She has known for a while, in fact, who the new Astronomy professor is. It isn't as if McGonagall had tried to hide it from her, or from anyone for the matter; at the end of last school year, she'd assembled the entire staff of professors to announce who would replace Professor Sinistra come September, considering the woman was headed towards Ilvermony's for a career change.
It just felt like a bitter irony, that was all. That the person who had potential good reason to never wanting to step into Hogwarts' Astronomy Tower again would not only apply for the job but also accept it.
I suppose many things have changed since the war.
It has in fact been five years now, and many things have changed. For instance, Hermione is no longer engaged and on her way to becoming a part of the Weasley clan as of two years ago. She is not on speaking terms with Molly, though she still sees Ron whenever she joins him and Harry for their usual weekly meals - well, monthly during the school year. She is also no longer interested in working for the Ministry. It took two years for that particular dream to wither and die off, and for her to grow bitter at the fact that some prejudices were still there and she had no more patience for them.
She also does not want to save the world anymore. She'll settle for teaching students how to be better people, and how to be better students.
Finally, though perhaps most surprisingly, what has changed the most is that Hermione does not return to Hogwarts to fill in the Transfiguration role left by McGonagall as soon as she takes over the Headmistress position. It's the dungeons that become Hermione's newest home, and with the position comes the lead of a house that gave her nothing but trouble and scorn.
She's learned to let go of the grudges, in a way. The students sorted into Slytherin are ambitious and clever and she can work with that. If they can handle a muggleborn Head of House, there's hope for them yet. It's a beautiful irony, here as well.
See? She's gotten used to change. In fact, as she stands in the Great Hall and prepares for the first staff dinner, where she will come face to face with her newest colleague again after what - five years as well since his trial? - she is resolved to prove how much she's changed by giving him a chance, and not outright hissing at the very sight of him.
The story of the constellation Draco is more straightforward than the rest. The dragon Ladon protected Hera's golden apple tree, but died in the hands of Heracles. The hero used poisoned arrows, and took the apples to fulfill his quest. Saddened by the dragon's death, Hera placed him in the sky among the constellations.
Draco has heard this story often when he was a child; it was bedtime story told under his mother's breath every night. She taught all him there was to know about the constellations in the sky, and the traditions of House Black. To honor our family, she had said, I named you after the dragon that protected the tree, as you would soon protect our family when you grow big and strong.
The fascination with the sky and its secrets didn't end with the bedtime stories she was no longer allowed to tell as he grew older. As with all things his father deemed useless or mindless, Draco was careful not to toe the line between academic interest and passionate obsession. Lucius tolerated it, for his wife's sake, and our of respect for the family she was born of — but not one of them held the notion that he'd someday make sure of this knowledge. He was a Death Eater's son, after all.
The five years after the war have been unfathomable in ways that Draco did not expect. To avoid incarceration and live out the rest of his life in peace albeit ostracized by society — it's been baffling, though the circumstances remain manageable. Somehow, he's discovered his own resilience and has kept himself alive through it all. The next thing that comes his way is what grinds everything to a halt: freedom.
Freedom, from his father's domineering presence, his parents' endless expectations, the burdens of his birthright. Freedom, from a madman that would've thrown them all in Fiendfyre if that's what it takes to rule the world. Freedom, from a lifetime to wrongs pounded into his head, prejudices and shortcomings that he could reorganize and dismantle before his very eyes. Freedom, to look at the sky above and see the glittering stars overhead, always shining and beckoning to be noticed.
When he spoke with McGonagall during his interview, they played a good game of avoiding talking about the war. It was questions about the stars charts and lunar phases, a passing note regarding his test scores (no N.E.W.T. due to his "extenuating circumstances", but his 'O' O.W.L. for Astronomy said more than most), and a few questions regarding his apprenticeship under a famed Astronomy professor at a distant wizarding school. The most she'd insinuated was, The Astronomy tower may look different now from when you last set foot up there, Mr Malfoy, but I'm certain we all prefer it that way. Draco has taken that as a win, anyway.
The next challenge is... much more complicated, in a way. The Astronomy tower may have changed (and he will see soon enough) but Hogwarts as a whole has not. It has welcomed him, as it always did every time he stepped foot within its walls. The Great Hall certainly hasn't, though he knows its occupants would alter every year, between bright young kids entering it for the first time and young adults saying their last goodbyes. The teachers remain constant, only changing as necessity requires it. McGonagall has given him their names and the subject they teach, though nothing could really prepare him for the sight of Hermione Granger standing in the Great Hall, a once specter of his past, manifested so vividly before his very eyes.
