You Gave Me Love-Colored Glasses

by BookDr

Summary:

Years after the war, Hermione Granger is happily(?) swamped with far too much while Draco Malfoy is doing his best to take it easy. She’s finishing up a medical degree and developing new healing spells. He’s working occasional auror jobs and remodeling Malfoy Manor. They’re both lonelier than they realize, and when a freak accident connects them in a Muggle hospital, it doesn’t take long for each of them to realize that friendship waits in unlikely places.

~

A fun and meaningful slow-burn that diverges from canon during the second wizarding war.

Notes:

First fic—started writing this on a whim while I too am happily(?) swamped. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: Prequel

The war ended in silence. There was no flourish, no moving speeches, and certainly no cheers of victory. It was a long war, drawn out and exhausting.

No one expected it to last the years it did. Both sides were depleted and just barely holding on when Tom Riddle cast his last Killing Curse and Harry Potter cast his first. With the opposing leaders of the war dead, the fighting and the strategizing and the hating just… fizzled out. Don’t mistake my words—Harry Potter was mourned and missed, and prejudices still ran deep. But no one could come up with a reason to kill each other anymore, not after Voldemort exhausted them all (the reasons and the people, that is).

It took about a year after the war ended for life to return to the weird almost-normal that follows earth-shattering events. But it took longer for the people of the wizarding world to adjust to who they were after the war, and how they related to the people around them.

And it’s a fact of the universe that when things feel normal, life throws monumental change at you and expects you to respond accordingly.

Chapter 2: June 5, 2003

Notes:

Gonna post a few chapters all at once!

It is with an air of amazement and approval that Hermione leaves the lecture hall, agreeing with the exclamations of those walking out beside her. But it’s not until she’s preparing to apparate out of a bathroom she ducked into that she lets the false smile fall. Another Muggle ‘medical genius’ convinced that cloning is where time and money should be allocated. If Hermione had known that the lecture would be on her least favorite rumor in medical technology, she would have allocated her time and money elsewhere. Unfortunately, the topic was only announced as the lecturer took his spot at the podium.

Hermione has no faith in cloning. She’d prefer that the Muggles dedicated resources to figuring out more non-invasive methods of surgery, which is fairly straightforward with magic and which Hermione has no time to revolutionize for them. She had attended the lecture hoping to gain insights into her current research, in which she’s working to develop spells for increasing platelet counts. Sure, blood-replenishing potions are helpful in the case of injuries, but they take up space and may not be as helpful when patients have enough blood but not enough platelets. Casting such a spell would take as much time—perhaps even less—than administering a potion, and might even yield better results.

But the lecture was on cloning sheep and babies, not boosting platelets. So Hermione apparates home (had she attended the lecture with Muggle colleagues she would have driven, but this lecture was fairly far from her place of study and she knew no one there). Immediately upon appearing with a crack in her living room, she takes off her shoes and swaps her dress pants for a pair of lounge shorts (if you’re curious, yes they were on the living room floor and yes, they are purple). The blouse stays for the moment, creating a fashion clash that—at this point—is habitual for Hermione. Crookshanks gets some head scritches when she passes his spot on the coffee table while on her way into the study. Hermione pulls out the notebook with her lecture notes (why yes, she did take notes on a lecture she hated—she is Hermione Granger, after all) and sets up her Copy Quill to assimilate the notes into her records.

“I’m sure Mr. Big Important Lecturer who doesn’t announce his lecture topics would hate knowing that he’s going in the Useless Muggle Medicine file,” she mutters as she sits down in the window seat to compose a letter to Ginny.

Chapter 3: June 5, 2003

Draco is going home. He’s sure that his owl is returning to him with a letter from his mother, pleading again for him to come home today. A small smile lights his face at the thought—Draco’s going to surprise her for dinner. He hadn’t really decided until last night, when he was contemplating spending another birthday alone in a Muggle hotel. Maybe he’d get drunk or go for a swim. Maybe he’d find some pretty girl who didn’t ask questions to forget his life with. The thought made him lonely, and then he realized he could just go home, where his mother would be delighted and the elves would make a lovely meal and he could drink rich alcohol.

