darkened.

“Well, you know what happened to my father. She never really recovered. She still lives at the Manor…but she is a shell of her previous self. She can’t remember things - I think Voldemort,” he stuttered at the name, “…did things to her mind during the war.” He swallowed thickly, glancing away from her for a minute.

“She doesn’t recognize me sometimes…or she thinks I’m him. Those are the worst days. How do I tell her that he’s gone and she can blame the son she doesn’t recognize for that?” He spat the last sentence, stony-faced and frowning with the weight of his despair.

After a couple of deep breaths, he turned back to her.

“And I left her. Like a coward. But she doesn’t need the constant reminder of her dead husband. Andromeda has been taking care of her. It’s…nice of her considering their history. And Mum likes Teddy.” He cleared his throat and Hermione put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Not sure what to say to that, all she could do was leave the weight of her hand on him as he struggled internally with his omission.

“Thank you for telling me that.” she gave him a small smile, noticing the reformation of the Occlumency he’d dropped since they started eating. He nodded, and they finished their meals in silence.

He had suffered because of the war.

Just like her.

And it had left a devastating imprint on him, in spite of his dignified exterior. Perhaps there was more that brought them together than pushed them apart?

Or was that just another sugary optimistic notion, like that moving to New York would solve all her problems?

She pushed aside the sorrow in her heart and fogginess in her head and waved for the waiter.

“Can we have another round?

They stumbled out of the restaurant onto the cobblestone street, their inhibitions and sorrow from earlier in the day diminished by the numerous Tsingtao beers they’d consumed. After wallowing in their depression for a while, at the cajoling of spirits and Hermione’s insistence on dessert, they had gained a burst of exuberance. It seemed they were laughing at nothing, their voices echoing down the lane.

They found themselves in a charming park in the shadow of a massive white granite courthouse. There, they watched couples, young and old, play Muggle chess at small stone tables, over the clamour of children on the playground. They circled through the park until they came upon a small square. A few teenagers were gathered in the centre of the park surrounding a boombox, smoking and skating.

“Do you know this song?” Hermione asked, eyes glimmering with intoxication and gaiety.

Despite their earlier conversation about their parents, her heart felt lighter than it had in a very long time.

She hadn’t truly admitted to herself how lonely she was in New York, thinking that this was simply the normal process of gaining independence and starting fresh. Her troubles now could hardly compare to the ones she had suffered as a scant eighteen-year-old. Then, she had Harry and Ron through everything- now, she was alone.

No one in New York knew how her childhood had changed and- literally- scarred her.

Except…Malfoy.

He knew in intimate detail.

And he was a changed man- even when she’d first seen him again, there was a soft look in his eyes, face haloed by the sun. He looked a little bit like that now, the low afternoon light giving the strands of hair dangling on his forehead a golden glow.

At her question, he turned to look down at her, an expression of pure contentment and a small smirk sweeping across his visage.

“No. Should I?”

Draco gave her an inquisitive look before she grabbed his hand and dragged him to the centre of the square, and began shuffling her feet in a futile attempt at dancing.

“What are you doing?” he asked through a chuckle, but she ignored him and continued twirling, nudging him to do the same.

Finally, he tentatively placed a hand on her waist and they rocked in unison to The La’s There She Goes.

There she goes again
She calls my name
Holds my brain
And no one else could heal my pain
And I just can't contain
This feeling that remains...

Hermione sang along softly as Draco twirled her with expert precision, clearly forced into dance lessons as a young pureblood. The world around them ceased to exist as they spun and laughed together, all the stares and giggles of onlookers unacknowledged. As the song began to wind down, Hermione grinned up at him, chest heaving with exertion.

“We used to listen to that song all the time on the radio.”

“We?” he asked.

Hermione winced.

“Harry, Ron, and I.”

“Whatever happened to Weasley?”

“He’s an Auror now. It was in the papers when he and Harry joined the training program after the war. He just got transferred to Wales, actually-”

“I meant what happened to you and Weasley.” Draco’s face was unreadable, almost like he was Occluding again.

“We broke up. Loving him was hard, and I realised that wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It was really difficult at the moment but it was mutual, in the end. We’re both much happier now."

She wasn’t sure how truthful that last statement was. Ron surely seemed thrilled with his new girlfriend.

At least he was happy.

“Have you ever?”

“Ever what?”

“Been in love.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Well, to be fair I’ve never really tried.”

Hermione observed him for a beat, trying to piece together the minute contractions of his face muscles into a single emotion.

She was unsuccessful.

He seemed resigned to the fact though, and perhaps there was a smidge of jadedness in his expression.

They continued to walk away from the park, past the bustle of Little Italy, and into a quieter neighbourhood with narrow streets. As they walked on, Hermione felt a wave of unease overtake her, but still ventured further down the sidewalk, counting cracks to dismiss the sensation.