"Granger," he coughs out, after a distinct pause. "It's... good afternoon," he trails off awkwardly. It's good to see you, is most likely not the preferred greeting, in this scenario.
You can do this. It's not the bully from school, he's changed. At least give him a chance to prove it. "Malfoy."
She sounds so dry and tense, it's almost reminiscent of one of Hogwarts' old Potions professors. She wears different robes than him, at least - not the dark and fully buttoned up Potions robes, but something in pale green that reminded her of scientists in old films, with the cloak on top for good measure; no hat, only her hair braided into submission, to keep it from accidents when brewing.
The bottom line is, she has been accused of being dry and tense before, when the engagement was dissolved. Not by Ron, who would not have had the guts to do it, but by his mother, who blamed Hermione for the fact that a whirlwind romance born in the middle of the war did not immediately push her into a matronly role. Disappointment had always been a sore sentiment in Mrs Weasley's control, and toppled with the fact that her parents' memories were never going to be returned...
It had rankled. It has stayed with her.
But that's not entirely why she's tense, when greeting Malfoy. She doesn't expect him to look - well - good. Not just well, not just healthy, but rather more at ease with where he is in life right now. She can't say she begrudges him that, though; he's not the one who doled out the torture. She'd been at the trial, standing as witness for him and as witness for his mother (respectfully she'd declined to be a witness for Lucius Malfoy, because fuck him).
She is rather pleased to see that her testimony achieved more than just Draco's freedom of the errors of his youth. He's done something for himself.
That's what pushes her to awkwardly stick out her hand, offering a truce. "Welcome to Hogwarts again."
She doesn't see it coming, though she should. They're having lunch in the Great Hall when it happens, and maybe Hermione is distracted by something that the Marauders are doing a little further down the table, so she does not notice the moment someone slips something into her glass of juice (orange, as pumpkin juice is foul, the sort of foul refreshment only uncreative purebloods could think of).
She rolls her eyes at the antics of the three men as Professor McGonagall doles out detention and docks points, and makes a mental calculation of how many points she has to raise to make up for this loss, if they want to win the House Cup.
If it could even be said that Gryffindor deserves it at this point, because it does not.
Then, distracted, she reaches for her juice and drinks, not detecting the sickeningly sweet scent of a love potion. They learned how to brew those with Slughorn just yester, though why, she has no bloody idea.
"Hey, Granger," someone calls to her right, while the potion takes effect, and she sneezes -
And foils their plans.
Her gaze lands on Lily Evans sitting across from her, and her heart does a wha-bump!, and she is left awe-struck.
"Lily," she sighs, full of longing. "Your hair is so beautiful."
Lily Evans had been delving into 'Greater Beasts of Oceania' over her lunch when Hermione decided to compliment her hair. Blinking, she looked up from her place on the page to tilt her head, eyeing Hermione quizzically.
"Uh, thanks?" Raising an eyebrow at the other girl Lily couldn't help the way the last word turned up at the end, making it a question. The remark had come out of left field after all, and Lily wasn't sure what had inspired it in the first place. Uncertainly she reached up to smooth her fingers through a sheaf of her hair, wondering if there was something stuck in it.
"You alright Hermione?" She looked - odd. Like she was very happy to see Lily, even though Lily usually sat across from her at meals and it was nothing out of the ordinary.
"You're so pretty," she sighs again, and then when she spies Potter to the side giving her a completely baffled look, she decides this is it. This is her chance.
She reaches out and grabs Lily's hand. "Go to Hogsmeade with me?"
Weeks, is it? Is this an invitation to go digging through some cursed caves together again, or are you trying to reinforce the whole "oh, Hermione, you need to take annual leave" idea?
Sorry it's been ages months, apparently since my last letter. Got stuck on assignment and couldn't risk sending an owl. Didn't expect it to go on this long and I'm assuming you're out on summer break by now. How'd the rest of the school year go? Anything exciting that I've missed or embarrassing student stories? I should have you over for tea once I restock the cabinets.
Good news- managed to find a solution for the shrieking painting.
Don't apologise! It was wonderful to get a letter, you know I love letters. It's been a while since I saw your neat penmanship - which isn't a criticism of how long it's been in between letters, by the way, just an observation that your L and H loops haven't changed in nearly ten years of knowing you now.
