Chapter Text
Chapter One - Blue Dream
Scars have a way of hiding truth behind pain.
They stretch across skin that's seen the sun and skin that's been kissed by the moon. They open you up, give you a place to hide your sorrows, your failures, and your fears. They sew your shame back up, a rusty needle with poisoned thread.
And yet they hide nothing, for the scar itself is the reminder that the pain is still there, aching and eating away at the hole it created. The hole grows wider. Deeper. The pain takes its claws and tears you apart from the inside, while the outside appears pristine. Healed.
You're not healed. Not if you cannot accept the pain that opened you up in the first place. Not if you don’t fight to see something worth salvaging inside that gaping, clawing hole.
At least, that's how Hermione Granger sees it.
She's got a lot of scars. They adorn her arms and her thighs, umber masses criss-crossing their way along her russet-brown skin like macabre artwork. Tissue and abused flesh gathering in mottled mountains—mountains that reach for relief. Some are small. Some are large. Some gave little relief, and some gave full and complete respite. They tell a story that only she knows—that only she can ever be the one to know.
Because she hides them.
Even after two years of intensive treatment with one of St. Mungo’s best Mind Healers, she still hides them. She’s not ashamed of the scars. No, she’s accepted them as a permanent part of her body. She’s ashamed of how they came to be. Of the where and the when and the why. The why.
They represent what she knows is not weakness, but that weakens her all the same.
And she's accepted the pain that caused them. She has. She knows she was the one to take her wand and draw the tip across her skin over and over. She was the one to open herself up and watch crimson-red blood pour out over that russet-brown. To watch it drip onto the floor for the span of ten heartbeats, before she shoddily knit the clean edges of each wound back together. Before she intentionally used a Dark spell that encouraged slow healing and made it virtually impossible to avoid scarring.
Nobody picked that wand up for her.
She did.
That’s why this holiday in America is so important to her.
Hermione Granger has just turned thirty-years-old. She’s achieved what she wanted with her career, having helped contribute to the expansion of magical creature rights. She’s two years into her recovery and five months clean from self-harm. There’s much to celebrate, and how better to do that than to visit America, a place she’s never traveled to? After all, healing is a place she’s never been. And now that she’s standing in the doorway, she wants to see what the world looks like on the other side.
Does the sun shine more brightly?
Hermione has two more days in Seattle, Washington state before she returns to England via Portkey. She’s done and seen all of the major landmarks. She’s been to the Space Needle. Pike Place. The museums. The pier. The aquarium. The theatre and more restaurants than she can count. There’s just one thing she has yet to do.
Text Draco Malfoy.
Hermione sets her wand down on the bedside table, settling more comfortably into the king-sized bed of her hotel room. She’s got the hood of her jumper on, the fabric having pushed her kinky, coarse curls forward against the sides of her face. The blanket and sheet are thin but together, provide the warmth she needs for such a cold September day. The electric heater attached to the wall is blasting and the telly plays some sort of American reality show in the background with Muggle girls screaming at each other and wreaking havoc as they try to get one specific girl kicked out of the house. Her mobile is firmly held in one hand and her other hand hovers over the touch screen as she debates.
This is not the first time she’s gone through this debate with herself. This is the umpteenth. She’s tried to get the courage to text him ever since her Portkey first brought her to the Seattle MACUSA branch. But as every day of her two-week trip has passed by, she’s never quite been able to do it.
Would he even want to speak with her? There’s nothing between them—no friendship, no acquaintanceship, nothing. They’re nothing to each other.
Yet to Hermione, he’s something. She’s been devouring his social media for years. Daydreaming about what life might be like with someone like him while she endured nights with a man who liked the way bruises turned her brown skin purple. She doesn’t know why her brain picked Malfoy—it just did.
Hermione hadn’t known that he was in Seattle. Theo Nott Jr. was the one to inform her of that little kernel of information. When he’d found out through Harry, his Auror partner, that Hermione was taking a short sabbatical to Washington state, he’d thought it might be an interesting idea to pass along Malfoy’s mobile number.