Going home has its drawbacks of course. Malfoy Manor is a poisoned place full of poisoned memories. But home was a feeling he’d been missing since he was 16 and his mother has no plans to leave the estate, so he has no choice but to go back. Maybe they could change it, try to draw some of the poison out. Maybe his mother would be open to some remodels.

That morning, he wakes up excited, almost jittery, for the first time in far too long. Flicking his wand at the pile that his suitcase had become, he packs with finality. This isn’t just a change in hotels—Draco is going home. He checks out after leaving a generous tip for the housekeeping staff (he’d been at this particular hotel for three weeks and hadn’t ever let them in his room). It had taken him a while to adjust to not having elves around to clean, but the frustration was good for him. He’s more independent now.

Draco picks up flowers for his mother from a local Muggle market. They are lovely, but magic has a way of elevating the blooms, and he looks forward to seeing them renewed. He rehearses what he will tell his mother as he walks with his suitcase to an alleyway he can apparate from. I’m going to become an auror, Mother. I need to use my magic for something good and worthwhile. He is sure that his mother would approve, but rehearsing makes him feel better about making a decision for himself. Agency is something that had resurfaced in his years away, and he’s still getting used to it.

Notes:

Please let me know if you find errors with present/past tense—writing this has made me realize I struggle with flipping between them frequently.

Chapter 4: August 12, 2005

Notes:

Pls note the time jump :)

He’s shaken into consciousness by Weasley. Over the roars and screeches buffeting his ears, he hears Weasley’s command to fall back and get to St. Mungo’s.

When he tries to stand, his eyes are bleary and his leg can’t hold him. He reaches out to place a steadying hand on Weasley’s arm but the man isn’t there anymore, so he falls to his knees. He closes his eyes—tight—and takes a breath, which hurts.

Everything hurts.
Shit.
He got hit hard.

He’s supposed to go somewhere—what did Weasley tell him? A hospital. He needs to get to the hospital. He takes another steadying breath—shallower this time, and apparates, using all his strength to stay focused on his destination.

Chapter 5: August 12, 2005

Earlier, Hermione was walking through the hallways with the Muggle doctor she’s shadowing for the day. He talked at her about lab results but her mind was elsewhere—thinking about the way Ginny had called her lonely in her most recent letter, and how the way it was still taking up brain space probably proved her right. However, she hadn’t been too distracted to catch a glimpse of a set of wizarding robes draped over a chair in a patient’s room.

Now that she’s been given a lunch break, she’s determined to discover who from her world is visiting the emergency department at this very Muggle hospital. So she stalks back to that hallway, gnawing at her lip, trying to remember exactly which door it was. It makes her nervous to consider who it could be, because any of her remaining friends would just come to her directly to be healed if for some reason they didn’t go to St. Mungo’s. Whatever this mysterious person’s role in the war had been, they are obviously hurt, and stuck in a Muggle hospital, and Hermione can help.