The rest of the year went very well - some promising students in First Year. McGonnagall wants me to Head a House next year, and I laughed in her face about that one. I have found it strange, the idea of actually doing that. It's spotlight, isn't it? I wouldn't be the Potions Master of Hogwarts anymore, I would be the muggleborn Head of Slytherin.
Pass.
Anyway, tell me about the portrait. I still have two weeks of planning left (funny, it never occurred to me that our professors still worked after summer break started), but would love to visit as soon as that's sorted.
Erm, thank you? I'm choosing to take that as a compliment, anyway. I don't think yours has changed too much, either.
Honestly? I think you'd be a brilliant Head of House and a good example for Slytherin. I know it probably feels like a betrayal to Gryffindor pride and all that (and I won't lie, when I first read it I definitely made a face). Times are different and if anybody's going to shake things up, I'd leave it to you.
Got in touch with an antique dealer over in Diagon Alley. Told them they could have it if they could get it down from Grimmauld Place. You'd never believe who showed up. Pansy Parkinson. Bizarre, right?
The place is definitely quieter now with it gone, though Kreacher is sulking a bit about it. If you need a change of location, I've got plenty of space but I get the temptation of distraction. I guess I didn't realize that was something they even did... but it makes sense. Do they even leave Hogwarts or is everyone there all year? I never thought of that bit, either!
Wizards are made of glass. This isn't the first time she's heard the myth, though it's one of the first times when she's felt it - and it feels painful. Her whole life, from the moment when the School took her in, through to even running around the Tower with Harry and Ron to try and put a stop to that vile wizard trying to take it over, she has never felt as fragile as she does here, in the Shadow Cursed lands.
It's the lack of sunlight. The way hope seems to be a luxury, and her sanity feels fragile at best. Even if she were to try and stare at the mace on Shadowheart's back, emanating a bright light of day, it wouldn't be enough to be able to ignore how many horrors are around them.
The thing is, she's a scholar. The bard spells and abilities are a new addition to her character sheet, so to speak; she's always been a wizard first and foremost. Smart, bookish, stubborn, and only ever relaxed about rules when it suited her specifically. Being taken by the ilithids, having the tadpole implanted into her brain, finding herself in the company of a very diverse group (vastly different than her childhood friends), trying to find their long way around to Baldur's Gate and out of this predicament has been quite the wild ride.
She thinks she's taken it in stride. Back in school, when she'd started all of her (as Ron put them) "silly little campaigns" for the rights of humanoids and other magical creatures, she'd been very driven and singularly-focused. Now, however, her focus is divided.
One might say her focus is blurry as fuck.
"I think I might hate them," she mutters, swaying on her feet. "I think I might hate whatever the hells those shades are."
She's asked Shadowheart and Karlach to circle back to camp, now that they're all done fighting. She knows she'll need to join them soon, Halsin says he wants to speak to her in camp about Thaniel, but she might not be able to take another step. What would happen if she just took a nap on the bench outside the Last Light Inn? The inn is protected, after all.
Get it together, Hermione, encourages a sharp voice in her head, one that sounds more like hers than the guardian who keeps popping into her dreams. She'll feel better with some healing potions - whatever it takes to get herself to camp, where she will get some food in her belly and rest. Yes. Good plan.
As she reaches inside her bag, keeping one hand on the thick trunk of a tree for balance, she tries to keep track of everyone she's pulled along with her. Karlach and Shadowheart climbing the hill up ahead, Halsin far in front of them (stupid, sexy, long strides that the druid is capable of taking, ugh), and Astarion is - she can't see where Astarion is, to be honest, but maybe scouting up ahead or blending into the shadows, or judging the wine served at the inn. Who knows.
"Oh, come on - bollocks," she whines under her breath, her grip on a healing potion slipping. She pulls her hand out of the bag to check why her hand is slippery, and her heart sinks. There is so much blood - gods, there is so much blood, how did she not notice she was bleeding? This feels like the perfect time to utter a heartfelt: "Fuck."
The scent of blood isn't uncommon after a fight, but of late? There's been less blood spilled as their foes are more of this...rot. This shadowy infestation that leaves the air sharp and brittle, stinging in his nose. By contrast, the blood spilled by his comrades is a flush of warmth and richness that he has to studiously ignore in the heat of the fight.
Now, however? The scent lingers. More than it ought to. And the particular bouquet is quite familiar to him.