Theo couldn’t have known the way Hermione’s been watching Malfoy for all this time. He couldn’t have known that the only things that got her through long, painful nights were her dreams of Malfoy. Nights where her body throbbed in agony from Cassius’ fists and her skin still bled from the cuts she’d opened in her own skin. Theo couldn’t have known that Hermione checked Malfoy's social media every time he posted. Looked at his pictures—pictures of him smiling and happy and surrounded by life—and fixated upon an imaginary existence.
And now there’s only two more days. Two more days to muster up the courage and Gryffindor bravery that Cassius beat out of her long before Harry rescued her in that hospital room. Two more days to reach out and try.
All she wants to do is see that smile in person, and know if it reaches his eyes the way hers has only recently begun to do.
After all, she’s been in recovery for two years. She’s been trying for long enough that she deserves this. She deserves to know.
It’s that last thought that has her finally sending the text.
Hermione’s heart races in her chest, slamming against the inside of her ribcage like it’s trying to break free.
He replied. They’re conversing. It worked. She was brave, and it worked.
Even as Hermione’s smile fades from her little joke, she can still feel a pang of sadness in the back of her mind. She does remember when his mother passed. She recalls the way the Prophet destroyed Narcissa's memory with sensationalized headlines and crass interviews of former friends of the Malfoy family. The day Rita Skeeter published a horrible article with an equally-horrible interview of a grief-stricken, hollow-eyed Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban. Hermione remembers the vicious way she’d wanted to tear Rita apart, and that was before she found Malfoy's social media and fixated upon him.
Hermione also remembers how she and Harry spoke up for Malfoy at his trial. How they both did their part to try and help him get justice for his poor choices, and not mere punishment. She remembers glancing at him as she walked out of the room, surprised by the fact that he was staring at her with wide, grey eyes full of something akin to shock. He hadn’t thought she’d actually speak up for him, had he?
She hadn’t thought she would, either and yet.
And yet.
Hermione wonders just how much Malfoy has changed, and whether or not it’s for the better.
She resumes texting him.
Hermione sets her phone on her chest for a moment, laying back against the pillows and staring up at the white ceiling. She sees the words silly girl flashing over and over in her mind like a light-up sign in the heart of Muggle London. She doesn’t know why imagining him saying it to her—even though she has no clue what his voice sounds like now—has her palms clammy and her stomach fluttering with nerves.
This conversation isn’t going as she expected. It isn’t going how she expected at all. She’d thought there’d be some pushback, some caution. Maybe even some animosity. But that isn’t the case.
She might be mistaken, but if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he’s flirting with her.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Hermione scrambles out of her bed immediately, heart pounding even harder.
A picture? He wants a picture of her?
He’s flirting with her. Draco Malfoy is flirting with her right now.
Hermione holds a trembling hand to her lips, the corners of her mouth curving upward into a gentle smile. What could this mean? She doesn’t want to read into it. She’s a thirty-year-old woman and all this is is a schoolgirl crush. There’s no reason for her to put stock in something that might not be there. Maybe his personality is simply a flirtatious one?
She walks into the loo and flicks the light switch on. She’s chosen to stay in a Muggle hotel for the duration of her trip and so far, she’s enjoyed it. Her wand doesn’t work quite as well around all this electricity, but it’s safe and quiet and clean.
Pushing the hood of her grey jumper back, she looks at herself in the mirror. She’s got no make-up on and her curly hair is a bit disheveled, but she supposes none of that matters. They’re simply chatting. Pictures aren’t her strong suit and though her scars are completely hidden by her jumper and pyjama trousers, she often feels like they’re glowing bright red. Visible even in the darkness of the night. Sometimes, she thinks everyone in the Ministry knows what happened to her and what she’s done to herself.
Will Malfoy be able to tell through the screen?
It takes her nearly two-and-a half hours, at least eighty failed attempts, and one small five-minute weeping session, but she finally manages to take a picture she’s satisfied with.
