The Faintest Trace of You by Ginger Baggins, narrated by
Briar and Tones, Chapter one, 1993 Godric.
Her hand hurt. She rolled over on her back and
clutched it to her chest, slowly curling and unfurling her
fingers over and over again, trying to ease the thrumming
pain, but it was fruitless. It only seemed to be getting
worse. Lavender snored softly from the
bed beside hers, a sound that on any other night she would have
been able to focus on, to close her eyes and listen to the
rhythmic breathing of her peers until the sweet unconscious
greeted her. But to night was not just any
other night. Tonight was the night after
today, and today she'd smacked Draco Malfoy in his pointy
little face. It hadn't hurt in the immediate
aftermath, not with all the adrenaline still coursing
through her veins and a fair amount of gratification for
finally doing something that she'd imagined 1000 times during
the last two years. Hermione was not a violent
person, Not really. A few slaps on Ronald's shoulder
when he was being a prat, the odd pinch to Harry's ear when he
was acting a fool, and that one tussle with Milcent Bulstrode
that ended in tears and a shocking amount of fur.
Otherwise, she kept most of her anger on her tongue, never
letting it travel as far as her fingertips.
But Malfoy, He was so deserving of it.
Pathetic. He'd called Hagrid.
She would have hit him again had Ron not grabbed hold of her arm
mid swing. She pulled her wand on him, the
hex sitting ready on the tip of her tongue, but he cowered for a
moment under the shadow of her palm.
He looked as small and weak as he'd made her feel, and that was
enough. So she'd let him go.
Now she was here, her hand throbbing, her mind racing and
the time Turner tucked safely under her pillow.
She reached for it, deciding that enough was enough.
Sleep would not come for her while she was in such
discomfort, and she'd been offered quite a marvellous
solution to so many of her problems this year, so why not
use it? She slowly pushed herself out of
bed, looping the time Turner over her head as she went before
pulling on her slippers and a fluffy jumper.
She would need to be quiet and fast, for she did not have the
luxury of Harry's invisibility cloak.
However, she did have a second chance, maybe even a third, to
uncatch herself if it came to it.
Nobody was in the common room as she hurried through it and out
the entrance, ignoring the whispers and the tuts of the
disproving portraits, Careful as she tiptoed through the ancient
stone corridors that should have been colder than they were, Her
eyes were peeled for Missus Norris, who always seemed to
catch Harry whenever he was being foolish enough to prowl
the corridors at night. This endeavour was reckless in a
way that Hermione so rarely was, but this year was different.
Maybe it was puberty and something notably undiscussed at
Hogwarts, likely a result of a curriculum designed by prudish
witches and Wizards who lived well beyond 100 years.
Maybe the first two years of her life in the wizarding world had
turned her into someone not only capable of breaking the rules,
but eager to. Ron would love this.
The dungeons were quite far from her common room, but it would be
a worthy adventure, for the pain in her hand was long beyond
ignoring by the time she got there, miraculously
undiscovered. It was dangerous to be anywhere
after dark, but it was particularly dangerous to be
here, in the classroom of a teacher who hated her, next to
the common room of a house whose students seem to hate her more.
But worthwhile. If she was able to grab
everything she needed and skip back out before anybody noticed.
Snape would be furious in the morning, but she'd leave no
proof behind that it was her. The classroom was mercifully,
blissfully empty when she stepped inside.
She'd half expected Snape to be looming over the desk, his wand
already out, waiting to catch her.
She wasted no time, already running through the mental list
of ingredients as she marched to the cupboard where she knew they
were all sorted. She would shrink a cauldron,
take it all to the girls bathroom on the 1st floor, and
suffer the tones of Moaning Myrtle while she brewed the
blessed pain relief. It wouldn't take long.
All she needed was everything narrowed to a single point when
she opened the door to the stall room and found she was not, in
fact, quite alone as she assumed.
What the fuck, Granger? Malfoy hissed, shielding his
eyes from her. Lumos lit wand, his back to the
wall of tall shelves. What are you doing here?
She gasped, not lowering her wand an inch.
Me. He asked, incredulous.
What are you doing here? Salazar's lower your wand.