Astarion spots Hermione as she starts to fumble, to sway in her stance until she's propped against a nearby tree. Hardly a move he'd recommend, given the shambling mounds he's seen lurking in the dark. Then he sees the sticky crimson on her palm, the crestfallen look on her face.
And the others have already moved ahead. Leaving just him to notice.
Well. Fuck, indeed.
A hand moves to her back to help steady and guide her, preferably somewhere a little safer to go digging through her pack for a potion. "Oh no you don't. I know it's an effort, darling, but do try not to swoon out here." His voice is a little tense, as though this were some personal inconvenience to him.
Truth be told (and it might be, considering how much rice wine she's had so far), Hermione is staring. She might even get caught. But it's hard not to, in her defense.
To set the stage: the room is dark, fire crackling in the fireplace and candles lit around the room for the both of them to see. They've long abandoned the chairs and the table, throwing a blanket (or two) in front of the fireplace for warmth, and both of them sitting on it. It might be the second bottle of rice wine, if not the first. It's hard to tell if that's a bad thing - these bottles are so small, and the wine tastes sweet, like dessert, like an indulgence.
Another indulgence is the way the soft, warm glow from the fire touches Wen Qing's features. The black hair, the dark eyes, and the pale and perfect skin - all in contrast and also blending with the darkness of the room, and gods, she's beautiful.
They've been discussing, in very glossed over terms, the whole realisation Hermione has had that there are perhaps both men and women that she would very much like to kiss. And that perhaps it's not just limited to the binary, if she's thinking about it - some species don't think in that kind of definition, right? Why limit herself.
There's something wistful and beautiful about the evening. A quiet conversation with a friend, with no pressing concerns, no need to hide away in fear or trepidation, or keep the monsters at bay. A darkened room, but intentionally so; the fire is warm, the wine is sweet, and the company is dear.
After the Burial Mounds, after all of Akhuras, there isn't much more that Wen Qing wants. Maybe, at this point, an actual kiss, but that thought has long since been abandoned to the whims of the world. And when Hermione asks, all she can muster up is a sigh and a grimace.
"I realized long ago that I wanted to kiss both. Women more than men, if I'm honest, but there have been a few men I have considered." She brings the bottle to her lips, drinking freely, indulgent. "But there was never time. I had a-Ning to care for, and then my uncle's madness meant little freedom. So I stopped thinking about it at all."
Desire is still there, and she isn't blind to the beauty of her companions. Even now, Hermione's fierce expressions and delicate features twist something in her. But like extended happiness and a long life, she cannot fathom anything more than this.
Prestidigitation can only solve so many issues, as much as it's a favourite spell of hers. It has, in the past, cleaned a dingy and abandoned basement that saw her experience the most delicious height of passion in years.
And this morning, it made the exhausting journey from Cazador's palace back to their rooms at the inn a less conspicuous one, given the amount of blood that Hermione has magically whisked away.
Prestidigitation does not feel like enough, for the gruelling night they have had, all four of them. She has seen more human misery, felt more anguish and rage, burnt through her spells more than she can count.
It's been a long night; hard to believe it was just last night that they went to a ball together, walking through the city as if haunted by a year's worth of battling. Her feet ache, her back aches, there's a patina of dirt and misery that no spell can fix. There's only one solution, really.
She spends an indecent amount of money for the inn to draw a bath in her room, stopping by the reception desk to get wine and food sent up for Shadowheart and Karlach as well.
Her attention, after that, turns to Astarion. Again, he's gone quiet. It's reasonable, tonight has been a lot. His fellow-spawn must be on their way to the Underdark now, and Cazador is nothing but a pulp, a dark memory, an exorcised wound. (If she could kill him all over again, she would.) Silence after all of that is to be expected. Should be expected.
She still reaches for his hand when they reach the landing of the floor her room is on, and draws his attention. There's no cheeky flirtation this time, just a soft openness. She's decided that after everything, she will wear her heart on her sleeve. If Astarion is still left surprised by the depth of her feelings for him now, at least he'll not be obliged to mistrust them.
"Join me?" she asks softly. "I think we could both do with warming up, don't you think?"
It's a strange thing, to feel so much all at once and at the same time feel nothing but numb. He should have been celebrating his victory, his freedom, and instead all he can feel are all the hollow spaces within him that he doesn't quite know how to fill.