It’s been an hour. An entire hour, and he hasn’t replied. The fluttering in her stomach has started to curdle like old milk, filling her with dread and nausea. She’d only wanted to be honest—to take charge of her past and her body by telling him the truth.
She shouldn’t have done it. What was she thinking? He’s not her friend. This is a polite chat. She doesn’t need to go spilling her life story into his lap and wondering if he’ll somehow fall in love with her because of it.
She doesn’t even know him.
Her phone vibrates in her hand and she nearly shrieks in surprise. She’s fortunate that she had found her way back to the bed already—otherwise, she might have hit the ceiling in the loo.
Hermione clicks on the picture he sent her and makes it bigger. Her gaze devours it, devours the sight and the thought that the person she’s been practically studying has just sent her a picture that only she has. A picture taken for her.
And Godric, is he handsome. The picture only shows his head, right shoulder, and the top of his chest, but from what she can see around the white tank top he’s got on, he’s got more tattoos than she can count. She’s seen the tattoos on his pictures on the internet, but there’s something about seeing them like this, in a picture he sent to her, that has her wanting to smile. His eyes are as deep a grey as she remembers, and his sharp jawline is lined in blond stubble. His hair is still the trademark Malfoy white-blond and it’s messy. Unruly, unlike the perfectly coiffed style she remembers from their childhood.
And a band. Wow. A band. She had no idea that he was a musician, or that he sings. She doesn’t know anything about him at all beyond the small glimpses she’s seen. What does his voice sound like? What does the band sound like? Does he perform? She has so many questions.
The phone buzzes. He’s sent her a link to a YouTube video. She clicks on it and listens to the song play.
She’s completely blown away.
His voice is angelic. It’s heavenly. A smooth tenor with a high range, intricate runs, and something soulful lingering beneath. He sings like he’s feeling things no one could possibly understand. The music itself is interesting, too. She’s never heard anything like it. It’s definitely some type of rock music, but heavier. She doesn’t know what to call it. Aside from Malfoy’s singing, there’s another male voice that screams the lyrics in a way that sounds surprisingly pleasant.
When the song gets to the end and she hears a small snippet of him talking to some woman on the phone in his raspy voice, asking her what color her eyes are, Hermione already knows she’s going to be listening to the song on repeat.
She honestly hasn’t heard a more beautiful voice from a man, and it’s not just because it’s Malfoy.
Hermione’s pacing. She feels silly for being worried, but she’s been on the brunt end of an angry man. She knows how something that seems innocuous could actually be something that fills him with rage. She doesn’t think Malfoy’s anything like Cassius, but she doesn’t want to find out. There’s an icy fear in her blood that she hasn’t felt in years and if she finds out she’s justified in feeling it, she thinks she might actually be devastated. She knows that anytime you fixate upon a person, they can’t possibly live up to your mind’s imagined expectations, but she hopes he doesn’t turn out to be a monster, too.
Especially if they’re going to be going somewhere alone together.
The thought makes her heart leap with a giddy bound. It’s not a date, of course. It can’t be. But it’s still him. She’s going to see him and a band that she knows nothing about.
But what if it bothers him that she doesn’t want him to pick her up and Apparate her? What if he feels offended by it, or angry that she doesn’t respect or trust him? She wants to take the taxi for her own sake, and because she wants to know exactly how far the hotel is from the venue. It has nothing to do with respect or trust—it’s just for her own safety. Surely he understands that without her having to say so?
Cassius would have beaten her for it.
Hermione paces back and forth in front of the telly, agonizing over all the possibilities in her mind and wishing she could take her text messages back.
Her phone buzzes on the bed, and she scrambles to pick it up.
Hermione quickly erases what she’d begun to type. She doesn’t want to go too far, or to say something that might ruin everything. She doesn’t want him to have any idea about the way she feels. If he finds out she’s essentially been stalking him, he’ll think she’s certifiable.
Perhaps she is.
Still.
He called her cute.