Tentatively, After a brief but silent debate with herself, she
lowered her wand. Malfoy was holding a small box
in his hand, filled to the brim with exactly what she'd come to
collect. Her eyes snapped back up to his
face and she saw as clearly as it might have been in sunlight,
a bruise across his jaw in an almost perfect shape of her
hand, 5 fingers and an open palm.
A sixth sense of triumph bloomed within her.
His lip curled as it usually did.
See something funny, Granger? Stinging a bit, is it?
She asked, pseudo saccharine with a smile that didn't even
come close to meeting her eyes. Malfoy stared at her for a
minute and she could see the insults dangling from his teeth
like venom from fangs, but he reeled them in, righted his
already Immaculate posture and shoved past her.
What are you doing? She asked as he dumped the
ingredients onto the table. He didn't seem to care at all
for the racket he was making. The same thing you are, I
presume. He muttered quietly, lighting a
fire beneath the cauldron that had already been set up.
Are you going to stand there and watch?
No, I, well, this is. She was at a total loss for
words, which is not something that could often be said.
You'll be caught. He snorted, not even bothering
to look up from where he was now crushing a handful of standard
ingredient into a mortar. I have permission to be here.
He paused, looking at her then, a smug smile on his bruised
face. Do you?
Hermione felt rather foolish. Of course Draco and Malfoy had
permission to raid the shelves of Snape's classroom.
There was very little that he couldn't get away with when it
came to the head of his house. She was considered a bright
witch, the brightest witch of her age, so she really should
have thought twice about why neither classroom nor the
cupboard were locked. Going to tell on me?
She asked instead, determined to keep hold of the upper hand even
with her screaming palm. Get me sent on forest duty,
maybe lose my house points. Go on then.
Malfoy set the mortar and pestle down on the table, letting along
and yet somehow impatient sigh escape his lips.
And then his long, Bony hands pressed into the table top and
he shook his head, chuckling to himself in what sounded like
disbelief. She watched with fascination as
he moved, so unlike she'd seen him move before.
He was considerably less pompous in the low light, almost like a
real person. When he finally lifted his eyes
to meet hers, the intensity in them startled her, and when he
spoke, it was so different from the sneering tone he'd used so
many times before. When he spoke, it was quiet,
quick, efficient. No.
She blinked back at him. No, that is what I said.
Do try to listen. It took everything, everything
in her not to roll her eyes. Why ever not?
Because, well. He stumbled, his hand lifting to
clasp the back of his neck. The motion knocked a single
strand of hair over his forehead and he looked dishevelled,
nervous, guilty. She had to fight the urge to rub
her eyes in an attempt to bring back a world, a boy that she
recognised. I assume you'll be wanting some
of this? What in Godrick's name was going
on here? Had she actually knocked some
sense into him? Was he playing with her?
Were Crab and Goyle lurking in the shadows, waiting for her
guard to drop before they pounced?
Was he concussed? Had he somehow forgotten who she
was? That he hated her very blood?
Would he, Granger? He said, knocking her clean out
of her spiral. Is your hand hurting?
How do you? She began, like an idiot.
He raised an eyebrow, and her hands fell to the bruise on his
jaw. Yes, it is.
I did hit you rather hard, you know.
Oh, I know. He smirked, smirked.
Malfoy smirked, not snarled or sneered nor snapped.
She felt positively untethered. If you don't want it, you can
leave. No, I want it.
She said without thinking, letting her feet carry her to
his table before her mind could regain control.
Do you want me to mix the don't touch anything?
He barked, turning his shoulders to block her from reaching any
of the ingredients. Indignation flared in her blood
once more. Why not?
Do you think I'm so dirty that even my touchwood?
No, Granger, I think your hand is injured and it makes you an
unreliable Brewer. He said with a sigh.
Like you shouldn't need to explain this.
Like it was obvious, but it wasn't.
Nothing about this was obvious. What has gotten into you?
She whispered, bewildered. Nothing.
I am just I. He stammered, which only caused
more confusion on her part. Malfoy didn't stammer ever.
Not when he was hurling insults, not when he was boasting, not
when he was answering questions or bossing around his band of
friends. And yet, here and now, in the
late of night, he stammered. I'm sorry.