He remembered almost nothing of who he'd been before Cazador. For two hundred years, that Hell had been all he knew. Now all that was gone, too, leaving him a scant few weeks from which to decide who and what he was going forward. Simple enough, as plans go.
So why does he feel stuck in that moment, knees on the cold stone, voice growing hoarse as the scent of blood and misery overwhelmed him?
Hermione's touch draws him out of his thoughts with a start, though his gaze still appears a little distant. "Ah. Yes, of course," he replied at once, hardly giving a second thought. Right, they'll both need a bath, and perhaps a good soak will set him to rights. It had helped before, after particularly difficult nights when all he wanted was to scrub his own skin off to escape the feeling of being trapped in it.
This was fine. It would be fine, they still had so much to do and the others needed him present and at his best.
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egotistic;
It just felt like a bitter irony, that was all. That the person who had potential good reason to never wanting to step into Hogwarts' Astronomy Tower again would not only apply for the job but also accept it.
I suppose many things have changed since the war.
It has in fact been five years now, and many things have changed. For instance, Hermione is no longer engaged and on her way to becoming a part of the Weasley clan as of two years ago. She is not on speaking terms with Molly, though she still sees Ron whenever she joins him and Harry for their usual weekly meals - well, monthly during the school year. She is also no longer interested in working for the Ministry. It took two years for that particular dream to wither and die off, and for her to grow bitter at the fact that some prejudices were still there and she had no more patience for them.
She also does not want to save the world anymore. She'll settle for teaching students how to be better people, and how to be better students.
Finally, though perhaps most surprisingly, what has changed the most is that Hermione does not return to Hogwarts to fill in the Transfiguration role left by McGonagall as soon as she takes over the Headmistress position. It's the dungeons that become Hermione's newest home, and with the position comes the lead of a house that gave her nothing but trouble and scorn.
She's learned to let go of the grudges, in a way. The students sorted into Slytherin are ambitious and clever and she can work with that. If they can handle a muggleborn Head of House, there's hope for them yet. It's a beautiful irony, here as well.
See? She's gotten used to change. In fact, as she stands in the Great Hall and prepares for the first staff dinner, where she will come face to face with her newest colleague again after what - five years as well since his trial? - she is resolved to prove how much she's changed by giving him a chance, and not outright hissing at the very sight of him.
i... have feelings about this i guess.
Draco has heard this story often when he was a child; it was bedtime story told under his mother's breath every night. She taught all him there was to know about the constellations in the sky, and the traditions of House Black. To honor our family, she had said, I named you after the dragon that protected the tree, as you would soon protect our family when you grow big and strong.
The fascination with the sky and its secrets didn't end with the bedtime stories she was no longer allowed to tell as he grew older. As with all things his father deemed useless or mindless, Draco was careful not to toe the line between academic interest and passionate obsession. Lucius tolerated it, for his wife's sake, and our of respect for the family she was born of — but not one of them held the notion that he'd someday make sure of this knowledge. He was a Death Eater's son, after all.
The five years after the war have been unfathomable in ways that Draco did not expect. To avoid incarceration and live out the rest of his life in peace albeit ostracized by society — it's been baffling, though the circumstances remain manageable. Somehow, he's discovered his own resilience and has kept himself alive through it all. The next thing that comes his way is what grinds everything to a halt: freedom.
Freedom, from his father's domineering presence, his parents' endless expectations, the burdens of his birthright. Freedom, from a madman that would've thrown them all in Fiendfyre if that's what it takes to rule the world. Freedom, from a lifetime to wrongs pounded into his head, prejudices and shortcomings that he could reorganize and dismantle before his very eyes. Freedom, to look at the sky above and see the glittering stars overhead, always shining and beckoning to be noticed.
When he spoke with McGonagall during his interview, they played a good game of avoiding talking about the war. It was questions about the stars charts and lunar phases, a passing note regarding his test scores (no N.E.W.T. due to his "extenuating circumstances", but his 'O' O.W.L. for Astronomy said more than most), and a few questions regarding his apprenticeship under a famed Astronomy professor at a distant wizarding school. The most she'd insinuated was, The Astronomy tower may look different now from when you last set foot up there, Mr Malfoy, but I'm certain we all prefer it that way. Draco has taken that as a win, anyway.
