She stared down at one card.
“The first one.”

Her eyes roved over the cards. Neither showed her the end of the war. She should care about the war. But- the little boy with the curly hair and carefree face. He was a choice and she wanted him to call her, so badly.
Malfoy watched her conflict until her shoulders squared.

Hermione was still shaking as the cards slowed and were laid face down on the table between them. She looked between the cards and Malfoy, her mouth opening and closing as tears threatened to fall.
“Choice- is a magical thing,” Malfoy whispered. “It’s intrinsic. It calls for you to answer.”

Before she could grapple with what he said, the cards were flipped and shuffled midair. She couldn’t see which one meant her loss, her death, or her happiness. Her mouth stayed open as the cards shuffled faster and her anxiety continued to build.

The vision vanished and she caught herself leaning forward- knowing that’s the one she wanted. Needed.

Malfoy clicked his tongue, already knowing what she wanted to yell to the high heavens.
“Divination doesn’t work based on choice, Granger. It works on chance.”

The third image was of a small boy with curly white hair giggling as he hid behind a sofa. Malfoy entered the room, laughing, his mouth saying words she couldn’t hear. Then, she saw herself- skin glowing, hair golden brown again, a smile across her face and eyes twinkling- and she was pregnant.

The first image was of her casting Avadas like they were first nature. Her eyes were soulless and empty.

The second was of her being caught in a moment as a mask was knocked off a Death Eaters face. He was a child. Innocent. But guilty? A green light flashed and she was dead.

He watched her eyes flicker between the cards and land back on him.
“I’m going to show you three visions of what will happen when you pick that path. It won’t show you what happens in the war. Only what happens to you.”

“I’ll give you a choice.”
He clicked his fingers and a deck of cards landed in his hand.
“Pick three cards.” He fanned out the tarot deck, the cards black and empty.
She didn’t believe in Divination but she was compelled to choose. He floated them up for her to see.
Judgement.
Justice.
Executioner.

She gasped as the white facade of the Manor changed to the dark eerie mansion she had walked toward just days ago.
With a click, the facade was back. An illusion of splendor and beauty.
“But you knew this before you came here.”
Her silence was his answer, leading him to smirk again.

She continued to stare at him as she sipped her tea. Flickering her eyes around him, she could see the glimmers of magical illusion on the Manor, his hair, clothes, eyes, and tea cup. He placed his tea down, raised his hand, curling it to hold a glowing ball.

“Good girl,” he smirked as she sat before him, huffed, and reached for her tea.

“What are you?” she asked after the silence became too thick. She didn’t want to know, but she couldn’t stay teetering the line between reality and imaginary.
“I’m a Sorcerer. I can bringeth and taketh away.”

“Granger.”
Except reality.
“No,” she whined, pouting as she turned toward him, arms crossed.
Draco watched her, amused at her antics and oddly happy to give her this moment. But all good things must end. “You’re still recovering and we need to have a chat.”
Their eyes held until she broke.

She didn’t think as she stepped out of the sheets and followed him. She didn’t care that she was in a small, red negligee that barely covered her bits. Hermione hummed as she leaned against the balcony, angling her neck to reach more sun. Nothing could take this moment of peace from her.

She wanted to be alarmed, but that feeling left as fast as it came. Pressing herself up to sitting, she raised her arms in a stretch, smiling at the elusive Draco Malfoy.
“Is that for me?” she asked, eyeing the extra cup of tea.
Malfoy scoffed and nodded out to the balcony.

Hermione woke, rested and immensely comfortable. There was no pain, no screaming - just luxurious sheets that smelled of the ocean and the warmth of home.
“Good morning, Granger. I hope you slept well,” a deep voice drawled.

The wards lifted when she reached the gate, opening for her to hobble through. At the end of aisle stood Draco Malfoy- skin and hair white as snow, cloak as black as night, eyes as sharp as an eagle.

Then her vision went blank.

She should turn back. The near constant compulsion to be at Malfoy Manor was too strong for her to ignore anymore. She had ignored it at the war raged on, but now, with a cracked ribbed, sprained ankle, and her innocence shattered, there was no logical reasoning left.