No, it all made sense. This wasn't real.
She was still in bed, having the most vivid lucid dream of her
life, likely brought about by the persistent lump of her
stinging palm infiltrating her subconscious.
All she needed to do was take a small bit of arm skin between
her fingers and she would soon find herself awake, back in bed.
And did you just pinch yourself? Malfoy asked, frowning.
She felt the chill run from the very top of her spine to the
very bottom. He raised his sharp eyebrows.
I suppose I deserve that to you. She mumbled, still at a complete
loss. Yes, I am sorry.
I might think that you are an insufferable know it all, but
the other stuff, it's just, well, it's all just.
He was shriggling, his mouth pressed into a firm line as he
grappled with the words and she did not interject.
It's expected of me. And that makes it forgivable?
She asked quietly. His face fell into something
much more serious and he suddenly looked so much older
than they were. It made her want to take a long
step back, and possibly a long step forward.
She couldn't tell, so she just held still.
No, he whispered. No, of course not.
So he wasn't asking for forgiveness, and he wasn't
making excuses, but he was offering her half of his pain
relief. An olive branch, Muggles would
call it. A way of extending that apology
beyond meaningless words. She didn't know what it meant in
the long run. Whether they would brew together
tonight and return to their positions as bitter adversaries
tomorrow, or if this indicated a larger change, perhaps an end to
the slurs and the bullying and the mindless, constant
belittling that she'd always assumed he delighted in.
But had he could the mere act of allowing her to seek pain relief
convince her that years of bigotry had been a performance?
No, absolutely not. But it was a start, if anything
at all, and her hand was killing her.
He brewed with ease and in almost total silence, save for
the few occasions where he muttered the instructions in his
breath as though he'd just read them before coming here.
It was strangely endearing. Why didn't you go to the
Infirmary? She asked, and that wicked smirk
returned with fury. And tell Madame Pomfrey what,
exactly? He replied coolly, stirring the
cauldron counterclockwise, exactly as he needed to.
That Hermione Granger hit me. She shrugged.
Yes, no. He chuckled, and it sounded
almost real. Not only would my pride not
allow the admission, but it would have landed you in a
rather hot heap of shit, wouldn't it?
And where would you care about that?
He winced. I'm not lying, Granger.
Please don't make me say it again.
Please. Draco Malfoy just said please.
Draco Malfoy just asked her, Hermione Granger, to please not
ask him to tell her that he is sorry again, that he did not go
to Madame Pomfrey because he didn't want her to get in
trouble for clapping him across the jaw so hard it left imprints
on them both. It would have been easier to
believe that she'd been selected to play for the Chudley Cannons.
Fine, she settled on, not sure what else there was to possibly
say, other than a barrage of questions that he didn't seem
all that up for answering. I didn't go there either.
Clearly couldn't damage your pristine reputation.
Something like that. They didn't speak again, not
while the potions simmered for 40 minutes and they cleaned up.
Not when he decanted it into a jar, and not even when he
wrapped his hand around her wrist and pulled it closer to
him, not letting up when she tried to RIP free of his grasp.
He twisted it until her palm faced up, now red and swollen,
gleaming under the low light of the sconces.
He remained silent as he scooped out a large section of the
potion and began to smear it across her palm, gently
massaging it into each line and Ridge of her flesh.
He kept quiet as he let go of her wrist to use both hands for
the application. She kept quiet as she let him,
and when her hand was soothed, he stepped back to let her
examine it. Not a sound came from either of
them, and she dismissed the gesture of distance and stepped
closer. Not a peep, nor a squeak, nor a
gasp when she grabbed the jar and dipped her fingers in,
scooping out the rest of the mixture and reached for his
bruise. He let her, his eyes roaming her
face with unfiltered curiosity as she rubbed the mixture into
his bruise with slow, gentle circles.
The line of his jaw was sharp, pointy, she'd always called it,
but she now realised it was indeed sharp.
Under the cover of the hiding sun, she could convince herself
none of this was real. The way his breath hitched when
she cooked his jaw and tilted it slightly for better access.
