Draco was sweating

He had underestimated the power of the late afternoon sun, and ventured a bit too far out into the vineyards without first considering his schedule for the evening. He would definitely need to bathe again before making his way to meet Blaise. Not for Blaise's sake, of course, but it wouldn't do to gate-crash a wealthy well-known family party whilst body odor trumped the scent of his cologne. His shoulders were damp and turning red, and his fingernails were covered in dried earth from plucking stray grapes off the ground.

The Black Family Vineyards were located in the South of France, not far from the Delacour estate. Draco had spent many summers here with his Mother's side of the family. He wasn't well-acquainted with the Delacour's (hence the lack of invitation the the event) …or perhaps they wanted to maintain a healthy distance from his still-sullied family name?

After all, wasn't that what he was currently doing himself, in a manner of speaking?

He wasn't hiding, per-se, he was just keen to allow the post-war fervor to die down before making an attempt to return to proper wizarding society. It seemed pertinent to remove himself entirely following his early release from Azkaban three years prior, and allow for his peers to acclimate to life without his face popping up to remind them of his past transgressions.

He knew his father's thoughts on this course of action, but banished them from his mind as soon as they had appeared. His Father had garnered himself a life-sentence, and his opinion held no true weight in the matter.

After all, there was a line between being smart and being a coward, and he considered himself well on the former side of the equation, whatever his Father believed.

It was easy for Father to talk, he mused, holed up in Azkaban for the foreseeable future.

While the prison surely wasn't an ideal location, it afforded his Father the ability to carry on his business affairs by post while avoiding the taunts and stares of the post-war wizarding community. Draco was certainly not jealous of his Father's predicament, having spent nearly two years in the prison himself after the fall of the dark lord, but some days he envied the forced nature of not having to look oneself in the mirror on a day to day basis that his Father enjoyed.

…not having to stare at one's reflection and wonder at one's own character.

His father was afforded a modicum of freedom from his cold hollow perch in the North Sea, while Draco was trapped in a mental prison of his own creation.

Fleeing… no, vacationing, at the Black Family Vineyards for a time was a design invented so that he could clear his head, and get a break from everything. It just so happened that he was enjoying what was intended to be a brief stint here, and had become a three-year… stint.

It also just so happened that his childhood friend, Blaise Zabini, had a family home not far from the Black Family estate. Blaise had the good fortune of not having taken sides in the war. He also had a good fortune, and was determined to act out his role of international playboy and mischief maker to his hearts content, charming as many witches and drinking as much fire whiskey as he could get his hands on.

Draco feigned enthusiasm for romps such as the one planned for this evening. It was a decent veil for his overwhelming sense of… not loneliness… but out-of-place-ness. He didn't know where he fit in the world anymore. He wasn't sure of much.

Seeing Potter come to his aid at his ministry hearing was… surprising, but not altogether shocking, seeing as how Potter had taken it upon himself to rope Draco into his save-the-world theatrics one too many times already, despite how many times Draco had tried to thwart him. Saint Potter would forever see the best in the worst man. He had even goaded the Dark Lord himself into feeling some remorse for his vile actions. He had felt pity for the man, if you could truly call him a man, right until his last breath. No, Potter's support was to be expected.

It was Granger who had truly thrown him for a loop. It was Granger who had marched into that courtroom without sparing him a glance, and despite all manner of reasoning to the contrary, had convinced the Wizengamot of his innocence.

And later that evening, it was Granger who had somehow made her way into the far reaches of his mind, forcing him to wonder. Could he possibly be deserving of forgiveness? If she, the "mudblood" he had tortured and tormented for years could forgive his actions, could he be deserving of such forgiveness? Or was she simply playing Saint, like Potter?

He had never let himself travel too far down this line of questioning, but any time he allowed the image of Hermione Granger standing in that courtroom arguing for his release to float into his mind, he noticed that he began to hope.

Hope, that she was right about him. Hope, that he could one day lead a life out of seclusion. Perhaps, he could even be happy…

Hoping, however, was a fools errand. Hoping got you into trouble. It was always best to resign yourself to the realities surrounding you. To the facts. To lean on what you know. To make decisions based firmly on logic.

Weren't those his father's words, though? If he was honest, he wasn't sure where his father's beliefs ended and his began. Particularly, in regard to blood status and the propriety of having relationships with blood traitors… or even mudbloods for that matter.

In any case, it was better for him here. Far from prying eyes or chance encounters with his old schoolmates.

He needed time to decide about himself before letting them decide about him.

He had already taken a number of years, yet it didn't seem like the time to return just yet. The wizarding world was getting along just fine without him, after all.

—

Hermione looked out upon the gorgeous French countryside and sighed. She thought momentarily of her Mother, and how they had come to this very spot on holiday during the summer between her second and third year at Hogwarts. How they had abandoned the normal muggle tourist routes and ventured out on their own, finding a small Inn up the road in which to stay the night.

Her Mother and Father had been home bodies, and their travels had been infrequent and generally on the "safe" side, all things considered. This trip had truly been no exception. Their summer in France, while off the beaten path, contained no more excitement than a singular night of drunkenness (mostly on her mother's part) after sampling a few too many at the vineyard Hermione currently stood in front of in present day.

She and her Father had had a good laugh as her Mother attempted to play Vicar in the wedding of two fellow tourists who were newly engaged, demanding that they put wedding planning aside and do the deed on the spot. She had recently been ordained as a minister on the internet, something she had learned about from Joey on Friends, her favorite muggle tv program, and insisted to the couple that they allow her this honor.

The couple had awkwardly obliged, feeling it would be pointless to refuse, and allowed her Mother to perform a sing song ceremony that made little sense, referencing Monica and Chandler, and lamenting that someone named Gunther had never found love.