They made a left at a bodega, complete with a cat in the window when they were confronted with the sobering sight she’d felt looming.

They stood close enough to the rubble that the sound of construction- or excavation- overwhelmed the quiet little street.

Neither had anything to say or felt the need to speak. Even the wizarding world had heard of 9/11.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut to fight back the images from the day- remembering everyone at the hospital preparing for hundreds of wounded victims, and none ever arriving. She could still see the smear of purple-black smoke across the skyline, marring the spotless blue sky like a wound. The smell of melted metal and ash haunted Lower Manhattan for weeks afterward.

Hermione finally opened her eyes when she felt him looking at her.

“We aren’t so different.” he starts, gazing far off into the distance.

“What?”

“All this death, destruction, senseless violence. Muggles, wizards, creatures, it makes no difference. You can’t escape it. Just as the war in the wizarding world ends, the war in the Muggle world begins .”

Hermione was surprised by his suddenly pessimistic mood and turned to look at him. Her eyes caught on the harsh line of his jaw, his teeth clenched harshly.

“Yes. That’s why it’s so impressive that despite all the pain in the world, we are always able to band together and overcome. Just look at the Order- what were the chances of an organisation of primarily teenagers going against Voldemort’s army and winning? And here…despite the loss this city suffered, its beauty has not diminished. It still has so much life and now more than ever, the strength and love of ordinary people have endured. It’s the same back home. We all need time to heal…but it’s so much easier when we can do it together.”
“Some of us don’t deserve to heal.” He spoke so softly, she had to strain her ears to hear him.

“Draco.” He blinked at her utterance of his first name, and looked at her.

“I can never say that I understand what you had to do, the choices you were forced to make. But I can give you this- I forgive you.” He inhaled sharply, breaking his gaze to stare at the low sun above the river.

“You were a child. We were taking the responsibilities of the adults when we never should have been anywhere near that war. The position that you were in…I don’t blame you. And I do forgive you. Because you have the potential to become so much more. And I hope that you see this as an opportunity to do that. You deserve the opportunity to do that.”

Finally, he turned back to her, and so much emotion was held in the silver eyes that he fixed her with, she had to stop herself from looking away for fear of crying herself.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at her with the intensity of a thousand dying stars and then tilted his head to the sky.

He closed his eyes and basked in the sinking sun as she watched, transfixed by the range of emotions flitting across his face. He finally peeled his eyes open and saw the orange haze on the horizon.

They walked together to the very tip of the island, what used to be shipyards and dumps, and now was a prettily paved park with benches overlooking the Harbor and the Statue of Liberty herself.

The glowing sun was melting over the horizon, drenching the sky in rich oranges and reds to match the trees, smudges of pink dotting the atmosphere. They leaned against the railing, so the wind off the ocean turned the tips of their ears pink.

His pale face flushed with blood gave him an air of humanity, atop the torrent of feelings simmering beneath his Occlumency.

They stood there, admiring the sunset until the last flickers of the sun blinked out beyond the horizon.

Hermione felt unsure of where to go from here.

They had reached the end- of Manhattan, of the day, and of their time together.

But she didn’t want it to end. She was just beginning to unravel him.

They spoke at the same time.

“Would you like to have dinner?”

“I should go now.”

“Oh.”

His face had shuttered, any remnants of tumult vanished from his face. His eyes were hard all of a sudden, more so than they had been all day.

“We shouldn’t see each other again.”

“What?”

“I really must be going now, I have class early tomorrow morning.”

He spun away from the water on his heel, hurrying back the way they had come.

“Wait!”

He didn’t grant her his full attention, merely craning his neck so she received his profile only.

“What’s wrong with you? What just happened?” She asked, head racing and wondering if he had fooled her, taken her around for a laugh and was going to discard her that easily.

“Forget about it, Granger.” He said, striding purposefully away.

And then it struck her.

He was doing this to protect himself. He’d been too open with her, let her see sides of himself he was ashamed of. Now, he had to backtrack, lean into her prejudice about him and push her away.

But that wouldn’t do. She had told him he had another chance.

And she wasn’t going to let him throw it away that easily.

“No! No, you don’t get to do this. I refuse. You come back here and have dinner with me and stop feeling sorry for yourself. You are so much better than that. Where’s that legendary Malfoy pride? I can’t believe you’re skulking away like a coward now because you can’t handle being with me for another moment.”

He whipped around.

