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Hermione detested the ordeal of travelling to Australia. The portkey office was an unrelenting headache, a bureaucratic labyrinth where she had to navigate the logistics of minimising the toll of the time difference and ensuring she landed in the correct city—a task they seemed incapable of managing. More than once, despite her precise arrangements, she’d found herself stumbling into Melbourne when her destination was Brisbane. It was enough to make her wonder if the clerks were deliberately testing her patience.And yet, since the very first time she set foot in Australia, all the frustration melted away. There was something about the country that felt utterly enchanting, as though magic itself lingered more strongly in the air. It wasn’t just pretty; it was breathtaking, a place that seemed to outshine even her wildest imaginings. While pursuing her charms mastery, she'd been fortunate enough to explore much of the wizarding world, but Australia held a special kind of spell over her.Each visit to see her parents left her awestruck. The rugged beauty of the coastline, the endless blue skies, and the vibrant energy of the cities—it all captivated her. No matter how many times she saw it, the country seemed to reveal new wonders, leaving her speechless every time. It was, without a doubt, a land that captured her heart, even if the journey to get there never failed to try her patience.Hermione stood on her parents’ doorstep, shifting her weight as she waited for the familiar sound of footsteps on the other side. The crisp scent of eucalyptus lingered in the warm afternoon air, mingling with the faint buzz of cicadas. This was her favourite part of a surprise visit—the anticipation, the quiet thrill of knowing she was about to light up their faces. She hadn't seen them in months, too consumed by her most recent project at the Department of Mysteries. Those gruelling 14-hour days had taken their toll, and when she'd finally submitted her final report, the exhaustion had hit her like the Whomping Willow. She’d needed a break—desperately—and there was no place she’d rather be than here.The sound of the latch clicking pulled her from her thoughts, and the door swung open to reveal her mother. The transformation in her face was instant—shock giving way to radiant joy as she took in the sight of her daughter standing on the doorstep.“Hermione!” her mother exclaimed, her voice tinged with equal parts disbelief and elation. Without hesitation, she pulled Hermione into a tight embrace, the kind that spoke volumes about just how much she’d been missed.“What are you doing here?” her mother asked as she stepped back, her eyes scanning Hermione as though to reassure herself this wasn’t some apparition.“I finished a big project and finally have some time off,” Hermione explained, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “I realised it had been far too long since I’d seen you both, so I thought—why not surprise you?”Her mother’s eyes softened, though there was a touch of concern now as she reached out to tuck a stray curl behind Hermione’s ear. “You look exhausted, love. Have you been taking care of yourself?”Hermione gave a sheepish laugh. “That’s what this trip is for. A little rest, some home-cooked meals, and maybe a swim or two if I can brave the ocean.”Her mother chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. “Well, you’ve come to the right place for all of that. Come in, come in! Your father will be thrilled to see you.”As Hermione stepped inside, the scent of home enveloped her—faintly of lavender and the lingering trace of her father’s morning coffee. For the first time in what felt like ages, the tightness in her chest began to ease. This was exactly where she needed to be.Settling into the room her parents had set aside for her had become second nature by now. Each visit made it feel less like a guest room and more like an extension of herself, a quiet retreat that felt more like home than her meticulously arranged but often impersonal flat in London. The walls, once bare and impersonal, now held traces of her presence—stacked books on the bedside table, a familiar throw draped over the chair by the window, and a few framed photographs she had brought over on previous trips.Each time she visited, she found herself bringing another item from London, something she couldn’t bear to be without while in Australia. It had started with simple comforts—a favourite set of quills, a well-worn copy of Hogwarts: A History (despite knowing it practically by heart), a collection of potion vials she liked to keep on hand. But over time, the things she brought grew larger, more significant pieces of her life slowly migrating across continents.This time, it was her desk.Shrunk down and safely stored in her enchanted cross-body bag, the bag she carried now was a significant upgrade from the battered, war-weary one she had dragged across England during that desperate year. Back then, practicality had mattered more than appearances, and she hadn’t cared how ridiculous she looked hauling a tiny beaded bag with everything she needed to live rough, research, and plan. Now, she had refined the art of carrying her life with her, all neatly compacted and warded within a bag that, at a glance, seemed like nothing more than a stylish accessory.As she reversed the shrinking charm on her desk with a flick of her wand, watching it expand seamlessly into its full form by the window, she felt a sense of satisfaction settle over her. This wasn’t just about convenience—it was about carving out a space for herself, a balance between the life she had built in London and the part of her that belonged here, in Australia, with her parents.She ran her fingers over the polished surface, a soft smile playing at her lips. Slowly but surely, this place was becoming more than a temporary retreat. It was becoming home.As always happened when she visited Australia, Hermione’s plan for a short fortnight’s stay inevitably stretched into something much longer. A month at minimum, sometimes more. She told herself every time that she would stick to her schedule, return to London as planned, but the pull of this place—of her parents, of the quiet ease of life here—always unravelled her resolve.It wasn’t just the warmth of the sun or the novelty of being able to wear sundresses in December, though that certainly helped. It was the rhythm of life, slower and more relaxed than what she was used to in London. She found herself slipping into it effortlessly. Her parents’ dental practice, a small but thriving business, always seemed to need an extra set of hands, and before she knew it, she was answering phones, scheduling appointments, and even minding the front desk when their receptionist was out or simply in need of a well-earned break. It was a different kind of work than what she did at the Department of Mysteries—mundane, ordinary, yet strangely comforting. There was something refreshing about dealing with patients whose biggest concern was a cavity rather than ancient magical artefacts or classified research.By the third week, she had accepted what was now an inevitable truth: she wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. She finally gave in and called Harry.“Thought I’d be hearing from you,” he said the moment he picked up, a knowing lilt in his voice.Hermione rolled her eyes, though he couldn’t see it. “Oh, hush. I tried to stick to my plan.”“But?”She sighed. “But…I think I’ll stay through Christmas.”There was a brief silence before Harry exhaled in what she could only assume was disappointment. “I was afraid you’d say that.”“I know,” she said gently, guilt creeping in despite knowing she was making the right choice. “But honestly, Harry, why would I come back to freezing, grey England when I could have Christmas lunch outside in the sun with Mum and Dad? Shorts and a cold drink in hand versus three layers and a half-broken heating charm? It’s hardly a contest.”“I suppose I can’t argue with that,” he admitted, though there was a distinct pout in his voice. “We’ll miss you, though. Gin’s already trying to convince me to spend the holidays at the Burrow, and I think Molly’s got a bet going on whether I’ll cave.”Hermione grinned. “You should. It’s the best place to be for Christmas—Mrs Weasley will make enough food to feed half the country, and at least there you won’t have to deal with Grimmauld Place’s dodgy heating.”He chuckled, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. “Yeah, I know, but it’s so much work. There’s always something happening—exploding crackers, enchanted decorations going rogue, and Fred and George still find ways to cause chaos, even with a shop to run.”She smiled, leaning back against the lounge chair on the porch. “You love it, don’t pretend otherwise. Just have an extra serving of dinner, and you’ll pass out in a food coma before things get too hectic.”Harry let out a thoughtful hum, as though seriously considering it. “Maybe. I suppose there are worse ways to spend the holiday.”“There definitely are.”“Alright, well, I better go—it’s getting late. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”Hermione laughed, shaking her head. “Right, because that rules out so much.”“Exactly,” he said, amusement in his tone. “Just… let me know when you’re heading back, yeah?”“I will,” she promised, the warmth of their friendship wrapping around her like a familiar embrace despite the miles between them.“Alright. See you when you’re back.”“See you then, Harry.”With a soft click, the connection ended, and Hermione tucked her phone away in her pocket.Glimmer Lane in Sydney had long been one of Hermione’s favourite places to visit, a gem of Australia’s magical community nestled in the heart of The Rocks, the city’s historic quarter. It had an effortless charm, blending seamlessly with the Muggle world, much better than Diagon Alley did in London—here, the shop fronts were brighter, the air smelled of sea salt rather than soot, and there was a distinct, laid-back energy that made her feel as though time moved just a little slower.Every trip to Australia, she made sure to carve out a day or two in Sydney, wandering its bustling streets, browsing the spell work boutiques and potion apothecaries, and inevitably finding herself at the open-air cafés that served everything from enchanted teas to chilled pineapple juice. It was different from London in a way she couldn’t quite describe—less hurried, more infused with the kind of magic that thrived in the sun rather than the shadows.Getting there was an experience in itself. Australia was simply too vast to rely on traditional wizarding travel methods; no witch or wizard in their right mind would attempt to Apparate across the country without some kind of aid. Instead, they used the enchanted phone boxes—a system she had marvelled at ever since she first encountered it. The booths, placed in pretty much every town across the country, looked like ordinary Muggle payphones muggles could even use them as such, but the keypad allowed magical travellers to input a postcode, a phone box number, and a few coins before being whisked away in a manner similar to Apparition—except with none of the nausea or disorientation.It was an elegant system, much safer than relying on Portkeys and far more reliable than broom travel over such distances. Accessing a broom in Australia was basically impossible they just didn’t use them for anything besides quidditch. Hermione had become rather fond of it, even if she still found herself hesitating the first time she stepped into a phone box each visit, double-checking the postcode and box number to ensure she didn’t accidentally end up halfway across the country instead of her intended destination.With a small smile, she adjusted the strap of her bag, punched in the details for Sydney’s Glimmer Lane, and dropped the octagonal coins into the slot.A heartbeat later, the world shifted. The sensation was smoother than apparition—less of a forceful pull and more of a seamless transition, like riding in an elevator.When she blinked, she was no longer in her parents’ quiet coastal suburb. Instead, she stood at the entrance to Glimmer Lane, where golden light filtered down through the enchanted lanterns strung above the cobbled street, and the gentle hum of magic blended with the distant sound of the harbour.Yes, Hermione thought as she stepped forward, already feeling lighter. She had definitely missed this place.She spent the afternoon meandering through Glimmer Lane, weaving through bookshops brimming with ancient tomes and modern magical theory, browsing enchanted trinkets and spellwork boutiques to her heart’s content. The sun hung lazily in the sky, casting golden light over the cobblestones, and the scent of brine and warm pastries filled the air.By the time her feet began to ache, she found herself tucked away in the dimly lit comfort of The Wand & Quill, a cosy little pub at the end of the lane. With a cold pot of beer in one hand and a newly acquired book in the other, she settled into a corner booth, losing herself in the intricate theories of advanced charm-weaving.She was so absorbed that she barely noticed the shadow that fell over her table until a polite, yet slightly hesitant voice interrupted her reading.“Excuse me, love.”Hermione blinked, glancing up from the fine script of the book. Standing before her was an older man, perhaps in his seventies—not that age meant much in the magical world. His hair was grey but still thick, it was kept short and tidy, his sharp eyes assessing her as if he had won a prize.“Hi, yes—hello,” she greeted warmly, offering a friendly smile. That was another thing she loved about Australia—people here were open, easy to talk to. She had lost count of how many interesting conversations she’d struck up just by sitting at the bar of a pub or waiting in line at a shop.The man returned her smile, adjusting the cuff of his jacket. “My name is Mr G. You wouldn’t happen to be Hermione Granger, would you?”A small flush crept up her neck. She hated being recognised; it was always a gamble whether it was from the war—something she still struggled to reconcile with—or her academic work.“Yes,” she answered after a moment, offering her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”Mr G’s face split into a delighted grin as he shook her hand. “It must be my lucky day, meeting a Charms Master in person.”Relief flooded her chest. It was her knowledge he was interested in, not the past that haunted her.“It must be,” she said lightly, taking a sip of her drink. “Have you read much of my work?”The older wizard pulled out the stool beside her and sat down. “Oh, absolutely. My Charms professor was obsessed with your innovative process. Once said it was a wonder you came from England at all—very little progressive magic comes out of Britain these days; most are content to consolidate what already exists rather than push the boundaries of spellwork.”.”Hermione let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “I’ve found that to be true as well. That’s actually why I pursued my mastery overseas—many of the so-called ‘Masters’ back home are hardly deserving of the title. The magical academic circles in Britain tend to cling to tradition rather than innovation. The work being done outside of Britain, particularly here and in parts of Asia and North America, is leagues ahead in terms of creativity and advancement.” She took a sip of her drink before tilting her head slightly. “Are you a professor yourself?”The older man gave a small chuckle, a nostalgic gleam in his eye. “Once upon a time, yes. I spent years buried in books, teaching ancient magical scripts and dead languages—runes, forgotten incantations, lost dialects of spell work that most wizards today wouldn’t even recognise.” He sighed, though there was a certain fondness in his voice. “These days, my work is far less hands-on. I’m the principal at The Bungaree Institute, actually.”Hermione’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. The Bungaree Institute was one of Australia’s most esteemed magical schools, known for its forward-thinking approach to magic and emphasis on indigenous magic and traditions. It had fascinated her when she had first read about it—in awe of a teaching practice that valued wandless elements of magic that were rarely taught elsewhere. “That’s incredible,” she said, her curiosity instantly piqued. “Your institution has one of the most fascinating curriculums I’ve come across. I remember reading a paper on its approach to spell craft that was unlike anything I’d ever encountered in Europe.”Mr G smiled, clearly pleased by her recognition of the school’s reputation. “We like to think we’re doing something different. Hogwarts has its traditions, of course, but we’ve always believed in blending the old and the new. Magic isn’t stagnant—it grows, it evolves. And that’s something we try to pass on to our students.”Hermione nodded, feeling a flicker of admiration for the man before her. It was refreshing to meet someone in the academic world who truly embraced progress rather than just paying lip service to it. She had spent years pushing against the rigid constraints of British magical academia, often feeling as though she were trying to shake loose an entire institution unwilling to change.“I’d love to see it in person one day,” she admitted, swirling her drink idly in her hand. “The integration of indigenous magical practices alone is something I would have given anything to study when I was younger.”Mr G chuckled. “You’d be welcome anytime.” He hesitated for a moment before adding, “Though, if I’m being honest, I had an ulterior motive for introducing myself.”Hermione raised a curious brow. “Oh?”He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just a fraction. “We’ve been struggling to fill our Charms position for next year. Our current professor is retiring, and finding someone with both expertise and a forward-thinking approach has been… difficult.”Hermione blinked, caught off guard. “That’s a shame,” she said, though a small part of her brain had already begun ticking over the possibilities. “Charms is the most fundamental of subjects. It must be challenging to find someone who meets the school’s standards.”Mr G nodded. “That’s precisely the issue. We don’t just want someone who teaches by rote. We need a scholar, someone who understands how spell work is evolving, who isn’t afraid to push boundaries.” His eyes gleamed knowingly. “Someone like you.”Hermione froze, his words settling over her. The idea was absurd—wasn’t it? She had a life in London, a contracting role at the Department of Mysteries, projects lined up. And yet… there was something about the suggestion that made her pulse quicken, as if the universe had just cracked open a door she hadn’t realised was there.“I…” she started, before stopping herself, considering. “I hadn’t thought about teaching in an official capacity before.”Mr G smiled, sipping his drink as he watched her closely. “Maybe it’s time to start.”Hermione spent days mulling over Mr G’s offer, turning it over in her mind like a particularly complex puzzle. The idea of staying in Australia, of teaching a subject she was deeply passionate about, was undeniably tempting. It wasn’t just about the job—it was about the life it offered her. A fresh start in a place that felt more like home than London had since the war, a chance to contribute to something innovative, to be part of a school that encouraged progress rather than clung to outdated traditions.When she brought it up to her parents, expecting a measured discussion, they had been unequivocally supportive.“You’d be mad to turn this down,” her father had said, setting aside his morning paper with a knowing smile.Her mother, ever the pragmatic one, had simply pointed to the growing number of Hermione’s belongings that had migrated into her room over the last few years. “You’ve practically moved in already. It’s like you were just waiting for an excuse to stay.”They were right, of course.By the week of Christmas, any lingering uncertainty was swept away when a thick envelope, stamped with the official stamp of The Bungaree Institute, arrived at the house. Inside was a formal job offer—detailed, thorough, and nearly impossible to refuse. Even if she had wanted to.Teaching at a school like Bungaree had always been a pipe dream. Despite her love for Hogwarts, she had never imagined herself as a professor there—too many ghosts of the past haunted those stone walls, too many memories woven into the very fabric of the castle. And, if she were being honest, she had never thought she would be considered for a position at any school, let alone without even applying. She was only twenty-two. It was baffling.But as she sat there, reading and re-reading the letter, she found herself recalling her last conversation with Harry.Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.It had been a joke at the time, but she knew exactly what he had meant. Harry wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have leapt at an opportunity like this, thrown himself into it with that same reckless determination he had always carried. And if she was being truthful, she wanted to do the same.So, with a deep breath, she picked up her pen and signed her name at the bottom of the paper, sealing her commitment to a new chapter of her life.Come the last week of January, she would be at The Bungaree Institute for her site induction, ready to meet her fellow staff and step fully into this new role.She was staying.The phone call to Harry and Ron had gone far better than she’d expected.She had braced herself for disappointment, maybe even frustration, but instead, she had been met with an easy sort of acceptance—support, even. It had been strange, in a way. She had spent days rehearsing how to break the news, readying herself for protests or guilt-tripping jokes about abandoning them for sunshine and kangaroos. But when the words finally left her mouth, there had been only a quiet pause before Ron had simply said, “Yeah, we figured.” She had blinked, momentarily thrown. “You figured ?”Harry had chuckled on the other end. “Hermione, your flat’s been half-empty for over a year. You’ve been shipping bits of your life across the world without even realising it.”Ron made a sound of agreement. “Yeah, mate. And, no offence, but you never sound as happy as you do when you call from your parents’ place.”Hermione had opened her mouth to argue, to insist that she was perfectly content with her life in London, but the words had caught in her throat. Because they were right .For months—years, even—she had been preparing for this without acknowledging it. Every extended stay, every item she had quietly packed into her luggage and left behind in Australia, every lingering reluctance to board a Portkey back to Britain. She had convinced herself that her life was still in London, that her future was bound to the familiar streets of Diagon Alley and the cool stone corridors of the Ministry.But the truth was, she had already let it go.And maybe, deep down, Harry and Ron had seen it long before she had.“Don’t get me wrong,” Ron continued, “we’ll miss you like mad. Who else is gonna tell Harry when he’s being an idiot?”“I never need that,” Harry interjected, amused.“You always need that,” Hermione corrected instinctively, and the familiar back-and-forth made her chest ache in the best way.Ron sighed dramatically. “See? And now you’re leaving us unsupervised. Reckless, really.”Hermione smiled, warmth spreading through her. “I’ll visit.”“We know,” Harry said simply, and she could hear the quiet certainty in his voice. “And we’ll visit too. But this is good, Hermione. You sound… right about this.”Arriving at The Bungaree Institute felt strangely reminiscent of her first journey to Hogwarts all those years ago. It was amusing, really, how Australia, despite its fierce independence, had held onto certain British traditions when it came to magical education. The students still took a train to school, though unlike the grand steam engine of the Hogwarts Express, this was a rural service—practical, efficient, and deeply woven into the fabric of the landscape.The train had a quiet carriage, where students could read or nap, and a dining carriage stocked with snacks—meat pies, lamingtons, and chilled bottles of drink rather than the sweets of her childhood journeys. It even ran special trips for just one passenger when needed, a concept she had found amusing at first. But as she watched the countryside unfold through the window, she understood why.The Hunter Valley stretched out before her, green and sprawling, with rolling hills that gave way to dense bushland, winding rivers, and the occasional glimpse of a herd of cattle grazing in the distance. There was a raw beauty to it, untamed and endless, so different from the neatly divided fields of Britain. She imagined what it must be like for an eleven or twelve-year-old, stepping onto this train for the first time, leaving home behind to travel deep into the wilderness where the school was hidden. The thought sent a thrill through her.She wasn’t even certain what age students started here—something she would have to check. But she cherished the experience that Mr G had arranged for her, allowing her to see The Bungaree Institute exactly as a first-year would, taking in the journey with fresh eyes.As the train continued its route, winding through the countryside, she let herself relax into the rhythm of the ride, anticipation building with every passing mile. This was something new, something different. And for the first time in a long time, she felt like she was on the cusp of an adventure again.Arriving at the station, Hermione stepped off the train and onto the quiet platform, her suitcase trailing behind her. The air was hot and carried the distinct scent of eucalyptus and sun-warmed earth. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before making her way down the dirt road that led away from the station. She had expected some form of transportation to be waiting for her, but nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.Standing before her, attached to a wooden cart, were two enormous, completely white kangaroos. Their sleek fur almost shimmered in the midday light, and their deep, intelligent eyes regarded her with quiet curiosity. The cart itself looked like something from the early days of British settlement—open to the elements, built of weathered wood with iron-rimmed wheels. It was a stark contrast to the victorian, thestral-drawn carriages of Hogwarts, and yet there was something enchanting about it, something that felt uniquely Australian.She hesitated for only a moment before climbing aboard, pulling her suitcase up with her. The seat was surprisingly comfortable, and as soon as she settled, the kangaroos set off. To her amazement, the ride was incredibly smooth, despite the creatures' bounding movement. There was a subtle enchantment at play, no doubt designed to keep the journey steady for passengers.The scenery passed by in a blur of rich, golden pastures and towering gum trees. The land here was vast and open, but as the school grounds came into view, Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat.It didn’t look like any magical school she had ever seen.Instead of towering stone castles or grand halls, The Bungaree Institute looked more like a well-maintained horse stud. Expansive fields stretched across the landscape, dotted with barns and stable-like buildings, their wooden exteriors gleaming under the sun. The main building sat at the centre, a stately yet unpretentious structure made of warm sandstone, flanked by several smaller houses nestled behind it, their verandas lined with climbing vines. Winding pathways connected the buildings, leading past neatly manicured gardens and sun-dappled courtyards, where she could already see groups of students gathered, some reading, others chatting easily.It was so different from Hogwarts. There were no endless staircases, no looming towers or draughty corridors. Instead, it was open, sprawling, designed to work with the land rather than dominate it. The sheer scale of it was staggering, the sky stretching endlessly above, unbroken by city skylines or castle turrets.She exhaled, a slow, thoughtful breath.The first thought that came to mind was how incredibly grateful she was that she wouldn’t have to climb a million stairs to get anywhere.The second?That she might never return to England again.Hermione’s induction had gone smoothly—efficient, thorough, and, admittedly, more meticulous than she had expected. She was shown every building on the campus, from the airy classrooms to the impressively well-stocked library, the dining hall, and even the sprawling gardens students used for practical spellwork. They had covered every possible detail, including fire evacuation points and emergency protocols, which had been an educational experience in itself. Unlike Hogwarts, which had seemed to operate on the assumption that magic alone would handle any crisis, The Bungaree Institute had structured, well-practised safety measures that made Hermione realise just how differently wizarding culture functioned here.By the time she had signed the last piece of paperwork confirming her understanding and agreement to school policies, she was more than ready to settle into her new living space. Mr G, ever warm and enthusiastic, had called it a donga—a term she wasn’t familiar with, but he had said it with such affection that she hadn’t questioned it.She probably should have.Because what Mr G had neglected to mention was that staff quarters were shared.Hermione stepped into the small but comfortable living space, taking in the simple furnishings and soft golden light filtering through the curtains. It wasn’t Hogwarts with its endless staircases and draughty towers, but it was… cosy. Or, at least, it would have been if it weren’t currently filled with a thick, fragrant smoke.She barely had time to process what was happening before the scent hit her—earthy, sharp, and unfamiliar. The smoke curled lazily through the air as a woman stood in the middle of the room, wafting a bundle of tied leaves in deliberate motions. Hermione let out a choked cough, trying—failing—to stifle the sound.At once, the woman turned, her warm, dark eyes lighting up as she waved a hand. The smoke vanished instantly, dissipating as though it had never been there.“Oh, sista, look at you!” the woman exclaimed, moving towards Hermione with open arms, her voice rich with warmth and familiarity. “Come here, girl, let me have a proper look.”Before Hermione could react, she was enveloped in a firm, welcoming hug, the scent of lemon myrtle and burning leaves clinging to the woman’s clothing. It was grounding, earthen—nothing like the dusty parchment and musty books she associated with academics. This woman carried something different, something deeply tied to the land itself.As she stepped back, Hermione took a proper moment to study her. Her deep brown skin was lined with age and laughter, her full lips stretched into an easy, knowing smile. Her curly hair, streaked with silver, was cropped short, and there was a quiet confidence about her—like she was completely at ease in herself and the world around her.At first glance, she might have seemed like any other friendly, middle-aged professor.And then she spoke again.“The land knew you were comin’, you know,” she said, tapping a finger lightly against her temple. “Been whisperin’ about you for a while now.”Hermione barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes.Of course.Of course, she would be paired with the Divination professor. What luck.For all the ways The Bungaree Institute felt refreshingly modern compared to Hogwarts, some things seemed inescapable—like her complete and utter inability to avoid Divination enthusiasts.She forced a polite smile. “That’s… lovely. I’m pleased to be here.”The woman chuckled, her dark eyes sparkling. “You don’t believe in any of that, do ya?” she said, seemingly more amused than offended.Hermione hesitated. “I—”The woman waved a dismissive hand, laughing. “It’s alright, love. You don’t have to pretend for me. You think it’s all guesswork and shadows. That’s alright. Truth has a way of finding people, whether they look for it or not.”There was something in the way she said it—so matter-of-fact, so certain—that made Hermione shift uncomfortably.The woman suddenly clapped a hand to her chest. “Oh, listen to me, ramblin’ on! Didn’t even tell ya my name. I’m Aunty Marlene. But don’t go callin’ me Miss—we don’t do that here. You just call me Aunty, same as the students do.”Hermione opened her mouth, unsure how to respond.Aunty Marlene grinned. “Ohhh yeah, we’re gonna get along just fine.”Hermione seriously doubted that.Still, she had lived with Lavender Brown for six years.It couldn’t possibly be worse than that.…Right?