Her stomach flips over itself and she bites her lip around a smile. She can’t believe how this conversation is going. It’s nothing like she thought.
It’s so much better.
Hermione can’t help the way her heart sinks a bit in her chest. The girl in the picture is so beautiful. She’s got the sort of beauty that seems untouchable. Hermione isn’t beautiful like that. Or at least, she doesn’t think she is. Cassius made it clear that she’s average. That her brains are what people find attractive—not her looks.
Suddenly, upon seeing Malfoy’s ex-girlfriend, Hermione doesn’t think him calling her cute weighs much anymore.
She hates to be this insecure but it’s difficult to go from six years of brainwashing and abuse and harming herself, to trying to be normal.
Hermione is quick to change the picture on his name in her phone. There he is—the Malfoy she sees on social media. The one that looks cool and fun and friendly. The one who looks happy, and like his smile reaches his eyes. She both envies it and wants it at the same time.
The moment she finishes updating his entry in her contact book, her phone begins to buzz. The brand-new picture of him pops up on the screen with his name shining bright white beneath it.
It’s ringing.
Her mobile is ringing because Malfoy is calling her.
Hermione stares at it in surprise and terror as it rings and rings and rings. She can’t pick it up. She couldn’t possibly. He’d hear her voice and she’d hear his, and everything would become real. The dream would shatter and reality would settle in, and they would hate each other again. Just like Cassius, he’d hate the sound of her voice.
The mobile begins to ring again.
This time, Hermione sets aside her nerves and draws upon her Gryffindor bravery.
She answers the call.
“H-Hello, Malfoy,” she says, her voice cracking nervously.
“Hi, Granger.” His voice is scratchy, like he’s been yelling for a long time, and he sounds faintly amused. Hearing him directly in her ear, talking to her, has her stomach doing twists and turns in her abdomen. “All right?”
“I’m doing quite well, actually. Thank you. And you?”
He laughs. Actually laughs.It’s more of a hoarse chuckle, really, but it’s something.
“I’m fine.”
“So…why are you calling?” Hermione can’t stand still. She resumes her pacing.
“I’m too lazy to text right now,” he replies. “And I was curious.”
“Curious about what?”
“You. Why you’re texting me.”
Hermione pulls something that resembles the truth from the depths of her mind.
“Theo told me you lived here and I thought it was an interesting coincidence. I didn’t think it would be polite for me to be in the same country as you and not at least try to say hello.”
He hums, low in his chest, and for some reason, it makes her skin prickle.
“Interesting,” he says. “I can’t say I would have done the same.”
Hermione grimaces. “Yes, I suppose it’s very strange, given who we are.”
“I’ll say.” He laughs again. “So you’ve been here a while, then?”
“Yes, almost two weeks. I leave in a couple of days.”
“And you’ve enjoyed your holiday?”
“I have,” Hermione says, pacing and pacing and pacing. “Sightseeing has never been something I’ve gotten to do. My—my parents and I never traveled to new places. Only to the same towns and camping spots year after year.” She ignores the ache in her chest at mentioning her parents. It’s an ache she’s learned to live with, just like her scars. “So seeing new things has been enlightening, especially Pike Place. I learned a lot while I was wandering around down there.”
“Only you would find a fish market educational.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she cries, bristling indignantly.
“Swot,” is all he replies with. There’s a rustling sound, showing Hermione that he might be in bed.
Hermione scoffs. “Well, it may not be educational for you because you live here, but this is my first time here and I found it interesting.”
“Mm-hm.”
“...are you making fun of me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Malfoy!” she scolds. “Why call me just to poke fun?”
“Why do I do anything that I do? Because I want to.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Why am I not surprised? At least this part of you has stayed the same.”
“What part?”
“The co*cky part. The part that’s completely and utterly full of himself.”
“What can I say? I have to live up to your expectations.”
Hermione rolls her eyes and moves over to the loo. The back of her neck is hot, beading with sweat. She puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the counter so she can pile her kinky curls on top of her head and secure them. As she raises her arms, her overly large sleeves slide down, revealing the scars that stretch down her forearms. They’re thick and raised—frightening to look at. So dark a red-brown that they’re almost burgundy.