The way his shoulders eased when she ran her fingers across the
curve of his cheekbone. The way his eyes never left her,
not for a second. It didn't matter, because it
happened in the shadows and therefore did not happen at all.
When they were sufficiently numbed from the pain of the
day's brutality, which now felt like a lifetime ago, they
cleaned up the remainder of their chaos and headed for the
door. Not a word was said in goodbye,
nor good night as they parted, not a spare glance over their
shoulders, not a wave, not a nod.
She stumbled back into her dormitory that night and lay
there even more awake than she had been an hour earlier,
listening again to the soothing tones of lavender slumber while
she traced the lines of the time Turner still hanging from her
neck. She wanted to twist it, go head
back down there and watch everything from a dark corner.
It seemed the only way to convince herself that any of it
had taken place. But she did not.
The pain in her hand was soothed into nothing.
The events of the night slid into idle confusion and her eyes
fluttered closed. And when she slept, she dreamt
that Draco Malfoy pushed her to the ground before offering his
hand to help her up. 1998 the Dark Lord, you know who he who
must not be named Voldemort, Tom Marvolo Riddle, the Heir of
Slytherin. It didn't matter what they
called him now that he was dead. So many years spent trying to
figure out a way to beat him, so many lives lost in the effort,
so many people hollowed into mere shells of themselves just
for him to die at the hands of a rebounded curse.
It seemed unjust and unsatisfying.
Too quick, too painless. Merlin, is this how she'd become
someone bloodthirsty? She'd not slept in about 3 days,
since before they'd set off on what should have been a suicide
mission to break into ringgots. She felt like her legs were made
of granite, hardly able to lift 1 foot in front of the other.
Harry was barely upright, his shoulders pulling towards the
ground like he was holding weights.
In a way, she supposed he was. He'd not slept either, and he'd
died only a handful of hours ago.
It was nothing short of a miracle that he was still on his
feet. Even if they were dragging, she
felt that familiar instinct to duck under his arm and help him.
Ron, who had always been the one that stood up, even on a broken,
mangled leg at the age of 14, to put himself between them and the
supposed threat, managed to remain tall, to keep his chin
held high, to bury his grief beneath layers of courage that
would soon fade. She wanted to press her forehead
to his shoulder and sob, but she knew that it was his tears that
needed to be shed the most. Fred was gone.
Lupin was gone. Tonks was gone.
Colin, Lavender and so many others gone.
The hall where they had once been sorted into houses to a
chorus of joyous applause, was now little more than blood and
rubble. The corridors were burned and
marred and lined with the bodies of her peers, children, some not
even older than 11. She stumbled over a piece of the
blown stone archway and came to a stop, staring at it.
The jagged edges, the bevel detailing.
She had idly run her hands across these walls so many times
over the years while walking between classes, young and eager
and happy. Gods, these children had never
known it. They'd never rode to the castle
with a sense of wonder and excitement.
They'd never discovered the secrets and rewards of the
castle, never went to Hogsmeade and tasted the sweets at
Honeydukes or the sugar syrup of Butterbeer.
They'd arrived for their first year to a castle under siege.
They'd suffered here, and they died here in her home.
Hermione. Ron noticed her fall behind his
hand on her shoulder, his spine curled so that he could meet her
eye. She couldn't tear her line of
sight away from the bit of rubble by her boot.
It was nothing, not really. And yet it felt like everything.
A little piece of the haven she'd once known was ripped
apart. This place had given her
everything. Unwavering friendship,
heartbreak, vindication, purpose, love.
This castle had housed those things so tenderly and now there
was nothing but brutality. She felt the air catch in her
lungs, her vision blurred, her stomach lurched.
Oh God, she was going to be sick.
She was going to vomit right here in the hall and add to the
rot and filth that lined the corridors.
She was going to fall to her knees and scream till her throat
tore and Ron's hands on her shoulders tightened and turned
her from it, pulling her to his chest.
He rested his chin on top of her head, his hands caging her in,
holding in everything that would otherwise spill out.
Oh no. He whispered later.
Of course, they still had a meeting to attend.
The battle may have been won, but the war was far from over.