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December 2001Draco’s third firewhiskey of the early afternoon was interrupted by the ungainly thud of an unfamiliar owl floundering against his window. The creature was at the mercy of the wind to stay aloft. Buffeted by the winds, it was blown about haphazardly in every direction, its movement more a series of desperate recoveries than anything resembling coherent flightTaking pity on the hapless creature, Draco reluctantly pulled  himself from the warmth of the armchair nestled by his favourite hearth. With a lazy flick of his fingers, he wandlessly unlatched the window, only to be met with an onslaught of bitter wind and an unwelcome flurry of snow that immediately began settling into the plush carpet of the Smaller Library. The bird collapsed onto the floor, clearly exhausted from its journey. Draco quickly cleared away the snow, his mother would not be pleased to find soaked patches of carpet again so soon. Best not to dwell on it really. Upon closer inspection he noted that the bird was not an owl. In fact, it was not any species he recognised.It was covered in mottled-brown feathers, with paler ones dusting the underside of its large frame. Instead of the sharp beak he was used to on the post-owls, this bird had a large, upturned bill. He’d never seen anything like it, however, he had suspicions regarding its origins.“Alright birdy, what have you got for me?” he asked the creature, definitely not expecting the ‘tititi’ he received in return. Draco cast a warming charm on the poor thing. He reached for the small cylinder tied to the bird’s right leg. He noticed the clasp had rubbed the skin of the bird’s leg raw. Draco couldn’t abide seeing a creature in pain - he’d caused enough pain on innocent creatures he could only hope to atone for in his remaining days. Raising his wand, he cast a severing charm on the band.“Pippin” he called for his house-elf. It appeared less than a second later with the distinctive *pop* all house-elf apparitions made. “Master has called for Pippin?” the elf asked, eyes wide and hopeful for a task to complete. “Fetch some healing balms from my private stock. And ask mother to come to the small library.” He paused.  He was forgetting something… something that had been hammered into him for weeks during his probation.. Oh, right.. “Please.”The elf disappeared with another loud pop. Draco turned his attention back to the bird who seemed, somehow, calmer now. He opened the small canister and pulled out a tiny roll of parchment. Inside, was a script that would require a magnifying glass to decode. Who would send him such a letter? The bird alone was enough of a mystery, but the addition of the tiny handwriting left him even more curious.He shook his head. No point worrying about it now. He’d ask Pippin to find a magnifying glass upon his return. He lifted the tumbler to his lips and savoured the burning sensation as the smooth amber liquid ran down his throat.“Really, Draco? It’s barely two in the afternoon. Day drinking does not become you.” He should have left the cut glass on the stand, warming to his preferred temperature by the fire. There was no point apologising to his mother, he wasn’t actually sorry. He wasn’t drunk, he just enjoyed the sensation of a warm drink in front of a fire on a blistery, blustering cold day.“Do you know this bird, Mother?” he asked, ignoring her comments on his life choices.  “Yes, dear. Its name is Bob.” She smirked at him. He was really not in the mood for his mother’s smart mouth.“Do you happen to know what type of bird bob is?” His mother grasped at the skirts of her robes and pulled them up slightly as she knelt beside it. “I’m not an ornithologist, you know.” She berated him. It was unnerving how quickly his mother’s timid personality had grown into the snarky woman that roamed the halls of Malfoy Manor these past 4 years. Since his father’s death, it was like his mother was a new woman.“So, you don’t know what it is?” he asked, “I think it has flown from Australia.”His mother raised an eyebrow at the suggestion.  “What gives you that idea, Draco?”“Snape mentioned a teaching position there. He may have recommended me for the position.”Narcissa smirked. “Oh he did, did he? Well, I’ll put this salve on the poor bird's leg - yes, thank you Pippin - and you open the letter.”“I’ll need a bloody magnifying glass to read the damned thing.” He moaned.“Draco!” His mother’s scolding for inappropriate language still made him flinch. He would never understand how she could allow actual evil in her house, but couldn’t abide profanity within its walls.“Apologies, mother. The text is rather small and I’m unable to decipher it without further magnification.”She scoffed at him, then raised her wand and muttered an engorgio charm on the parchment. “A teaching position” she tutted quietly under her breath, “when he can’t even think to engorgio a bloody parchment.”“I heard that!”He glanced down at the, now regular sized, parchment in his hands.

Dear Mr Malfoy,

I hope this letter finds you well.  I am writing to formally extend an offer for the position of Potions Teacher at the Bungaree Institute of Magic. Our mutual acquaintance, Potion Master Severus Snape, has provided a glowing recommendation, espousing your accomplishments and acumen in the field of potions. He believes you to be a promising experimental potioneer, and I trust his judgement.

For your consideration, I have outlined the Key responsibilities of the role below:

Deliver Three, 90-minute Potions classes per day
Ensure that all necessary ingredients and supplies are procured and maintained throughout the academic year
Plan and coordinate an excursion for the senior students as part of their practical curriculum

Please note the following allowances;

Accommodation is provided
Dinner is served in the hall each evening
Food is provided for other meals, however staff are responsible for preparing their own meals

Term 1 will commence on the 29th January, 2002. All teaching staff are required to be on site no later than two days prior to the commencement of classes.

Please respond via email to the following address:

[email protected]

I fear the bird will not make the journey home should you send him soon enough for us to receive your response. Please bring him with you, should you choose to accept the position, otherwise I shall make alternative arrangements for his return.

Kind regards,

M.G.

He read the letter a second time, aloud - so that his mother could hear.When he finished she looked at him quizzically. “What the bloody hell is an email?”

Hypocrite.Thankfully Draco had a contact in the department of muggle artefacts. If there was anyone in his social circle who knew what an email was, it would be Theo. Draco decided that bothering his friend at work was the fastest way to gather the information.The next morning he floo-ed to the Ministry. His head bowed as he walked quickly across the atrium, prepared for the hurled insults that usually accompanied his public appearances. They didn’t come. In fact the entire place was eerily quiet - the scratching of a quill and small squeaks from a chair the only sounds that echoed on the checkered tiles of the atrium floor.He approached the desk where a witch sat, chewing on the end of her quill as she looked down.  The witch was grossly engaged with whatever she was doing - she hadn’t responded in any way to the clicking of his dragonhide boots. A less subtle reminder of his presence was evidently required. Draco cleared his throat.“Draco Malfoy. Here to see Mr Theodore Nott - Department of Misuse of Muggle Artefacts” Brief and to the point - the way he preferred his public interactions.He peered over the top of the welcome desk to identify the cause of the witch’s rapture. A crossword. His request for a meeting, guidance, direction, interaction was ignored. She didn’t deign to tear her eyes from the crossword she was attempting to complete.He tried again. “Draco Malfoy. Here to see…” but was cut off by an obnoxious scoff.“No-one’s here. Winter Holiday.” Her response was curt, laced with ridicule.There were some experiences that reminded Draco just how out-of-touch he was with most wizarding society - particularly here in the ministry. While for him, it was any other Thursday, for the ministry workers it was the main time of year where all of them could stay home with their families. With Yule only a few days away, the ministry was running on a skeleton staff. Draco had failed to recognise that the employed had holiday leave. With a sigh he returned to the floo, threw some green powder into a flame and called for Nott Manor.“Theo!” he shouted from the parlour.An elf popped into the room. “Mr Malfoy sir, Mippy is taking you to Mr Nott sir.” The elf held out its dainty hand and Malfoy grimaced. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to touch the elf - he had no problems with that - it was that he hated the feel of elf apparition. It wasn’t the same as for wizards and it often made him feel violently ill. “I’d prefer it if..” he started, but was again cut off. Apparently this would be a day for incomplete sentences.“Mr Nott is insisting, Mippy is to be taking you to Mr Nott.”  Before he could think any further on his pending malady, he placed his hand on the back of Mippy’s and allowed her to pull him to Theo.His friend was seated in a tufted leather chair, the dark tan leather a very near match to his hair. He swirled and sipped from a glass of amber liquid that was definitely not firewhiskey - far too pale.Theo smirked. “Long time no see, Draco.”It had been a long time. Nearly 6 months by his count. While Draco had been branded during the war, Theo had escaped without any physical marks. He moved comfortably in their society and Draco, despite his best efforts not to, envied his friend for that. He despised that he couldn’t do the same, because of the name and mark he bore.Draco simply nodded. “I have a question relating to a muggle phrase I’ve not heard of. I had hoped you’d be able to shed some light on the matter.”“So you’re here for work?”  Theo asked, shaking his head.“I’m here for work, and several drinks of whatever that is.” Draco pointed to the tumbler in Theo’s hand.Theo grinned. “It’s Balvenie. 50 years in a barrel in Speyside. Worth every pound - er, Galleon.”“So it's Muggle then?” Draco raised an eyebrow. Theo had a knack for finding the most delicious liquors he could - regardless of their origins.“Try some.”“Don’t mind if I do.” Draco moved to the bar cart and poured himself 2 fingers of the pale amber liquid. The scent hit him immediately. He swirled the liquid in the glass and inhaled the full aroma. It was fruity and tangy, with notes of candied apricot, cedar and a warm nutty spice which complemented each other.  He took a sip of the liquid, holding it on his tongue for a few seconds before savouring the smooth warmth as it travelled down his throat. On the palate it was rich and full, the nutty spice evident in both the aroma and the taste. He moaned. It was bloody delicious.He poured himself another 3 fingers, then sat in the chair opposite Theo’s, eyes closed as he savoured each sip of his liquor.Theo watched his friend, the faintest hint of a self-satisfied grin on his lips.  “So, what’s this muggle phrase you need help with?”Draco took three further sips before replying to Theo’s question.  “E-mail.”Theo’s head tilted back as he laughed aloud at the two syllables. “I’m going to need a bit of context, Dray.” It had been years since he’d heard the nickname, the sense of familiarity settling over him like a warm blanket.“Well, I’ve been offered a job, and have been asked to give my response by email.” Draco wasn’t sure if he was ready to share the news that he was planning to move to the other side of the world. It seemed unlikely he’d last the night without doing so, not at the rate he was consuming the Scotch.“A job offer that requires an email response. How’d the offer come to you?” Theo asked.“By way of a ‘bar-tailed godwit’, according to my mother.” His mother had spent hours combing their library for a book on Australian Birds. He was surprised when she’d actually found one. “A bar-tailed godwit?” Theo repeated. “Not a bird I’m familiar with. Where did it come from?”“Australia.” Draco let the word sit, knowing that Theo would put the clues together.“You received a job offer, by owl - er, godwit, from Australia.” Theo shook his head. “I’m guessing the bird isn’t up for a return flight?”Draco shook his head. “The poor thing was barely conscious when it landed.” He took another drink from his glass and realised he’d finished the 5 fingers he’d poured already. He stood, the movement lacking his usual grace, and stepped slowly to the bar cart.“For me too, thanks Dray.” Draco returned to the seats with the bottle and poured a healthy measure into each of their glasses.“So you've been offered a job in Australia, and you need to reply by email. What’s the job?”“Potions master, at the Bungaree Institute of Magic.” It was only the second time he’d said the name of the school aloud and it still felt so foreign on his tongue. He’d known of other magical schools - Durmstrung and Beauxbatons from fourth year, Ilvermony later on - but this was an unknown school. In fact, until his god-father had mentioned it he was completely unaware of its existence.“Are you going to accept?” Theo asked, his expression unreadable.“I am. It’s a fresh start. It’s…” Draco paused, but decided to let the liquor flowing in his bloodstream take the reins for the conversation. “It’s an opportunity to be somewhere new, where no-one knows who I am. What I’ve done. What my family has done. What this is.” He sneered as he gestured towards his left forearm. Theo nodded. “I think that will be good for you, Draco. Maybe I can come to visit?”“Sure.” Draco felt a small weight off his chest. Theo was one of the few people with whom he wanted to keep in touch. “So, tell me, Theo. What exactly is an email?”Theo proceeded to regale Draco with a brief history of muggle computers, the internet, and finally electronic mail. He left the parlour and returned with a rectangular shaped object, about the size of a large textbook, though not quite so thick.“This is a laptop,” Theo declared. “Cos it sits on your lap, see?” He chuckled at his ridiculous joke as he collapsed down on his chair. “Come and see.”Draco perched on the arm of Theo’s chair, nearly spilling the last of his drink as he did so. He watched in awe as Theo opened the lid and pressed a button. Lights began flashing and a loud whirring sound came from the device. “It takes a bit to start up, top of the line though this one.”  Draco wondered what Theo had done with the Manor’s magic to allow electricity to work. He’d probably forget to ask.“Oh, bugger. Need the cable.” Theo stood dramatically and plopped the device onto Draco’s lap. He began rummaging in the draws of his desk, looking for this ‘cable’. Draco had no idea what the cable was, never mind what it looked like, so he refrained from offering to help. Instead he moved his finger around on a small rectangular part of the device.He discovered quickly that moving his finger on the pad also moved a little arrow on the screen.  By the time Theo returned with the cable and plugged it into a wall, Draco was halfway through a game of solitaire.“No wait, I’m nearly done.” He whined, as Theo took the device away from him.Draco scowled while he watched Theo attempt to plug the cable into one of the many oddly shaped holes along the side of the laptop. Eventually he found the right one.“So,” Theo declared, “You need to make an email address.” Draco listened as the computer made an odd repetitive noise that Theo informed him was ‘connecting to the internet.’  He’d already forgotten what the internet was. Theo tapped at the keys and Draco squinted drunkenly at the screen.“What’s that?” he exclaimed, running his eyes across the letters. “Your new email address,” Theo said proudly, [email protected] ”“That doesn’t seem very professional. What’s yours?” Draco asked.“[email protected]” Theo covered his face with his hand, his shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.“But you are a mess, and what’s the ‘69’ for?” Draco was incredibly confused. Were there specific conventions that needed to be adhered to? He was woefully unprepared to be doing this, and definitely shouldn’t be doing it in this state.“Give it to me.” Draco grabbed the laptop from Theo. “How do I get rid of it?”  Theo pointed to a button in the top right corner and Draco pressed on it, erasing one symbol at a time from the screen. He tapped slowly, one key at a time. D.m.a.f.. No, fuck… top right. l.f.o.y @hotmail.com “Done. Now what?”Theo showed him how to navigate to the inbox and together they typed an incredibly brief message to Draco’s new boss.

M.G.

Yes.

D.M

After hitting send, Draco asked Theo if he could have the laptop, seeing as he’d probably need one for further communication. Theo’s eyes had grown wide, oddly, and he’d rapidly slammed the screen down.  “Not this one. There’s some, um, private things on here. Buy your own, you cheap git!”Draco ungraciously thanked Theo for his help, promised to email him when he had his own laptop and stumbled to the Floo.Two weeks and several (much longer) emails later, Draco found himself on a muggle airplane. The bird,  Bob, was secured with his trunk somewhere in the bowels of the plane. He reclined in his first-class seat, swallowed a vial of sleeping draught and slept peacefully for the entire flight. He wasn’t a fan of portkeys, and, honestly, had always wondered what flying in a plane would be like. Draco had, begrudgingly, engaged in a crash course on muggle Australia. He was aware of the processes within airports, and struggled through them along with dozens of irritated passengers. He had a wallet full of colourful notes, and a handful of octagonal silver coins.He collected his luggage and bird, and found his way to the muggle-looking payphones he’d learned were Australia’s solution to travelling long distances. He slotted four of the octagonal coins into the machine and pressed the digits 2.0.0.0.1  The sensation of payphone travel was unique. It wasn’t the awkward tug and whirlwind spinning of a portkey, nor did it bear any resemblance to the feeling of your body folding in on itself during Apparition. This motion felt like the world had been bent, so that the two boxes were next to each other and he simply slid from one into the other. It felt like he was sliding across ice.He opened the door of the arrival payphone, awkwardly manoeuvring the trunk and bird through the narrow space, and stepped onto the concourse of Central Station, Sydney. He immediately noticed its many similarities to Kings Cross station.

