Chapter Text
All survivors had mandatory therapy. You couldn’t opt out.
The word survivor had changed after the war.
When Hermione arrived at the therapeutic facility at Oxford to register herself, she was handed a clipboard with several boxes to check. One of them asked if she was a survivor.
Check.
As she marked the box, she thought of the cameras, the journalists, the endless society pages, and shifting portraits splashed across magazine covers beside headlines demanding Where Are They Now?
Survivor meant unwilling celebrity.
Once, Hermione froze in the middle of a shop after seeing her own face smiling back at her from the front of a magazine. An Exclusive Interview had been stamped across the cover even though she had never agreed to one.
But Oxford had been quiet so far. Well, for now.
Still, it felt inevitable that she would eventually become the center of speculation again.
It had been two years since the war, and survivors had already become something halfway between celebrities and cautionary tales.
There were several entrances to The Collegium Arcanum hidden throughout Oxford, each marked by faintly glittering archways connecting one street to another. Muggles dismissed them as tricks of the light, but for students and faculty, the world blurred and shifted as though a mirage had melted away.
One such archway stood along St. Mary’s Passage near High Street. That was where the Ministry had decided to place one of its rehabilitation offices. Hermione had been on her way to orientation when something pale caught sharply in the afternoon light.
And her eyes widened.
Draco Malfoy looked all at once familiar and entirely different. For one disorienting second, Hermione almost didn’t recognize him. Instinctively, she ducked into a nearby shop before he could notice her.
He looked older somehow, like boyhood had finally burned off him. Broader through the shoulders. Taller than she remembered. He wore a dark hoodie beneath an expensive coat, one hand dragging carelessly through pale hair left slightly too long on top before a white-blond strand fell back across his eye.
His fingers were long and tapered, the gesture absent-minded and strangely familiar in a way that made something tighten low in Hermione’s stomach.
From behind the shop window, she watched him glance down at his phone, jaw sharp beneath the dim autumn light.
There was a kind of careless polish to him now. Not the brittle arrogance he had carried at Hogwarts.
Draco had become handsome in the way damaged things sometimes did. Less like a former Death Eater and more like the sort of man who could talk an entire room into forgiving him for it.
And yet something still seemed frayed beneath the surface, as though he were being barely held together by expensive fabric, bad habits, and pure spite.
Hermione watched him disappear down St. Mary’s Passage before finally forcing herself to emerge from the shop.
The apothecary shop was easy to miss, glamored as one of those tiny soap-and-wax shops people passed without a second glance. When Hermione pushed open the door, the air smelled of candied ginger, powdered moonstone, and something metallic that tickled the back of her throat.
Wooden shelves lined the walls, crowded with dried roots, glowing powders, and tiny glass vials shimmering with rainbow-colored liquids. A low fire burned in a brass brazier, sending ribbons of incense smoke curling lazily through the room. On the counter, a cat (or something very much pretending to be one) slept with its golden eyes half-open.
Movement stirred in the back behind the counter, and then a witch stepped forward.
“Dr. Rhiannon…” Hermione squinted down at the directions in her hand. “…Harrow?”
The witch tilted her head. Pale eyes drifted over Hermione, and suddenly Hermione had the unnerving feeling that every private thought she’d ever possessed had been laid bare.
Dr. Harrow couldn’t have been much older than Hermione’s parents, but she was striking in an almost unearthly way: lean and angular, with sculpted cheekbones and a severe silver-blond bob framing sharp, translucent features.
“Ah,” Dr. Harrow said softly. “You smell of panic and clean laundry.”
“—What?”
“A dangerous combination. We must proceed.”She waved Hermione after her and immediately turned away without checking whether she followed.
Halfway toward the office, Dr. Harrow abruptly paused and plucked a vial of yellow powder from a nearby shelf beneath a violently scratched label reading “DO NOT TOUCH.”
“That one will probably eat your eyebrows off,” she remarked absently. “Not that you’ll need them.”
Then she pushed open the large, heavy door to her office. Books were stacked precariously around the room, some leaning so high above Hermione that they looked moments away from collapse. Small porcelain vases held what appeared to be dead marigolds. A chipped tea set sat abandoned beside a half-eaten piece of toast thick with jam.
“Lie still,” Dr. Harrow instructed, her voice calm but cutting. “You’re thinking in straight lines. Linear thinking is a comfort, but also a curse. It blinds you to what’s behind your own eyes.”
Hermione obeyed as Dr. Harrow retrieved a thin silver wand from one of the teetering stacks and lazily traced a circle above Hermione’s forehead. Hermione could feel warmth spread through her skin like sunlight moving through fog. It was pleasant, especially after the growing chill of early autumn in Oxford.
“Ah,” Dr. Harrow murmured. “There it is. The residue of war. More subtle than you expected, isn’t it?”