First they would be soldiers, and then later and drew a
blanket. At midnight, there would be
people again. They would feel it all, drown
under every wave of grief, choke on every racking SOB.
The absence would be unavoidable.
The screams would not fade into distant echoes for some time
yet. The limp bodies and the grey
faces of the people who had once laughed so brightly would not
disappear from their minds. But Ron was right, she couldn't
feel it yet. Later, the room they entered was
vast and empty. She did not recognise it, though
she noted with the little cognition she had left that it
appeared to be the old duelling room in the dungeons.
It was noticeably untouched by the battle, and something about
that rattled her. It felt like stepping into
another world, where the only evidence of the horror above
clung to the clothes and skin of the witches and Wizards huddled
around the table. The surviving members of the
Order, the whites of their eyes visible beneath the dust and
shadow, each set of hands shaking.
Ron was the only Weasley there. The rest were still upstairs,
tending to the body of their beloved.
He had come to represent them, streaks of clean skin on his
face where tears had previously fallen.
Harry and Hermione were always nomadic, but Harry, historically
at least, had some family to stand with during these
meetings. Serious Lupin, even Arthur and
Molly. Now he was as singular as her,
and he looked utterly wrecked by it.
She had yet to ask him what happened in the Forbidden
Forest, about what he had seen when he died, and how he was
here and somehow more himself than he had been in years,
despite the full body shock he seemed to be locked into.
Kingsley stood in the centre of the room and began speaking, but
it was nothing more than a faint home in Hermione's ears.
He gestured towards the three of them, and every head turned to
look. A few people nodded, A few
people clapped. She wasn't sure why.
It felt as if she was underwater, and the longer she
held her breath, the more her lungs burned.
She didn't want to give a speech any more than she wanted to hear
one. She didn't want glory.
She didn't want thanks. She wanted her mum.
When Hermione was small and not so stubbornly self-sufficient,
she would crawl into her mum's side of the bed whenever she
felt unwell, and her mother would lay a cool, gentle hand on
her forehead. She would whisper about whatever
book she was reading as she brushed stray curls from
Hermione's clammy face. She'd pulled the duvet further
from her dad's side, leaving him cold and complaining, and wrap
her in it. There was very little that she
wouldn't give to be able to crawl in beside her mother now
and listen to her whisper about anything really.
The more muggle, the more untouched by the cruel hands of
war, the better. But she didn't have that
anymore. All she had was this room and
the people within it who were now looking at her for wait, why
were they looking at her? Umm.
She croaked, turning to look over her shoulder in a foolish,
childish hope that it was not her they expected an answer
from. She glanced at Harry and Ron,
who seemed just as confused as she felt.
Eventually, she had to turn back to the Minister and admit
defeat. What?
He frowned. I asked if you were comfortable
with the plan. The plan?
She echoed quietly, hoping that someone would swoop in and save
her, or at least bark at everyone until they stopped
staring at her quite so intently.
There was only one person who would be so brash, and she could
not think of him now. Later.
I'm sorry I wasn't. Can you?
Kingsley's eyes softened. Her expression must have been
painfully visible. We are going to move you through
to a safe house. With so many Death Eaters
unaccounted for, it is too risky to have you out in the open.
She mulled those words over, noting A distinct difference
between what he had said and what he meant.
What he said was that he wanted to keep them safe.
What he meant was that he still had a use for them.
It landed like lead in the pit of her stomach.
Now that Voldemort was just a body to burn, they should have
been just as expendable as everybody else, but for some
reason they were not. If she had the energies, she
would have pushed for answers, but she was entirely drained, so
she just nodded and stepped closer to Harry and ROM.
Kingsley spoke more, answering questions she did not listen to,
briefly gesturing to the three of them whenever their names
came up. He could have been reciting
soliloquies for all she knew, not a word of it absorbed by her
overrun brain. In truth, she just didn't care.
She didn't care about the plan, about the victory, about the
Order. How could she?
The school was held up by the bodies of the children, who it
should have kept warm and safe. The blood had seeped into the
cracks in the old stone walls. The stained glass windows that
had once coated her skin in rays of colourful hues were smashed,
merely shards embedded into shoes and skin.