Pigeons paraded around, searching for any scraps of food they might find, swiftly descending on the scarcest crumb dropped. They fluttered across the ground, narrowly avoiding the footfalls of the people rushing between platforms. The scents of baking and braking trains mingled in the air.Draco’s stomach rumbled, alerting him to the fact it had been nearly 18 hours since he last ate. He disillusioned the luggage and Bob, leaving them in a small alcove near the front of the platform. He was again thankful for Theo, who had helped him exchange galleons for pounds, and pounds for Australian dollars. The server at the cafe flirted with him as he handed over a green note to pay for his coffee and muffin, telling her to keep the change.As he moved back toward the platforms he began to notice that many people were observing him. Their attention was not the glares, nor sneers or snide comments that he’d grown accustomed to. Their attention was… curious. He did cast quite the striking figure; roaming about the station in a three piece custom suit at 7a.m. Draco cast a hesitant smile toward a group of young men who were watching him.Ah, there were the scowls he expected. He sighed quietly and made his way back to the platform, collecting his luggage and moving to the end of the platform. Further email correspondence from the principal of the school indicated he should find himself a seat in the last carriage. He was aware there was a dining carriage as well, and hoped it would be open.Draco moved to enter the train, but was swiftly prevented entry by an older man in an orange vest.“Still being cleaned mate. Take a seat, she’ll be another 25 or so.”He glanced around the platform and located a single bench seat. A young woman was seated on the closest end of the bench - sipping on a cup of coffee bearing the same logo as his.“May I?” He asks, gesturing towards the vacant end of the seat.“Sure.” she replies, not bothering to look up from her glossy magazine.They sat in silence, him watching the pigeons on the platform and her flipping through colourful pages. “Excuse me, but I have to ask. Aren’t you bloody hot?”The question caught him off guard. He’d been called hot many times before, but this level of blatant observation of his features and physique was new.“Pardon?”“In your suit. It’s 30 degrees already. Surely you’re sweating like a pig under there.” she waved her hand at his ensemble.He laughed. He was actually extremely warm. The silk-wool blend he wore was ill-equipped  for the climate, despite the cooling charms he’d paid to be woven into them by his tailor.“I am actually. Is it always this hot?” He asked. Turning his body to face her.She closed the magazine and turned to face him as well. She was quite pretty, with her raven hair braided into a crown, a hint of freckles across her cheeks and vibrant cerulean eyes.“At this time of year? Yeah. Though today is particularly hot. ‘Suppposed to reach 40 in the valley.”Draco wondered where exactly ‘the valley’ was. She seemed open to conversation so he braved the question.“What do you mean by ‘the valley’?“Oh, it’s where this train goes. Up the coast, through Newcastle and then inland to the Hunter Valley.” She cocked her head. “Is this your first time in Australia?”He nodded. “It is.”“Where are you headed?” Their conversation flowed freely with her answering his many questions. She was part way through describing her favourite vineyard when the orange-vested man came to tell them they could get on the train ‘if they wanted to’.  “I’m getting off at Singleton, so I’ll sit in the next carriage. It was lovely to meet you… oh, I didn’t catch your name?” her raised voice indicated that she wanted to know it.Draco extended his hand. “I’m Draco, and you?”She grasped his hand and shook it, rather firmly than he was used to from a woman. “Grace.” She pulled a notebook from her bag and scribbled on a piece of paper before ripping it off and handing it to him. “Call me?”Draco looked at the series of 10 numbers completely bewildered. Grace hastened away, her shoulders slumped. He frowned again as he looked at the paper.Draco had been so engaged in conversation with Grace he had failed to notice the presence of a number of young people in his vicinity. Only a dozen or so, but they were all accompanied by trunks with small wheels on the bottom. Ingenious. Wheels on his trunk would have been far less conspicuous than the featherlight charm he’d cast to be able to lift it.The children stood in groups of various sizes. He overheard snippets of their conversations and came to the natural conclusion that these were children who attended Bungaree, though why they were heading to school earlier than required remained a mystery.He couldn’t help but compare this experience to his first time on the Hogwarts express. He vividly remembered the exhilaration of stepping through the barrier, unsure at the tender age of 11, if it was really possible to just walk through a brick wall. He’d already been unnerved, his parents both tense as they’d walked from the floo through the crowds of muggles. He recognised now that they were just people going about their lives, but then he’d looked down on them, just as his father had done. Stepping through the barrier, onto the magical platform, had felt a bit like coming home. That was the first time he’d recognised the feel of magic around him. It was entwined in the wards of the manor, but he so rarely left for extended periods, and never to places that weren’t magical - so he hadn’t ever felt its absence.  The transition from the muggle platforms to platform 9 ¾ left him acutely aware of the feel of magic - the way it thrummed in the air around him.  He could feel it again now, akin to a soft puff of air against his face as he entered the rear four carriages - those assigned for magical folk.   Inside the train, Draco discovered the differences between the carriages. The furthest back had abundant signage for quiet. In there he discovered several students seated in booths with textbooks open. He smirked. Swots. There were always swots. He wondered if one would barge in at any moment, demanding if he’d seen a toad. He stowed Bob and his luggage in the furthest booth from those students, before moving to the next carriage.The booths of the previous space were replaced with tables and chairs, and a small kiosk. A matronly woman smiled at him as he browsed the display case. “I’ll be back.” he promised as he walked away. He would be purchasing many of the delectable-looking sweets inside, but there were still two carriages to explore.The remaining carriages were similar to the first, but louder. Students sat in small groups in the booths. A couple of boys, no older than 15 by his guess, had set up a game of chess. He was confused. The students were not supposed to be back at school for another week. Why were there so many here?“Looking for something?” An older boy asked. A small pin was visible on the collar of the checkered button-up shirt he wore, marking him as ‘Captain.’ Draco ran his eyes over the youth, taking in the tan pants, and polished shoes. His eyes lingered on the badge.“Can I help you?” The boy asked again.“Probably not.” Draco replied curtly.“Are you lost?” The boy asked the question with an air of superiority.“No. Not lost.”“Then what are you doing here? This section of the train is for students.” He snarled.Draco wondered if the youth would have been so bold had he known with whom he was talking.  “Travelling.”“Duh.” The youth replied. Draco wasn’t sure what that meant, however, it sounded derogatory so he took it as such.“To Bungaree.”  If these were students it would shut them up, if they weren’t - they’d simply be confused.“Oh.” the boy's face flushed with embarrassment, having realised that he had been speaking to a teacher in such a snarky tone. “My apologies. Mister..?“Malfoy.” Draco supplied.  “And you are?”“James Everingham, though everyone calls me Jimmy. I’m a school captain.” The youth held his hand out.Draco gripped the proffered hand firmly and shook it. “A captain, you say. Do you steer the ship?”A fit of giggles erupted from the girls seated near where he and Jimmy stood.“No, err. I…” he appeared to stumble for an explanation of his role in the school. “I lead the student body. Set an example. Support younger students. Things like that.”“Oh, so you’re like a head-boy?” Draco asked, trying to draw on comparisons to his own schooling structure to understand the dynamic.“A what?” The girls giggled again at their clearly flustered leader.“Never mind. Tell me though, captain, school doesn’t start for several days, why are you all so eager to return?”  While students at Hogwarts were able to return at odd times during the mid-term breaks, it was unusual for students to return to the school prior to the commencement of the academic year. What made these students so eager?“Oh, well, for us, our parents are FIFO, so when they go, we go.”“Fee-foh?” Draco asked.“Yeah, like, fly-in-fly-out? Their jobs are really far away from where we live, so they go away to work for weeks at a time, then come back for a week or so. My father’s a healer. He works in a remote community up in the Territory. Spends eight weeks there, then two at home. He flies out tomorrow, so I’m going back to school today.”Draco was fascinated. He’d never considered the possibility of healers working outside of a hospital. And they flew where they needed to go? He still underestimated the vast distances between places in Australia. Theoretically, he knew that Australia was over 30 times the size of the United Kingdom, but actually understanding that size comparison was a hard thing to do without physical experience.He stayed with the students for a while, listening to their stories, before returning for the pastries he promised. He selected a coconut and chocolate covered cake, which the woman promised was a national treasure . She was right. The inside was delightfully sweet and soft, and the chocolate melted on his tongue. His thoughts wandered as he fed pieces of coconut to Bob. He hadn’t expected to find it so easy to talk with the students.Not that he had really considered that aspect of teaching. Really, he hadn’t considered very much at all except that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get out of the country, to start fresh in a place where no-one knew his name. Where he wasn’t scowled at, simply for daring to exist in the same place as people who’d had the privilege of a different path.He’d have to teach. He’d have to prepare actual lessons for children. Salazar - what if some of them were like him? That he could probably deal with. Deny the attention, ignore the snarky comments. What if they were like his friends? He could only hope to have students who worked as hard as Theo had, who were as clever as Blaise. But, knowing his luck, he’d be more likely to have students whose efforts and aptitudes reflected Crabbe and Goyle. Draco groaned at that probability.  He opened the document Theo had made for him. Printed. That was the word. He’d been sent the curriculum for all 6 years, and had spent barely any time looking at it. An oversight on his part, he was underprepared on all fronts for this position.Draco took a deep breath in, pulled some parchment from his trunk and began to take notes.Memorising the 11 applications of eucalyptus oil and 14 properties of lemon myrtle essence took a surprising amount of effort. There were so many new plants, animals and fungi that were native to Australia and used in potion making. He really should have begun preparing for this earlier, perhaps purchased more than an introductory textbook - if he was expected to teach it. He was in over his head and starting to panic when the train pulled into its final stop.Draco carefully stowed his notes away and stood, brushing a stray piece of coconut from his suit. He made his way off the train and followed the small group of students along a dirt path that was making an absolute mess of his shoes. He scowled, knowing he’d need to cast further charms on them to prevent damage if this was the standard of road he should expect.He was so busy scowling that he hadn’t paid attention to the carriage he’d climbed into. When it began to move, he glanced up and was shocked to see the creatures harnessed to the cart.  A pair of enormous, albino kangaroos. They must have been nearly as tall as he was, and they were bounding forward, pulling him smoothly along the path.The magic keeping the carts from bouncing around was impressive. There was no way that wheels alone would keep them steady with such an incongruous form of locomotion. He watched for close to an hour as the scenery changed. He observed the fences. Some were simple wire with upright wooden posts, while others appeared to have small tufts sticking out of them at equally spaced intervals. The greener properties, with flat, open paddocks, were fenced with white post and rail that provided a beautiful contrast.Stunning horses of various shades grazed peacefully, some laid sprawled on the ground - soaking in the warm summer sun.  The road grew bumpier and more winding, as they approached hills and paddocks and fields were replaced by forests.The kangaroos slowed as they approached an enormous double gate, quadruple hinges holding each piece of wrought iron to a slab of sandstone - the words ‘Bungaree Institute of Magic’ etched into the stone.Dusty roads were replaced by concrete paths and Draco breathed a sigh of relief. He was not fond of dirt, in fact he was quite fundamentally opposed to its presence anywhere in his vicinity.He looked down into a valley which held a series of structures he presumed was the school. He’d been expecting a castle. Three large H-shaped buildings formed the perimeter between a dozen smaller buildings and a forest. In the center sat a sandstone building. Even from his position far away, Draco could see the delineation of strata in the beautiful rock. The student’s carriages dispersed, and Draco watched as they followed paths towards the H-shaped buildings. He supposed that was probably the student housing - such an odd shape to make a buildingHis own carriage pulled to a stop in front of a small house among a row of others. When he alighted from the carriage, daring to gingerly pat on the kangaroos (he just had to touch them).“G’Day!” A voice boomed from the verandah of the small house.“Hello.” Draco returned, unsure of who this person was. Surely not the principal he’d expected to be meeting. The man wore a tattered broad-brimmed hat atop his head, a cream button up shirt that appeared several sizes too large, Khaki shorts with socks and brown boots. There was some sort of cup shaped fabric over the top of his boots. Is this how Australian men dressed? No wonder people at Central Station had stared at him.“Mister G’s got some business in town, so I offered to show ya ‘round.” He’d grabbed Draco’s trunk from the rear of the carriage and was now tickling under his bird’s bill. “‘Ello Bobby, where’ve ya been?”“Did you say, Bobby?” Draco asked the man.“Yeah, this here is Bobby, Mister G’s godwit. A good bird that”“I’ll say. Flew all the way to Wiltshire.”“You don’t say. Well, looks like you've taken good care of ‘im.” Draco nodded, perplexed. He hadn’t really thought about the fact that he would have to return the bird to its owner - he’d grown rather fond of Bob. Wait.“Its name is Bob?” He asked“Yeah.” the man replied.His mother had known. Merlin’s tits.The man was studying him.  “I’m Russell.”“Malfoy.” Draco replied.  “Odd name.” Draco shrugged, comments on the absurdity of his name were not new.“Well, I’m s’posed to show ya ‘round.Draco followed as Russell showed him the hall, the student dormitories (he’d been right about the H-shaped buildings), the potions labs (junior and senior), storeroom, and gardens. “Normally there’d be some paperwork, but G wants to go over that with ya, so you’ll do that tomorrow. Come on in.”“Wait. Aren’t you going to show me to my accommodation?” Draco’s stomach filled with dread. He had a sinking feeling that he would be sharing accommodation. Russell was the care of magical creatures teacher. If Hagrid was anything to go by he was soon to be rather displeased with his accommodation.Russell winked at him.  “Sure am, come on in.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Settling into the cottage— donga , as they called it—was an adjustment, but not an unpleasant one. It was small but lived-in, carrying the unmistakable presence of someone who had made it their home for many years.Aunty had clearly left her mark. Artwork adorned the walls, a mix of traditional Indigenous pieces and paintings that looked like they had been done by students over the years. Photographs were scattered across shelves and surfaces, some framed, others simply tucked into the edges of the mirror above the side table. Hermione recognised Mr G in one of them, much younger, standing beside a group of teachers, Aunty Marlene among them, grinning as though they had just shared a private joke. It gave the place a warmth, a lived-in charm that was different from the sterile, impersonal rooms she had occupied in London.In the corner of the sitting area, a telly sat on a low stand, a subtle but clear reminder that while The Bungaree Institute was magic, it also embraced the muggle world. A two-seater sofa and an armchair were positioned towards it, the cushions slightly worn but inviting. A small, round dining table stood nearby, a vase of fresh wildflowers sitting in the centre—a detail that told Hermione Aunty took care in making the space feel alive.The kitchen was modest but functional. A fridge hummed softly in the corner, next to a small counter space, a sink, and a stove. It wasn’t much, but it was everything she needed. Hermione was relieved to see it—she had no interest in house-elves managing her meals, and the idea of cooking for herself, of maintaining her own space, reassured her in ways she hadn’t anticipated.As she wandered through, Aunty chatted easily, filling Hermione in on the school, the staff, and the gaps left behind by the two teachers who had moved on at the end of the previous term.“Mr G was runnin’ ‘round like a chook with no head,” Aunty said, shaking her head with amusement. “Lucky he found you and a Potions Master just in time.” She shot Hermione a knowing look. “Young fella, that one. Be nice for you to have another professor close to your age, yeah?”Hermione hummed noncommittally, though she was relieved to hear she wouldn’t be the only younger professor on staff. It wasn’t that she minded being surrounded by older academics, but it would be nice to have at least one colleague who understood what it was like to be early in their career.As they moved down the short hallway, Hermione took in the practical layout of the space. The bathroom was small but clean, with a simple shower, a toilet, and a sink set beneath a mirrored cabinet. Nothing fancy, but functional.Further down, three doors branched off the hall. One was slightly ajar, revealing a compact laundry space—another thing Hermione was grateful for. She had always disliked the concept of magical housekeeping services, preferring to manage her own affairs rather than rely on unseen labour.The last two doors were the bedrooms. One was fully open, the room beyond clearly unoccupied. A neatly made bed, a chest of drawers, and a desk sat waiting, untouched and impersonal, ready for its new occupant. Her new space.She stepped inside, taking a slow breath as she surveyed it. The walls were bare, the furniture simple, but it was hers to make her own. And for the first time since arriving, the reality of it all settled in.This wasn’t just a visit. This was home, at least for now.And strangely, that thought didn’t unsettle her at all.Unpacking didn’t take long—she had never been one to bring unnecessary clutter—but as she folded the last of her clothes into the small chest of drawers, Hermione realised she would definitely be making a trip home to collect more of her belongings. The provided desk was functional, but she preferred her own, she had spent a small fortune on it back in England and she had brought it all the way to Australia on this trip, shrinking it down and tucking it safely into her enchanted bag, as if on some subconscious level she had already known she would need it.She paused for a moment, fingers trailing over the surface of the desk she had been provided and huffed out a quiet laugh. Maybe she wasn’t quite as dismissive of Divination as she liked to claim. Aunty would have a field day with that revelation.Pushing the thought aside, she moved about the space, adjusting it to suit her needs. The sheets on the bed were crisp and clean, but she still stripped them away and replaced them with the set she had brought from her parents’ house—a small comfort, but one that made the space feel hers . She placed a familiar throw over the foot of the bed, one her mother had given her years ago, and arranged her few personal items on the bedside table. A water bottle, a book, her favourite moisturiser—the small, practical things she used every night, grounding her in routine no matter where she was.She stepped back, surveying the room. It was still plain, still unfamiliar, but it would get there. Piece by piece, it would become hers.Aunty called her out for lunch, and Hermione, lost in her thoughts, hadn’t even realised how hungry she was until the scent of fresh bread and crisp vegetables hit her. She murmured her thanks as she took a seat at the small dining table, grateful for the meal. It was nothing extravagant—simple sandwiches, fresh and light—but, like everything she had eaten since arriving in Australia, it was somehow better . The ingredients tasted fresher, the bread softer, the ham somehow more flavourful, even though it was just ham and lettuce.As they ate, the conversation flowed easily. Hermione spoke about her work at the Ministry, the projects she had taken on after Hogwarts, and the kind of research she had been doing in Charms development. Aunty Marlene listened intently, occasionally nodding, asking thoughtful questions about her career, her interests, and what had led her here.It wasn’t long before the topic shifted.“So, tell me,” Aunty said, her voice thoughtful as she set down her sandwich. “What was it really like? Hogwarts, I mean.”Hermione hesitated before answering, taking a sip of her water to stall. “It was… magical,” she said finally, which wasn’t a lie. “It was a beautiful school, full of history. But it was also… challenging.”Aunty gave her a knowing look, sensing the weight behind her words. “And the war?”Hermione stilled.“We didn’t hear about it until after it was all done,” Aunty continued, her voice gentle but firm. “News didn’t reach us properly ‘til months later. England kept it all real quiet, real in house , yeah? But when we finally did hear, it was awful. So many deaths, so much pain. That regime, that kind of cruelty—it was hard to believe.”Hermione nodded, staring down at her plate. “It was,” she said simply.“War like that, it takes things from you,” she said finally. “Even when you survive, you leave pieces of yourself behind.”Hermione swallowed, something tight in her throat. “Yeah,” she said softly. “You do.”They lapsed into silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Hermione picked at the crust of her sandwich, feeling exposed and uncomfortable with where the conversation had turned. She mentally scolded Aunty, shouldnt people with the gift have more empathy or something.Aunty Marlene eventually smiled, a small, sad thing, and reached across the table to pat Hermione’s hand. “Well,” she said, voice warm again, “you’re here now. And you ain’t gotta carry all that on your own anymore.”Hermione nodded, unable to say anything for a moment.Aunty let the silence settle before brightening. “Now, enough of that heavy stuff. Tell me, did you bring that fancy English tea with ya, or am I gonna have to introduce you to a real cuppa?”Hermione let out a surprised laugh, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I might be a lost cause when it comes to tea.”Aunty grinned. “We’ll see about that, love.”And just like that, the conversation shifted again, lighter this time.Draco had consumed a lot of alcohol in his life, more than average for a 21 year-old, and that was saying something since he was raised in England. He considered himself a connoisseur, there were very few things that he wouldn’t try. So when Russell asked if he’d like a beer, he’d agreed wholeheartedly - assuming, incorrectly - that some alcohol would help him cope with his present situation.Despite close inspection of the walls, he was unable to discern the colour of the paint. Every available space had been covered with… how could he describe them?  Specimens was probably the most correct word to describe the array of creature parts that adorned the walls of the cramped living room.Though the room was crowded, it was clean. He sat down in the armchair that looked least used, the one facing away from the large, black, rectangular-shaped object in the corner of the room. He was pretty sure that it was a television. He’d learned about them in his muggle studies ‘crash course’ - a short course designed for people like him; marked, but not overly dangerous - to develop an appreciation for muggles and their culture.Russell returned from the kitchen with what looked to be a standard bottle of butterbeer. Perhaps the beer here was the same as home, though hopefully cooler considering the climate. The bottom of the bottle was wrapped in a soft, squishy foam. Turning it around in his hand, Draco noticed that the foam had images of kangaroos standing upright and… were they boxing?He shook his head. There were many strange things he would need to get used to, the decapitated heads of a range of native animals adorning his living space were far more problematic that some boxing marsupials.Draco leaned back in the chair and raised the bottle to his lips. The beer was cold and bubbly, and really those were the only kind things he could say about it. He was too well-raised to spit the drink out, but there was no way he would be consuming any more of the atrocious beverage.“Cheers,” Russell said as he clacked the foam of his bottle-holder against Draco’s.“Thanks,” Said Draco.They sat quietly together in the room, Russell drinking regularly from his beer while Draco, who had subtly transfigured his into water, did the same. “Bi yung arncha” Draco closed his eyes and inhaled, tempering the frustration welling inside him. This was not what he’d pictured. Escaping to Australia to teach was supposed to be a fresh start - space to sort out the bits of himself he wanted to keep in the past, and those which he’d like to take into the future.This wasn’t space. It was crowded. And now he had to sit here, in this hovel, with a man whose English became barely intelligible one awful drink in. He wanted to be patient though. He needed to be. Draco promised himself that he would try.“Didn’t quite catch that.” He said calmly, his fingers leaving indents in the foam around the bottle.“A bit young, aren’t ya? For teaching?” Much better. Hardly peak articulation, but audible and discernable words whose meaning he could grasp.He didn’t feel young.Draco shrugged. “Perhaps. It mustn’t have concerned the Headmaster though, since he hired me.”“True. Very true. And he must think high of ya to send Bob all that way.” Russell took his, now empty, bottle out of its foam sleeve and retreated to the kitchen. “‘Nother?” He called out.“No, thanks. One’s enough.”  A sip of this toxic draught was enough for a lifetime, why anyone would choose to consume more than one, ever, was beyond him.Draco heard the crack of a bottle opener and the clang of the top hitting the kitchen sink. Russell returned to his chair, slipping the bottle into a holder that Draco realised was a twin to the one in his hand. They sat there, silent again.“Is the bird really named Bob?”Russell chuckled. “Yeah. Silly name for a bird I know. Named after a character from a British TV show actually. Thought Bob was a boy, turned out to be a girl, like in the show. So we named her Bob.”Draco wondered if his mother had known, or if she’d just been being silly. No, he quashed that thought. Narcissa Malfoy was never silly. She must have known.  Known , even - with a capital K. He’d be unpacking that when he wasn’t quite so tired from travel.He stood, bid goodnight to Russell, and entered the room he’d been told was his. In the dim lighting the walls appeared to be off-white with almost pinkish undertones. Not his favourite - he preferred blues and whites for his decor. A double bed took up most of the space, situated in a corner with only a single night-stand next to it. A small wooden table and chair took up another quarter of the room. Draco sat on the chair, wincing as it creaked under his weight. Thoughts raced through his head as he rid himself of layers of clothing. He’d made a mistake. He was too young. He was barely out of school himself. Would the students even respect him? How would he sleep here? What would his mother say if she saw his living arrangements? Would the headmaster allow him to redecorate? Move even. He couldn’t stay here, in this small room. It was too dark. Too quiet. Too bleak. Too impersonal. He shouldn’t be here. He’d made a mistake.Draco slouched forward and gripped his head in both hands, rocking back and forward while his thoughts threatened to consume him. He had to remember. He’d chosen words. Words to help him.“I choose this. I choose this.” He repeated the mantra under his breath, his heart rate slowing with each repetition. It was so easy to spiral when the thoughts crept in. He’d spent so long never being enough . Never getting to choose his path. Living and suffering the consequences of situations he had no control over.  He chose this.He would continue to choose this.Unpacking was an efficient process - he opened the trunk and levitated his clothes into the small robe space he’d been given. He’d need to place an extension charm on that - it was nowhere near large enough, but he had no energy for that sort of charmwork tonight.At the bottom of the trunk lay an array of potions textbooks. Many of them were new, focusing on potions-making with ingredients native to Australia. The methods were similar to those he’d studied in his mastery, but the ingredients - their sources and preparations - were unfamiliar. He placed the new texts reverently on the desk, spines facing out. Where the chair squeaked, the desk was solid. The polished top reflected the red and orange tones of the wood. He traced the patterns of the grain with his fingers mindlessly, before flipping his hand over and rapping the backs of his knuckles against the wood. The reverberations reached his ears; the deep harmonics of the vibrating wood.He could do this. He would do this.Draco tossed and turned, the heat unbearable despite his repeated cooling charms. The bed was too small. He’d turned the fan up to the highest level, its constant whirring grating on his nerves but providing the barest flow of cool air he desperately needed against his skin. But it wasn’t enough. He threw the covers away, grabbed his pillow, and, with only moonlight to guide him, made his way to the front porch of the small abode. He settled into the hammock and rocked himself gently. The gentle breeze, hum of insects and rhythmic croaking of frogs lulled him to sleep in a matter of moments.Lying in bed that first night, Hermione let out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling as the dim glow of moonlight filtered through the curtains. The rhythmic hum of insects outside was different from the muffled city sounds she was used to in London, but not unpleasant. It was quieter here, in a way that felt vast rather than empty, as though the land itself breathed alongside her.She had gone through her usual nighttime routine—moisturiser, a few chapters of her book, the familiar rituals that grounded her no matter where she was. But now, in the stillness of the night, her mind wandered, reflecting on the series of events that had led her here.It was luck , wasn’t it? That Mr G had approached her in the pub, that she had even been in Australia still, when she had originally planned to head home weeks earlier. It was luck that the timing had aligned so perfectly, that a job she had never considered was suddenly hers.But then, her life had always been a collection of improbable circumstances.Lucky she was a witch. Lucky she had nearly been killed by a troll in her first year—because if she hadn’t, she might never have become friends with Harry and Ron. Lucky she had survived the war, when so many others hadn’t.The thought sat heavily in her chest.Luck.So much of her life had depended on it. Right place, right time. Right spell, right distraction. A hair’s breadth between life and death, between victory and ruin.She turned onto her side, frowning slightly.Was she lucky , or had she simply endured ?She exhaled, pushing the thought aside. It wasn’t a question she could answer tonight.Instead, she let her mind drift to the future. If luck had carried her this far, if it had brought her here, to this place, this moment…She wondered what luck would bring her next.Draco could smell tea. His first thought of the day was crystal clear - there was tea to be had, maybe today would be better. Days that started with a good cup of tea were always better. He rolled off what he thought was a bed and jarred his knees as he landed on the wooden floor of the front porch. Eyes squeezed shut, Draco refocused on the sounds and smells around him before he let another sense overwhelm him.
3 things he could hear. 
The morning call of birds, of magpies. The sounds of someone, Russell he hoped, moving around the kitchen.His own heart, beating rapidly.
2 things he could smell.
Tea. Lady Grey if he had to guess, based on the floral notes.Wet grass. It must have rained overnight.
1 thing he could feel.
The grain of the wood under his bare feet.Draco took a deep breath in and opened his eyes. It was almost too much. Early morning rays of sunshine streamed across his skin. He could feel their heat on his face and arms. It was unnatural for the sun to feel so warm at the crack of dawn.He cast a quick tempus. 6:00 am. What in the name of Merlin’s saggy ball sack was he doing awake at 6 am in the bloody morning? “Need a cuppa, mate?” Russell asked, his head popping out the partially opened screen door.“Yeah, thanks. That’d be great.”He ambled inside, taking a seat at the worn table in the kitchen. He must have been incredibly tired the previous evening, to not have even noticed the existence of the table. Russell placed a steaming mug in front of him. Was it odd to drink hot tea in the Australian summer? He supposed it mustn’t be - why else would his… flatmate? Ugh.. Why else would he be drinking tea?Draco splashed some milk into the mug, then lifted it to his face with both hands. He breathed in deeply, inhaling the familiar scent. “Hope you like Lady Grey. It’s one of my favourites. ‘Specially after a rough night.”“Mine too.” Draco agreed.Russell leaned against the counter. Draco could feel the older man’s eyes on him. He blew over the tea and took a few small sips, savouring this small familiar taste. The man was still watching him.“What?” He snapped.“Nothin’, just worried. You seem awful quiet.”Draco huffed. “Is that going to be a problem for you?”“Nah, I’m loud enough for the both of us, I reckon. Mr. G told us about the war, if there’s anything you…”“No. Thanks for the tea.” Draco stood abruptly, caught his chair before it toppled and marched into his room. The whole point of coming here had been to not talk about it. He wanted to forget. He was sick of the rehashed conversations. The sneers sent in his direction. The everpresent mountain of ‘what-if’s’ that were near to snowing him under.“Bugger.” Draco heard Russell’s quiet curse before he closed himself into his roomAn hour later, having used their shared (he shuddered) bathroom, Draco reappeared in the living area, his armour grounding him as he prepared for this new adventure.. He’d chosen a light grey suit, with a slim navy pinstripe, a crisp white button-up shirt and navy tie. The boots were his favourite black pair, square toed with elastic sides. They contrasted well against the grey suit.He’d shaved and finnicked with his hair until it settled into the style his mother said suited his face best. The sides and back were kept short,the sleek blond strands parted slightly off-centre and combed up and back from his face. The effect enhanced his cheekbones, so he’d been told.Russell whistled appreciatively. “Looking sharp, mate. Made ya a cuppa to go, and some toast. Better head off or we’ll be late to the meeting.”It was only a few minutes walk to reach the dining hall, where the faculty would be meeting for the day. On the way, Russell reminded him of some of the teachers, their histories and any relevant information he should know.“Mister G, he’s always just Mister G, even to the kids. He taught runes and dead languages - niche stuff that not many kids could keep up with. Then there’s Aunty Marlene - she might be the only one who’s been here longer than me I reckon. Lovely bird, teaches Divination. Always call her Aunty, yeah. It’s just respect. She’s a leader among her people, her mob. I dunno who’s teaching charms this year, Billy retired last year and Mister G was still trying to fill the position at Christmas. Hope he found someone.”Draco nodded along, barely absorbing the information as he took in the sights around him.He had been too tired to appreciate it yesterday. Not today. Today he took in the structures around him in awe. Sprawling verdant lawns gently sloped toward away from him. Enormous eucalypts stood proudly, their branches full of colourful birds. It was a wonder the branches didn’t collapse under the weight of so many.The small yellow blooms of acacia, striking reds of grevillea and bottlebrush popped against the backdrop of grass. Cobblestone paths meandered among the trees. The larger paths were covered with arched trellises, he supposed these would be made waterproof during rainy weather. It was breathtaking. He stopped, staring at the vista and imagining it crawling with students as they hurried between classes, or laid in the sun on warm days.“Stunning, isn’t it.” Russell stood next to him.Draco didn’t have the words to describe it. He’d seen it yesterday, but witnessing it in the morning was an altogether different experience. “Come on. Explore later.”Draco’s eyes continued to roam the grounds. His eyes caught on a kookaburra as it swooped down to collect its breakfast. A worm? No, bloody hell. “Russell. Did that bird just?” Draco couldn’t trust his eyes. There is no way that bird had swooped down and collected a snake for breakfast.“Sure did, baby brown by the looks of it”“Is that common?”“The snakes being around or the birds eating ‘em?” Draco paused to consider. Both options were horrible. “Both.”“Snakes’r active in the morning, mind ya step out early - they like to hunt then.”Draco shivered. He had a healthy aversion to legless squamata; snakes, pythons, adders… anything serpentine with fangs really. Russell kicked his boots. “These are a good idea, can’t bite through dragonskin.”Draco paled. While he was thankful that his boots would be effective, he wasn’t particularly fond of the idea that they would be needed for anything other than walking. They’d been purchased for their aesthetic appeal, not their protective properties.He allowed himself one full body shiver, before following Russell down the path toward the largest building on the campus. The building was old. Hardwood pillars, at least a foot across, spread evenly around the base of the building, supporting the slanting roof of the verandah that surrounded the building. The dark wood stark against the warm tones of the sandstone blocks of the main structure.The wood was cool under his hand when he placed his left palm against one on the western side of the building. He closed his eyes and felt the familiar thrum of magic. It sang to him, like the wards of his Manor, but calmer, older. The trees had been hundreds of years old when they’d been felled. Draco could see it, could feel it - like he was the tree. Keeping his eyes closed, he opened his mind to the magic - letting the ancient power flow into him. He was the tree. Tall, old and proud. Upright after years of beatings by uncountable storms. Nurtured by centuries of rain. Home to families of countless animals; koalas, gliders, native bees, monitor lizards. People had come. People that didn’t care that the tree had stood for hundreds of years. He hadn’t expected the magic to be so old here, for these buildings to be so similar to the buildings he’d grown up with. In this case the magic wasn’t imbued by people. It was intrinsic; in the ground, the soil, the air, the trees, the animals. It was everywhereDraco wiped away a single tear.Hermione’s second morning at the Bungaree Institute unfolded much like the first—early, quiet and bathed in the golden light of the rising sun filtering through the sheer curtains. The warmth of it cast soft patterns across the wooden floor, and for a moment, she simply lay there listening to the world waking up around her. The distant chaotic squawking of cockatoos echoed through the trees, a far cry from the muted hum of London traffic or even the waves crashing on the beach near her parents house. The air smelled clean, crisp, tinged with dry earth, carried on the morning breeze.She stretched, rolling her shoulders before sliding out of bed, her bare feet meeting the cool wood beneath her. She had always been an early riser, but waking up here was different. London mornings had always felt heavy—grey skies, smog hanging thick in the air, a sense of urgency that never quite left her chest. But here? Here, it felt open. Expansive . Like there was space to breathe, to think. Like the day ahead wasn’t something to be conquered, but to step into.  Moving through her morning routine, she dressed in a casual knee length dress in forest green, something light and practical for the head, and slipped on a simple pair of sandals. Her hair, thick as ever, was quickly piled on top of her head using a scrunchie she had enlarged to hold it all. She eyed herself in the small mirror above her dresser, tilting her head.
Maybe I should get a haircut now that I'm staying? 
The thought was fleeting , but it stuck in the back of her mind as she grabbed her bag. She had tried to dress more formally the day before, slipping into a smart skirt and blouse out of habit, only for Aunty to take one look at her and burst into laughter.“Baiame’s breath, girl, you look like a penguin!”Hermione had turned bright red on the spot, realising instantly how ridiculous she must have looked among the relaxed atmosphere of the school. She had promptly changed into something more casual, mortified at the thought of coming off as some stiff, awkward British child playing dress up. Stepping outside onto the deck, she was immediately greeted by the scent of tea and the sight of Aunty leaning against the wooden railing, her movements low and easy, like she had all the time in the world. “Good morning” Hermione greeted, stepping up beside her. Aunty glanced at her with a smile “Mornin’, love. Sleep alright?” Hermione nodded, inhaling deeply. “I did it's so much quieter than the city”Aunty hummed in agreement, taking a slow sip of her tea. “Quiet’s good. Gives you space to hear yourself think” she shot Hermione a sidelong glance “something I reckon you don't do enough of.”Hermione huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “I think too much, if anything.”Aunty just smirked “ah, nah, thinkin’ and listenin’ are two different things”Hermione wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that so she focused on the view instead. The Institute was coming alive with the morning. The pathways winding between the buildings were bathed in golden light, the sandstone structures glowing warmly against the rich, dark wood that framed them. The land stretched far beyond the main grounds, rolling hills in the distance giving way to scattered gum trees and fields that seemed to go on forever.“C’mon then” Aunty said, setting her empty mug down “let's get down to the hall before all the good grubs gone for this meeting.”Hermione followed her walking alongside her down the path towards the hall where the meeting was being held. It would be her chance to officially meet all the professors for the first time. As they approached the hall Hermione took a moment to truly see it.  It was nothing like Hogwarts—there were no looming towers, no imposing grey stone that seemed to hoard secrets in its cracks. Instead, the main building was made of warm, golden sandstone, its surface catching the morning light in a way that made it glow. A wide, dark-wood verandah wrapped around it, welcoming rather than intimidating, lined with carved posts that told stories she couldn’t yet read.Large open windows allowed sunlight to flood the space, filling it with warmth and fresh air that carried the scent of the earth, grass and something faintly sweet Hermione didn’t recognise.And then, as they stepped closer she felt it. A deep, thrumming energy pulsed beneath her feet—not in the way magic crackled in the air at Hogwarts, restless and sometimes unpredictable, but something more ancient, more rooted. The very foundations of the place seem to breathe, carrying stories and power woven into the land itself. It was old, not just in years but in existence, as though it had always been here, waiting, watching, knowing.This was the heart of the Institute, but unlike the great hall at Hogwarts, it wasn't a place of hierarchy, of head tables and rigid divisions. It was a space meant for gathering, for sharing, for coming together as equals. She could not keep her eyes off It.Draco could hear voices from inside, the familiar sounds of kissed cheeks, cheery ‘hello’s’ and ‘how’ve you been’s’. That wasn’t for him. A few more minutes outside wouldn’t hurt. He walked slowly, eyes closed as he took careful steps forward, his fingers tracing the strata. He felt when he reached the corner and turned, his fingers finding small dents where chips of stone had been knocked away.He took one last step forward before his chest collided with someone’s head.Draco’s eyes snapped open and he reached forward to steady her, grabbing her shoulders to prevent her impending tumble. Her bare skin was warm under his hands. He hurriedly stepped back and opened his eyes. “I’m so sorry, I should have been looking where I was going.”Bloody hell. Of all the ways to start his new job, barrelling into a student like a blind idiot wasn’t exactly ideal. Draco barely managed to steady himself before the woman he’d collided with spun around, her movements sharp, eyes wide with shock.He blinked.She blinked back.For a beat, neither of them spoke.Then, in a voice thick with disbelief, she said, "Malfoy?"

