The yellow glow of the streetlamps spilled into the park, where two figures, one tall and one small, swung side by side.
"Creak~~ creak~~"
The old swing groaned with the scrape of rusted metal, its sound carrying through the silent park.
The taller figure gazed up at the stars, as if pondering something.
The smaller figure kept her head lowered, staring blankly at the letter spread open in her hands.
In the dim light of the streetlamps, the contents were just about legible:
Dear Miss Hermione Granger,
The Quidditch World Cup will take place on Monday night, and the date is fast approaching.
I urgently need your reply.
Whether it concerns arranging your tickets or that other matter, you must give me a clear answer.
Please respond by sunrise the day after tomorrow at the latest.
Your close friend, Draco Malfoy.
The letter was short, but its contents were urgent.
That was why our lovely Miss Granger had come out to swing in the middle of the night.
"We can't go back to the past, Hermione. People always change."
Voldemort drew his gaze from the stars and turned to look at Hermione, who had come to him for help. He spoke softly.
"But you frighten me."
Hermione came out of her reverie, turned to Voldemort, and said,
Voldemort smiled. "Because of Harry's severed hand?"
"That's part of it, but there are other reasons too," Hermione said.
"Such as?" Voldemort asked.
"Your Death Eaters, Professor. They don't seem to have changed. Of course, they seem a little kinder, but I mean their beliefs. You know what I mean," Hermione said.
Voldemort nodded to show that she was right.
He didn't answer at once. Instead, he waved his hand and used magic to make the swings move higher.
Hermione stared fixedly at