Hermione’s brows furrowed. “I thought I was here to—”
“To talk?” Dr. Harrow interrupted. “No, talking is what people do when they’re too frightened to look directly at the mess inside themselves. We observe first. Speak later.”
She crouched beside Hermione and tapped the inside of her wrist with the wand. A faint golden thread spiraled upward from Hermione’s skin, hovering weightlessly in the air between them. Hermione’s stomach tightened.
She had no idea whether Dr. Harrow meant any of this literally, or whether the strange thread was somehow pulling secrets out of her anyway. Part of her suspected the distinction didn’t matter.
Dr. Harrow hummed thoughtfully.
“Husband?”
“No,” Hermione stammered.
“Wife? Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
“…No?”
“Are you sexually active?”
Hermione nearly choked.
“Intimacy,” Dr. Harrow clarified absently, finally glancing away from the thread to look directly at her. “Is that difficult for you?”
Hermione’s mind lurched unwillingly toward Ron.
They had barely touched each other after the war. And not long after that, Hermione had slipped into something she could only describe as a depression.
Apparently, she had gone silent for too long.
“I see,” Dr. Harrow sniffed.
Then, after a moment: “Close friends?”
Hermione’s mind drifted again.
Harry.
Ginny.
Luna.
Neville.
Hermione had meant to stay in touch. Truly.
But she often felt trapped inside a glass cage when she was around them. It was as though she were able to see everyone perfectly while somehow remaining unreachable herself. The war lingered between all of them like sulfuric smoke, choking every conversation.
It was part of why she and Ron had broken up.
She hadn’t seen any of them in months. And then seeing Draco earlier felt genuinely shocking.
“I see,” Dr. Harrow said again.
“See what?” Hermione snapped.
Dr. Harrow straightened, the golden thread disappearing instantly.
“I see,” she said calmly, “that your symptoms are not uncommon, and I’ll be prescribing the standard medication.”
“You barely asked me anything. My relationships are one small aspect of—”
Dr. Harrow silenced her with a raised hand.
“We’ll discover the rest of your aspects eventually. For now, Miss Granger, considering both your medical history and the role you played during the war, I know enough for one session.”
And with that, Hermione was handed a small paper bag weighted by what felt like a glass vial filled with something inside and promptly dismissed.
Hermione walked back to her rooms, fuming. She was muttering to herself— “Utter quack! Who in Merlin’s name authorized that woman’s medical degree?!”
She had hardly mounted the steps to her rooms when the brass post slot beside her door clicked softly and spat out several envelopes.
Most of it was the usual institutional rubbish: Ministry compliance notices, dosage reminders, pamphlets about emotional stabilization charms. She bent to gather them with a scowl. Then her eyes caught on a heavier envelope resting at the very top of the pile. It was deep navy parchment with a dark wax seal stamped with Oxford’s magical crest— a many-eyed raven perched atop an open book encircled by thorned silver branches. The wax shimmered faintly when it caught the corridor light.
Hermione frowned. Carefully, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter inside.
Miss Granger,
Your presence is requested this evening at dinner at Wychwood Hall at eight o’clock.
Attendance is expected.
— The Collegium Arcanum
Survivors were impossible to ignore.
No matter how elegantly the Collegium dressed them up in academic robes and presented them as though they belonged at these exclusive candlelit dinners, people still watched them differently; carefully and with invasive curiosity. As though they were waiting to see who would finally unravel first. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
Wychwood Hall was one of the older buildings at Hallowmere College. It was beautiful in the way old institutions often were. Tall, intricate candle votives floated beneath the soft curve of medieval ceilings that were blackened with age, while Wychwood’s iconic ravens stalked the beams overhead. The hall was already filled with wealthy donors, esteemed faculty, and Ministry officials. They lingered alongside the tables, chatting with students who were arriving slowly, pretending their fascination with the survivors was academic rather than merely voyeuristic.
Draco had long since learned how to weaponize that attention.
He was standing beside a cluster of Ministry officials, one hand loose around a wine glass as he said something low enough to make two older witches laugh. He, unlike other survivors, did not look uncomfortable beneath their attention. He practiced not looking uncomfortable. He would look perfectly at home in it. The Ministry officials who had gathered around Draco listened attentively to the Malfoy heir speaking fluently about post-war reconstruction, which he had discovered early on made for excellent optics.
When Theodore Nott finally wandered into Hall looking vaguely disreputable, Draco quietly excused himself from the Ministry officials.
“You look busy seducing the reconstruction committee,” Theo smirked.
“It’s called networking.” Draco tugged at his collar.
“It’s mildly sinister behavior.”
Draco glared at Theo as Theo accepted a glass of wine from a passing tray before glancing toward the doorway. There was something in Theo’s expression that shifted, making Draco turn and follow his gaze.
“Oh, you are fucked.” He heard Theo say.
Hermione Granger stood in the doorway, wrapped in deep velvet the color of crushed garnets. It caught the candlelight whenever she moved. The dress skimmed cleanly along her figure before falling softly toward her ankles. A narrow line of bare throat caught the light beneath the dark curls.