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Was there a level of hell reserved for people to be tormented by those they’d wronged?He’d moved halfway across the world for a fresh start. For a chance to get away from his past. And here, on the official first day of his first job he found himself literally running into some from the past he was so desperately running from. A person who should hate him. Karma was a bitch.He blinked in confusion. Maybe he’d heard wrong. Maybe he’d seen wrong. Maybe, just maybe, he would wake up from this nightmare and his first day at his new job would not start with him almost knocking Hermione bloody Granger to the ground.“Malfoy, are you okay?” she asked.Was he okay? No. He was definitely not. Unbidden, his occlumency walls sprung up, closing off the memories of her in his home. Separating their present sun-kissed warmth from the memories of unrelenting fire. He couldn’t deal with that now. Couldn’t deal with her. Couldn’t deal with this.He stepped back. Shaking his head vigorously, clinging to the last vestige of hope that this was a nightmare; that he was still asleep in the hammock. A look of concern spread across her features, her dark brows furrowed - her full attention on him.“Malfoy. You look.. Pale. I’ll get you some water.”“No.” His voice was even. Toneless in a way he hadn’t heard for years. He’d worked so hard with Healer Binns to come to terms with the emotions that tried to control him. This step backwards would cost him dearly. It took mere moments for him to slip, to lock his emotions away and exist as a simulacrum of himself. “No, Granger. Go inside.”Her concern lingered as she attempted to read his expression, her eyes scanning every inch of his façade. Whatever she was looking for, she wouldn’t find it. His face was a perfect mask of nothingness. With a slight huff, she turned and disappeared around the corner of the enormous barn doors. He watched the slouch of her tanned shoulders as she escaped.Draco counted backward from ten, wanting to make sure she wouldn’t reappear and follow him. He needed space right now. Quiet.Time.His eyes fixed on a bench under a tall eucalypt. The driftwood called to him and his long strides carried him there quickly. The warmth of the sun helped. Occlumency created a vacuum in his soul that sucked away the heat from his body along with his emotions. He leaned back against the firm wood and tilted his chin to the morning sun.He closed his eyes against its brightness. He was lucky - he thought, to be in a place where he felt safe enough to close his eyes in public. Despite his encounter, he still felt safe here. Unmoored, confused, concerned, but still safe. Granger wouldn’t hurt him. She’d spoken for him at his trial. With trepidation he began to lower his occlumency walls. First he let in those newest memories of her.She had worn a pant-suit to his trial, causing quite the stir among pureblood circles in the process. He smiled at the memory of the shock on their face when she’d strode in - her hips swaying as she took purposeful steps toward the podium. She’d offered him the tiniest hint of a small before she began to speak, her words loud and clear. He was a ‘child soldier’ caught in a war where not a single adult had offered him a better path. She’d spoken for close to half an hour - outlining the many ways his family and their school had done him wrong. Granger had declared him their saviour, for the sole act of denying knowledge of their identity. She’d gripped her arm as she recounted that terrible day.No. Granger wouldn’t hurt him at all. He heard quiet footsteps approach his seat. A woman stood in front of him, a welcoming smile on her face. Tight onyx curls, streaked with grey, framed her lined face. They were different from the aged faces he knew. A burst of fine lines originated from the corners of her burnt umber eyes. From smiling he realised, as she blessed him with a wholesome smile.His lips turned up at the corners, her smile infecting his features. What magic was this, he wondered? What magic could pull him back from despair with the smallest gesture, the simplest expression. She inclined her head toward the other side of the bench, silently seeking permission to sit. He nodded, turning his body ever so slightly to observe this woman. She sat, copying his previous position - eyes closed and head tilted back to bask in the sun that filtered through the canopy of the ancient tree. He watched the dappled sun play across her features. “It’s nice here, hey Brother?”Her smooth voice and term of endearment shocked him. Before he could voice his displeasure at her choice of words he remembered Russell’s advice about how to speak. He could guess from her disposition that this was Aunty Marlene, the divination teacher at the Bungaree.“Indeed.” He replied.They sat there in silence.“Your heads goin too fast.” She told him, her eyes still closed, fingers playing with knots in the wood.Ordinarily he’d have snapped back. Of course his head was going too fast, his mind racing at a million miles an hour as he tried to accept this new reality he’d found himself. A dimension where his newfound peace would be disrupted.But there was something about her. He couldn’t bring himself to snap at her, to snark or snarl or bare his teeth in defense as she pried. His walls crumbled.“Yeah. A bit.”“It don’t need to. Just slow it down. One thought at a time, yeah?” Her eyes were still closed. He appreciated the space this gave him, to register her words without being examined. To prepare his words without scrutiny. To not need to expend energy on keeping a mask in place lest his true feelings be discovered.“I wasn’t ready.”“You’re where you need to be. Trust the magic. Can you feel it?”Draco frowned. Was he where he needed to be? He’d felt the magic of the timber pillars around the barn, the stories held in century-old wood. The sandstone hummed with magic. He thought he could taste it in the air.“Can you taste the magic here?” He asked. Hoping she wouldn’t laugh at his question. She didn’t seem the type to mock.The lines around her eyes deepened and the apples of her cheeks rose. “I can. Not many white fella’s do though. Your magic’s strong if you can taste it.”“It’s sweet.”Draco closed his eyes again and just let himself be, let his thoughts slow. He wanted to be here. He felt like he belonged here, despite his reservations about his living arrangements, his concerns about the syllabus and his fear of the unknown. He wanted to be here.“Aunty,” Draco began, not sure if she was who he thought she was.  She turned her head and graced him with another wide smile. “I’ve done terrible things.”“Oh brother, we all have. Don’t go thinking you’re alone in that, see.”“I just wanted a fresh start.”“Then take it. Start fresh. Be who you wanna be. Learn from the past, from what ya did, but don’t let it decide ya future.”  She reached over and wrapped her warm hands around his, squeezing lightly, before releasing them.“Take the time you need, then come and start fresh. She won’t say anything.”Draco startled at her words. Did Aunty mean Granger? Did she know Granger? Could he dare hope that she’d keep her mouth closed? She hadn’t seemed scared of him. Her expression had been laced with concern. Not disgust. Not anger. Not hatred.Maybe she just wanted a fresh start too.Draco slipped quietly into the hall and took a seat at the end of the long table. No eyes flicked his way, but Russell slid him a cup of tea across the table. He wrapped his hands around the mug and breathed in the fragrant steam of the peppermint tea.Mister G was finishing his welcome speech, rattling off information about new students and detailing the improvements that had been made over the holidays to the Magical Creatures Quarters and Herbology Plot.The principal announced some ‘team-building activities’ to start the year, separating the staff into smaller groups. To Draco’s dismay, he was placed in a group with Granger, a middle-aged man named Burke who had more freckles on him than all the Weasley’s combined, and an older woman named Rosie.“Righto, listen up. Activity number 1. Tell your team something you’re grateful for.”Burke went first. He was grateful for the new Herbology plot. Apparently the wards and fences on the previous plot were hardly impervious to a range of creatures and his plants were constantly being damaged by the wildlife.Rosie said she was grateful to have spent the summer with her family in Tasmania. Her recount of the time left little doubt that she was the proud matriarch of a large and loving family.Granger cleared her throat. “I'm grateful that Mister G found me in a coffee shop and invited me to work here. It’s such a wonderful opportunity and I’m so excited to be working somewhere close to my parents.” Her parents? What were her parents doing on this side of the globe? He cocked his head without thinking, contemplating what could have led them to sojourn so far from good old England.It was his turn. What was he grateful for? For this opportunity? For this fresh start.“I’m grateful Bob didn’t die on her journey from here to bloody Wiltshire.”The Australians chuckled quietly at his joke. “That bird might just be invincible, I reckon.” Burke said.Granger spoke quietly with Burke, questioning him about the plants in the Herbology plot. He overheard him mentioning some plants he’d read about and catalogued his questions for later. He had no interest in participating in that conversation with Granger.Mister G clapped his hands and the sounds of staff conversations dimmed. “Righto, from what I’ve heard it sounds like we’ve all got a lot to be grateful for. For the next activity you’ll all need a sticky note and a pen.” He snapped his fingers and squares of yellow paper appeared on the table next to him, along with strange cylindrical objects.“This is a hypothetical for most of you, and if it’s not, well, let’s just pretend everyone is on the same page here. If you were to become an animagus, what form would you choose and why? Don’t write your name on it - just the animal and why.  Then come and stick it on this board.”Draco watched as his team-mates clicked the tops of their transparent cylinders and began to write. Something tapped against his knuckles and he looked down. Granger was holding out the object for him, beckoning him to take it. “It’s like a quill, Malfoy. Just press down gently to write.” He watched as Granger hastily scrawled something barely legible onto the yellow paper, before pulling it off and marching to the board at the front.What would he choose to be? Not a ferret, transforming into a ferret once was more than enough. A dragon would be next to useless as an animagus form, even though it would be amazing. He’d want something that would let him hide. Not something small, too meek to protect itself.He wanted to be able to hide, to be unseen. A demiguise. The transition wouldn’t be too painful, since the proportions were fairly similar to humans. But the ability to be invisible, to hide, to observe. If he could do anything, he’d want to be invisible.Draco swore quietly as he pressed too hard on the first piece of paper, pushing the tip of the writing implement through. He lessened the pressure on his second attempt and marbled at the beautiful flow of ink onto the paper.Moments after sticking his square to the assigned place, Mister G’s voice boomed again.“We’ll be coming back to that one at a later time, when we all get to know each other a bit better. Now this next one, I’m sure you’d all have played before. It’s called two truths and a lie. In your groups, each person takes a turn telling two truths and a lie and the other people have to decide what the lie is. 15 minutes for this one.Burke went first. “I grew up in Sydney. My father is a farrier. My favourite subject at school was Transfiguration.”Draco considered. Even if he hadn’t been told the man in front of him was the Herbology teacher he’d have guessed based on his attire alone. Boots, long pants with far too many pockets to be sensible, and a cream shirt covered in what appeared to be years worth of grass and dirt stains.He, Granger and Rosie huddled together. “How are we supposed to do this?” Granger asked. “I hardly know anything about anyone, this is ridiculous.” It was a miracle. He and Granger appeared to have the same opinion on this monstrosity of a team-building activity. Rosie chimed in to save the day. “Don’t you two worry, I’ve got this. He definitely grew up in Sydney - in Western Sydney - The things that man has seen.” She shook her head. “I think the transfiguration one is the lie. Why teach Herbology if your favourite subject was Transfiguration?”“Pardon,” Draco interrupted. “But I don’t have enough context to be able to answer this without knowing… What is a farrier?”Rosie chuckled. “Someone who does horses feet. Odd job for a man in the city, but not unheard of - they’ve got horses there too.”Draco wasn’t sure what ‘ doing horses feet ’ entailed, but didn’t want to dwell on it.“The transfiguration, If you loved it so much you’d be teaching it now.”Burke shook his head with a laugh. “Nah. The second one. Mum was a farrier.”Granger’s eyes shot up. “That’s a tough job.” she commented.“She’s a tough lady” Burke replied.  “You go next Hermione.”Draco wasn’t used to the sound of her name. At school it had always been Miss Granger by the teachers, Granger by himself and ‘Mione by her idiot friends. The full four syllabus had rarely been heard in their 6 years at Hogwarts together.“Oh, okay. Well—my parents are dentists. I’ve never had a pet dog, but I’ve always wanted one. And… when I was sorted at Hogwarts, the Hat actually considered putting me in Ravenclaw first.”Draco huddled with Burke and Rosie. Burke had already heard her mention that her parents owned a practice on the Central Coast, wherever that was. He seemed to think that the first of Granger’s statements was definitely true. Rosie had no clue, she’d only met Granger this morning after returning from her break.  They both looked at Draco. “I don’t know. It’s not like we were friends.”“Surely you’d know something though…” Burke prompted.  Draco thought back to their time at Hogwarts. Thinking slowly, as Aunty had instructed earlier. “She had a cat. Maybe she did want a dog, I can’t be sure. She was top of our class in nearly every subject. It’s likely the hat did want to put her in Ravenclaw, most of the brainy ones were sorted into that house.”“So you reckon the dog one then?” Burke asked.“Yeah.”Rosie spoke for the three of them. “Your parents are dentists. The hat did want to sort you into ravenclaw… wait.. A hat? You have a hat that sorts you into your school houses? What utter nonsense…” She rolled her eyes. “So the middle one is the lie. You didn’t want a dog.”Granger grinned. It was a beautiful expression, something he’d never been close enough to admire before now. “I always wanted a dog, but my dad’s terrified of them—he was attacked by one when he was a kid, so that was never an option. And the last one? That was the lie. The Hat actually wanted to put me in Slytherin, but I wasn’t having it. I argued with it until it gave in.”Draco was gobsmacked.Hermione watched as Malfoy blinked at her, his normally composed expression shifting—just slightly, but enough for her to notice. It was a far cry from the blank, detached look he had given her earlier, the one that had made her stomach twist uncomfortably in concern.This reaction, at least, was something.  "You—what?" His voice wasn’t sharp, just startled, as though she had just told him she was, in fact, secretly a Blast-Ended Skrewt.  She tilted her head, letting a small smile tug at her lips. “We were almost housemates.”  Malfoy let out a quiet scoff, still staring at her like he was trying to figure out if she was joking. “I don’t believe you. You really almost ended up in Slytherin?”  She nodded, shifting slightly in her seat. "Yes. The Hat thought I had the ambition and cunning for it. But I demanded Gryffindor, and after some convincing, it relented."  Malfoy exhaled, shaking his head, as if trying to picture a Hogwarts where Hermione Granger had been sorted into his house. She could see the wheels turning behind his blue eyes, trying to reframe her within the world they had grown up in.  "That’s… surprising," he admitted after a moment. There was no scorn in his voice, no sneer, just quiet contemplation.  She raised an eyebrow. "Why? Do I not fit your idea of a Slytherin?"  He hesitated, then gave a small, almost self-deprecating smile. "No, because I never imagined the Sorting Hat could be talked out of something, it should have put you there"  That startled a laugh out of her, a real one, warm and unguarded.  Malfoy blinked again, his expression flickering with something she was unable to read—something caught between amusement and curiosity, like he had just stumbled upon a puzzle he hadn't expected to find interesting. Hermione wasn’t sure what to make of it, but the look lingered for just a moment longer before Rosie, watching their exchange with an entertained grin, leaned forward and tapped the table.  "Well, that was fun, but let’s move on. Malfoy, you’re up."  Malfoy exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders before leaning back slightly in his chair. It was subtle, but Hermione recognised the momentary hesitation.  "Alright," he said smoothly, slipping into that effortless confidence of his, she wondered where he pulled it from. She often wished she had an unending well of confidence to draw from. "I speak three languages fluently. I’ve brewed Felix Felicis—successfully. And… I was once attacked so badly by one of my father’s peacocks that I had to be taken to St. Mungo’s for treatment."  There was a beat of silence. Then—  “Right, Hermione, you went to school with peacock-boy over here—what’s the lie?” Burke asked, and Hermione snorted before she could help herself.  Peacock-boy.Malfoy’s eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no real venom behind it, just the long-suffering patience of someone who had clearly heard worse. She would definitely prefer Peacock boy to ferret."Alright, well," Hermione said, pressing her lips together to smother her laughter. "Malfoy is posh, like proper posh, so the three languages seems likely. Probably French—since the Malfoys originally came from there, they probably still teach it. And something equally pretentious, like Latin and obviously English.”  Burke and Rosie chuckled, and even Malfoy let out a small huff of amusement.  "Alright, so if he speaks three languages, and he's our new Potions Master," Rosie mused, tapping her fingers against the table. "Surely, he’s brewed Felix Felicis?"  Burke nodded. "Yeah, and honestly, I wouldn’t be telling anyone I needed medical care because I was attacked by a peacock—so I think that’s the lie."  Hermione tilted her head, considering Malfoy for a moment. "I don’t know. His father does keep them—I’ve seen them. Peacocks all over the bloody manor, strutting around like they own the place."  Burke gave her a sceptical look. "But being attacked by one?"  She shrugged, fighting back a smirk. "I don’t know, Burke. You’d have to do a full body check to confirm."  The second the words left her mouth, she realised what she had just said.  Silence.  Heat rushed to her face as her brain caught up.  Oh, for Merlin’s sake.Malfoy blinked, then smirked—smirked—like she had handed him the perfect opportunity to make her life miserable.  Hermione groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead. "That is not what I meant."  Burke choked on a laugh. Rosie outright cackled.  Malfoy just lifted his tea to his lips, exuding smugness. "Granger," he said smoothly, voice dripping with amusement, "I had no idea you were so interested in my scars."  She shot him a glare that lacked any real heat. "Just answer the question, Malfoy."  Malfoy’s smirk widened just slightly before he set his cup down, fingers tapping against the ceramic as he let the moment stretch—just a second too long—before leaning forward slightly, his gaze flicking between them.  “The lie,” he said smoothly, drawing it out just to keep them waiting, “is Felix Felicis. I tried to brew it once—sixth year—but it never fully stabilised. I got close, but not quite.”  Burke grinned. “Ah, see, now it sounds like you were outwitted by a bird. That’s even worse.”Rosie, still grinning, turned to Malfoy with clear amusement. “What did you do to it, anyway?”  Malfoy sighed dramatically, setting his cup down again. “I was six. It was nesting season. I got too close, and apparently, my father’s prized Albino Peacocks didn’t appreciate company while laying their eggs.” He lifted his sleeve on his right arm slightly, revealing a faint, thin scar along his wrist on both sides “Talons. Straight through my robes nearly ripped my hand off.”  Burke whistled lowly. “Damn. At least you got a battle scar out of it.”  Hermione, who had spent most of the conversation half-smiling, half-wondering if Malfoy had always been this dryly funny, finally spoke up. “I can’t believe I went to school with you for six years and never heard you were maimed by a peacock.”  Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Hardly maimed, Granger. Though, I did have to sit through six separate healing charms while father lectured me about ‘respecting creatures of prestige.’” He shook his head, as if the memory itself exhausted him. “Frankly, I’d have rather bled out.”  Rosie and Burke both laughed, and, to her own surprise, Hermione felt herself grinning.  She caught Malfoy watching her, his gaze unreadable but not unkind.  Maybe this wasn’t going to be as terrible as she’d first worried.“Right, Rosie, show us what you’ve got,” Burke said, leaning back with an easy grin.  Rosie tapped a finger against her chin, her brow furrowing slightly in thought. “Alright,” she said after a moment, her lips twitching with a smile. “I am one of nine children—”  Burke let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Merlin’s beard, nine?”  Rosie smirked. “That’s not the whole thing, mate, let me finish.” She held up a finger to silence him before continuing, her voice taking on a playful lilt. “I once played Quidditch in a semi-professional league. And lastly, I can recite every Australian Prime Minister in order.”  Hermione blinked. “That’s—an interesting mix.”  Burke laughed. “Right, so we’ve got big family, pro athlete, and walking encyclopedia—what’s the lie?”  Hermione considered. “Well, she did say she spent the summer in Tasmania with her large family, so I’d say the first one is likely true.”  Malfoy, who had seemed to be focused on Rosie, as if he could will the lie out of her, finally spoke. “I’d like to believe that no one voluntarily memorises the entire history of Prime Ministers unless they were forced to at wandpoint.”  Rosie chuckled, eyes twinkling. “You’d be surprised.”  Burke drummed his fingers against the table, looking between them. “Alright, so what’s it gonna be? Was she a Quidditch star, or is she secretly the human equivalent of a history textbook?”  Hermione glanced at Rosie again. There was a certain confidence in the way she sat, something athletic about her posture.  “I think the prime minister one is the lie,” she said slowly.  Burke hummed, mulling it over. “ I can see her on a broom—maybe as a Chaser? Tassies a lot smaller than the mainland; brooms are more common there”  Rosie simply folded her arms, watching them with amusement.  Malfoy, looking rather unimpressed, tapped his pen against the table. “Well, if you actually did play Quidditch, why would you give it up to teach?”  Burke smirked. “Oi, some of us actually like education, Draco.”  Rosie let out a short laugh. “Alright, alright, I’ll put you out of your misery. The lie is Quidditch. I wanted to play when I was younger, but I was rubbish at it. Got hit in the face with a Bludger in my first match and promptly retired before I’d even started.”  Malfoy looked vindicated. “Knew it!”  Hermione grinned. “And the Prime Ministers?”  Rosie lifted her chin with mock dignity. “Word for word. Dates included. A very unfortunate talent acquired in primary school that I have never been allowed to forget.”  Malfoy sighed dramatically, rubbing his temple as though the mere thought of memorising every Australian Prime Minister in order caused him actual pain. “I stand by what I said. Why would anyone willingly do that to themselves?”  Rosie chuckled, utterly unbothered. “It’s called having a well-rounded education, Draco.”  “Sounds more like self-inflicted torture,” he muttered, shaking his head.  Before anyone could respond, Mr G clapped his hands together, his voice carrying easily over the low hum of conversation.  “Alright, looks like everyone’s had a bit of fun, so let’s take a break. Grab a scone or a biccie, top up your cuppas, and be back in fifteen for the next activity.”  There was a general shuffle as chairs scraped back and people started moving toward the refreshment table, the atmosphere lighter now, more relaxed.  Hermione watched as staff dispersed, some making a beeline for the tea and coffee, others eagerly loading their plates with golden scones, slathering them with thick cream and deep red jam. The scent of butter and warm pastry filled the air.  She stood, stretching slightly before glancing at the table. Malfoy, to her mild surprise, hadn’t immediately left. Instead, he was watching the others with a sort of detached curiosity, as if trying to gauge whether he actually wanted to participate or not.  “C’mon, mate,” Burke said, nudging him with an easy grin. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had a fresh scone from Maggie’s kitchen.”  Rosie nodded in agreement, already making her way towards the food. “Be quick, Draco. Grab one before they’re gone.”  Hermione hesitated for only a moment before stepping toward the table, slipping easily into the familiar motions of gathering a plate and selecting a scone. She split it in half, carefully layering on the jam before adding a generous dollop of cream, her fingers moving automatically while her thoughts wandered elsewhere.  Malfoy.  Her gaze flickered toward him, watching as he lingered near Burke and Rosie, his expression unreadable as he observed the others. It truly made no sense how they had both ended up here, in this place, of all places.  She had spent the morning pushing thoughts of him aside. But now, standing here, she finally let herself think about the last time she had really seen him.  His trial.  The cold, clinical atmosphere of the Wizengamot chambers. The way he had looked in the cage—thin, pale, his hands clasped tightly together as if holding himself together. His mother sat stiffly in the gallery, her chin lifted even as her fingers twisted in the fabric of her robes.  Hermione had tried not to look too much, tried not to let herself feel too much, but that image of him—isolated, exhausted—had stayed with her longer than she cared to admit.  She physically shook the thought from her mind, as if she could dispel it with movement. That was years ago. He’s here now. He’s free.  With her plate in hand, Hermione wove her way through the room, stepping lightly, mindful not to draw too much attention. Malfoy stood near Burke and Rosie, engaged in quiet conversation, his fingers curled loosely around his tea while a small, untouched plate rested in his other hand. He looked composed, but there was something in his posture—something restrained, like he was holding himself carefully in place, not quite settled.  She hesitated just a step before reaching him.  This was going to be awkward, no matter how she framed it. But if they didn’t address it now, it would only fester—hanging between them like an unfinished sentence, waiting for the right moment to intrude.  Taking a steadying breath, she stepped forward, stopping just in front of him.  “Malfoy,” she said gently, then glanced at Burke and Rosie with a polite smile. “Sorry to interrupt.”  His gaze lifted to hers, silver-blue and unreadable, though there was something expectant in the way he held himself—like he’d been waiting for this.  “Can we speak for a moment?”  He didn’t answer immediately, and she glanced down, suddenly hyper-aware of the quiet twist of nerves settling in her stomach. She hated feeling uncertain, but there was no easy way to approach this.  Absently, she dipped a finger into the cream of her scone, before sucking it off, needing something—anything—to focus on for a short moment.  When she finally looked back up, Malfoy was still watching her, his brow slightly furrowed. He exhaled slowly, as though he were bracing himself.  “Alright, Granger,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, something unreadable lingering in the words. “Let’s talk.”  He stepped away first, giving her space to follow. They moved toward a quiet corner near the large windows, the hum of conversation from the others fading into the background. Outside, the late morning sun bathed the landscape in soft golden light, casting long shadows across the floor. She turned to face him, shifting her plate in her hands as she tried to find the right words.  “Right, well. Um.” Merlin, when had she ever been this ineloquent?  Malfoy raised an eyebrow, waiting.  She exhaled, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I just—” she hesitated, tightening her grip on the plate. “I just wanted to say that everything that happened back home… I’d like to leave it there. And maybe… just start fresh.”  His expression flickered with surprise. As if he hadn’t expected her to say anything of the sort..  She watched him carefully, unsure of what response she was expecting. Would he laugh? Brush her off? Act as though she were being naive for thinking they could just reset?  For a long moment, he said nothing.  Then, slowly, he tilted his head, studying her with something closer to curiosity than scepticism.  “You want to start fresh,” he repeated, as if testing the words.  She nodded, shifting slightly on her feet, aware of the weight of the moment between them. “Yes. I think… I think we’re both different people now. And we’re in a different place—without everything hanging over us. Maybe we could just… try?”  Malfoy studied her, his expression unreadable. She could almost see the wheels turning in his mind, the way he weighed her words like they were something fragile, something unexpected. His lips pressed together, and for a moment, she wondered if he would reject the idea entirely—if he’d scoff, brush her off, remind her that he was still the same boy from Hogwarts.But then—he exhaled slowly through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. Not fully. But enough.  “Alright,” he said at last, his voice quieter, steadier. “Fresh start.”  Hermione let out the breath she had been holding, something warm unfurling in her chest. She glanced down at her scone before looking back up, lips twitching into something softer.  She adjusted her plate to one hand and extended the other toward him, a playful lightness in her voice.  “I’m Hermione Granger. It’s nice to meet you.”  For a moment, he just looked at her—like he wasn’t entirely sure if she was serious, like he was trying to make sense of the fact that this was happening.  Then, something flickered in his gaze—amusement, maybe, or something even closer to relief.  With a quiet huff, he set his own plate aside and reached out, his fingers brushing hers as he shook her hand.  “Draco Malfoy,” he replied, his lips quirking in something that almost resembled a smile. “Likewise.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Their handshake lingered in Hermione’s mind as she returned to her seat at the long wooden table. She picked up her scone, finally allowing herself a proper bite. The sweetness of the jam, the richness of the cream—it was as indulgent as promised, the buttery crumble of the scone melting on her tongue.Burke had been right; she hadn’t truly lived until now.She let out a sound of appreciation before glancing around the hall, taking in the easy warmth of the staff around her. Burke was mid-story, his hands moving wildly, his words animated enough to draw laughter from Rosie, who shook her head in obvious amusement. Other staff members Hermione had yet to be introduced to were still gathered around the refreshments, topping up their tea and chatting in relaxed murmurs.It was… nice. Comfortable. A small moment of stillness in what had already been an eventful morning.Reaching for the jug of iced water in the centre of the table, she tipped some into her glass and took a slow sip, the coolness a welcome contrast to the warmth of the morning already.She had done it.Malfoy had agreed—tentatively, but agreed nonetheless—to leave the past where it belonged and draw a line between what had been and what could be. Whether or not they could actually stick to it, though… well, that was another thing entirely.Before she could dwell too much on the implications of that thought, a sharp, piercing whistle rang through the hall, pulling her attention forward.Mr G grinned as conversations died down, waiting only a moment before calling out, “Alright, break’s over. Let’s get back to it.”Chairs scraped as staff settled back into their seats, cups and plates hastily placed before them. Hermione straightened in her chair as Mr G glanced toward her and Malfoy before continuing.“Now, before we move on to the next activity, I want to briefly go over some key policies—especially for the benefit of our new recruits.”His gaze lingered on them for just a beat longer before he clapped his hands together and turned toward the board at the front of the room.“First up—yard duty. As most of you already know, we have evening yard supervision every night. While we encourage independence, we also like to ensure the students have some oversight when they’re out and about after hours. That’s where you lot come in.”With a quick tap of his wand, a detailed rota unfurled onto the board, names neatly aligned in columns beside designated days.“We pair staff together, one term at a time—ten weeks—to ensure no one is stuck doing rounds alone. It’s both a safety measure and a fairness issue,” Mr G continued. “The schedule is posted here, so make sure you check it regularly. You’re welcome to swap nights or partners as needed, but try to stick to the schedule to keep things balanced. If any problems come up, report them, but honestly, we’ve got a decent bunch of students at the moment—shouldn’t be too much of a hassle.”Hermione nodded along, taking in the information. It made sense. Hogwarts had Prefects and Professors who monitored the corridors after curfew, but this was different. Bungaree encouraged more freedom, which meant the adults had to be more present rather than authoritative.“Next up—meals,” Mr G continued, his gaze sweeping over the gathered staff. “As you would have seen in your information packs, your shopping list needs to be submitted to Maggie by 10 a.m. sharp every Sunday. She handles all the food shopping for staff, so if you miss the deadline, well you’ll be getting creative with whatever’s left in the pantry.”A few chuckles rippled through the room, and Hermione made a mental note to set a reminder for Sunday mornings.Mr G leaned forward against the back of the chair in front of him, folding his arms, his easy confidence settling over the room. “Once Maggie’s done with the shopping, you can swing by the kitchens to collect your food. You’re free to prepare your own meals in your donga or, if you’d rather avoid the hassle of cooking, you’re always welcome to eat in the hall with the students. That choice is entirely yours—there’s no expectation to attend every meal.”Hermione nodded along, appreciating the balance between structure and autonomy. The Bungaree Institute clearly had a more communal, hands-on approach than Hogwarts, but it also valued giving people space to manage their own routines.Mr G’s grin widened slightly. “That being said—if you do decide to eat in the hall regularly, be prepared for the students to start pulling you into the process. They run the kitchen here as part of their learning, so don’t be surprised if they start handing you an apron and setting you to work. They don’t take kindly to freeloaders,” he added with a knowing chuckle.A ripple of laughter moved through the staff, and Hermione caught Burke elbowing Rosie, who smirked but said nothing.Mr G clapped his hands once, bringing the focus back. “However,” he continued, his tone taking on a note of quiet emphasis, “we do ask that most staff make an effort to be here on Sunday nights. It’s not just about the food—it’s about the community. It gives students a chance to chat with you outside of class, to see you as more than just teachers. They love it—sometimes they’ve got questions, sometimes they just want to swap stories. It helps build trust, and in a school this size, trust is everything.”Hermione found herself nodding again, something warm settling in her chest. Hogwarts had never operated like this. Sure, the staff had been respected, even admired—but always from a distance. The authority of the professors had been unquestioned, their word law within the castle’s walls. There had been little opportunity for students and teachers to truly connect beyond the classroom.But here…Here, everything felt different . The lines between authority and guidance blurred in a way that didn’t diminish respect but rather nurtured trust . The staff weren’t just educators; they were mentors, figures embedded in the very fabric of the students' lives. It was a school built on shared responsibility, where knowledge and experience were passed down in a way that was meant to be lived , not just learned.Mr G shifted slightly, his gaze sweeping the room as he moved on to the next topic. “Last but not least—how we handle Muggleborn students.”Hermione immediately perked up, curiosity flaring.“I’m not sure how common they are in England,” Mr G continued, “but here, we get a lot . It’s usually an even split between kids who come from magic and those who don’t, which means we’ve had to make sure the transition into wizarding life is as smooth as possible.”He tapped his wand against the board, and a few notes appeared in a tidy script. “When Year Sevens first arrive, we run a special orientation program just for them. Each professor takes a turn running a class on different aspects of magical life—traditions, history, how the Ministry works, even the basics of magical etiquette. The idea is to get them comfortable before they’re thrown into a completely new world.”This was exactly what had been missing at Hogwarts. There had been no structured help for Muggleborns—no guide to navigate magical customs, no one to explain the intricacies of wizarding culture beyond what was required for coursework. You either figured it out yourself, or you floundered. She had been lucky—her natural thirst for knowledge had made up for the gaps. But also muggleborns were pretty rare, out of their whole year there had been only three. “Parents are also given comprehensive documentation,” Mr G continued. “We try to keep them involved as much as possible, so they’re not completely lost when their kid suddenly starts talking about things like apparition and Gringotts. Most of our families here are very integrated in the Muggle world. Being able to move between both seamlessly is a big part of how our students are raised. But we do get some kids from remote areas who have only ever lived in magical communities, and funnily enough—they sometimes struggle just as much .”Hermione raised an eyebrow, intrigued.“We run a parallel program for them as well,” he explained, crossing his arms. “It’s a bit different, of course—more focused on things like Muggle technology, transport, social norms, that sort of thing. Some of them have never used a phone before or had to deal with things like public transport, and we don’t want them feeling like they’re the outsiders in a mixed environment. It’s all about integration—making sure every student can move through the world with confidence, whether it’s magical or Muggle.”Hermione felt a slow smile tug at her lips.It was thoughtful. Practical. The kind of forward-thinking approach that made her chest ache with the realisation that this, this , was how magical education should be.She couldn’t believe just how far behind the curve England was. For all its history and prestige, the British wizarding world clung stubbornly to outdated traditions, too rigid in its ways to acknowledge how much better things could be. The contrast was stark—Hogwarts, for all its grandeur, had never taken steps to truly support Muggleborn students the way Bungaree did.Had she ever really questioned it before? Had she just accepted the way things were because she had managed to navigate them herself?She wondered if other countries had similar programs in place, if this kind of structured integration was more common than she realised. She had to admit, she had never thought to look into it —never thought to ask the right questions. The realisation left her feeling oddly unsettled, but also determined.A letter.She could write to McGonagall.The Headmistress was progressive in her own right, but she was still bound by the weight of centuries-old traditions. Maybe if Hermione laid it all out—the structure of Bungaree’s program, the benefits, the sheer logic of it—maybe it could plant the seed for change back home.Her mind spun with possibilities, weighing how she might outline her argument, the most effective way to present the case—A sudden movement around her pulled her back into the present. She blinked, realising that the room had shifted.People were standing.Wait— why was everyone standing?Her stomach dropped. Shit.. She had been so lost in thought she had completely missed the instructions for the next activity.He thought he’d misheard Mr. G. Staff were to cook their own meals, order their own ingredients? He’d almost choked on the last remnant of the best scone he’d ever had as the Principal’s words washed over him.Draco reconsidered, once again, his choice to come to Australia. His ancestors would be rolling in their graves if they knew he’d stooped so low in life that preparing his own food was a day-to-day requirement.  Breakfast wouldn’t be a problem, he would survive on a morning snack of green apples. The Granny Smith apple he’d tasted on the train was firmly cemented as his favourite, with its delightfully crisp texture and tart flavours. It far surpassed the crumbly texture of the apples he’d known in his childhood.But meals for the rest of the day? He didn’t even know which ingredients were essential for most of the meals he requested of the elves. Heck, he barely knew the names of most of them. He’d need to find a way to contact home; to ask his mother or their elf about the required ingredients for that fish dish with lemons and broccoli on the side. His mouth watered at the thought of the soft flesh of steamed fish melting on his tongue.The next shock to his system was the announcement of integration programs for both Muggleborn and Pure-blood witches and wizards. He could understand the need for the Muggleborn programs - they would be coming to school at a disadvantage; having not been exposed to magic in their formative years. Everything would be new. He’d need to think carefully about the language he used. He couldn’t take for granted that students had any sort of background information about potions, ingredients or processes. Draco considered the lesson he’d prepared for the first-years. Ugh. Year Seven’s, he corrected himself mentally - that would take some getting used to. Why they were ‘year seven’ when it was their first year at a magical school, he didn’t understand. It seemed to have something to do with continuation in line with the statewide practice of completing 6 years of primary education and then another 6 in secondary education.Regardless, it was likely that the ‘sevvies’ - as they were colloquially known - would not know the difference between a pewter and a copper cauldron. They may not be able to differentiate between crushed fiddle-wigs and ground fiddle-wigs. Merlin, he thought, they might not even know that they needed to use their wands for the potion water.  Bloody hell. The first thing he’d need to do was ensure they could all cast and aguamenti. He’d need to discuss this with the charm’s professor. With Hermione.But the concept of a program for Pureblood children vexed him. He simply couldn’t understand how someone who’d grown up in a magical environment wouldn’t be prepared for magical schooling. For him and his pureblood friends, magic was an intrinsic part of who they were. With it came power. The power of his name and of the blood-magic wards woven into the foundations of his home. He’d known about magic his whole life. He was far better prepared for the Hogwarts curriculum than anyone he knew. For people from magical families to need help integrating into a magical school seemed ridiculous.Draco listened as Mr G described the reasons for the program. Many of the students were coming from remote regions of Australia - isolated communities, thousands of kilometres from medical care. Places where education was, apparently, delivered through a radio - whatever that was. He spoke of the conditions that many of them lived in, with eldest siblings being responsible for caring for the younger ones while the parents travelled - trying to find work wherever they could. He wondered why people would continue to live in such situations - to be so far away when there was so much lovely country closer to the coast.The student travelling the furthest was coming from a small town in the Northern Territory named Ngukurr. He was from an old family, the Kerr’s, and was the first in 3 generations to be able to make it to Bungaree for his education, due to a newly established scholarship program.  Draco had never before considered the expenses associated with sending a child to a magical school. His family didn’t speak about the costs of things, only of profits. Sure, he knew that his parents had purchased robes, a broom, textbooks, a cauldron and an array of potions ingredients in preparation for the start of each school year. And sure, he knew that some families weren’t able to afford those things, the Weasley’s being the prime example, but he hadn’t ever considered that finances could be something that stopped someone from attending a magical school.Maybe it was different for Hogwarts. When he wrote to his mother he’d ask her. She’d taken over their families position on the school board. If anyone knew, she would.3500 km. That was the distance this child was travelling. He couldn’t imagine being so far away from his family. He shook his head, and let out an impressed huff; in awe of the extreme measures someone would take to pursue their education.The teachers had been paired off for the next section of the day. Draco watched as Hermione talked animatedly with the transfiguration teacher, walking close together - her head bobbing amicably as she listened to whatever entrancing words he spoke. He wondered, for too long really, whether she had a type. If she did, this man seemed to fit the mold exactly; tall and slim with a neatly trimmed beard and thick eyebrows. Though none of those were near as damning an indication of her type as his hair - red as flame trees.“Ready Draco?” Burke asked. His partner, naturally, was the Herbology teacher. Draco’s apprenticeship had taught him the value of a good supplier - and that was what Burke would be; his supplier. As they walked, Burke explained the layout of the plot and greenhouse.  While he cultivated a vast array of native plants, there were nearly twice as many exotics that required specialised environments, and the four wings of the greenhouse housed them all.The main section of the greenhouse was a glass-roofed copy of student housing - an enormous H with giant panes of glass on three of the four sides.  Burke explained that there was a central teaching area, located in the crossbar of the H. Each of the four wings housed plants in different temperature and humidity conditions, based on their regions of origin. South America, Asia, Africa and Europe.The greenhouse wasn’t the first stop on the tour. Burke spoke animatedly as he proudly showed Draco around the outdoor garden. A three tiered post-and-rail fence borders the area, its bright white paint stark against the vivid purples, oranges, reds, yellows and blues that lay within its borders. He was entranced. So many beautiful species, some he’d seen depicted in his new Potions textbooks, more he’d never seen beforeHe thought fondly of his mother. She would love it here, so many flowers to study.“Draco?” Burke asked.“Pardon?” Draco returned.Burke huffed a laugh. “Bit overwhelming, hey?”“It’s certainly not what I was expecting. There are so many of, well, so many of everything. And these are just the natives?” Draco asked.“Yeah. Most of them anyway. There’s a few tricky ones inside. A lot of these are used in cooking or as traditional medicine, but there’s a few you’ll be needing for your classes. What I was saying is that if you need anything else, just let me know. I’m pretty good with my hands, I can get nearly anything to grow with the right touch.”Draco coughed, nearly choking on his own saliva. Was that innuendo? Burke looked worried for him, so Draco surmised that the man had truly delivered the line with a straight face, with not a trace of double entendre to be found.Burke patted his back as Draco finished his coughing fit. “Actually, I’ve brought some aconite with me; a few varietals from the Hogwarts Forest that I’m interested in using to change the potency of some more advanced potions. When should I get them to you?”“Aconite, you say? Haven’t had that here in yonks. Old Sherrie, the Potions teacher before you, didn’t want a bar of it.” The man’s eyes were gleaming, his excitement evident as clenched his fists and grinned. “Bring them down tomorrow.”Draco couldn’t help but return the grin that Burke sent his way. It had been a while since he’d found someone so interested in experimental potions and the specialised plants needed to brew them to perfection.Burke led him through the northernmost door of the greenhouse and his face was immediately hit with a blast of hot, wet air. He inhaled the rich, earthy scents he associated with South American rainforests. The next hour passed quickly, with Draco cataloguing Burke’s commentary in a small notebook. It was far too much to absorb in one go, but he didn’t mind - it had been months since he’d been challenged in this way. His mind was sparking with possibilities for adjustments to potions as the older man spoke.When they finished the tour, Burke pointed him in the direction of the potions lab, a smaller sandstone building to the east of the greenhouses, and welcomed him to stay as long as he liked, and to drop by any time he needed.Draco returned to the South American wing of the greenhouse, intrigued by a plant he had spotted there. On the second row from the window, a plant with pale green leaves and trumpet-shaped flowers the colour of sunset beckoned him. Why would a herbalist need Angel’s Trumpet?, Draco asked himself. He wasn’t so rude as to second-guess the choices of the specialist, but it seemed dangerous to keep such a toxic plant within the reach of children.Knowing that his own professors had walked a dangerous line when it came to the plants, spells and potions they’d studied, he thought there was probably a sound reason for the plant’s presence. It still bothered him though.Draco rapped the backs of his knuckles against the wooden frame of Burke’s office. The man’s space was possibly the most vibrant area of the greenhouse.“You alright, Draco?” the man asked, barely lowering the magazine he held and not bothering to stand from the leather armchair he was currently reclined in.“May I take some of the Angel’s trumpet? It wasn’t part of my potion studies and I was wondering if it would be effective in sleeping draughts; if prepared properly of course.”Burke laughed. “Don’t have any, sorry. Interesting idea though. Can see why Mr G. offered you the job.” He returned his attention to the magazine - a dismissal.“It’s in the South American wing - the orange ombre flowers?” “Oh, no that’s Orange Trumpet Creeper. It’s an Australian native - but loves the humidity so I keep it in there. Grows like crazy.”The man returned to his magazine; Draco could read the title clearly - Gardening Australia. His mother would love that too.Before Hermione could discreetly ask someone what was going on, movement to her right caught her attention. A tall, lean man was making his way toward her with an easy stride, his long legs covering the distance effortlessly.His hair was the first thing she noticed—red, not just ginger like the Weasleys, but the deep, burning auburn. His beard was neatly trimmed, his thick eyebrows arched slightly over sharp, intelligent eyes. He looked about mid-thirties, tanned and wiry, the kind of person who spent a lot of time outdoors though she had noticed everyone looked like that here. “G’day,” he greeted, his voice warm and laced with the unmistakable Aussie twang she found she rather liked. “You must be the esteemed Hermione Granger: Charms extraordinaire.”She blinked, still trying to catch up but letting out a small laugh at the title he had given her. “I wouldn’t say extraordinaire but yes Hermione, hello”The man grinned, extending a hand. “Jimmy Wright. Transfiguration professor.”Hermione shook it, taking in his firm grip and the callouses along his palm. A duelist, maybe? Or someone who worked with his hands outside of teaching?“Nice to meet you,” she said, managing to recover some composure. “Sorry, I—” She hesitated, exhaling a soft laugh. “I may have gotten a little distracted. What exactly are we doing?”Jimmy chuckled, his smile widening. “Ah, no worries, happens to the best of us. Mr G just paired everyone up for the next exercise. You and I are partners.”Hermione relaxed slightly. Alright, that’s not too bad. She could work with that.“And what, exactly, is the exercise?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound too clueless.Jimmy’s lips twitched in amusement. “Ah, you really weren’t listening, were ya?”Heat crept up Hermione’s neck, the admission making her feel somewhat like a distracted student caught daydreaming in class. “No,” she confessed, resisting the urge to fold her arms in embarrassment.Jimmy didn’t seem remotely bothered. “No dramas,” he said easily, giving her a quick wink before gesturing around the room where pairs were forming, some already deep in quiet conversation. “Mr G’s pairing up professors from complementary subjects—keeps things consistent across the syllabus. So, Potions and Herbology, Runes and LOTE, that kind of thing.”Hermione nodded along, appreciating the logic behind it. It made sense—pairing subjects that naturally overlapped would allow for better collaboration, ensuring students saw the connections between disciplines.Jimmy had already begun leading her out of the hall, his long strides unhurried but purposeful.“ LOTE ?” she questioned, the unfamiliar term sticking out as she hurried to keep pace.“Languages Other Than English,” he explained, glancing over at her. “Sherry teaches it. Not the most popular class, but it’s a requirement.”Hermione raised an eyebrow. “A requirement?” That was unusual. Hogwarts had never placed emphasis on language studies and runes was an elective once you hit third year.Jimmy nodded as he guided her through the open-air corridor toward the classrooms they would be using. “Just a Ministry thing, really. Covers the basics of Gobbledegook, Mermish, a couple of native tongues. Not enough for fluency or anything, but enough that if one of ‘em enjoyed it they have the basics and then if they end up working in magical law, diplomacy, or dealing with magical creatures, they won’t make a complete mess of it.” He chuckled. “Good for ‘em to be exposed to it, even if they spend most of the class complaining.”Hermione was impressed. Language studies integrated into magical education as standard practice ? It was another stark contrast to Hogwarts, where interspecies relations had always been treated as an afterthought.“I bet it makes a difference,” she mused aloud.Jimmy shrugged. “Depends on the student. Some take to it, others drop it as soon as they can. But we’re not just teaching them how to use magic here—we’re teaching them how to live in the magical world. That means understanding who they share it with.”Hermione’s steps slowed for just a moment.
Teaching them how to live in the magical world.
There was something about the way he said it—so obvious , so matter-of-fact —that highlighted just how much had been missing from her own education.Hogwarts had always prided itself on tradition, but how much of that tradition had come at the expense of progress? She had never really questioned it before, too caught up in excelling within the system rather than evaluating it as a whole. But now, standing here, she felt the gaps in her knowledge like open spaces in a puzzle she hadn’t realised was incomplete.“I’m surprised by how student-led the curriculum is here,” she admitted, her mind still turning over the differences. “At Hogwarts, everything was so rigid—structured in a way that didn’t always support independence. It wasn’t very… conducive to inclusion.”Jimmy hummed thoughtfully, his hand gripping the handle of the heavy door they had just arrived at. “Yeah, see, that’s not really how we do things. Structure’s important, sure, but not at the expense of teaching them how to think for themselves. We set ‘em up with what they need, but after that? They’ve gotta take ownership of their learning. ‘S how it should be.”Before Hermione could respond, he pushed open the door to the classroom.She took one step inside—then gasped .It was unmistakably a Transfiguration classroom, but it was so different from what she had known under McGonagall that she actually stopped in her tracks, momentarily stunned.Gone were the rigid rows of desks, the stark, traditional layout of the Hogwarts classroom. Instead, the space was open and fluid, designed for movement and practical application. The walls were lined with shelves brimming with objects in various stages of transformation—wooden carvings shifting into animate creatures, an entire section dedicated to textiles that flickered between states of matter.At the far end of the room, a massive rolling chalkboard covered in intricate diagrams and half-scribbled notes dominated one wall, while the opposite side was almost entirely open, leading to an enclosed outdoor space. Sunlight filtered through wide windows, illuminating a central workspace where stools and workbenches were arranged in a semi-circle rather than rigid rows.It was alive , dynamic— nothing like the strict, orderly precision of McGonagall’s classroom.“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Jimmy commented, watching her reaction with amusement.Hermione blinked, snapping her gaze to him. “It’s just… different. ”Jimmy grinned, his eyes flickering over her face. “Good different or bad different?”Hermione took another slow look around, drinking in the thoughtful layout, the sheer functionality of it.“Better,” she said decisively. “Much, much better.”Jimmy’s grin widened at her response, and he stepped further into the room, waving a hand for her to follow. “Glad to hear it. We like to keep things practical around here—gives the students something to sink their teeth into. No point in just memorising theory if you can’t apply it outside a textbook, right?”Hermione nodded, still taking in the room as she moved toward the central workspace. It made sense. Transfiguration wasn’t just about waving a wand and getting the right result—it was about understanding the nature of change, of reshaping the world around you. And in a space like this, where students weren’t confined to desks but encouraged to move, test, and experiment , they’d learn far more than she had sitting stiff-backed in Hogwarts’ rigid structure.Jimmy pulled out a stool and sat, gesturing for her to do the same. “So, what’s your approach to Charms?” he asked, resting his forearms on the table.Hermione perched on the seat across from him, her hands smoothing over the wood instinctively. “Well,” she started, collecting her thoughts, “Charms is about refinement—about precision and intent. Transfiguration is changing something at its fundamental level, but Charms… it works with what’s already there. Enhancing, reinforcing, altering in subtle ways. So I imagine there’s a lot of overlap between our subjects.”Jimmy nodded approvingly. “That’s what I was thinking too. Transformation and augmentation are two sides of the same coin. We could run crossover lessons—get the kids thinking about when to alter something and when to just enhance it.”Hermione’s mind was already racing with ideas. “We could build a unit where students have to solve a real-world problem using both disciplines. Say… they’re given an object and have to decide whether to transfigure it into something else or use Charms to make it function differently.”Jimmy grinned. “That’s exactly the kind of stuff we like to do here—get ‘em thinking beyond just ‘what spell do I use?’” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “What about a project where they design a multi-use magical item? They’d have to figure out which elements need permanent transformation versus which need temporary charm work.”Hermione lit up. “Oh, that’s brilliant. It would push them to understand how the two branches of magic interact—and why one might be preferable over the other depending on the situation.”“Exactly,” Jimmy agreed. “And we could make it a team project—get ‘em working in pairs or small groups. One side focuses on the transfiguration, the other on the charms work. They’d have to collaborate, test their spells together, troubleshoot when things go wrong.”Hermione was already envisioning the kind of discussions it would spark—the way it would encourage students to think critically about magic rather than just learn incantations by rote. “I’d love to see them experimenting with how Charms can reinforce a Transfiguration, too,” she mused. “Like stabilising an object’s new form so it doesn’t revert too quickly.”Jimmy snapped his fingers. “Yeah, like how a conjured object is inherently unstable unless you anchor it with a charm.”She nodded excitedly. “Yes! Exactly. Or even using Charms to control the extent of a Transfiguration—like applying a slow-release transformation so an object gradually changes over time instead of all at once.”Jimmy whistled. “Damn, that’s a good one. Never thought about that before.” He tapped a finger against the table, clearly thinking through the possibilities. “You got any strong feelings about how we teach ‘em? I know some professors are a bit—” he waved a hand vaguely, “—old school about structured lessons.”Hermione chuckled, shaking her head. “My, uh… Hogwarts experience wasn’t exactly standard . Most of our classes were structured—Charms, Transfiguration, Runes, Arithmancy—all of them followed strict syllabi. But then…” She exhaled, gesturing vaguely, “our years were heavily disrupted, to say the least. And after everything, I realised that application matters just as much as theory—sometimes even more .”She glanced around the classroom, already envisioning students moving , experimenting , engaging with their magic in ways they never could have at Hogwarts.