So Hermione stands outside of the door—mostly sure that she’s got the right one—and fiddles with her name tag for a moment. Then she knocks twice and opens the door.

~~~

“Malfoy?” Hermione asked in a forced whisper, shutting the door behind her. “What are you doing here?” All she could do was gape at him. It had been years since she had properly seen him. He had looked haunted and drawn then. He still looks drawn now, but his rib is near broken so the data is likely skewed. When they were kids, he always looked at her with disgust and contempt. Now he just seemed curious.

He speaks after a moment. “Trying to determine how remotes control televisions.” There’s a subtle shift in his shoulders, like he’s trying to sit up straighter. His shoulders are broad and—it’s an ironic sight, seeing a Malfoy look refined in a green quasi-floral hospital gown. Hermione certainly doesn’t think about how Draco Malfoy was likely naked underneath that hospital gown. Or rather, she does think about it, then promptly clarifies her question to distract herself.

“They either use light or radio waves to communicate signals from a distance, but I asked what you’re doing here, in this very Muggle hospital.”

He looks—apart from the obvious—healthy. His cheekbones are sharp, but that’s genetics not the gaunt look that comes with the weight of war. His hair is askew and fluffy the way Crookshank’s tail is after he gets the zoomies. His face has surprisingly good color for someone who obviously just took a beating.

“Do you know everything about everything, Granger?” His voice lacks the edge he had when he’d ridiculed her. Malfoy sets the remote on the bed, which tucks the blanket around his thigh a bit. Hermione reminds herself that she has spent time with hundreds of men in hospital gowns and various stages of undress. She never responded to them in this way. Why is Malfoy any different?

“I’m here because I needed medical attention,” he continues. “I apparated here for some reason and didn’t have the strength to apparate anywhere else, so I figured I might as well be seen.” He looks at her and tilts his head. “What are you doing here?”

Hermione gestures at her scrubs. “Residency.” She fiddles with her name tag for a moment then asks, “Why is this hospital the first place you thought of when you sought care?”

Malfoy shrugs, the movement slow and gentle and deliberate. She watches closely, and her response makes Hermione realize why he’s different from all the other men she’s treated in this hospital—there’s a level of kinship that she feels with anyone from the wizarding world, and it makes his probable nakedness matter. He’s not just a body, he’s a person—deserving of enough dignity that considering his nudity makes her want to both avert her eyes and keep staring. Her fist clenches around her name tag when she realizes that she’s just as desperate to connect with anyone like her as she was when she was eleven, even when that person worked hard to hurt her and those she cared about. There’s no denying Ginny’s label now—she’s devastatingly lonely.

“I’ve been here before.” He’s looking at his IV as he says it, avoiding her gaze.

There’s a silence that lasts close to a minute. Hermione debates whether to ask her next question. As the silence drags on, her drive to care for the injured wins out. Malfoy may have been awful to her as a child, and may have been involved in the deaths of people she appreciated, but he’s hurt, and he’s being polite. So she asks.

“Are you okay? Would you… like me to heal you?”

Notes:

Hope this gives you a peek and gets you excited about what’s to come!

Chapter 6: August 12, 2005

Merlin’s tits. Granger looks good in purple. It’s not a standard-issue color of Hogwarts robes, but it should have been, for Granger’s sake. Her hair is tied back in a thick braid that rests over her shoulder, but a stray curl at her temple reminds Draco of how big her hair was when they were kids. Her scrubs are well tailored, fitting her closely but allowing enough room for the movement probably required of her assignments here.

Talking with her is interesting—it’s the first conversation he’s had with someone he sort of knows whilst being mostly naked. Typically his conversations fall at either extreme of the how-naked-is-Draco spectrum. Regardless of how much clothing he’s wearing, it’s an interesting conversation. She answers his questions even though he keeps avoiding hers. She didn’t immediately call him a murderer or blame him for someone’s death. But, he reasons, he’s not immediately calling her a Mudblood or even a smart-ass. Perhaps the war and the years following changed her as much as they changed him.

Her offer of healing is especially interesting. She seems genuine about her offer, though Draco doesn’t expect her to attack him at her place of quasi-employment. Even if she did, healers typically are not militantly trained. It wouldn’t be difficult to neutralize her if a threat arose.