“In any case,” she says, “I have thoroughly enjoyed my holiday and feel like I’ve seen the entire city.”
“The entire city? Oh, no. Not at all. There are parts you haven’t even touched.”
“Like what?” She picks the mobile up, takes it off of speaker, and returns to the main room.
“You’ll see when I take you to that show.”
“I suppose I will,” she says, swallowing past the nervousness that rises once again. “What type of music is the band we’re seeing?”
“It’s a genre called post-hardcore. Though The Devil Wears Prada is closer to metalcore, but I digress.” He yawns. “Most of the bands in the scene are like them, or like my band. Or somewhere in the middle.”
“The scene?”
“The music scene. Post-hardcore scene.”
“Oh, okay.” Hermione plops down on the edge of her hotel bed. “And this ‘scene,’ is one your band is a part of?”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice seeming to roll out of the speaker and down the length of her bones. “We’re post-hardcore. The genre is Muggle, and not something we’d have heard in the wizarding world. It has screams and cleans, guitar, bass, drums, sometimes a keyboard. The band I See Stars uses a keyboard, for example. The music overall is heavy, but with a bit more of an artistic feel. It’s hard to explain, but you’ll see what I mean.”
“Cleans?”
“What I do—just singing, without the screams.”
“That’s fascinating,” Hermione says honestly. “I don’t know much about music, believe it or not. I listen to it on the radio sometimes, but I’ve never spent time delving into the genres and whatnot. I do know what metal music is, from a Muggle standpoint.”
“What? There’s something I know that you don’t? Call the Aurors.” He drawls the words.
Hermione manages to laugh and it's surreal, laughing with Draco Malfoy. “How did you join a band?”
“When I first moved here, MACUSA helped me integrate into wizarding society. The guide who was assigned to me happened to be Muggle-born and he’s the one who took me to the Muggle side of the city. He—”
“Of Seattle?”
“Yes, Seattle. I moved here and haven’t left.”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, the guide liked going to shows. He took me to see a band and I liked the music, so we kept going. Eventually, I met his mates and we just sort-of…decided to start a band. It’s usually not elaborate when people start bands like these, Granger. It just happens.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Yeah, and I’d never sang in front of anyone before—not even my parents. But I’ve always enjoyed it and when I showed them I could, it was settled. We got together and started making music.”
“How long have you been doing it for?”
“Two years now.”
“And the guide?”
“He’s our guitarist, Amari.”
“That’s good that you remained friends,” Hermione says, deeply pleased that he’s not only friends with Muggles and Muggle-borns, but that he’s become so integrated with Muggle society. “You must be fairly close by now.”
“Oh, we all are. We’re brothers, really.”
“That’s lovely, Malfoy. I guess I’m excited to see the show when we go.”
“Good,” he says, and it sounds like a murmur. He yawns again. “It’s gonna be your first, yeah?”
“Concert? Yes, unless you count the Yule Ball.”
“Ah, I remember. Miss Periwinkle Granger, twirling about the dance floor with Viktor Krum.”
Hermione’s heart skips a beat. “You remember the color of my gown?”
“Mm-hm,” he says. “I remember everything about you, remember?”
“I—well, I—yes,” she says, her voice weakening to a modest whisper. “In any case, this will be my first concert.”
“All right.”
“It’s at night, right? In the dark.”
“Yeah.”
“So I suppose I won’t have to worry about anyone seeing my scars after all,” she says, the words slipping out before she can stop them. “Which is a relief. But I’ll make sure to cover up anyway. Will I need to eat beforehand?”
There’s a slight delay before he says, “Sure, but the venue has a bar. There’s definitely gonna be food.”
“Oh, good. I’ll wait to eat then.” She bites her lower lip as a strange silence stretches between them and she wracks her brain for a conversation topic. “So, what do you do for work?”