“No, I can’t stand it. I am a coward! I can’t look at you knowing what I’ve done to you. When you saw my Mark…Merlin, I wanted to run off and let you be right then. But you didn’t deserve that. You are worthy of much, much better than me. I came here to get away from the war and then there you were looking just as lost and lonely as I am. How is that right? How does that make any fucking sense? Is there no justice in this world that you and I should end up in the same place after what we’ve been through? It makes me sick that I’m free. It makes me sick.”

“Is it so hard to believe that maybe, just maybe, we have more in common than we do different? I know you Malfoy. It’s easier to leave than actually talk to me about it. But I know you’re changed, you’re different now- No, don’t try to deny it, because I’ve seen it. This stupid bloody act at cruelty is exhausting and neither of us is getting anything out of it. So just give it up. And have fucking dinner with me!”

“Can’t you see I’m doing this for your bloody sake?” he pleaded, “If you give me an inch, I promise I’ll take a mile. So thank you for this very nice day, and I bid you-” as he turned with a wave, Hermione paced furiously up to him and gave him her most furious face.

“Fuck you! I can take care of myself. I don’t need you to make this decision for me, thank you very much. And what I want is to have dinner with you. So let’s. Bloody. Go.”

She punctuated the last few words with her finger poking painfully into his sternum.

He froze at her touch and glared down at her for a moment before his eyes softened.

“Why are you doing this?”

His voice was low and pleading, barely rising above the gusting breeze.

“If I have to prove to you that you are allowed to have this, I will. Because you do. This…this is a worthwhile fight. Please. Let me in…please.”
She searched his eyes.

The coldness had melted off his face through their fight, and raw guilt and shame, but also a tinge of relief, was painted across his features.

She grabbed his hand before he could disagree, and Apparated them away.

The dinner had been awkward at first.

The candlelight flickered against their guarded expressions and wiped away their attempts at pretense.

Slowly, he bared his soul to her, telling her of the struggle with his father’s death, his decision to move to New York, and his attempt at normalcy since arriving. In return, she told him the truth about her heartbreak, her engrossing loneliness, and how lost she felt in her life.

And they realised they were both had ragged edges, missing parts, and they fit together despite it.

Maybe their two broken parts worked better as one whole.

Somehow, they ended up at her flat. It was a tiny studio, and he stood in the entrance taking it in as she fiddled with the kettle.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked, noticing his hesitance at entering her flat.

He was silent.

It wasn’t until she finally looked at him that she noticed the dark cast to his eyes.

“If I come in, there won’t be any going back from this, Granger.”

“What?” She played dumb, pretending as if she hadn't felt the heat growing between them all night, hadn't noticed his leg brush against hers under the table during dinner, the flicker of something in his eyes when she said his name or laughed at his macabre jokes.

“You have to be sure this is what you want. Because I am.”

With that, he covered the three paces to her and brushed a curl from her face.

She couldn’t breathe.

She studied his face as he stared at her rapturously.

Their slates were clean.

They’d sloughed off their hard shells off indifference, shed any scruples they had about each other long ago.

They were completely exposed to each other now, scars and trauma and love laid bare.

Regardless of how this ended, she was changed. Somehow, this man she had despised most of her life, who had more sins than she could count, had helped her achieve a state of grace.

She could be free.

They could be free.

“I’m sure.”

And they collided.

When they both finally succumbed to sleep, the early morning rays had just begun to creep through the blinds. Beams alighting them both as they slumbered, their bare skin absorbed the golden luster, giving them both the appearance of brass sculptures.

Golden, glowing- no longer draped in the darkness and grief of their lives, they had finally found something that was good and right and real.

III:

The clip-clopping of horses through the park is the only remnant of New York before industrialization, a mere speck pushing through the din of traffic, loud, awe-inspired tourists, and the rumbling subway beneath the pavement. Formed of solid bedrock upon which man constructed their mighty towers, yearning to pierce the heavens.

A city built on a tiny island, crammed with millions of people living their lives likely to never cross paths. Everyone carrying on with their busy lives, aiming for the stars, rarely sparing a moment for indulgences of the heart. Paper faces in crowds of nameless strangers, and despite the diverse populace, it can be a very lonely place.

And so, when one finds a kindred spirit, a soul that meshes flawlessly with their own, one must cling to the only thing that makes sense in a never-resting, depressingly vigorous place.

In the arms of that twin flame, equilibrium can be found in what has always been a chaotic but beautiful city.

Two souls fitting perfectly together can find a state of grace, thus cleansed of any sin or pain from the past for anything from before they collided is inconsequential.

These two hearts can find their own absolution in each other’s eyes, silver and gold combined.

They discover that all the shattered pieces within them they hid in shame actually form quite the lovely mosaic.

The game of love is a never-ending journey of pain and trials, ruthless for many an unfortunate soul.

Yet, still, we hear the tale of the two lovers triumphing in this ferocious tournament for they played how they loved; good and right.