In the end, Draco needs healing. Letting it happen here under the wand of a girl he was mean to in school seems more appealing than the pain of apparating while injured. Draco was planning on leaving the hospital soon, he was just enjoying some time alone, apart. Apart from the wizarding world and its implications, apart from the magical beasts that everyone and their mother’s dog are convinced they can domesticate these days. But, apparently, not apart from Granger.

“I’m stable now, I could apparate safely in an hour or so,” he tells her. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. He’d avoid apparating until morning at the soonest.

Her eyes look strained. “Are you sure? Do you mind if I—“

He cuts her off by casting a diagnostic charm on himself. She stares at his wand hand for a moment, likely surprised at how quickly he was able to draw his wand. It took a while to figure out but makes living in the Muggle world much more bearable. Then Granger’s eyes raise to the diagnostic floating in between them. It took the doctors over an hour to determine that one of his ribs was broken, but the diagnostic says it so clearly right there. It also says that his left collarbone is bruised, his left thigh is still bleeding slowly, and his right ankle was almost sprained. The doctors hadn’t noticed his ankle. Granger studies the diagnostic for a full minute, her mouth a straight line. Draco was sure that she gathered the information she needed in the first ten seconds. The rest was probably her deciding if he was worth healing.

She pulls her wand from a pocket Draco hadn’t noticed before—likely glamoured the way his wand was. He watches her closely as she steps up next to his bed. Their eyes meet and hers seem reserved and distant. After a moment, she speaks.

“I’d like to heal you, Draco Malfoy.” Her voice is quiet but direct and intent, and it almost makes him shiver.

He takes a controlled breath so as to not bother his rib. Granger is serious. Not that he doubted her, but her generosity and the determined manner in which she offered it was unexpected. He considers turning her down, if nothing but to get out from under her laser-like gaze. But he nods.

“Where would you like to start?”

“Your ankle.”

After being so still next to him, her sudden motion is almost disorienting. She moves to the end of the bed and adjusts the sheets, piling blankets on his calves. Draco is now very grateful that he left his socks on. Being barefoot with Granger sounds like a step in an odd direction. His ankle is swollen, but only a bit. It’s beginning to bruise lightly.

Granger looks up at him and puts her wand over her ear like a pen. “I’m going to touch your ankle now, to gauge the strain.” She sets her hands on either side of his ankle, moving slowly. Draco can’t decide if it’s doctor-like deliberation or if she’s cautious about upsetting him. He has no ulterior motives in accepting her help, though he’s unsure whether she’d believe that if he told her.

She continues speaking as she presses lightly on his skin. “The diagnostic showed that this isn’t a full sprain, it’s more like you rolled your ankle. It shouldn’t bother you further after healing.” She pulls her wand and casts a simple healing charm that eliminates aching that Draco hadn’t fully acknowledged.

She straightens, pulls the blankets over his feet again, and tucks her wand at her ear. “I’d like to work on your thigh next. I’ll need to see it, which means taking off the dressings.” She doesn’t meet his eyes as she speaks, which only makes the unspoken and moving the sheets even louder.

Draco pulls at the blankets and moves them off of his left thigh. Thankfully the wound isn’t too high, so he’s able to adjust the silly gown to reveal the bandages without revealing anything else. Granger points her wand at his leg and the bandages begin to slowly unwrap themselves. Then she kneels next to his bed, which is so unexpected that Draco lets out a small and incredibly unflattering “Uh—“ that has Granger’s gaze shooting up, her eyes wide. His face flushes, which is only more embarrassing. It is massively unbecoming of a Malfoy to humiliate himself in such a way.

“Proceed,” he says, forcing his voice to be even, “you just surprised me a bit.”

Granger ducks her head in a nod, “Sorry. I’ll keep telling you what I’m doing.” Her eyes drop to the now-still bandages. The edges of the wound are visible, rosy with inflammation and blood. The packing within the wound is turning pink.

“Malfoy,” she says, her voice higher than it was a moment ago, “can I ask what happened?”

“You cannot, actually. Auror business.” It would probably be in the Daily Prophet tomorrow, so he could share, but he had no desire to regale her with magical beasts and their territorial dances. And the way those dances prove especially harmful to humans encroaching on said territory.