The next challenge is... much more complicated, in a way. The Astronomy tower may have changed (and he will see soon enough) but Hogwarts as a whole has not. It has welcomed him, as it always did every time he stepped foot within its walls. The Great Hall certainly hasn't, though he knows its occupants would alter every year, between bright young kids entering it for the first time and young adults saying their last goodbyes. The teachers remain constant, only changing as necessity requires it. McGonagall has given him their names and the subject they teach, though nothing could really prepare him for the sight of Hermione Granger standing in the Great Hall, a once specter of his past, manifested so vividly before his very eyes.
"Granger," he coughs out, after a distinct pause. "It's... good afternoon," he trails off awkwardly. It's good to see you, is most likely not the preferred greeting, in this scenario.
damn damn damn
She sounds so dry and tense, it's almost reminiscent of one of Hogwarts' old Potions professors. She wears different robes than him, at least - not the dark and fully buttoned up Potions robes, but something in pale green that reminded her of scientists in old films, with the cloak on top for good measure; no hat, only her hair braided into submission, to keep it from accidents when brewing.
The bottom line is, she has been accused of being dry and tense before, when the engagement was dissolved. Not by Ron, who would not have had the guts to do it, but by his mother, who blamed Hermione for the fact that a whirlwind romance born in the middle of the war did not immediately push her into a matronly role. Disappointment had always been a sore sentiment in Mrs Weasley's control, and toppled with the fact that her parents' memories were never going to be returned...
It had rankled. It has stayed with her.
But that's not entirely why she's tense, when greeting Malfoy. She doesn't expect him to look - well - good. Not just well, not just healthy, but rather more at ease with where he is in life right now. She can't say she begrudges him that, though; he's not the one who doled out the torture. She'd been at the trial, standing as witness for him and as witness for his mother (respectfully she'd declined to be a witness for Lucius Malfoy, because fuck him).
She is rather pleased to see that her testimony achieved more than just Draco's freedom of the errors of his youth. He's done something for himself.
That's what pushes her to awkwardly stick out her hand, offering a truce. "Welcome to Hogwarts again."
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a semi jump
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headcanons on interior design in hogwarts why not
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headcanon!!
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IT'S BEEN 84 YEARS....
ROSE LET ME GET ON THE GD DOOR WITH YOU
lancifolium; let me go to hell
She doesn't see it coming, though she should. They're having lunch in the Great Hall when it happens, and maybe Hermione is distracted by something that the Marauders are doing a little further down the table, so she does not notice the moment someone slips something into her glass of juice (orange, as pumpkin juice is foul, the sort of foul refreshment only uncreative purebloods could think of).
She rolls her eyes at the antics of the three men as Professor McGonagall doles out detention and docks points, and makes a mental calculation of how many points she has to raise to make up for this loss, if they want to win the House Cup.
If it could even be said that Gryffindor deserves it at this point, because it does not.
Then, distracted, she reaches for her juice and drinks, not detecting the sickeningly sweet scent of a love potion. They learned how to brew those with Slughorn just yester, though why, she has no bloody idea.
"Hey, Granger," someone calls to her right, while the potion takes effect, and she sneezes -
And foils their plans.
Her gaze lands on Lily Evans sitting across from her, and her heart does a wha-bump!, and she is left awe-struck.
"Lily," she sighs, full of longing. "Your hair is so beautiful."
straight to hell!
"Uh, thanks?" Raising an eyebrow at the other girl Lily couldn't help the way the last word turned up at the end, making it a question. The remark had come out of left field after all, and Lily wasn't sure what had inspired it in the first place. Uncertainly she reached up to smooth her fingers through a sheaf of her hair, wondering if there was something stuck in it.
"You alright Hermione?" She looked - odd. Like she was very happy to see Lily, even though Lily usually sat across from her at meals and it was nothing out of the ordinary.
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She reaches out and grabs Lily's hand. "Go to Hogsmeade with me?"
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hermione on a love potion becomes leslie knope
oh my god they are leslie and ann
yep
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I've got my eye on some ruins in the South Pacific.
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Speaking of, do you know what McGonnagal is doing? ;)
1/2
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Sorry it's been
agesmonths, apparently since my last letter. Got stuck on assignment and couldn't risk sending an owl. Didn't expect it to go on this long and I'm assuming you're out on summer break by now. How'd the rest of the school year go? Anything exciting that I've missed or embarrassing student stories? I should have you over for tea once I restock the cabinets.Good news- managed to find a solution for the shrieking painting.