Hermione and her Father had disappeared into the rows of grape leaves in fits of hysterical laughter, her Father fairly pissed himself, and Hermione in shock from both of her parent's impropriety and nonsensical pop culture references. It was so rare to see them this way. Once the obligatory faux-ceremony had concluded, the three had walked up the road to their inn and fallen asleep together on the front porch, having lost the keys somewhere in the vineyard dirt.

It was a story she'd never shared with her friends at Hogwarts, preferring to keep it to herself as a special treasure. Just for her.

Hermione missed her parents terribly, but especially her Mother. She'd been close with both, but there was something exceptional about losing your Mother. The life that brought you life. Of course, she knew that Wendell and Monica were still alive, yet the fact that they did not know she existed (and never would again) put a wrench in any plans she had to have her family back to the way it was before the war. Her memory charms had run too deep. Leave it to her to do a job so thoroughly that it could not be reversed.

She felt a momentary flare up of hatred for her own stubbornness and determination to do a job right, but quickly pushed it away. She knew it wouldn't help to move down a line of thinking that could only lead to self-hatred. Whose fault it was… was inconsequential. They were gone and that was that. Yet she couldn't help herself, upon arriving in the area, from taking a jaunt out to the vineyards just to stand in the presence of one of her most firm memories of them.

It had been five years since The Battle of Hogwarts, and most of the magical community had moved on …at least, on the surface. Regular life puttered on, even though there were so many lives lost or destroyed. Once Voldemort was gone, there was nothing much left to do but pick up the pieces and trudge onward.

To that end, Gabrielle Delacour was about to turn 17 and would be presented that evening to French Wizarding society. The Delacour Family was a well known and prestigious one, and would settle for no less than a spectacle in honor of their dear Gabrielle. Fleur was spared this embarrassment (as Gabrielle called it) due to the fact that she had come of age during the Triwizard Tournament, and being the Beaubaton's Champion and the only girl was quite enough of a spectacle to be getting on with. Gabrielle, however, was quiet and shy, preferring her older sister's shadow and protection from the rest of the world to the spotlight. From spending some time with her at Shell Cottage the summer prior, however, Hermione knew her to truly be a fiery upstart by her true nature. She was sure that Gabrielle would have been sorted into Gryffindor had she attended Hogwarts. Hermione had a deep affinity for the girl, and so was of course quick to accept the invitation to attend her coming out party.

It was only slightly awkward that she and Ron had split up the week prior.

Slightly? Massively?

She spun for a moment trying to decide which was more accurate and settled on her dear old friend: logic. She was not there for Ron. She was not there for the Weasley's, though she loved them all and still considered them family, even in the presence of her imminent divorce. She was there for Gabrielle and Fleur. Despite her initial dislike of the part-Veela-Triwizard-champion whom she once deigned to call "Phlegm," she had found a camaraderie in the woman once they were both wed to brothers of the same blood. It felt important, even necessary, for Hermione to attend the gathering, even if she were going "stag." It wasn't a wedding, after all, and showing up without a partner was decidedly less awkward at a coming out celebration.

Yet she felt a sense of wistful loss at the site of these vineyards… at the sensation of the late afternoon sun on her neck and shoulders, causing beads of sweat and an uncomfortable redness to begin spreading across her skin.

Without a family. Without a husband. Without a clear vision of what the future held for her.

She knew one thing, however…

She was keen to leave behind the version of herself that everyone knew her as. The best friend of the boy who lived… twice. The wife of the youngest Weasley son. The once-shunned muggle born brightest with of her age.

Boring titles. News paper headlines. Not the truth of who she was. Yet she was finding it difficult to grasp who she truly was now. How would she write her own headline, were she a nosey Daily Prophet reporter?

Lonely Witch Gazes Wistfully Among Grapes!

Journalism was not her forte. Nor was being clear on a sense of self when the whole of the world she knew and loved had been ripped unceremoniously from beneath her feet.

Just as she was about to retire to her vehicle, the door of which still stood ajar, she spotted someone out in the fields. Rather, she thought it was someone. At first it seemed like a trick of the light, a momentary white blonde flash.

Squinting her eyes to block out the periphery sunlight, she caught sight of a young man. He was broad shouldered, tan, and built. The shock of white light was no more than his blonde head glinting in the sunlight. He seemed to be wandering as aimlessly as she had been, picking up a stray grape here and there, and drinking in the sunlight.

Perhaps if she asked, he would allow her to come and sample some wine. This seemed preferable to retiring back to the inn alone and wiling away the hours before the ceremony that evening. Perhaps if she arrived pissed it would dispel the awkwardness of seeing Bill, Ron, and the rest of the Weasley family that evening. Or make it worse?

Merlin, she was sick of her own indecision!

It was decided, then. She shut her car door and strode gallantly out into the vineyard. The young man, hearing the slam of the car door, looked up and began to walk toward her in kind.

A/N: Hello new readers! A few things: I started this on Ao3 and only began posting here after 12 chapters were complete... and I posted them all in one day, which in retrospect, was a mistake. Made it look like a 12 chapter fic with no readers :D But the time turners were destroyed (or were they?!) and I can't fix the past. But what I can do is plead with you now! If you like the story, please review, favorite, share etc etc! I will love you endlessly for it!

I want to be more active here and I really appreciate reviews so I know you're reading and enjoying. Alternatively (or additionally) come find me on tumblr: liliansilverstuff - I share little tidbits about my writing process and will happily answer asks.

Fun fact I haven't posted anywhere else: The night I decided to write my own Dramione fic, I was in bed awake trying to settle on the storyline. What happened instead was that the following sentence went through my head: "Ok so Draco is hiding, he's in the South of France on a vineyard and the first line will be 'Draco was sweating.'" Then I muttered "done." and went to sleep.