“So, honestly?” She met Jimmy’s gaze with a small, confident smile. “The more practical, the better. I want them to do magic, not just memorise it.”Jimmy grinned, clearly pleased with that answer. “See, I knew I was gonna like working with you.”Hermione felt a warmth in her chest at that. She had been so worried about fitting in here, about whether she’d measure up to Bungaree’s teaching style. But this— this —felt right .“Alright then, Hermione,” Jimmy said, standing up and stretching. “Sounds like we’ve got a solid plan. I’ll take you out to your class room if you want to have a gig before lunch?”Hermione smiled, the excitement of a new challenge sparking in her chest. “Let’s.”Hermione followed Jimmy down the path, the scent of eucalyptus thick in the midday air. As they approached the Charms classroom, she noted the familiar sandstone exterior—practical, durable, and well-suited to withstand the kinds of experimental magic that no doubt took place within. The entrance was framed by thick wooden beams, the same as the Transfiguration classroomJimmy pushed open the solid wooden door, and Hermione stepped inside, immediately taking in the space. Like the Transfiguration classroom, it had been designed with movement in mind—no rigid rows of desks, no confinement, just open space designed for magic to be experienced , not simply studied.The walls were lined with large windows, and shelves brimming with spellcraft artifacts, levitating objects, and animated figures lined the sides of the room, each one a testament to past students’ work. Some glowed softly, shifting between forms, while others hung suspended in midair, frozen in place as though waiting to be reactivated.The centre of the room housed a series of long wooden workbenches, arranged in an open, semi-circular formation rather than strict rows, encouraging collaboration rather than isolation.At the far end, a wide set of double doors stood open, leading to an outdoor practice area enclosed by more of the school’s trademark sandstone walls. Beyond them, levitation targets hovered at varying distances, their surfaces shimmering with charm-imbued magic, while a small section of the ground had been enchanted to soften impact—likely for testing more physical charm work.It was a perfect balance of structure and fluidity—clearly designed to encourage learning through doing , rather than passive study.She exhaled, a slow smile spreading across her face. “This is fantastic .”Jimmy chuckled, leaning against the nearest workbench. “Glad you think so. We like to make sure the space works for the magic, not against it.”Hermione ran her fingers along the smooth grain of the wooden bench, already envisioning how her lessons would unfold here. “This is so different from what I’m used to… but it’s so much better .”Jimmy grinned. “Told ya, Hermione. We do things properly here.”She let out a small laugh, shaking her head. This place really was unlike anywhere she had taught or studied before.“Do you mind?” she asked, gesturing toward the room. She wanted to take a proper look around, to see how the previous professor had arranged things, what materials had been left behind.“Go ahead,” Jimmy said, waving a hand toward the space. “It’s yours now.”Hermione moved through the room, running her fingers lightly over the polished wood of the workbenches, opening drawers and peeking inside cupboards that lined the walls. Everything was neatly arranged—rows of enchanted objects, stacks of practice wands for students who hadn't yet mastered the finer points of spellcasting, even a shelf filled with what looked like student-made charmed items. She picked up a small, delicate wooden bird that flapped its wings lazily when she brought it close to her palm, feeling the faint pulse of magic woven into it.Jimmy, meanwhile, had sprawled himself into one of the student chairs, looking completely at ease. “So,” he said casually, stretching his legs out, “what’s the Hermione Granger story?”Hermione, still focused on the cupboard in front of her, only half-heard the question. “Hmm?” she hummed, glancing over her shoulder.Jimmy smirked, tilting his head. “I said—what’s the Hermione Granger story?”She turned fully to face him, crossing her arms, considering the question. The Hermione Granger story. She had never really thought about it in those terms before. Or maybe she had, and just didn’t like to dwell on it.The truth was, she could answer that question a hundred different ways, depending on how much detail she was willing to give. Some versions were simple, easy to swallow. Others were far heavier, tangled up in things she would rather forget.And she wasn’t in the mood to sift through all of that right now.“Oh, not much,” she said lightly, leaning against the workbench. A quick summary—a quill-note version—felt easier, less weighty. “Parents are dentists—moved here in ‘96 while I finished school. Then I did my Charms Mastery overseas, and spent the last few years contracting for the Ministry.” She shrugged. “And now I’m here.”Jimmy raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Come on now, you’re not that boring.”Hermione smirked. “That is the story.”Jimmy didn’t look convinced. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his expression sharp with curiosity. “So you’re telling me you’ve conveniently forgotten the media badge of Golden Girl ?” He arched a brow. “Brightest witch of her age, war hero, that Hermione Granger? The one who was splashed all over the papers?”Hermione let out a slow breath through her nose, shaking her head with a wry chuckle. “I see you have an interest in old British newspapers.”Jimmy grinned. “Nah, just got a few mates over your way. They sent some over after the war. Thought someone here might be interested.” His smirk deepened. “And you, Hermione, were front and centre .”Hermione rolled her eyes, picking up a quill from one of the workbenches just so she had something to fiddle with. “That’s just the version they liked to print,” she muttered.Jimmy shrugged, but there was something thoughtful in his gaze now. “Maybe. But it is part of the story, whether you like it or not. Now give me a little more detail.”Hermione hesitated, then sighed, offering him a small, knowing smile. “Fine. If you must know… I argued my way into Gryffindor, nearly got killed by a troll in my first year, spent my school years putting out one fire after another, survived a war, and then realised that the British magical education system is so outdated it might as well be medieval.” She crossed her arms again. “That’s why I studied overseas. And how I ended up here.”Jimmy let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “See? That’s a story.”Hermione smirked, arching an eyebrow. “Happy now?”Jimmy leaned back in his chair, his grin widening, looking utterly pleased with himself. “ Very. ”She shook her head, amused despite herself. He had a way of pulling things out of her that she normally kept guarded, but somehow, it didn’t feel intrusive. Just… curious .“Alright,” she said, folding her arms as she leaned against the workbench. “Your turn.”Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “My turn?”Hermione nodded, tilting her head expectantly. “I had to tell my story, so now it’s only fair you tell yours.”Jimmy sighed dramatically, stretching his legs out beneath the table. “Oh, you know… grew up in the bush, youngest in a mess of brothers, spent half my childhood fixing whatever we managed to break, got good at Transfiguration because of it.”Hermione narrowed her eyes. “That’s your short version? After you just forced me to give details ?”He grinned. “Look, I told you—I’m not that interesting.”Hermione scoffed. “Somehow, I highly doubt that.”Jimmy chuckled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Alright, alright. Let’s see…” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “I went to school down in Victoria. Wasn’t the top of my class or anything, but I had a knack for Transfiguration—mostly ‘cause I had to learn how to undo spells as much as cast ‘em.”Hermione frowned slightly. “Undo?”Jimmy laughed. “Yeah, well, when you’ve got five older brothers and no sense of self-preservation, you tend to end up cursed more often than not. I spent half my childhood fixing whatever they did to me or each other. Figured if I was gonna survive, I should probably get good at reversing transfigurations.”Hermione let out a laugh, picturing it all too easily. “That’s ridiculous .”Jimmy grinned. “Tell me about it. Anyway, by the time I left school, I figured I’d either go into magical conservation—y’know, warding habitats, working with transfigured landscapes—or teaching. Ended up here instead.”Hermione studied him for a moment, taking in the shift in his expression—the easy confidence replaced by something quieter, something genuine .“And you love it?”Jimmy’s grin softened, his usual playful energy settling into something more earnest. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice lacking its teasing lilt it had earlier. “I really do.”The moment stretched between them, comfortable in its quietness, until he glanced down at his watch.“Look at that—lunchtime!” He clapped his hands together and stood. “Now, if you know what’s good for you, don’t ever whinge about the food. Maggie will have your head.”Hermione huffed, crossing her arms in mock indignation. “I’ll have you know I was raised properly and have never complained about food.” She lifted her chin. “I once attended a Death Day party and stood in a room filled with rotting food for hours without a single complaint.”Jimmy let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “Alright, that’s a new one. You can’t just throw something like that at me and expect me to let it slide. You will be telling me that story one day.”Hermione smirked. “We’ll see.”Jimmy rolled his eyes, already leading the way out of the classroom. “C’mon, Granger, let’s get some food in ya before ya waste away.”She chuckled, falling into step beside him, feeling lighter than she had in a long time.Draco pushed against the heavy door to the potions lab. The building was primarily sandstone, a sensible choice for a room that would be regularly filled with small fires. The door was solid, and seemed to be made of the same timber as the pillars around the main hall. He wondered if the buildings were constructed at the same time.The potions lab was much more spacious than the dingy dungeon one where he’d spent his formative brewing years. The rectangular room was flooded with light from windows along the wall opposite the door. Eight workbenches framed a walkway along the length of the room, all facing towards a larger bench at the front - a demonstration bench. There was space for 3 students at each bench, the stools tucked neatly underneath. On the outer side of each bench were a set of shelves, set under the worktop. On these were assorted items students could use for brewing.Spoons of different sizes and materials hung from hooks along the back of the uppermost shelf. A shallow glass bowl and deeper ceramic one, the only items placed on top of the shelf.  The second held an array of flasks with stoppers and a tall, cylindrical glass tube with increments marked up one side. He had seen these listed in the equipment section of the textbooks - they were called measuring cylinders and were used to ensure exact measurements when liquids were added to a potion. They were a muggle invention and something he’d not used before. The textbooks had been very clear that the measurement wasn’t made to the top of the water, but rather the bottom. Something about the water molecules sticking to the sides of the cylinder, cohesion or adhesion. Some type of hesion.Glass jars, beakers - he corrected, in a variety of sizes also sat on that shelf. He wondered if they were charmed not to break? He plucked one from the shelf and dropped it at his feet.It shattered into a hundred tiny pieces. His jaw clenched at the sound.Breakable, then. Fragile like his grip on reality whenever that sound hit his ears. He vanished the mess and made a shaky note in his book to procure unbreakable glassware. It diminished the potency of some ingredients, but was worth the trade off for his sanity.The lowest shelf held an equal-arm balance scale and weights, and a small square-faced device with a glass top and two buttons. He picked it up and examined it closely. At the front of the device there were two buttons, one on the left and another to the right of a grey rectangle, which occupied most of the space in the middle. Printed inside the white circle of the left button was the word ‘unit’, while the right bore two words stacked on top of each other. ‘On’ and ‘Tare’.He pressed the ‘On’ button. Nothing happened. He tapped it against the bench lightly, having heard from Theo that muggle devices, which this obviously was, could sometimes work if you hit them a bit. It didn’t work. He placed the device on top of the bench and made another note in his book. The back of the room was lined with shelves. Whoever had taught here before had been meticulous in their arrangement. The smallest cauldrons - the lightest - were on the top shelf. Groups of nine cauldrons were arrayed by material and size. Copper, Brass, Aluminium, Iron, and what he guessed would be Pewter.  With not a trace of dust to be found inside or out.He walked along the wall of windows, using his wand to open them and enjoying the fresh breeze that blew through. The musty smell of the long-locked room was soon replaced with eucalypt and fresh cut grass. It carried sounds inside, filling the room with the call of cicadas and the endless thrum of whoever was driving the enormous machine that was cutting the grassy lawns.  He hoped the groundskeeper of Bungaree was an improvement on the odious Filch. He couldn’t possibly be worse.Moving away from the windows, Draco studied the layout at the front of the classroom. A pair of blackboards hung on rails, allowing them to move up and down. He smiled to himself. This would make it so much easier to write notes on the board - to draw diagrams and add annotations. So much more space. He couldn’t help but to compare, again, this room to the potions lab at Hogwarts.He wondered whether it was the professors who created the atmosphere of the rooms in which they taught. Trelawny’s headache-inducing, incense-drenched room in the tower embodied her character in the same way that Snape’s dungeon embodied his. Maybe they had to teach in a space long enough for their personality to seep in for that to take effect. Their D.A.D.A class had certainly never had a specific energy he could attribute to any particular professor.Above the teaching desk at the front of the room was a large mirror, angled such that students at the back would be able to see what was being done at the front. A clever idea, something that would make showing particular techniques much faster. Behind the teacher's bench were two store rooms. The one on the left had a large padlock on it, while the one on the right was open-aired. Draco’s heart sank as he looked into the abyss that was the ingredient storeroom. Sticky residue on the front of a bottle he picked up suggested that it had, once upon a time, had a label that would allow it to be identified. Nearly half the ingredients were in containers devoid of labels. Those that were labelled appeared in multiple places - powdered wormwood in a brown jar on the 2nd shelf on the left and a green jar, top shelf on the back wall.He returned the jar to the shelf and stood in the chaos of this room. Surely it couldn’t have been one person responsible for these spaces. They were polar opposites in organisation. The meticulous layout of the cauldrons and brewing utensils suggested an ordered mind. This - he glared at the storage cupboard - this was the result of years of neglect. Not only was the chaos frustrating, it was dangerous.Draco lost track of time as he pulled every last jar, basket, tin and phial from the cupboard, arranging them carefully on the benches in the laboratory. He tried, several times, to vanish the grime and dust with his wand, but it was stubborn, so he gave it up as impossible and set about cataloguing the ingredients.First he separated them by state - were they solid or liquid?Then by source. Were they botanical or zoological? Then by parts - flower, leaf, stem, root. Hair, tooth, excrement, offspring.. Wait. Holy fucking shit. He stared down at the jar in his hand. It was, thankfully, cool to his touch - but nowhere near cool enough for comfort.Whatever maniac had run this lab most recently had left ashwinder eggs in a jar. On a bloody shelf. And whatever lackluster, half-arsed cooling charms they’d cast were not the everlasting sort. Draco, exercising extreme caution, placed the jar gently back onto the bench. Fuck, he’d been lucky not to have disturbed it in his manic cleanout. He transfigured a beaker into a bucket, then filled it with conjured ice. He reached in, scooping out a hollow in the centre large enough for the jar to comfortably fit. Delicately, oh so carefully, Draco retrieved the jar from its resting place and lowered it into its new home.A loud rapping noise almost caused him to drop the damn thing. Finishing his task, he stood and whirled around, ready to shout at whomever had dared disrupt him during such a dangerous task.It was Granger.Her eyes raked over him, taking in his dishevelled appearance. He was suddenly very conscious of the amount of dust on his clothes and the sweat that had saturated his clothes. Hermione smirked at him then nodded in turn to several benches.“Interesting way to prepare for lessons.” She commented, her teasing tone accompanied by a raised eyebrow and half a grin.“You want something interesting, Granger? Come look at this.” He beckoned for her to enter the room and pointed downwards. Her cheeks flushed almost immediately, her eyes widening. She pressed her lips together.He realised what he’d done. What he’d said. What he’d indicated with his blasé wave of his hands south of his body. He felt heat spread in his cheeks, their shade surely matching hers. He huffed a nervous laugh. “Not that, you silly bint. Have a look at what I found in the storage room.”She entered the room, walking slowly as she inspected the organised chaos he’d created.“What am I supposed to be looking at?” She asked, her tone curious.“The bucket.” “Ah, yes. A very interesting bucket indeed. I’m deeply impressed with your second year transfiguration.”“Ha. Ha.Look in the jar, Granger.”She crouched down, reaching with her hand to lift the white-lidded jar out of the ice.“Be careful!” He snapped as it slipped slightly in her small hands, condensation forming on the outside of the vessel.“Oh. My. God. Malfoy! Are these?” She looked up at him, her eyes wide with horror.“Yeah, Ashwinder eggs. Just sitting on a shelf. The jar was thawing when I found it.”“Someone just left them like that?” She tutted. “So irresponsible.”“My sentiment exactly. I’ll need to take these to Mr G. No way am I keeping them in here. That’s insanity.”“Maybe that’s why they needed a new potions teacher” she mused.“Maybe.” Draco agreed. “Not to be rude, but, what are you doing here?”She frowned at him. “It’s after six, Malfoy. Nearly dinner time. You missed lunch while you were,” she gestured to the hard work he’d done as she stood up “organising all this.” He peered out the window. These summer days were so long. He wasn’t used to the evening hours creeping up when it was still so bright outside.“Oh.”“Surely you must be hungry.” It almost sounded like she was concerned about him. “Do you want some help to pack up?”Her kindness shone in her eyes. It resonated in her voice. It was carried in her offer. He wondered how he could ever have thought of her as less than. “Sure. Mind getting the windows? I’ve got a few more things to label then we can go.”He moved to the furthest bench, where he’d nearly finished labelling the botanical root ingredients.A small cry of surprise reached him. He looked up and saw Granger grinning widely at the muggle device he’d found earlier. “This is amazing!” She exclaimed.“It doesn’t work. I tried pressing the buttons and even hit it against the bench, but it wouldn’t turn on.”She let out a small laugh shaking her head lightly. “They’re brand new, Malfoy. Come here, I’ll show you.”When he stood beside her, she turned the device over and pointed to a small transparent tab. “Do you know what these are?”Draco shook his head. “Not exactly, but based on where they are I’d guess they’re used for measuring.”She smiled at him. A beautiful smile that caused a dimple on the left side of her lips and a crinkle at the corners of her eyes.  “Exactly! They usually come with batteries, so to make sure they still work when people buy them, they put a little piece of plastic between the batteries and the terminals so that the circuit isn’t complete and the batteries aren’t drained before they’re used.”  Draco nodded along. He didn’t understand half of what she’d said, but found himself mesmerised by the tone of her voice as she excitedly explained the function of the device. He wore the face he’d born when his father explained accounts. Attentive and interested. But with absolutely no comprehension of the meaning of more than half the words being used.“So if you pull the tab out like this,” she pulled it roughly, almost elbowing him as she did so. “Sorry. So you pull the tab out and then the circuit is complete.” She turned it over and placed it on the bench. “Press the ‘on’ button now.”He did and the rectangle in the middle lit up with a series of zeros.  His surprise must have been obvious, because she laughed again. “Know it all,” He muttered under his breath, loud enough for her to hear.She elbowed him. “These are really handy if you want to have more accurate measurements of your solid ingredients.” She reached under the table and pulled out the shallow glass bowl. “You can put this on top,” she did so and the numbers changed. “This tells you the mass of the object on top of the scale. If you press that ‘on’ button again, ” He obediently pressed it. “Gently,” she added with a laugh, “then it will go back to zero so that you can add something that is powdered onto the glass and measure an exact mass.”“What does the ‘g’ mean?” He asked.“That’s the units. ‘g’ means grams. If you press the unit button you can change it to ounces or even millilitres.”He pressed the units button, watching as a different letter appeared on the screen each time he pressed until it returned to ‘g’.“This is amazing.” He proclaimed, pressing the button over and over and over. Granger chuckled. “Muggles have made some really amazing things that are incredibly helpful. The longer I am here, the more I realise how limited Hogwarts was. The restriction on Muggle technology and electronics has kept learning there hundreds of years behind what is happening elsewhere in the world.” She shook her head. “It’s disappointing to know that other places were doing this while we were…” she searched for the right words, drumming her fingers against the desk.“Stuck in the dark ages.” Draco finished for her. She met his gaze and nodded, ever so slightly. He should apologise. He hadn’t earlier and he should. It was the very least she deserved from him.Their moment lingered. The words danced on the tip of his tongue as her eyes roved his face. She held the silence with him, waiting for him - like she could see he had something to say and she’d wait in a quiet eternity to hear them if that was what he needed. “Hermione, you in here?” A voice called from the doorway. She stepped back from him and turned toward the door.“Hey Jimmy,” her voice sounded flustered to his ears. Her excited explanatory voice was replaced by the resigned tone of the reluctantly-disturbed.“You found him.” The man entered his space without asking and frowned at the chaos he beheld. “You’ve made quite some mess, Draco.”Draco sneered. He hated the ease with which these Australian’s used their given names, and his. He was raised to earn the right to call someone by their given name. Growing up, everyone had been Mister this, or Lady that, in polite company. Surnames were enough for casual conversations. This business of people calling him Draco had him off-kilter and he was starting to hate it.He stood to his full height, squaring his shoulders and clearing the man’s head by at least 3 inches. He extended his right hand, rings glinting in the afternoon sun. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your introduction, Mister?”The man grabbed his hand. Roughly. Calloused fingers pressed against Draco’s smooth palms. “It’s Jimmy, mate. Just Jimmy.”Draco hid his shudder at the casual use of the word mate by coughing into his shoulder.“And you teach?”“Transfiguration. Hermione and I were paired this afternoon. We’ve been looking at the intersection between charms and transfiguration and how we can better prepare students by aligning our coursework to complement their learning.”  Draco raised a brow in Granger’s direction. Jimmy nudged her shoulder with his elbow, nearly hard enough to knock her off balance. “She’s a smart one, this Hermione. I’m lucky to be working with her.”Lucky indeed. Draco thought to himself.“Anyway, we’re going to get dinner. Hermione wanted to check on you since you missed lunch. Ready to go?”“Yeah.”Draco gestured for Hermione to walk ahead. His muscle-memory betrayed him as he, unthinkingly, placed a hand against the small of her back - guiding her toward the door. The quick dart of Jimmy’s eyes had him pulling the hand away as quickly as it had settled there.The dining hall was quiet, the soft murmur of early arrivals filling the space. A handful of students were scattered across the room, some reading, others chatting in low voices as they picked at their meals. The professors all sat at a long table together. The warm scent of roasted vegetables and fresh bread lingered in the air, and Hermione took a steadying breath as she moved through the buffet-style serving area, piling her plate with a little bit of everything.She hadn’t intended to sit next to Malfoy, but when she rounded the long wooden table, plate in hand,  Aunty called out for her and pulled the chair out between them to sit. With a resigned sort of acceptance, she sat down, setting her plate down with a quiet clink of cutlery.For a few moments, they ate in silence, neither of them quite acknowledging the other beyond a glance. While their colleagues chatted around them, it wasn’t uncomfortable , exactly, but there was still something tentative about it—the history they had lingering between them, even if they had both agreed to move past it.Hermione took a sip of water before finally speaking. “Do you think we’re going to keep getting pushed together just because we’re both British?”She flicked her gaze toward him, watching as he cut into his meal with precise, measured movements. She had noticed at lunch that their names had been paired on the evening yard duty roster, which meant that starting later next week, they’d be working together far more frequently.Malfoy glanced at her, his expression unreadable. He took his time chewing before responding, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his napkin as though he were dining in some high-end restaurant rather than a school hall.“Undoubtedly,” he said dryly, spearing a piece of roast pumpkin with his fork. “They probably assume we were best mates at Hogwarts and will naturally band together out of some deeply ingrained sense of national camaraderie.”Hermione let out a quiet huff of amusement, shaking her head. “Clearly, they don’t know us.”Malfoy smirked faintly, finally setting his fork down and leaning back slightly. “Or maybe they do know us, and this is some elaborate social experiment to see if we’ll kill each other before term’s out.”She rolled her eyes, jabbing her fork into a roasted carrot. “Oh, please . We survived six years of school with only mild hexes to show for it.”Malfoy scoffed, straightening indignantly. “ You had mild hexes. I was punched in the face .”Hermione couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of her. “Oh, come off it—you deserved that, and you know it.”Malfoy made a dramatic gesture of affront, pressing a hand to his chest. “Debatable.”“Not remotely,” Hermione shot back, lifting her chin in defiance. “And anyway, you hit me in the face with that Densaugeo hex in fourth year.”Malfoy smirked, his fingers tapping idly against the edge of his plate, as if he were only mildly invested in the conversation—but the glint in his eyes told a different story. “True, I was aiming for Potter though. But if we’re being honest , you got the better end of that deal—your teeth looked much better afterward.”Hermione arched an eyebrow, mirroring his smirk as she tilted her head. “Oh? So I looked better afterward, did I?” She took a slow, deliberate bite of her food before adding, “I hadn’t realised you’d noticed.”Malfoy stilled just slightly, his smirk faltering for half a second before he covered it with a scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself, Granger.” He picked up his drink, taking a slow sip, but she didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked away briefly, as if she’d surprised him.She grinned, leaning back slightly. Interesting. “Too late,” she teased, her voice light, playful, enjoying the way the tables had just slightly turned in her favour. “Can’t take it back now, Malfoy. It’s already out there.”Malfoy rolled his eyes, setting his glass down with deliberate exasperation. “Merlin help me, you’re insufferable .”Before she could fire back, a voice called out across the table, thick with an unmistakable Aussie drawl.“‘ Ermione .”Hermione turned, glancing toward the source of the voice—a man who, quite possibly, looked like the most Australian person she had ever seen. And that was saying something, given how much time she had spent in this country over the years. He had a sun-tanned face, a dusting of stubble across his sharp jaw, and an easy sort of confidence about him, the kind that suggested he had definitely wrestled a crocodile or two in his lifetime. If she was honest he was rather handsome in that unrefined way Australian men were.“Yes?” she replied, raising a brow.The man leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his sharp eyes flicking briefly over her before settling back on her face. “Don’t get me wrong here, love—you look lovely —but if I ever see you wandering around in those shoes again, I might have to hex you.”Hermione blinked. “I— what? ”Malfoy, to her left, let out a barely-contained snort of amusement.The man gave her a kind but serious look, gesturing towards where her feet were under the table. “It’s summer , love. You’re asking to stand on a snake and get bitten, having your toes out like that.”Hermione stared at him, then down at her feet, then back at him.Her brain stuttered over itself, trying to process the whiplash of this conversation—the abrupt subject change, the comment on her appearance from a man whose name she didn’t even know , and the genuine concern in his tone.