Best,
Harry
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Don't apologise! It was wonderful to get a letter, you know I love letters. It's been a while since I saw your neat penmanship - which isn't a criticism of how long it's been in between letters, by the way, just an observation that your L and H loops haven't changed in nearly ten years of knowing you now.
The rest of the year went very well - some promising students in First Year. McGonnagall wants me to Head a House next year, and I laughed in her face about that one. I have found it strange, the idea of actually doing that. It's spotlight, isn't it? I wouldn't be the Potions Master of Hogwarts anymore, I would be the muggleborn Head of Slytherin.
Pass.
Anyway, tell me about the portrait. I still have two weeks of planning left (funny, it never occurred to me that our professors still worked after summer break started), but would love to visit as soon as that's sorted.
Love,
Hermione
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Erm, thank you? I'm choosing to take that as a compliment, anyway. I don't think yours has changed too much, either.
Honestly? I think you'd be a brilliant Head of House and a good example for Slytherin. I know it probably feels like a betrayal to Gryffindor pride and all that (and I won't lie, when I first read it I definitely made a face). Times are different and if anybody's going to shake things up, I'd leave it to you.
Got in touch with an antique dealer over in Diagon Alley. Told them they could have it if they could get it down from Grimmauld Place. You'd never believe who showed up. Pansy Parkinson. Bizarre, right?
The place is definitely quieter now with it gone, though Kreacher is sulking a bit about it. If you need a change of location, I've got plenty of space but I get the temptation of distraction. I guess I didn't realize that was something they even did... but it makes sense. Do they even leave Hogwarts or is everyone there all year? I never thought of that bit, either!
Best,
Harry
P.S. The owl is Garius.
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campvamp; the shaaaaade(ow-cursed lands)
It's the lack of sunlight. The way hope seems to be a luxury, and her sanity feels fragile at best. Even if she were to try and stare at the mace on Shadowheart's back, emanating a bright light of day, it wouldn't be enough to be able to ignore how many horrors are around them.
The thing is, she's a scholar. The bard spells and abilities are a new addition to her character sheet, so to speak; she's always been a wizard first and foremost. Smart, bookish, stubborn, and only ever relaxed about rules when it suited her specifically. Being taken by the ilithids, having the tadpole implanted into her brain, finding herself in the company of a very diverse group (vastly different than her childhood friends), trying to find their long way around to Baldur's Gate and out of this predicament has been quite the wild ride.
She thinks she's taken it in stride. Back in school, when she'd started all of her (as Ron put them) "silly little campaigns" for the rights of humanoids and other magical creatures, she'd been very driven and singularly-focused. Now, however, her focus is divided.
One might say her focus is blurry as fuck.
"I think I might hate them," she mutters, swaying on her feet. "I think I might hate whatever the hells those shades are."
She's asked Shadowheart and Karlach to circle back to camp, now that they're all done fighting. She knows she'll need to join them soon, Halsin says he wants to speak to her in camp about Thaniel, but she might not be able to take another step. What would happen if she just took a nap on the bench outside the Last Light Inn? The inn is protected, after all.
Get it together, Hermione, encourages a sharp voice in her head, one that sounds more like hers than the guardian who keeps popping into her dreams. She'll feel better with some healing potions - whatever it takes to get herself to camp, where she will get some food in her belly and rest. Yes. Good plan.
As she reaches inside her bag, keeping one hand on the thick trunk of a tree for balance, she tries to keep track of everyone she's pulled along with her. Karlach and Shadowheart climbing the hill up ahead, Halsin far in front of them (stupid, sexy, long strides that the druid is capable of taking, ugh), and Astarion is - she can't see where Astarion is, to be honest, but maybe scouting up ahead or blending into the shadows, or judging the wine served at the inn. Who knows.
"Oh, come on - bollocks," she whines under her breath, her grip on a healing potion slipping. She pulls her hand out of the bag to check why her hand is slippery, and her heart sinks. There is so much blood - gods, there is so much blood, how did she not notice she was bleeding? This feels like the perfect time to utter a heartfelt: "Fuck."
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Now, however? The scent lingers. More than it ought to. And the particular bouquet is quite familiar to him.
Astarion spots Hermione as she starts to fumble, to sway in her stance until she's propped against a nearby tree. Hardly a move he'd recommend, given the shambling mounds he's seen lurking in the dark. Then he sees the sticky crimson on her palm, the crestfallen look on her face.
And the others have already moved ahead. Leaving just him to notice.
Well. Fuck, indeed.
