Chapter 12: The Lion and the Serpent
The essay on elemental trans-substantive charm theory was winning. Hermione glared at the parchment, the neat lines of her own writing blurring into gibberish. She’d read the same sentence three times: ‘The witch or wizard must therefore reconcile the inherent volatility of the base matter with the…’
With the what? Her brain refused to cooperate. It was too busy circling the memory of obsidian walls and the sharp, clean scent of Draco Malfoy’s magic. The way his Expelliarmus had rattled her bones, not with brute force, but with a precise, shocking elegance. The way he’d looked at her after, breathing hard, grey eyes stripped of every defense.
She pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against the stone floor of her office. It was a comforting, familiar clutter. Piles of books formed miniature skyllines. Half-finished calibration devices for charm-work whirred softly on a shelf. The framed photo on her desk showed a younger, laughing version of herself with Rose and Hugo, but her eyes kept drifting to the empty space beside it—a space a less stubborn woman might fill with other photos.
A soft pop of displaced air made her jump.
A scroll, sealed with dark green wax, materialized six inches above her inkpot. It floated there, spinning slowly. The seal was intricate, unmistakable: a serpent and a lion, their bodies woven around a single, elegant ‘M’.
Her heart did something ridiculous and entirely unprofessional. It stuttered, then slammed against her ribs.
She caught the parchment. The wax was still warm. It crackled under her thumb as she broke it.
The handwriting was sharp, precise, almost architectural. No formalities. No polite queries.
Granger—
The only thing worse than a Malfoy’s pride is his patience. It runs out. Friday. Eight o’clock. The apparition point by the old gate. Wear a dress that makes you forget you ever loved a Weasley.
—D
She read it. Then she read it again. Her face felt hot.
The audacity. The sheer, unbelievable gall. Telling her when. Dictating what to wear. Invoking Ron in that casually cruel, perfectly accurate way. A wave of indignation rose, familiar and safe. Who did he think he was?
She crumpled the parchment in her fist. She would ignore it. She would burn it. She would send back a one-word reply: No.
Except.
She didn’t.
Her fingers uncurled, smoothing the heavy paper against her desk. She traced the letters. He’d used that special ink Scorpius had once mentioned, the one that took ages to prepare. It was a deep, stormcloud grey, catching the light from her lamp.
Friday. The day after tomorrow. Scorpius had mentioned something about staying at Theo Nott’s Friday night. A coincidence, surely. A calculated one.
Wear a dress that makes you forget…
She stood up abruptly, walking to the small, enchanted window that showed a view of the Black Lake. Her reflection was a ghost over the dark water. Thirty. Divorced. A professor with ink on her fingers and too much history in her heart. He was seeing all of that. And asking anyway.
A knock at her office door made her jump. She shoved the letter under a stack of fifth-year essays.
“Come in.”
It was Scorpius. Of course it was. He leaned in the doorway, a bag slung over his shoulder, looking like a younger, softer echo of the man who had just upended her evening. “Professor. Sorry to bother you. I was just heading out for the weekend. Wanted to drop off my essay on Advanced Atmospheric Charms early.”
“Eager,” she said, her voice thankfully steady. “That’s a first.”
He smiled, that easy, charming smile that was all his own. “Trying to make an impression.” He placed the parchment on the corner of her desk. His eyes, sharp and grey, didn’t linger on the disordered pile hiding his father’s letter. But she had the unnerving feeling he knew it was there. “Everything alright? You look… flushed.”
“Fine. Just tired.” She crossed her arms. “Have a good weekend, Scorpius. Say hello to Theo for me.”
“I will.” He paused at the door. “Oh, and Professor? My dad mentioned he finally got around to sending you that follow-up note about the duel protocols. He can be a bit… direct. Just ignore it if it’s rubbish.”
He gave her a slight, knowing nod and was gone.
Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Direct. That was one word for it.
The next thirty-six hours passed in a strange, distracted haze. Lectures were delivered. Essays were graded. She ate meals in the Great Hall, nodding along to conversations she only half-heard. Her mind was a chorus of arguments.
It’s a terrible idea.
It’s just dinner.
He’s Draco Malfoy.
He’s Draco who kept the river stone.
The Prophet will have a field day.
Since when have you ever cared what the Prophet thinks?
Ron.
Ron is gone. Ron is happy with someone else.
Friday evening found her standing in front of her modest wardrobe in her quarters. She owned dresses. Sensible ones. Academic ones. A few from a brief, failed period of trying to be the kind of ex-wife who ‘moved on’ with glamour.
Her hand hovered over a tasteful navy blue shift.
…makes you forget you ever loved a Weasley.
Her fingers brushed past it. They settled on a sheath of deep emerald green, silk charmeuse, bought on a whim in Paris years ago and never worn. The colour was reckless. The cut was simple but devastating. It was not a dress for a professor. It was a dress for a witch.
She put it on.
The silk whispered against her skin. She looked at herself in the mirror. The woman staring back was unfamiliar. Softer. Older, yes, but with a glint in her hazel eyes that had been buried under years of duty and disappointment. She left her hair down, the curls tame for once.
At five to eight, she stood at the designated apparition point by the Hogwarts gates. The Scottish air was cool on her bare arms. She had no idea where she was going. She’d brought her wand.
The clocktower chimed the hour.
He appeared precisely as the last chime faded. Not with a crack, but a smooth, silent coalescence of air, as if he’d simply stepped from behind a veil. He wore black robes, tailored and severe, over what looked like a dark grey muggle suit. His platinum hair was combed back, sharp against the twilight. He looked at her, his gaze travelling from her face down to the green dress and back up again. His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes deepened, turned molten.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence was thick, charged like the air before a storm.
“You came,” he said finally. His voice was lower than she remembered.
“You were very insistent.”
“I was.” He offered his arm. Not his hand. His arm. An old-fashioned, pureblood gesture. “I thought about being cryptic. Sending a portkey. But I decided against games.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere with no history,” he said, and the simple answer disarmed her more than any flourish could have.
She hesitated for only a second before she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. The wool of his sleeve was fine beneath her fingers. His arm was solid, tense.
“No history?” she asked as the world began to twist.
“None at all,” he said, and then the night swallowed them whole.