Chapter 19: The Unwelcome Visitor
The flat was too quiet. Hermione kept listening for the specific cadence of his footsteps on the landing—not the jaunty rhythm of Theo, or Blaise’s lazy shuffle, but Draco’s purposeful, measured tread. She’d grown attuned to it in the townhouse, a sound that meant either a cutting remark was imminent or a fresh pot of tea was being made.Now, it was just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant murmur of London traffic.
She’d read the same paragraph on sentient wand licensing thrice. Her eyes kept flicking to the asphodel on the sill.Thrives in poor soil.In the dark. She touched a silver leaf.It was a bit ridiculous, talking to a plant. But it felt less ridiculous than acknowledging the hum in her veins every time she replayed the look on his face in the lab.Utterly lost. A Malfoy, disarmed not by a spell, but by her simple presence.
The knock, when it came late the next afternoon, wasn't on the landing door.It was firm, assertive, on her own front door.
Her pulse kicked, a hard, hopeful thump against her ribs. She smoothed her hair, took a breath to steady the sudden, silly smile, and pulled the door open.The scent hit her first. Cloying, artificial.Cheap roses.Not bergamot and wormwood.
Cormac McLaggen stood on her doormat, holding a vulgar bouquet of blood-red roses wrapped in crackling cellophane. He was leaning against the doorframe, a studied pose of contrition, his too-handsome face arranged into a mask of sincere regret.His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Hermione,” he said, his voice a low, practiced rumble. “You look incredible.”
All the air left the hallway.It wasn’t shock.It was a profound, weary disappointment. Like finding a stain on your favourite jumper you thought you’d cleaned.
“What are you doing here, Cormac.”
“Can I come in?Please? Just for a moment.” He held out the roses like a shield.She didn’t move. “No.”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair—another rehearsed gesture.“Look, I know I have no right. I know what I did was… unforgivable.Five years, Hermione. You can’t just throw that away.”
“You threw it away. In the linen closet of the Leaky Cauldroom, with Merriweather from Magical Games.” Her voice was flat, detached. She was amazed at how little it hurt to say it now.
He flinched, the charm slipping for a second.“It was a mistake.A massive, stupid, drunken mistake. I’ve been in therapy, you know.Really working on my… impulses. I’m changed.”
She looked at him—the perfectly tailored robes, the earnest set of his jaw, the roses already starting to droop in the afternoon chill.He was a script.A very bad, very predictable script.
“I’m glad you’re getting help, Cormac.Truly.But we’re done. You need to leave.”
The shift was instantaneous.The contrite posture straightened. The false warmth drained from his face, leaving something colder, sharper. The mask slipped, and the petulant stranger underneath glared out.
“Is this about him?” Cormac spat, jerking his chin dismissively, as if gesturing to the whole building.“Malfoy? You’re shacking up with that lot now?”
Her spine stiffened. “Where I live is none of your business.”
“Oh, it’s perfect, isn’t it?” he laughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound.“Saint Hermione, reforming the Death Eater.Must make you feel so virtuous. Tell me, does he make you feel smart?Important? Or does he just make you feel like you’re winning? Getting one over on me?”
“This has nothing to do with you.” The words were ice.“It has everything to do with me!” he snapped, his voice rising. The roses shook in his fist.“You think he actually wants you? He’s just using you to get back at me, to prove some pathetic pure-blood point. He’s always hated me.This is just his latest game.”
The words were meant to lacerate. They slid over her, finding no purchase. She’d already thought these fears, examined them in the dead of night.Hearing them from Cormac’s mouth somehow stripped them of their power. They were just ugly, small things.“You give yourself too much credit,” she said quietly. “You’re not important enough to be a motive.”
He recoiled as if struck. His face flushed a mottled red.“You always did think you were better than everyone. Too smart, too proud.Well, let me tell you something, Hermione.He’ll get bored. The novelty of the Gryffindor swot will wear off, and he’ll discard you.Just like I did. And you’ll be left with your books and your principles, all alone.And you’ll remember this moment.”
He leaned in, his voice a venomous whisper. “You’ll come crawling back.They always do.”
For a second, she saw it. Not anger in his eyes, but a frantic, terrified need.He needed her to be wrong. He needed her to be miserable without him.His entire world view depended on it.
Hermione took a slow, deliberate step back. She looked at him, not with hatred, but with a final, absolute clarity.He was a echo in a room she’d already left.
“Goodbye, Cormac.”
She closed the door.Not slammed.Closed it with a firm, definitive click. She turned the deadbolt, the sound heavy and final in the silent flat.
Then she pressed her forehead against the cool wood.Her hands were trembling.A violent, adrenal shiver ran through her, head to toe. She could smell the ghost of the cheap roses in the air.
The tears that came weren’t for him.They were sheer, furious release. The last of it—the humiliation, the broken trust, the five years of compromises—finally purged from her system. She cried, shoulders shaking, for the time she’d wasted. She cried for the person she’d been, trying to fit herself into the small, neat box he’d allowed.
When the storm passed, she wiped her face with her sleeves.She was alone, yes.But not as he’d said. Not with just her books and principles. She had her job, her friends, her own flat with its stubborn plant and its rare books. She had a challenge issued to a man who communicated in silent, perfect gifts.She walked to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and set it on the stove. The blue flame roared to life. Outside the window, the light was fading, painting the courtyard in shades of gold and grey.On the counter, beside the unlit candle, lay a single, perfect feather. It hadn’t been there this morning. It was long, sleek, and shimmered with a gradient of deep plum and burnt copper, like a bruise at sunset.A graphorn tail feather. Incredibly rare.Used in high-fidelity truth serums and loyalty potions.No note. Of course.He’d come.He’d been here. He’d left this while she was at work, or maybe just minutes ago, before Cormac. A message in an object, as she’d asked him not to.But this felt different. This wasn’t a gift left on a doormat from a safe distance.This was a reply.A continuation of their conversation.
A graphorn feather.Loyalty.Truth.She picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy, the vane soft and cool against her skin.She didn’t hide it in a drawer. She didn’t put it on the shelf with the others. She carried it to her small desk, to the blank piece of parchment where she’d been failing to write her report.
She placed it squarely in the center of the empty page.
Then she picked up her quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write beneath it.Not a report.Two sentences.
The roses were predictable.The feather is not.She didn’t sign it. She rolled the parchment tightly, sealed it with a dab of wax, and tied it with the graphorn feather’s own shaft.
The kettle began to whistle, a sharp, rising sound in the quiet room. She ignored it, staring at the sealed scroll in her hand. Her heart was pounding again, but it wasn't from fear or anger. It was the clean, sharp thrill of a move made, a gauntlet thrown.She had translated his object. Now, she would send back her own.