A hand moves to her back to help steady and guide her, preferably somewhere a little safer to go digging through her pack for a potion. "Oh no you don't. I know it's an effort, darling, but do try not to swoon out here." His voice is a little tense, as though this were some personal inconvenience to him.
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silverneedles; i thought about an au
To set the stage: the room is dark, fire crackling in the fireplace and candles lit around the room for the both of them to see. They've long abandoned the chairs and the table, throwing a blanket (or two) in front of the fireplace for warmth, and both of them sitting on it. It might be the second bottle of rice wine, if not the first. It's hard to tell if that's a bad thing - these bottles are so small, and the wine tastes sweet, like dessert, like an indulgence.
Another indulgence is the way the soft, warm glow from the fire touches Wen Qing's features. The black hair, the dark eyes, and the pale and perfect skin - all in contrast and also blending with the darkness of the room, and gods, she's beautiful.
They've been discussing, in very glossed over terms, the whole realisation Hermione has had that there are perhaps both men and women that she would very much like to kiss. And that perhaps it's not just limited to the binary, if she's thinking about it - some species don't think in that kind of definition, right? Why limit herself.
"What about you?"
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After the Burial Mounds, after all of Akhuras, there isn't much more that Wen Qing wants. Maybe, at this point, an actual kiss, but that thought has long since been abandoned to the whims of the world. And when Hermione asks, all she can muster up is a sigh and a grimace.
"I realized long ago that I wanted to kiss both. Women more than men, if I'm honest, but there have been a few men I have considered." She brings the bottle to her lips, drinking freely, indulgent. "But there was never time. I had a-Ning to care for, and then my uncle's madness meant little freedom. So I stopped thinking about it at all."
Desire is still there, and she isn't blind to the beauty of her companions. Even now, Hermione's fierce expressions and delicate features twist something in her. But like extended happiness and a long life, she cannot fathom anything more than this.
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campvamp;
And this morning, it made the exhausting journey from Cazador's palace back to their rooms at the inn a less conspicuous one, given the amount of blood that Hermione has magically whisked away.
Prestidigitation does not feel like enough, for the gruelling night they have had, all four of them. She has seen more human misery, felt more anguish and rage, burnt through her spells more than she can count.
It's been a long night; hard to believe it was just last night that they went to a ball together, walking through the city as if haunted by a year's worth of battling. Her feet ache, her back aches, there's a patina of dirt and misery that no spell can fix. There's only one solution, really.
She spends an indecent amount of money for the inn to draw a bath in her room, stopping by the reception desk to get wine and food sent up for Shadowheart and Karlach as well.
Her attention, after that, turns to Astarion. Again, he's gone quiet. It's reasonable, tonight has been a lot. His fellow-spawn must be on their way to the Underdark now, and Cazador is nothing but a pulp, a dark memory, an exorcised wound. (If she could kill him all over again, she would.) Silence after all of that is to be expected. Should be expected.
She still reaches for his hand when they reach the landing of the floor her room is on, and draws his attention. There's no cheeky flirtation this time, just a soft openness. She's decided that after everything, she will wear her heart on her sleeve. If Astarion is still left surprised by the depth of her feelings for him now, at least he'll not be obliged to mistrust them.
"Join me?" she asks softly. "I think we could both do with warming up, don't you think?"
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He remembered almost nothing of who he'd been before Cazador. For two hundred years, that Hell had been all he knew. Now all that was gone, too, leaving him a scant few weeks from which to decide who and what he was going forward. Simple enough, as plans go.
So why does he feel stuck in that moment, knees on the cold stone, voice growing hoarse as the scent of blood and misery overwhelmed him?
Hermione's touch draws him out of his thoughts with a start, though his gaze still appears a little distant. "Ah. Yes, of course," he replied at once, hardly giving a second thought. Right, they'll both need a bath, and perhaps a good soak will set him to rights. It had helped before, after particularly difficult nights when all he wanted was to scrub his own skin off to escape the feeling of being trapped in it.
This was fine. It would be fine, they still had so much to do and the others needed him present and at his best.
/plays I Want to Live on repeat
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I owe you a bunch but consider: sexting
Maybe in the same universe as the doctor/lawyer thread. ]
Do you like magic? I've got a wand and a rabbit.
we always go where the vibe takes us
That's one incredible pick-up line, darling.
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1/2
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[ one. two. three. ]
BEASTS
I MEANT BEASTS
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