The sight of her hit Draco like a physical blow, and he stopped breathing for a full second. Heat surged low and immediate through his body before his brain had the chance to intervene, followed almost instantly by a sharp pulse of irritation that crawled violently beneath his skin.
Because Draco could already tell with sudden, horrible certainty that he was going to spend the entire evening aware of exactly where she was standing.
Aware of where he was standing. Aware of the deeply unfortunate fact that she looked—
No!
Absolutely not!
Draco nearly swore aloud. Theo glanced at him once and grinned.
“Merlin,” he whispered. “You are super fucked.”
At that exact moment, the enchanted bells of Wychwood Hall rang softly overhead, signaling the arrival of Chancellor Penrose as well as other high-ranking college officials who trailed after him. They took their places at the head table near the front.
Draco seized upon the interruption immediately. “You are going to shut the fuck up now,” he adjusted the sleeve of his robes, expression smoothing instantly back into something polished and unreadable.
Theo grinned wider. “There he is.”
“Theodore,” Draco said through his teeth, “if you continue speaking, I’ll ensure your scholarship mysteriously disappears.”
Theo snorted softly as the hall gradually fell quiet around them.
Above, the ravens shifted restlessly along the beams of Wychwood Hall as Chancellor Penrose rose from the high table to begin his welcoming remarks. His voice echoed warmly through candlelight and ancient oak, speaking about resilience, scholarship, reconstruction, and the extraordinary responsibility carried by their generation after the war. The sort of thing these institutions always excelled at, Draco thought: carefully measured hopefulness wrapped around barely concealed surveillance. It was the disguise of healing, unity, and the future.
A load of bollocks.
And he absorbed almost none of it. Because his attention had already drifted helplessly back toward Granger.
She sat rigidly at the neighboring table until something farther down the row suddenly caught her eye.
It was Lavender Brown.
Draco saw the exact moment recognition crossed Hermione’s face. Even from this distance, the damage Greyback had left behind remained unmistakable. Candlelight caught harshly against the pale scars trailing along Lavender’s cheek and throat before disappearing beneath the high collar of her dress. The students around her had gone carefully blind in the way people often did with visibly damaged survivors; they smiled too brightly, avoided staring while very obviously staring anyway.
Hermione looked like she’d been struck.
And for reasons Draco deeply resented, he could not stop watching her watch Lavender.
It was the scrape of chairs that jolted him back. The Chancellor had finished, and people were just beginning to sink into their chairs. Draco swiftly and smoothly followed suit.
He could feel Theo’s attention press in on him.
Draco ignored him completely.
Because Granger had just stood up.
Draco already knew this was going to go badly.
Hermione moved toward Lavender with that same determined expression she always wore when trying to fix something fundamentally unfixable.
Lavender looked up and immediately bristled.
Draco couldn’t hear what Granger said over the noise of the hall, but he saw Lavender’s mouth flatten before she rose abruptly from her seat.
“I don’t want your pity, Granger.”
Several heads turned.
Hermione looked stricken.
Lavender’s voice sharpened further as she seemed to address the stares around her. “Do you know how exhausting it is having everyone stare at me like I’m some tragic little war memorial?”
Lavender grabbed her things with trembling hands. “I survived. Stop acting like that’s the tragedy.”
Then she stormed out of Wychwood Hall.
And Hermione remained standing there alone while half the room pretended not to stare.
Draco felt something twist in his stomach.
Once Lavender had disappeared, it was a minister or a faculty member, Draco wasn’t sure, who started whispering.
“Clearly, the mandatory therapy isn’t working. What a waste of government funds!”
Draco only realized his phone was missing when he reached for it beside his wine glass and found empty tablecloth instead.
Slowly, he looked up.
Theo was gone.
Merlin, no.
Draco finally spotted Theo a little way from the table. Holding his damn phone. Draco felt his blood run cold as he quickly rose. Theo was just pointing his wand at his phone-- “Alohomora.”
Draco heard the soft click of the lock screen opening, and Theo was just typing something when Draco rounded on him.
“Theodore!” he hissed. “We are surrounded by Ministry officials—"
“--Yes,” Theo agreed, smiling, just as Draco tried to subtly grab for his phone, but Theo quickly folded his hands behind his back and very much out of Draco’s reach. “Which is what makes this so funny.”
A pulse started beating visibly in Draco’s jaw.
Then he heard something. A tap, and then the softest digital whoosh.
“What,” he asked through a smile so tight it bordered on psychotic, “did you just do?”
Suddenly, he heard a faint chime from across the hall. It was Hermione’s phone. The pale blue screen lit up her face.
She paused.
Frowned.
Then, slowly, Hermione looked up.
Directly at him.
Draco’s heart dropped.
“It’s called networking,” Theo said, finally tossing Draco his phone.