“Me? Oh, I’m a Potioneer. I work at a combination Muggle and magical apothecary. We sell Muggle medicines in the front, and the back half of the shoppe is for witches and wizards. I brew the potions myself and handle that part, while the owner handles the front. I have co-workers as well, of course.”
“And is that what you always wanted to do? Go into potions after Hogwarts?”
“I always wanted to work with potions in some capacity, yes. This isn’t exactly the most glamorous or illustrious occupation, but it’s something for me to do.”
“You don’t….I thought you had money in your vault?”
“I do. This gives me something to focus on so I don’t go completely mental.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “Between this and the band, I’m content.”
“Well, that’s good. It’s good to be happy, right?”
“Yeah. And what about you?”
“I work for the Ministry,” she says. “Working for the DRCMC.”
“I’m not surprised about that. You always did have a thing for the disenfranchised, didn’t you?”
“Hey!” she says with some of her earlier indignance. “I care about those that are in need. Wizarding society has been treating them like second-class citizens and rubbish for centuries. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to make change happen.”
“No, no. I’m not judging. I’m only teasing, silly girl.”
Hermione sucks in her breath. The way he says the moniker feels…strange. It’s like he purrs the words, and Hermione feels it deep in her gut. In a bizarre way, it makes her feel like she’s his.
Which is barmy, and is a thought she will not entertain. It’s clear this conversation is just friendly. Polite.
“Anyway, I should get some sleep,” he says around yet another yawn. “I’ve got to work tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you up.”
“No, don’t apologize,” he says, the sleepiness audible in his soft voice. Hermione likes the way this sounds, too. “I called you. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh! Well…I—I wanted to talk to you, too.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Hermione doesn’t know why, but the way he says that makes her want to squirm.
Merlin, this man really is trouble.
“I wouldn’t have contacted you in the first place if I didn’t want to talk to you, Malfoy,” she says. “I’m glad we got to chat and I’m excited to see you—” She coughs. “The show. The—the concert.”
“Right.” There it is again—the smirk she can practically hear. “I’ll sleep now. You get some, too. The show’s going to run a bit late, so you’ll want to get a full night.”
“All right. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Mm-hm,” he hums. “Tomorrow.”
“Good night, Malfoy.”
“Night, Granger.”
They hang up.
Hermione sets her mobile aside, plugging it into the charger. She grabs the remote to the telly and starts to flick through the channels, hardly paying attention to her selections as her mind whirls with joy. She’s finally talked to Malfoy. She’s actually talked to him. She’s going to see him and be around him.
About fifteen minutes or so later, Hermione’s mobile begins to buzz. The sound vibrates loudly against the wood of the bedside table. To her surprise, he’s texted her again.
She mulls it over, but not for long.
She tells him the truth.
Hermione’s heart races again. She doesn’t know how to feel. She’s relieved that he eventually replied, but she’s concerned. He seems upset. He’s saying he hates himself. Why? She understands that he’s been drinking, but surely he can’t hate himself. He always looks so happy in his pictures.
Maybe she’s made a mistake.
Shame heats the skin on her face, regret burning her from within. She shouldn’t have told him. There was absolutely no reason to tell him. Her scars would be covered up when she sees him anyway, so she could have kept it hidden from him.
Hermione knows the reason why.
She’s accepted what she’s done to herself, but she has yet to accept that other people are going to see it. She feels like she has to apologize for her scars. Like she has to warn him beforehand so he doesn’t think she tricked him. And now he’s upset and it’s all her fault.
She shouldn’t have told him.
Hermione drops her mobile onto the bed, her confusion and shame and anger rolling into one massive firestorm and exploding.
She bursts into tears, curling up on her side and sobbing into her pillow. Of course he's still the same. Of course he still hates her. He’s just made it very clear what his true opinions of her are, and whoever it was that she spoke to on the phone wasn’t real. She made a mistake in messaging him and she won’t be doing it again.
He hasn’t changed at all, and Cassius was right.
Maybe she really is unlikeable.