Come on. Harry mumbled, at some point
taking hold of her wrist and pulling her along behind him as
they left the room. Ron was right behind them, his
towering presence blocking out the rest of the world.
Diligently, they stumbled after each other until Harry stopped
and opened what looked like it could have been a broom cupboard
merely 24 hours earlier, but now appeared as chaos.
He began pulling boxes from tilted shelves, and Ron joined
the effort, taking the top shelves.
Of course. Hermione watched them with a
frown, wondering quite how much she'd missed of their
instructions. Ron shoved a box back on the
shelf. Who said it was a broom bag,
mate? Brown leather with yeah, I know.
Harry ran his hands through already messy hair, making it
stand upright. It's not fucking here.
Have I only spotted a leather pouch under some fallen bricks,
hidden from immediate view? And some small part of her
wanted to laugh hysterically. It was somewhat nostalgic
watching the two of them scramble while she had the
answer right under her nose. It took some shaking and tugging
to get the pouch free, and she wasn't exactly sure what they
needed it for. It was just a pouch.
We've only got 2 minutes before. Yeah, I know, and I said it's
not fucking here. This.
She held up, and both heads snapped around to face her.
Run. The one with the least reason to
smile was the first one to break the stormy aura they had resided
in all day. He sighed with relief, a small,
crooked smile that flashed on his face before it faded,
replaced by a wince of guilt. Nice one, Hermione.
The pouch, it turns out, was a porky.
It activated on the dot, sucking them into the whirling, stomach
churning void far from the battlefield of their old school
grounds. They landed in a garden.
The sun was shining, the bees were buzzing and the little
cottage had an open door, a welcoming smell of freshly baked
bread. It felt wrong.
It was so quaint, so untouched. The breeze blew through her
matted curls and woke her up. The birds sang from the treetops
and the small fountain in the garden continued to flow.
The cottage was made of pale stone and thatched roof with
small single glazed windows boarded by dark wooden shutters.
The structure was almost certainly not large enough to
hold more than one bedroom, but that's already more than they
needed. They'd been in a tent for the
last year. How long did he say we were
staying here? She whispered, voice carrying on
the gentle gust of wind. Harry shrugged.
He said he would check in in a day or two.
He also said the fridge was full of.
Ron didn't even wait for him to finish before he marched inside
and they followed closely behind.
None of them were keen to stray far from each other, it seemed.
The kitchen was pokey with wooden countertops that warped
from water damage and duck head blue cabinets that held only two
cups per shelf, but they made it work.
Ron selected the pre prepared food.
None of them had the energy to question who put it there, and
Hermione heated it with a silent, tired spell while Harry
sought the dishes. Cottage pie.
Ironically, they ate it on the red plush rug on the floor of
the crowded living room. Afterwards, Ron did the dishes
and Harry stared out the window, rubbing the scar on his
forehead. Out of habit, she decided while
she gathered blankets from the cupboard.
After a long round of showers that washed the blood of their
friends and family from their battered bodies, it was time to
attempt to sleep. They tried to settle in the
bedroom, Ron and Harry on the floor, Hermione on the single
bed, but it didn't work. They tossed and turned,
whispering the beginnings of sentences that none of them
could finish. Eventually, they moved into the
living room and tried to settle there, only to find it was much
of the same. She pushed off the sofa and
grabbed her beaded bag, deciding that while the cottage was warm
and comfortable, it was also unknown.
After everything that had happened in the last few days,
they needed something familiar, even if it wasn't glamorous. 15
minutes later, they bundled into their overused tent, now set up
in the garden and curled into their sleeping bags.
And with the final ounces of energy they had left to spend,
they felt it all. Ron's shoulders shook with grief
as they held onto him. Harry's glasses slid down his
nose as he let his tears fall, and Hermione closed her eyes to
the mounting pressure in her chest.
It was unbearable, and yet they had to bear it.
This was not the end. It was just the beginning of a
new fight. There, under the canvas canopy,
in their little slice of stillness, weeping into the arms
of her friends, she let her mind drift across the rolling hills
of the countryside in search of Draco Malfoy.
And she wondered, in her final moment of consciousness, if
anyone was holding him.