“ Excuse me? ” she finally managed.“Snakes,” he repeated, slower this time, like he was talking to a particularly dim first-year. “You step on one, it bites you, you end up in the sick bay. Best case scenario, you get away with a bad fright. Worst case…” he trailed off meaningfully, then grinned. “Well, we don’t wanna find out, do we?”Hermione still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of him, but the logic, at least, was sound. Australia had its fair share of creatures that could kill you without a second thought, but she’d never had reason to be worried before. She mostly stayed in the cities or along the coast, places where the worst she had to deal with was the occasional overconfident magpie or an oversized huntsman spider.She had, admittedly, forgotten just how casually deadly the country could be.Clearing her throat, she shifted slightly in her seat, pushing away the mental image of accidentally stepping on something venomous. “Right. No sandals. Noted.”The man gave a satisfied nod, tipping his fork toward her. “Good girl.”Hermione’s breath hitched—heat pooling in her stomach before her brain caught up and violently rejected the sensation. Nope. Absolutely not. Not happening. Mostly because Malfoy, beside her—the sheer, overwhelming effort it was taking him to not burst out laughing was palpable. His shoulders shook slightly, and when she turned to glare at him, his blue-grey eyes were bright with pure, unfiltered amusement .“Not. A. Word.”Malfoy pressed his lips together, his entire expression that of a man barely holding himself together. He inhaled slowly, exhaled even slower, then—“Be a good girl , Granger ,” he drawled, the smirk already creeping across his face, “and pass the salt, please.”Hermione gasped — actual outrage flooding her system as she reached for the salt shaker with every intention of hurling it at him.“ Malfoy! ”He cackled , dodging as she shoved the shaker at him with more force than necessary , looking utterly delighted with himself.The man across the table chuckled, shaking his head. “You two got history , huh?”Hermione clenched her jaw, but Malfoy, still grinning, just picked up the salt like nothing had happened.“You have no idea ,” he mused, shaking a small amount over his potatoes before setting it back down with an air of complete innocence .Hermione groaned, rubbing her temples. Before turning more towards Aunty and doing her best to ignore Malfoy and his laughter.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hermione turned away from Malfoy and his antics, determined to refocus her attention elsewhere. She instead engaged in conversation with Aunty, who warmly introduced her to Sherry, the LOTE professor. Sherry, as it turned out, reminded Hermoine far too much of Professor Binns— her voice a slow, unwavering monotone that could lull even the most attentive student to sleep. As the woman launched into a detailed recount of her holiday travels up the East Coast, Hermione tried her best to stay engaged. Apparently the woman made a point to visit every big thing along the way—The big banana, the big pineapple, the big prawn. At one point, she even fished a collection of polaroids from her bag, proudly displaying a picture of herself standing stiffly beside a giant ram, waving awkwardly at the camera. Hermione forced a polite smile, nodding along as if she wasn’t fighting to stay awake. She wanted to be interested—truly— but her attention kept snagging on the conversations around her. Malfoy was deep in discussion with the man that had scolded her about her shoes, Burke and another professor she hadn't met yet. The new man was older, his features lined with age and experience. HIs hair, once dark, was now a sharp silver, and unlike most of the other staff he carried none of their warmth or easy familiarity. His posture was stiff, his gaze sharp, and while he wasn't unfriendly, there was a certain sternness about him, as though he didn't waste time on idle chatter.“Hermione.”Aunty’s voice pulled her from her thoughts, yanking her attention away from Malfoy and the group of men she had been so blatantly observing. She hadn’t even been listening to their conversation— just watching, taking them in. She turned quickly. “Yes, Aunty?”Aunty’s expression was relaxed, but there was something knowing in her gaze, like she’d clocked exactly how lost in thought Hermione had been.“You got any allergies, bub? Anything I should know?”Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Oh—no, not that I’m aware of. Just a bit of hay fever now and then.”Aunty gave a slow nod, looking satisfied. “Good. Good to know.”Hermione tilted her head. “Why?”Aunty shrugged, a small smile playing at her lips. “Cooking’s for sharing, love. And now you live with me, part of that is sharing meals. Gotta know who I’m feeding, yeah?”Hermione felt something warm settle in her chest at that—the simplicity of it, the inclusion woven so casually into Aunty’s words.“Oh, that sounds lovely. I’m actually looking forward to cooking for myself, to be honest. I really enjoy it.”Aunty beamed, pleased. “That’s good, girl. Nothing better than a good feed made with your own hands.” She turned toward the man who had scolded Hermione about her sandals, drawing his attention with a tilt of her head. “ Russ , you gonna show this one how to do a camp oven properly?”Russ’s sharp gaze flicked to Hermione before his face split into a wide grin. “Oh yeah, reckon I could. Might even show her how to do damper if she asks real nice.”Hermione huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “I always ask real nice.”Russ chuckled, his eyes glinting with mischief as he reached for his drink. “We’ll see about that.”And there it was again—that flicker of heat low in her stomach, surprising her.She did not need to be having a physical reaction to this man, of all people. Russ had to be at least fifteen years older than her minimum, sun-tanned and rough around the edges in a way that had nothing to do with arrogance or refinement— just lived experience .Was she imagining it? Or was he… flirting with her?She had no idea . Australians were so bloody friendly by nature, their humour so dry and quick that half the time she wasn’t entirely sure whether someone was joking, insulting her, or—on more than one occasion—trying to chat her up .She’d been caught off guard at pubs before, realising far too late that she had been chatted up and had completely missed her window to respond, simply assuming the bloke was just being friendly. On the flip side, there had been plenty of moments where she thought someone was flirting, only to discover they were just being nice .She hated not knowing.Maybe she should steer this back into safer waters.“Maybe a trade instead?” she offered, tilting her head. “I can make a treacle tart.”Russ raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Yeah? Proper English treacle tart?”“The only kind,” she said with a smirk, lifting her chin just slightly.Russ exhaled through his nose, clearly considering , his sharp eyes watching her like he was weighing up his options. “Alright, ‘Ermione ,” he said slowly, the way he said her name laced with amusement. “You make this treacle tart of yours, and if it’s any good, I’ll show you how to do a camp oven properly .”Hermione let out an exaggerated sigh, pressing a hand over her heart as if the injustice of it all had wounded her. “So now I have to prove myself first?”Russ grinned, leaning back in his chair with a lazy ease that only made the whole thing feel more like a challenge. “Reckon so. Can’t just be handin’ out camp oven lessons to anyone , can I?”Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, lips twitching. “I’ll have you know, I am incredibly trustworthy.”Russ snorted. “Yeah? We’ll see .”Before she could respond, Jimmy, who had been listening with an amused smirk, leaned forwar d. “You know what? Maybe we should make a thing outta this—do a barbie next weekend, everyone bring a plate?”Jimmy’s suggestion was met with immediate enthusiasm, Aunty clapping her hands together with a wide grin. “Ah, that’s a deadly idea, boy. Good excuse to get everyone together, share a proper feed.”She turned to Draco, fixing him with a pointed look. “And you, Draco , reckon you can bring somethin’ too? Be good to get a few proper British meals in the mix, see how you lot really eat.”Draco, who had just taken a sip of his drink, nearly choked .Hermione laughed as he barely managed to compose himself, setting his glass down with an almost comical amount of care.“You want me to cook ?” he asked, voice as dry as the Outback.Aunty gave him a look, tilting her head. “What, ya don’t eat?”He exhaled, rubbing his temples. “Unfortunately, yes.”Russ smirked, arms crossed over his broad chest. “So what? You blokes just don’t cook over there?”Draco rolled his eyes, clearly put upon , as though this was some great injustice being thrust upon him. “We cook ,” he said, sounding vaguely offended, before making a vague, dismissive hand gesture. “It’s just—” He exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But don’t expect anything fancy .”Aunty beamed, clearly delighted by his reluctant participation. “Ah, that’s the way, boy. Food’s not about bein’ fancy—just gotta be made with care.”Around them, the conversation shifted naturally into plans, voices overlapping as people began discussing where the barbecue should be held and what they’d bring. There were mentions of fresh seafood, bush tomato chutneys, slow-cooked meats wrapped in paperbark, damper done properly in the coals—not the whitefella way, Russ had assured her, smirking in her direction.Hermione, meanwhile, smirked at Malfoy, leaning in just slightly, enjoying his discomfort far too much.“So, what do you actually cook, Malfoy?” she asked, her voice soft, teasing.His head snapped toward her, his relaxed expression from earlier disappearing in an instant. His grey eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a flat line.She almost regretted needling him. Almost.She had liked that look on his face—the easy smirk, the way he had relaxed into conversation without seeming to overthink it.Now, he looked like he might strangle her.“I’m not sure yet ,” he said, voice clipped. “You’ll have to wait and see .”Dinner wrapped up gradually, the once-lively hum of conversation softening as people began to disperse, slipping into the gentle rhythm of the evening. Some left in pairs, their voices dipping into low murmured exchanges as they meandered back toward their quarters, while others drifted away alone, already lost in their own thoughts. The warmth of the day lingered in the air, carrying the scent of smoke from a distant fire pit the students had. Hermione had barely taken a step toward the door when Mr G’s voice cut through the lull of departing footsteps. “Hermione. Draco.”She glanced up, catching Malfoy’s eye just briefly before turning toward where Mr G stood near the entrance, his hand clasped behind his back. As they stepped up to where Mr G stood, the hall around them had quietened, the last murmurs of conversation fading as the remaining staff filtered out. The few who lingered were engaged in their own discussions, paying little attention to the trio standing near the entrance. The warm glow of the overhead lights cast soft shadows on the sandstone walls, and outside, the night air was thick with the distant hum of cicadas.Mr G regarded them both with his usual easy confidence, though there was a telltale glint of amusement in his eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head slightly. “Well,” he drawled, “how have the two of you fared on your first real day in the trenches?”Hermione hesitated, taking a brief moment to gather her thoughts. It had been a long day, longer than she had realised. Between absorbing a flood of information about Bungaree’s unique approach to education and navigating the dynamics of an entirely new staff, she felt wrung out. There had been moments of excitement—discussing her curriculum with Jimmy, seeing the Charms classroom for the first time—of course, there was Malfoy who had somehow taken up more space in her thoughts than she had expected.She was just opening her mouth to respond when he spoke first.“The Potions lab is excellent,” Malfoy said, his voice smooth but carrying a distinct note of irritation. “Though did you know your previous Master left a jar of ashwinder eggs in storage? And stored incorrectly, I might add.”Hermione blinked, startled by the sudden shift in conversation, but Mr G’s expression barely flickered, his lips pressing into a thin line.Malfoy’s arms were crossed now, his posture sharp with disapproval, as though personally affronted by the carelessness of it. “They were warm when I found them. If I hadn’t noticed and taken care of them, we could have had a rather… fiery problem on our hands.”Mr G exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his chin with calloused fingers. His gaze flicked between them, unreadable for a moment before he let out a low chuckle. “That right?”Malfoy’s jaw tensed slightly, his arms still crossed over his chest. “Very right. Whoever was in charge before me clearly had a rather… lax attitude toward basic safety.”“That’d be Radar,” Mr G said with a shake of his head, his tone carrying a mixture of amusement and exasperation.Hermione frowned, glancing at Malfoy, who looked equally perplexed. The name sounded vaguely familiar to her—something from an old television show, if she remembered correctly—but it seemed an odd choice to bestow upon a child.“Radar?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow.Mr G smirked at their confusion. “Nickname. Real name’s Raymond, but no one called him that since before I got here, also had a good pair of ears on him.” He exhaled, shaking his head again. “Not the most perceptive Potions Master by the end, unfortunately.”“Clearly,” Malfoy muttered under his breath, still bristling at the idea of inheriting a classroom that had been run with such negligence.Hermione could see it in the tension in his shoulders, the way he was still standing just a little too stiffly, as though barely restraining himself from launching into another tirade about the standards of potion safety. And honestly? She didn’t blame him. If she had walked into a classroom filled with mislabelled jars and improperly stored, potentially combustible ingredients, she would have been livid.Mr G must have picked up on it too, because he clapped Malfoy on the shoulder, the gesture firm but good-natured. “Well, good thing we’ve got someone like you to set things straight then, hey?”Malfoy didn’t quite relax at the words, but some of the tension in his posture lessened. He gave a curt nod, lips pressing together in something that could have been agreement.“Yeah, right,” Malfoy muttered, before inhaling as if bracing himself for something. He hesitated for half a second, then glanced at Hermione before turning back to Mr G. “Also… regarding the, uh, food and cooking situation.”The moment the words left his mouth, Hermione bit her lip to keep from smiling.Malfoy—Draco Malfoy—was embarrassed.It wasn’t obvious, not to anyone who didn’t know him. But she had spent enough time around him over the years to pick up on the small tells. The way his fingers flexed slightly where they rested on his arm, the minute shift of his weight from one foot to the other.Mr G, to his credit, didn’t react immediately, just raised an eyebrow, waiting for Malfoy to continue.Malfoy exhaled through his nose, as though irritated that he even had to ask. “Is there… any alternative to the self-catering model?”Mr G’s lips twitched, and Hermione had the distinct impression that he was holding back a laugh. “You mean, is there a way for you to avoid cooking for yourself?”Malfoy’s jaw clenched slightly, but he inclined his head in a way that could pass for dignity. “Something like that.”Mr G let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’ve got two options, mate. First one’s obvious—you eat in the dining hall with the students. They run the kitchen but if you start showing up too often, like I said earlier, don't be surprised if they shove an apron at you and boss you about, any chance to pull a teacher in line they are all about it.”Malfoy’s expression twisted slightly, like the thought of being put to work by a bunch of teenagers was somehow more offensive than cooking for himself.“And the second?” he asked warily.Mr G shrugged. “Find someone willing to cook for you.”Malfoy blinked.Hermione, who had been doing an admirable job of staying silent up until that moment, finally let out a quiet huff of laughter.Malfoy’s sharp gaze snapped to her, his silver-blue eyes narrowing. “Something funny, Granger?”Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, struggling to suppress the grin threatening to break free. “Not at all,” she said innocently. “Just enjoying the mental image of you bartering favours to avoid boiling an egg.”Malfoy shot her a flat, unimpressed look, his scowl deepening.Mr G, ever the spectator to their dynamic, chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “You’ll work it out. One way or another.” He clapped Malfoy on the shoulder—an action that made the blond twitch slightly—before turning toward the door. With an easy, over-the-shoulder farewell, he left them standing there, the quiet of the near-empty hall settling around them.Hermione took the opportunity to study Malfoy properly now that they were alone. He looked perfectly composed, but there was something beneath the surface—an air of reluctance, of irritation—not at her necessarily, but at the situation. At himself, maybe.She tilted her head, curiosity getting the better of her. “Do you really not know how to cook?”The glare he shot her was impressive, even by Malfoy standards.Which, of course, only confirmed it.“Oh, so all that bravado at dinner was just for show then?” she asked, crossing her arms and arching a brow. “You’re completely useless in a kitchen, aren’t you?”Malfoy scoffed, shifting his weight slightly as he looked away, jaw tight. “I couldn’t very well admit that in front of Russ, could I? I’d never live it down.”Hermione snorted, shaking her head. “Oh, yes, I can see how confessing such a scandalous truth would shatter your already delicate reputation.” Hermione smirked, thoroughly enjoying his indignation. “Come on, Malfoy. Cooking is just like Potions—precise measurements, carefully timed steps, the right balance of ingredients. You might even be good at it.”Malfoy exhaled sharply, as if the mere suggestion was offensive. “It is nothing like Potions.”She raised an eyebrow. “Really? You follow a recipe, control the temperature, adjust for consistency, and if you do it wrong, the whole thing is a disaster.” She tilted her head, lips twitching. “Sounds exactly like Potions to me.”He crossed his arms, looking as if he desperately wanted to argue—but couldn’t.“Mock all you like, Granger, but you don’t understand what’s at stake here. If Russ found out, I’d be forced to endure the rest of my career full of pointed comments, public ridicule, and thinly veiled insults about my delicate hands not being suited for manual labour.”Hermione pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh, but the image was just too good.Malfoy scowled harder. “Don’t you dare. ”She dropped her hand, eyes glinting with mischief. “You do have delicate hands.”“Granger—”“They’re incredibly aristocratic,” she mused, her voice dripping with teasing amusement. “Probably better suited to gliding over piano keys than any real labour.”Her gaze flickered—just for a moment—down to his hands, taking in the long, elegant lines of his fingers, the effortless precision in the way they rested on his biceps.
Salazar, stop it, Hermione.
She snapped her eyes back up, schooling her expression into something neutral before she could linger on that thought for even a second longer.Malfoy’s brow furrowed slightly, as if he had caught the momentary lapse in her focus.“I swear to Merlin—”Hermione grinned, barely containing her laughter, but then she sobered slightly, considering something. She did enjoy cooking. And—if she was honest—there was something about the idea of teaching Malfoy, of watching him fumble through something he clearly had no experience with, that was undeniably appealing.She shrugged, her voice deliberately casual. “I could teach you.”Malfoy blinked, his features shifting, like the offer had taken him off guard.Hermione lifted a shoulder. “I mean, I cook all the time, I also need to eat. I enjoy it. And, let’s be honest, you’ll either learn or you’ll starve, so…”His lips pressed into a thin line, and she could practically see the war in his head—the reluctant acknowledgment that she was right, the deep-seated Malfoy pride warring against the fact that he quite clearly needed help.After a long moment, he exhaled sharply through his nose. “And what, exactly, would you want in return?”Hermione smirked. “Oh, don’t worry—I’ll think of something.”Malfoy studied her warily before letting out a quiet huff, his lips twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but wasn’t entirely begrudging either.“Fine,” he said at last. “But if I die of food poisoning, I’m haunting you.”Hermione rolled her eyes. “Noted.”With that, they finally stepped apart, both heading toward their own quarters, the night stretching ahead of them. And for the first time in a long while, Hermione found herself looking forward to the next day—not just for the teaching, not just for the challenge, but for whatever this strange, unexpected friendship between her and Malfoy was.Draco thought that haunting Hermione would be a particularly fun experience if one was a ghost. Her expressive face contorted in so many different ways when she was shocked and amused. Her offer to help him learn to cook was welcome. Generous. And inexplicable.He had sat quietly through dinner, listening to Russ speak about his planned food order. Draco asked his housemate could order double and he’d make the same. Russ had given him a somewhat suspicious side eye, but had agreed none-the-less on the condition that Draco cooked every other meal.  At least now he had a bit of a plan of what to do with the food when it arrived.He stood alone, watching as Hermione left the building. He didn’t like when things didn’t make sense for him. The fresh start they’d agreed on that morning was one thing - she deserved that, and maybe he did too. He could understand her offer of a fresh start - it’s intention, but everything since then? The way he naturally fell into teasing her, the way his eyes slid across unknown faces across the table while his ears focused on every word that left her mouth. The feeling of her warm skin under the palm of his hand as he’d moved to guide her out of the potions lab.He didn’t understand his own actions. He didn’t like it.He returned to his quarters and was met by a grinning Russ.“So tell me about ‘Ermione.”Draco stared at him, dumbfounded. He’d noticed the way he’d spoken with Hermione throughout dinner. Caught his teasing tone and the way her breath hitched occasionally during their conversations. It stirred something inside him. Another thing he did not understand.“Why?” He demanded sharply. “So you can flirt with her a bit more? She’s half your age - a bit young for you don’t you think?” Russ laughed at him and took a long swig from another bottle of the toxic liquid he’d referred to as ‘beer’.“I wasn’t flirting, Draco. That’s just how I am. No harm, no foul yeah?”“Why ask me about her then? If you weren’t flirting with her, why do you care to know more?”The older man looked at him, thoughtfully, and for too long for Draco’s comfort. He didn’t do well with intense scrutiny - he’d had far too much of it in his youth. While it should have made him more confident - more able to stand up to the scrutiny - it just left him feeling vulnerable. He moved to the kitchen, opening the fridge and creating a barrier between him and Russ’ gaze. He pulled the container of apple juice out and poured himself a glass before returning to the living area. Russel’s eyes were still on him. “Your body says more than your tongue, boy.” Russell said, shaking his head. “You were grinning at dinner when I asked about your shared past. Said you had history and you grinned like a maniac at her obvious discomfort, yet now you stand here stock still and unwilling to speak about her. It doesn’t add up.”Draco leaned against the sofa nearest the door, unwilling to take a seat and cement himself in the interrogation. He sipped the cold juice, savouring its sweet flavour on his tongue.“It’s complicated.” He finally said.“Seems so. She watches you too, you know.” Draco lifted his eyes from the rug he’d been staring at to meet Russell’s eyes. He couldn’t tell him about this. The man was kind to him. He needed that kindness, and if he spoke about her there was a chance that kindness could evaporate like water in a cauldron on high heat. He couldn’t risk it.He shook his head. “No, Russ. Maybe another day, but today’s been a lot.”Russ nodded understandingly, then changed the topic.“Why’d you sleep on the deck last night?” Draco blushed slightly. “It was too hot, and uh, the bed’s too small.” He gestured to his frame. “Even diagonally, It was too small.”“Why didn’t you change it then?” Russ asked.Draco’s blush deepened. Why was he blushing so damned much? “I didn’t know I could.”Russ laughed again, a deep belly laugh that caused his beer to froth up as he unwillingly threw his arm around. “Of course you can, didn’t think I need to tell ya.. Come have a look at mine.”Draco followed Russ down the short corridor and stood behind him as the man opened the door to his room and stepped inside.It was not what Draco had imagined.He’d imagined something similar to the living room - wall to wall taxidermy as decoration. Instead he was surprised to see wood panelled walls. Walls that were, by his estimation, at least twice as wide on the inside of the room as the outside of the room.“Extension charms are permitted - within reason. Come on in.”Draco stepped onto the plush carpet and entered the room. The space hummed with magic. He felt instantly cooler in here, the temperature easily 10 degrees lower than the rest of the house. In one corner of the room stood an overflowing bookshelf and a desk at thrice as large as the one in his room. A plush leather armchair sat near, with a lamp behind. What appeared to be a king sized bed sat against the opposite wall. Parallel to a floor to ceiling window. The last remnants of the day dusted the room in a rosy tint.Russell showed him the bathroom - a full bathroom with an enormous clawfoot tub as well as a shower and vanity. Blue and white tiles patterned the floor, contrasting with the copper feet of the tub.“You’re telling me I can expand my room and transfigure the furniture, create a whole new bathroom?”“Of course. Did you think you’d just live in that dingy little room?”Draco scowled. He had. He’d been ready to request different accommodations from Mr. G. he was so certain that he’d not be able to survive.“How do you keep it so cool in here? My cooling charms last only a few minutes before they wear off.”Russell grinned at him. It’s a special one, made by the old charm’s master actually. It’s woven into the space - keeps it the same temperature all year long.”“That’s incredible.”“Yeah.” Russell’s voice almost seemed wistful.He padded across the room, back to the bookshelf, and retrieved a well-worn book which he handed to Draco. “This has all the charms you’ll need. See you tomorrow.”Draco slipped out of the room, book in hand and grinning from ear to ear. He skimmed the book to find the cooling charm and immediately cast the incantation to weave into the walls of his room. Relief flooded him as the atmosphere cooled. He rolled his sleeves and set about creating a room he’d be comfortable living in.Nothing too ostentatious, but enough to be comfortable. He shrunk the furniture down to give himself space to move.He changed the windows first; removing the ghastly screens meant to keep insects away and conjuring a near translucent mesh. The plain rectangle of the west facing window transformed into a set of three arched windows, with delicate stained glass grilles inside the upper part of each arch. They filled the entire space; floor to ceiling and wall to wall.  Draco basked in the last golden light of the day as it filtered through, colours filling the once drab room.The process was repeated on the northern windows, leaving a gap either side of the window for bookshelves. He charmed both windows to be one-way, not wanting to need drapes.Next was the wardrobe. He positioned the shrunken object against the western wall of the room and brought it back to its original size. He opened the doors and cast an extension charm, creating a walk-in dressing room for himself. The simple hanging rail remained on one wall, while he conjured drawers and shelves to line another. He placed a faux window on the final wall, charming it to match the style of the true windows in his room, and to mirror the light that came through the western window.The en-suite was the hardest part. He needed to expand the room in a single direction, but only for one part of the wall. It took him several tries, and even in the temperature controlled room the sweat poured off his forehead as he concentrated on the task. Eventually he created a space he was satisfied with.He added another faux window, this one mirroring the northern-facing window of his room. Moonlight flooded the room. He charmed the floors to be checkered blue and white marble tiles. Vertical panels lined the walls, a pale cream, with horizontal blue accents at the top of the wainscotting.He didn’t want to risk conjuring anything that required plumbing in his tired state, so returned to the bedroom. He expanded the entire space, pushing the walls outward from the centre of the room until he was satisfied with the size. More moonlight lit the floors as the windows grew with the room. The walls adjusted to match those he’d set in the bathroom, the pinkish hue fading to cream panels with blue accents.Draco could feel himself growing sluggish. He struggled to remember the last time he’d used so much magic. The last time certainly had been for anything that made him feel so good. The exertion was exhausting in the best possible way. He felt so much calmer with familiar colours and patterns surrounding him.He placed the shrunken bed between the doors to the bathroom and dressing room. With a final wave of his wand he transformed it from the saggy mattress atrocity it had been to a grand four poster bed, complete with a squishy, superking mattress and half a dozen fluffy pillows. He removed his shoes and socks, feeling the old grimy carpet beneath his feet and sighing in defeat. He was spent. There was no way he could do the carpet tonight, it would need to wait for tomorrow. The ceiling and lights too.Draco collapsed onto his new bed, nestled into the pillows and was fast asleep within a matter of seconds.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hermione didn’t stir at all. The moment she had made it back to her quarters—she decided she hated the term

