Cedric Diggory was dead.

When Hermione first spotted Harry’s messy black hair appearing at the edge of the stand she’d been elated. Jumping to her feet with the rest of the crowd to cheer wildly. But after a moment she noticed he was hunched over a yellow and black clad body and could just see dirty blonde hair peeking over his shoulders that shook wildly.

The noise of the crowd became an unintelligible roar in her ears as she watched her friend racked with sobs over the body of Cedric. It was disturbing, to have such a jubilant soundtrack to what was in all likelihood one of Harry’s most devastating moments. Something heavy like a stone dropped into her stomach as she turned to Ron.

“Ron… Ron! ” She yelled over the crowd, but he didn’t listen – preoccupied as he was with cheering his friend.

From a few rows up she caught sight of Theo, who was one of the only other students that seemed to have understood what had happened. He stood stock still, shoulders rigid, and there was a muscle working at the corner of his jaw. Beside him was Draco, who she watched slowly stop his jeering – his arms suddenly falling limply at his sides. There was still an echo of amusement on his face before realization struck and his grey eyes turned to her – of course he knew where she was in the crowd.

They didn’t say anything – of course they couldn’t, not with the noise. But she saw the worry in his eyes, the fear .

Cedric Diggory was dead.

In slow motion it seemed, the rest of the crowd began to realize. Cheers of elation morphed into screams of panic. She could hear a few broken sobs close by and turned to see a grief-stricken Cho Chang held up by her friends followed by the gut-wrenching scream of Amos Diggory.

“ My boy! My son! Let me through, please. THAT’S MY SON!”

Then Harry was lifted bodily from Cedric by Dumbledore and passed into the arms of Mad-Eye Moody. She could just make out the words he was crying to the headmaster, his lips shaping around them:

He’s back. Voldemort is back.

It was like ice water being poured over the back of her neck. Though she’d felt horror at the sight of the boy on the ground and a strange secondary grief, this knowledge rocked her very being.

It was starting.

No, not starting.

It had already begun.

…

He was killed by Lord Voldemort.

Dumbledore’s words rang through her head for the entire train journey back to London.

Killed by Lord Voldemort.

Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort.

Hermione’s palms sweat profusely and she tried desperately to wipe them on her robes. She’d received a letter from Narcissa that morning informing her that they would come to retrieve her from her parents’ house in only a few hours’ time. Narcissa didn’t explain how she’d contacted her parents or how it would be explained that someone other than the Weasleys would be taking her, but Hermione couldn’t find it in her to notice.

She was too busy planning.

Harry had seen the Dark Lord up close – he’d finally told her in stilted whispers. He’d described working his way through the maze only to discover the cup was a portkey and she could see the guilt plainly written on his pinched features over his insistence Cedric take the cup with him.

“Oh Harry, there’s no way you could have known,” Hermione had soothed comfortingly.

Harry shook his head, removing his glasses to wipe hastily at his eyes.

“Doesn’t change the fact that I did,” he’d answered hoarsely.

He’d explained about the ritual to give You-Know-Who his body back, described in detail the loyal followers that arrived at his call, the graveyard battle and the wispy appearance of his parents.

Harry had slipped through the Dark Lord’s fingers once again.

She had watched Harry for a long time, wondering how she could possibly give allegiance to a being who had tried to murder him. But then Ron had burst into the compartment in a flurry of chocolate frog cards and pasty wrappers forcing Hermione to scoot over so he could sit next to his best friend.

Ron, who as she had aptly said had the emotional range of a teaspoon, seemed oblivious to the tension and melancholy of his friend chattered on about the summer holiday and how soon they could get Harry from the muggles.

By the time she’d stepped off the train and into the embrace of her parents, she was retracing her pro/con list. She was trying to weigh the cost of each con, each betrayal, each loss.

Moving dreamlike through the station and into her parent’s car, she thought about Harry and the Weasleys. How she could turn her back on her first friends.

But then she remembered the slights, the coldness, the comments of her parentage. She remembered standing in the kitchen while Mrs. Weasley explained to her the importance of learning household charms so she could solidify her place in this world through a magical husband. As if her magic was meaningless.

She thought of Mr. Weasley and his strange fetishization of all things muggles. The way he stared at her parents in the same fashion of school children at the zoo. Her father had made a few comments over his discomfort around the Weasleys but had ultimately been grateful that they took Hermione off their busy hands during school holidays.

By the time she had sat at her parent’s kitchen counter with a cool glass of water in her hand, her head felt even fuller than normal.

“Hermione dear, would you like a snack before your friends arrive?” Her mum asked pleasantly, looking inside the fridge.

“That’s okay, mum,” Hermione said quickly, trying to find an approximation of cheer in her voice. “I ate on the train.”

Jean Granger nodded and closed the door behind her, coming around to lean a hip on the countertop.

“I have to say, I’m quite looking forward to seeing the Malfoys again.”

Hermione choked on her water and her mother patted her firmly on the back.

“When – when did you meet the Malfoys mum?” Hermione spluttered.

Jean grabbed a paper towel and handed it to Hermione to wipe herself off.

“Oh a few weeks ago! We received an absolutely gorgeous letter in the mail from Nar… Nar…” Jean obviously was struggling to find the correct pronunciation.

“Narcissa,” Hermione supplied.

“Yes, that’s it! In the letter Narcissa explained that you and her son Draco had become close and she expressed an interest in meeting so your father and I had her and her husband over for tea.”

Hermione blinked wide-eyed at her mother. She struggled to imagine the elegant Narcissa and larger-than-life Lucius sitting in her parent’s sitting room drinking tea. She tried to understand the motivations that the Malfoys would have to meet with her parents and she was sure it centered around the conversation she and Lucius had a few months previous.

Before she could question her mother further, however, from the corner of her eye she saw the living room fireplace turn green and Narcissa stepped from the grate.

“Narcissa!” Hermione cried, jumping from her stool to throw herself into the older woman’s arms.

“Hello, darling,” Narcissa said kindly before looking at Hermione’s mother who had followed behind. “Hello Jean, wonderful to see you again.”

The fireplace flashed green again before Draco’s lanky frame clambered through. The moment she saw him, her pro and con list faded away. Something within her magic relaxed, as it always did, reminding her of one of the reasons she’d felt had been too personal to express to Lucius: their bond felt more than fleeting, it felt like fate .

His face was set with determination – and nerves – as he brushed himself off quickly and stood to his full height.

“Mum… this is Draco,” Hermione said trying to stop the fierce blush that crept over her cheeks.

Draco took Jean’s proffered hand and bent low to kiss it with all the old pureblood pomp he’d been raised with. She didn’t notice the way her mother’s eyes widened and a faint rosy tinge crossed her face.

“Oh my, what manners! You must be very proud, Narcissa.”

Narcissa had a hand on Hermione’s shoulder as she nodded.

“Very,” she answered simply.

Hermione’s father bustled into the room then and exchanged the same familiar pleasantries with Narcissa before greeting Draco with a gruff handshake. By the time Hermione hugged both her parents Draco had already gone through the floo with her trunk and Crookshank’s basket while Narcissa watched on.

“Go ahead, darling,” Narcissa said softly. “Lucius is waiting for you. I’ll have just another moment with your parents before I follow behind.”

With one final wave to her parents, Hermione stepped into the warm emerald flames and called out her destination, letting the muggle world spin away.