donga—

after thoroughly ribbing Malfoy and sharing a quiet cup of tea with Aunty, she had showered, climbed into bed, and surrendered entirely to exhaustion. She hadn’t even bothered to do more than apply her moisturiser, before she drifted off into a deep sleep. The effort of running about the grounds, absorbing endless information, and navigating the new social dynamics had drained her more than she realised.

When she finally woke the sun was already higher than she would have liked, filtering golden light through the sheer curtains. Stretching, she rolled out of bed, her muscles aching in that satisfying way that came from a day well spent. She dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of linen shorts, and a t-shirt, then laced up the only pair of runners she had brought along. They would have to do. She had no intention of getting another lecture from Russ about her footwear choices—no matter how amused Malfoy had been by the previous one, and bunched her hair in a ponytail.

Breakfast with Aunty was a quiet, comfortable ritual, one that Hermione found herself enjoying more than she expected. The simplicity of it—toast slathered in butter with just the right amount of Vegemite, a strong cup of tea warming her hands—felt grounding in a way she hadn’t realised she needed.

Aunty chatted as they ate, her voice calm and steady, weaving between the day’s plans and idle observations about the school. Hermione listened, soaking in the easy rhythm of the conversation, occasionally humming in response or adding a quiet remark of her own. There was no rush, no urgency—just the unhurried comfort of good food, good company, and the promise of a day unfolding ahead.

It was, quite simply, a nice morning.

As she finished her last sip of tea, she cleared her throat. “Aunty, where’s Malfoy staying?”

Aunty raised a sharp brow, clearly intrigued by the question. “Ya chasin’ him down already, girl?”

Hermione scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I just want to help him with something, and I’d rather not waste my whole day sorting him out.”

Aunty chuckled knowingly before jerking her chin in a direction down the path. “Couple of cottages down. Has a hammock on the deck, can’t miss it.”

With a nod of thanks, Hermione stood, stretching slightly before making her way out into the warm morning air. The sound of the leaves in the trees and sun-warmed earth greeted her as she wandered down the gravel path, the ground crunching under her feet, passing the other cottages. The occasional sound of birdsong broke the stillness, along with the distant hum of conversation from other staff already beginning their day.

She found the cottage easily enough and knocked twice, stepping back to wait. Heavy footfalls—heavier than she expected—approached the door, and when it swung open, it wasn’t Malfoy standing there, but Russ. He leaned casually against the doorframe, his ever-present grin firmly in place, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Mornin’,” he drawled, his tone thick with mischief. “Making house calls already, ‘Ermione?”

Hermione folded her arms, tilting her head slightly. “Seems that way,” she said, arching a brow. “Malfoy wanted me to show him something, and I’d rather not spend my entire day tracking him down.”

Russ chuckled, clearly entertained. “That so?” He crossed his arms, tapping his fingers idly against his biceps.

Hermione nodded pleasantly.. “Can I come in?”

“‘Course,” Russ said easily, stepping aside and gesturing for her to enter. “I’ll go knock on his door. He’s in the back.”

She hesitated for a beat. “He’s still asleep?” she asked, incredulous.

Russ let out a bark of laughter. “Reckon so. Bit pampered, that one.” He shot her a wink, then turned and led her deeper into the cottage.

The moment she stepped inside, Hermione had to suppress the grimace that threatened to form. The space was—well, different. Vastly different from hers. It was cluttered, clean but lived-in, filled with the unmistakable marks of masculinity. The walls were adorned with taxidermy—birds, antlers, even a mounted crocodile head above the fireplace. The heavy scent of leather and aged wood clung to the air, mingling with something smokier, earthier.

It was the sort of space that belonged to men who spent their days outdoors, who didn’t mind a bit of dust, who thrived in the wilderness. It was rugged, practical, and, to Hermione’s mild horror, entirely void of anything remotely soft or inviting.

Russ, clearly at home, strolled through the main living area without a second thought. He glanced over his shoulder at her, smirking slightly as if he had caught her reaction.

“Not quite what you’re used to, I take it?”

Hermione cleared her throat, forcing a neutral expression. “Just… different.”

Russ chuckled, shaking his head before moving down the hall and rapping his knuckles against the door at the end of the hall. “Oi, Draco, get up. Ya got company.”

Silence.

Hermione exhaled sharply, folding her arms. Typical.

As she waited, her gaze drifted around the space, taking in the rugged details—the worn leather couch, the stack of boots by the door, the faint scent of smoke and something woody lingering in the air. Her eyes landed on a handwritten list sitting on the wooden table, the words scrawled in a slightly messy script.

“Is this your grocery list?” she called, reaching out to skim a finger across the paper.

Russ wandered back down towards her, then grinned. “Yeah, ‘bout time to put it in. Draco wants the same, though, not sure what he’ll do with the roo steaks.” He let out a deep laugh, full of warmth and amusement.

Hermione raised a brow, glancing back at the list. “Did he even check what he was signing up for?”

Russ shook his head, grinning as he leaned casually against the table, arms folding across his broad chest. “Nope. Just asked me to duplicate it, was a surprise,” Russell shrugged, “but if he’s keen.” His smirk deepened, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “He’s in for a real shocker when that delivery rolls in tomorrow.”

Hermione let out a short laugh, imagining the absolute horror that would cross Malfoy’s face when he realised he had ordered kangaroo steaks without even knowing it. “Please make sure you get him to cook it himself.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Russ said, his voice dipping with conspiratorial delight. “Gotta see if the bloke actually can cook. Though, if I had to guess?” He tilted his head toward her, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “He was a bit too sheepish last night when we were talking about the barbie next week”

Hermione resisted the urge to laugh, sheepish wasn’t the half of it.

Russ chuckled, shaking his head. “Poor bastard doesn’t even know what he’s in for.” His gaze flicked back to her, lingering just long enough that Hermione felt that same warmth gather under her belly button.

It wasn’t obvious flirting—no outright advances, no over-the-top lines—but there was a casual, lingering warmth in the way he spoke to her, like he was just naturally easy with people, naturally charming.

Or… was it more than that?

Merlin, she had no idea.
And honestly, trying to figure it out was a little too distracting.
So she cleared her throat, shifting her focus back to the list in her hands. “Well, maybe Malfoy will surprise you. Who knows? Maybe he’s secretly a steak-cooking expert.”

Russ snorted. “If he is, I’ll eat my hat.”

Hermione grinned, rolling the list between her fingers. “That’s a dangerous promise.”

“Dangerous is my middle name, love,” Russ shot back smoothly, grinning at her in that easy, effortless way of his.

Hermione blinked.

Okay. That had to be flirting. Right?

Before she could decide, he pushed off the wall and wandered back down the hallway, rapping his knuckles against Malfoy’s door again. Silence.

Russ exhaled a dramatic sigh. “You might have better luck wakin’ up Sleeping Beauty in there.” He shot her a look over his shoulder, his grin full of mischief.

Hermione hesitated, her cheeks heating. “Oh—uh—” she cleared her throat, crossing her arms over her chest. “Is that… alright?”

Russ gave her a slow, knowing grin, eyes twinkling as he leaned in just a little. “I don’t care what you do, though if I have to hear I suggest you put on a show.”

Hermione spluttered, her face immediately burning.

Oh. My. God.

“Russ!” she hissed, scandalised.

He just laughed, the sound rich and entirely unrepentant as he pushed off the doorframe. “What? Just sayin’.”

Hermione glared, but it was entirely ineffective, given that she was still trying to smother her own flustered reaction. Was he joking? Was he serious? How was she meant to tell?

Russ just winked before sauntering toward the kitchen. “Good luck, love. You’ll need it.”

She exhaled sharply, steeling herself before heading toward Malfoy’s door.

Merlin, she should’ve just stayed in bed.

She knocked again, louder this time. “Malfoy?”

No answer. Not even the sound of movement.

Frowning, she considered the possibility that he had put up a Silencing Charm. It wouldn’t be surprising; Malfoy would likely value his privacy, and given how much attention he had drawn since arriving, she wouldn’t blame him for wanting some peace.

Testing the handle, she expected resistance, but to her surprise, the door swung open easily.

She stepped inside—and stopped in her tracks.

This was nothing like what she had expected.

Her own quarters were simple and practical—small but comfortable, designed for function rather than indulgence. She had assumed Malfoy’s would be the same, especially since they had all arrived under the same circumstances.

But the room in front of her told a completely different story.

It was bigger than it should have been, the walls pushed outward, giving him far more space than her own quarters. The magic was seamless—no raw edges, no sign of forced expansion—just an effortless shift in dimension, like the room had always been this way.

Her eyes were drawn first to the windows. Tall, arched panes stretching from floor to ceiling, their stained-glass grilles casting a mosaic of soft colour across the room. The northern wall had another set, just as grand, likely charmed to be one-way so that he could look out, but no one could look in. The effect was striking—light spilling through in warm golds and cool blues, shifting with the movement of the day. It was beautiful.

And then her eyes landed on the bed.

She stared.

A four-poster. Massive, like something straight out of a decorating magazine. The mattress was thick and inviting, layers of plush bedding and impossibly soft pillows stacked high. It looked obscenely comfortable.

There was an indulgence to it.

A refusal to settle for less.

Hermione took a slow breath, absorbing it all. The expanded space, the windows, the dressing room, the carefully charmed en-suite—each detail spoke of someone who wasn’t just passing through. Someone who needed real comforts.

Her gaze finally flicked to Malfoy.

He was sprawled face-down on the bed, still in the same clothes he had worn the day before. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his arms bent up around his head, the fine fabric of his shirt slightly rumpled from sleep. He looked utterly spent, like he had pushed himself past exhaustion and collapsed into the mattress.

Hermione hesitated.

She felt like a voyeur, standing there, uninvited, taking in the sight of him stretched across that ridiculously indulgent bed. There was something unsettlingly intimate about it—not because of the situation itself, but because of the simple fact that she had never seen him like this before. Uncomposed. Unarmoured. Just… Malfoy.

She swallowed, snapping herself out of it.

This was precisely

why

she needed to stop overthinking things. She wanted to make a proper go at friendship with Malfoy—they would have to work together for the foreseeable future, it only made sense—then she needed to stop treating every interaction with him like some delicate balancing act.

She had friends back home. Friends she had made

after

the war, in the years since Hogwarts. People she had learned to joke with, to be herself around, without the constant weight of expectation. If she wanted Malfoy to be one of those people, then she needed to act like it.

Which meant treating him like she would any of her new friends in Australia.

With a sudden burst of movement, she strode forward and threw herself backwards onto the bed, letting the plush mattress engulf her as she landed beside him.

It was

heavenly

.

The kind of bed you could get lost in for hours, the kind that made you wonder how you had ever tolerated anything less. She let out an exaggerated sigh of contentment, arms stretched out, legs sinking into the softness.

The motion jostled the mattress.

Malfoy startled, his body tensing as he jerked awake, his head snapping up just enough to glance at her in groggy confusion.

Hermione turned her head on the pillow to meet his bleary, half-conscious gaze and grinned.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

The chill of wintery, Wiltshire air stung Draco’s cheeks, turning them pink as he sped through the air. He was flying high and free among the clouds, his body laying flat along the broom, arm outstretched toward the snitch that was mere centimetres away.

His fingers had been a hair’s breadth from the tiny golden orb when his nostrils detected a familiar, but incongruous scent.

Sweet and floral, with the faintest notes of narcissus flower. A scent he knew, though he had only discovered its source recently.

His Firebolt dipped, tilting to the right suddenly as if buffeted by a howling wind.

The sudden movement startled him, and pulled him abruptly from the rare, peaceful dream. He opened his eyes slowly. Still exhausted from magical exertion, he wasn’t ready to wake up and would very much prefer to lay in a few moments longer.

A few hours longer.

His eyes, bleary as they were, slowly brought the source of his awakening into focus. He scrubbed dried sleep from his eyes. When he opened them again, his vision cleared, he was shocked to find Granger’s face less than a foot from his.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

He twisted amongst his covers, preserving his dignity as best he could in the circumstances. How long had she lain there watching him sleep? Maybe ogling in his naked form? He teetered on the edge of cursing himself for sleeping naked in an un-warded room before realising the person he should be cursing was the witch invading his private space.

What sort of uncultured heathen sneaks into a wizard’s bedroom and watches him sleep while he’s naked.

He tried to ignore what thinking about being naked in her vicinity was doing to his morning wood. He was angry. Sort of.

“What the fuck, Granger?” He snarled from beneath the covers.

“What

are

you doing, Malfoy?” The way she stressed the word, brow arched in that classic Granger fashion, sent him straight back to Hogwarts when she was a swotty schoolgirl.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m protecting what’s left of my modesty. Did you expect me to continue to lay prone on the bed while you ogled my naked form?” He bit out the words, partly hoping that she

had

ogled his naked form.

“Your naked… Malfoy, you’ve got clothes on, you absolute git!” She pulled herself up onto one elbow, resting her head on her right hand as she watched him - her eyes sparkling with delight.

Draco released his vise-like grip on the bedding and ran his hand along one arm, then a leg.

Sheepishly, he lowered the covers

“What are you doing in here, Granger?”

“Did you, or did you not, want me to teach you to cook?” She was still laying on his bed, her elbow propped on his pillow and a cheeky grin on her face.

“I didn’t mean today. I didn’t mean at the arse-crack of dawn on a Saturday for Merlin’s sake! And I certainly didn’t mean in my room!”

“I saw Russ’ list. What are you thinking of doing with the Kangaroo?”

Had the hot weather driven her mad? “What Kangaroo?”

“On the list?”

It might have, he’d need to keep an eye on her if she was so ill-prepared for the climate. “What bloody list?”

“On the grocery list.” She was frowning at him like he was the idiot in this conversation.

“Morgana’s tits Granger, why would there be Kangaroo on a grocery list?”

“Language Malfoy! They’re to eat” she scolded.

“Why would anyone eat Kangaroo? Aren’t they a national emblem? You don’t eat the animal on your country’s coat of arms”

Granger collapsed onto his pillow, shaking with laughter. She was—Merlin help him—

laughing at him

.

Draco flopped back against his own pillow. “He put kangaroo on the grocery list didn’t he?”

Hermione turned to face him, pushing her curls out of her face, still grinning far too much for his liking. “Oh, absolutely. And now

you

, you absolute genius, have to figure out how to cook kangaroo steaks.”

“Should’ve bloody asked what he was planning before asking him to duplicate it” Draco muttered.

Hermione gasped dramatically, clutching at the invisible pearls around her neck. “Malfoy admits to a mistake! Someone alert the Prophet, this is history.”

“Ha, Ha.” He deadpanned. I’ll need you to leave while I get ready, Granger.”

Hermione flopped onto her stomach, her face half-buried in one of his absurdly soft pillows. Her voice was muffled when she groaned, “But your bed is

so

comfortable, like a cloud.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, she wouldn’t actually stay there. Surely. When she’d offered a fresh start this was not what he had envisaged. This almost flirty, if a little dorky, version of Granger was unexpected. She’d never seemed… playful, at Hogwarts. Serious. Studious. Stubborn. But not playful.

She peeked up at him, eyes twinkling with something dangerously close to mischief. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal your bed, or your pillows. I

will

, however, resent my boring, used mattress for the rest of my life.”

Then,

she groaned

.

Actually groaned

.

Draco clenched his jaw, focusing very hard on

not

acknowledging the entirely unwelcome reaction that particular sound sent through his body. Being friends with her would be a herculean task if she continued to test him so. He glared at her. That was the right response. The Malfoy response she expected.

“Fine,” she sighed, finally rolling off the bed and striding toward the door. She tossed a glance over her shoulder. “Ten minutes.”
 
Draco didn’t want to leave the shower. The pressure was magnificent, the temperature perfect and the thoughts racing through his head in no way fit for anywhere outside of a shower. It was unfair that his body would betray him at the mere sight of a witch in his bed.

He was wholly unprepared for the situation in which he currently found himself.

Unprepared to cook.

Unprepared to teach.

Unprepared to deal with whatever ridiculous thing was happening to his body whenever she was near.

He needed to sort himself out.

He needed a plan.

Step 1.(the easiest and most urgent step) Deal with his raging erection.

Step 2. Learn to cook

Step 3. Make a grocery list that didn’t include native wildlife

Step 4.

No that seemed like enough steps for now.

Draco dealt with his arousal in record time, brushed his teeth, styled his hair, dressed and exited his room to face the day.

The day he sought to face was facing away from him and leaning over the bench. Her legs crossed at the ankles and a sliver of skin showing below the knee of her linen shorts. Elbows resting on the laminate bench, her attention was fully fixed on Russell as he prepared tea in the tiny kitchen. He’d made the lady grey again; Draco could smell the sweet aroma of the steeping tea leaves.

He waited quietly, observing the interaction between Granger and Russell. He’d insisted that their interactions weren’t flirtatious, but it was incredibly hard to be sure of that. If the way Granger had woken him this morning was anything to go by, the line between friend and flirt was a knife’s edge she danced along with glee.

She hung onto the rugged man’s every word; laughed at even the smallest joke. Draco was pulled away from his observations when he felt the weight of Russell’s gaze. His eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Morning sleepy-head,” Russell grinned. “I heard you’re teaching ‘Ermione here how to cook roo today, huh?”

Draco scowled. It seemed he had managed to find himself surrounded by morning people. He shuddered at the thought. He was not a morning person, never had been, never would be.

He took the cup of tea Russell offered and stifled the satisfied moan that almost passed his lips. The man was a heathen - as evident in the taxidermy animals he kept as decoration and consumption of national emblems for dinner - but he made a damn good cup of tea.

“I’ve duplicated the list for you, and given ‘Ermione here a bit of an idea of what I planned. I reckon she’ll have you on the right track in no time, Draco.”

Russell clasped Granger’s shoulder affectionately as he passed out of the kitchen, returning to his room.

She turned around, raising the cup to her lips and blowing softly over the hot liquid. The movement didn’t hide the pink tinge to her freckled cheeks. There was something odd about her tea though. He peered over the rim of the cup.

“Milk?” He scoffed. “In Lady Grey? Who raised you?”

“Dentists who wanted to increase my calcium intake.”

“Your what?”

“Calcium. Essential element - very important for healthy teeth.” She grinned at him. Actually grinned.

He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. There was likely no point arguing with her on this. This banter, her grinning at him - it was unsettling. He needed them back on familiar territory. So he did what came naturally. He bit.

“Did you tell Russell I couldn’t cook?” he accused.

“No, he figured it out on his own. You weren’t exactly subtle in disguising your lack of culinary skill during last night’s discussion.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “So what’s your brilliant 10-step plan for teaching me to cook?”

His words brought a small smile back to her lips.

“I thought we could start with something simple. A simple, but hearty breakfast - scrambled eggs on toast.”

Draco tried valiantly, and failed, to hide the frustration he felt. Was she mocking him? What kind of fool couldn’t make eggs on toast?

“Is that what you think of me? That I can’t even toast bread and fluff some eggs?”

Her raised eyebrow seemed to indicate that, yes, actually, that is exactly what she thought. (Which, he realised in hindsight, was both perfectly fair and accurate).

Desperate to prove her wrong he pushed into the kitchen, almost spilling her tea as he brushed past.

He pulled open the refrigerator and removed the carton of eggs, the pitcher of milk and the yellow abomination Russell insisted was ‘butter’.

There were only 6 cupboards and he opened every last one of them until, eventually, he found a saucepan. Materials collected he stood at the small white cooktop, inspecting the various knobs.

“Do you need some help to turn it on?” Granger asked from behind him, the faintest hint of a teasing smirk in her sing-song voice.

“No.” He snapped. He could figure out how to turn on a stove. The small images near the dials told him that each one was responsible for a different section on top. He turned one clockwise.

Nothing happened.

He turned another. Again - nothing happened. He turned every single knob and none of them produced any sort of heat or flame or fire.

“You need to light them—” Granger began. Before she could finish her sentence, Draco snapped his fingers, channeling wandless.

An enormous plume of flames engulfed the top of the cooktop and Draco startled backwards, almost tripping over the small cotton rug Russell kept on the floor.

“Jesus, Malfoy!”

Granger shoved past him, swiftly shutting off the dials before turning on him, cool fingers gripping his face. She tilted his head left, then right, eyes scanning him like a healer on duty.

“You’re lucky you didn’t burn your eyebrows off,” she muttered before releasing him with a nod.

“You said I needed to light them.”

“Not all of them, and not when you’ve had the gas on for a while.”

“Well you didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t give me a chance.”

He sighed.

“Granger. Could you please show me how to operate the cooking station?”

“It’s a stove, Malfoy. And yes, I will. Come and stand here.” She gestured to the spot on her left.

“You don’t need a wand to light it. It works using gas and electricity…”

“I don’t need to …”

“Hush.” She scolded, shoving the point of her left elbow into his arm. “You only press one, and you need to push it in first - see?” She pushed the knob in and turned it. He heard a faint repetitive clicking noise before a small circle of flames appeared around the metal plate.

“If you turn the dial up, you add more gas and the burner gets hotter.”  She turned the dial anticlockwise, extinguishing the flame.  “You try.”

She moved aside and he aligned himself centrally with the cooking station. He grasped the furthest knob on the left and twisted as hard as he could. Nothing happened.

“No, that’s the wrong direction. You need to twist it clockwise and you have to push it in first.”

Draco tried again, and again, and agai. His frustration grew with each turn and he could feel himself growing light-headed.

“Stop, you need to push it in.” She moved behind him to stand on his left. Her small hand grabbed the back of his and guided it to the knob. He grasped it and she pushed gently. He heard a faint click. A gentle pressure on his hand guided him to twist the dial clockwise and, to his delight, a series of small flames ignited around the circumference of the burner.

She smiled up at him, genuine and warm.

“Now what?” She asked.

He placed the pot he’d acquired from the cupboard onto the burner, allowing it to warm while he prepared the eggs.

“Now I crack the eggs.” He held one carefully between his thumb and forefinger, and cracked it firmly against the counter top. Too firmly.

It broke and he cupped it in both hands, desperately trying to contain the egg white as it leaked from the shattered shell.

He deposited the egg into the pot and reached for the wooden spoon hanging on a rack to his right.

“Ugh, no, Malfoy. There’s shell all through it. Unless you want crunchy eggs you need to take it out and try again.”

“Maybe I like crunchy eggs” he stated boldly, begging her to argue with him.

“You don’t.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” He pulled the pot off the heat and deposited the contents in the sink.

“Would you like me to show you how to crack the egg?” Her voice was kind, even though it was ridiculous that he, a grown man of 21, was unable to crack an egg.

“Go on then.”

He watched her select an egg from the carton and hold it the same way he had. “You need to bring it down sharply, but not too hard. Make a crack, but don’t crack it open.” She tapped it firmly against the bench and then raised it to show him the crack.

“Then you can put your thumbs on either side and pull it apart.” She demonstrated the action, neatly splitting the shell and releasing the yolk and egg white into the pot.

He copied her actions, producing a neatly cracked egg which promptly joined its sibling in the pot.

“Missed a bit of shell” she noted, and reached in with the empty shell to scoop out a tiny, floating piece. “Grab a whisk”

She gestured to the implements to his right.

“The one that looks like a cage.” she added helpfully. He used it to gently stir the eggs.

“You need to go faster, get some air in them or they won’t be fluffy. And you need to add the milk.”

Draco shoved the whisk into her hands. “You do it, I’ll get the milk”.  He watched as she tilted the pan and made quick circular motions with the whisk, generating volume in the eggy mixture.

Unthinkingly he began pouring milk into the pot.

“Stop, Malfoy, Stop!” Granger shrieked. “Oh my God, Malfoy, you’ve ruined it. That’s way too much milk!” she was laughing as she tried valiantly to tip excess milk from the pot.

“I hope you like your scrambled eggs on the runny side. It’s a dash of milk, not a gallon!”

Her laugh was contagious, infectious. He couldn’t help but smile. “Extra calcium for your teeth.”

She swatted playfully at his arm with her free hand.

“Get the toast on then.”

He pulled the tiny white tab off the bread bag and removed two slices of plain white bread from inside. After depositing them in the toasting machine, he turned the dial and waited.

“I don’t think it’s working.”

“You’ve got to push the lever down, the one in the middle.”

He did as she suggested and was pleased to see the toast descent and be surrounded by glowing red wires. Draco Malfoy, pureblood son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black Malfoy had successfully made toast the muggle way. He was sure hisnparents would be disappointed and proud respectively.

His self-impressed grin didn’t last long. In moments the acrid smell of something burning filled the air.

“Draco the toast!” Draco? She’d called him Draco. That was new.

“Pop the bloody toast up, Malfoy!” Screaming started in his ears, a sound akin to a caterwauling charm reverberating throughout the room. He clapped his hands over his ears in a desperate attempt to block out the awful sound.

Granger shoved him out of the way and pressed a button. The charred remains of the bread that entered the toasting machine popped up, but the excruciatingly loud sound continued.

“Hell meee uaah” she demanded, indicating upwards to a small circular disc on the ceiling.

“What?” He yelled back.

She pulled his hands away from his ears.

“Lift me up onto the bench!”

Draco quickly grasped her hips, hands sliding under her shirt and against smooth skin as he hoisted her upwards. She clambered from her knees to her feet and began waving her hands in front of the disc. It was a majestic angle, looking up at her in all her glory. He couldn’t help but admire the curve of her legs, the smooth skin just inches from his face.

“Malfoy!” She yelled, snapping his attention back to the situation at hand. “Open a damned window!” He did as commanded, flicking his wand to open the window over the sink. A few moments later the screeching stopped.

She looked down at him, her expression morphing from enraged to amused in a matter of seconds.

“You really can’t cook anything can you?”