“This is a massive wound. I wasn’t expecting it to have packing. I can’t heal it completely today. Do you have a healer you see at home?” Her eyes seem concerned when she glances up at him.

Truthfully, no, he doesn’t have a healer he sees. He makes do on his own and asks his mother for help when he can’t manage. The Dark Lord’s army had far fewer healers than their opponents, and Draco was rarely gifted with their attention. But Granger looks seriously worried, so he nods and promises himself that he’ll watch closely and replicate her process on his own. Tension around her eyes loosens, and she glances at his shoulder.

“I’m going to heal your collarbone and rib first, so you can breathe easier while I take the time to work on this.”

Draco half expects her to ask if she can untie his gown and let it fall open to reveal his torso, but instead she casts a more complex diagnostic at his chest. She levels her wand at his collarbone and casts the same simple healing charm she used on his ankle. Then her wand is pointed at his ribcage and she murmurs a few healing charms in rapid succession. Draco takes a deep, lingering, luxurious breath. He hadn’t realized how crowded and strained his breathing had been. Breathing normally now, he notices a slightly floral scent that floats above the hospital smell. He meets Granger’s eyes and thanks her.

Her lips almost smile. She turns to his leg again. “You’re welcome. Hopefully I can make enough progress on this to allow you to apparate home or… wherever you’re going next.” She takes a breath. “I’m going to pull out the packing. It’s fresh enough that it shouldn’t tug anywhere but please let me know if I’m hurting you.” And she begins to pull the damp, pinkish gauze out of his body. It’s an odd experience, and watching her work over his body feels more intimate than a good handful of sex he’s had.

Chapter 7: August 12, 2005

Notes:

CW: This chapter has fairly detailed descriptions of wound care—nothing graphic, but be aware if medical descriptions make you feel icky.

Healing Draco Malfoy was not something Hermione envisioned herself doing, especially 4 years after the war had ended. Healing him during the war hadn’t been totally out of the question. But now? She’s surprised that their paths crossed, but for his sake she’s glad that she found him in this hospital. Wounds like this take weeks—if not months—for Muggles to heal, and sometimes require specialized equipment to drain properly. Malfoy wouldn’t walk away fully healed after her time here today, but magic would severely reduce his recovery time.

The wound is packed well and very thoroughly—whoever worked on this knew what they were doing, but only sort of. There doesn’t need to be this much gauze in order for the wet-to-dry dressing to function as it should. Hermione hasn’t performed wound care like this since near the end of the war, when the Dark curses got darker. She feels much more competent now than she did then, and wishes that she had been able to train with Muggles during the war and not just after. Other healers scoffed at her desire to learn from Muggle doctors, but supplementing her healing with wound care procedures is the only reason Malfoy’s recovery time is as short as it is. Administering healing alone would take more than a week, but he should be mostly recovered the day after tomorrow.

After all the gauze has been removed from the wound, Hermione explains the next steps to Malfoy, who is surprisingly calm as he looks over the gaping hole in his leg.

“I’m going to flush the wound with saline, then do some healing, then repack it the way it was. What questions do you have?” She stands slowly so as to not frighten him again. That Malfoy can be startled is interesting to her—she would have expected something steelier from one of Voldemort’s most powerful generals.

“What is the expected recovery time?” He asks while she’s getting supplies from a cabinet. “The doctors told me six to eight weeks, and I’m assuming it won’t take that long.”

Hermione had wondered when he’d ask. She awkwardly dumps an armful of supplies by his feet, then returns to his side, being sure to move smoothly so he knows what to expect.

“If properly cared for, with daily dressing changes and healing whenever the wound will accept it, I’d say you’ll be mostly fine the day after tomorrow. Tell your healer to give it time to absorb the magic, and make sure the wet-to-dry dressing is changed properly.” She opens a bottle of saline, draws out a thread with her wand, and charms it to wind around her forearm. It’s a fairly complicated spell, and it took her several weeks to get the stream of water to hover over her skin instead of clinging to her, but now she’s glad she put in the work. It’s the first time she’s used this spell on a patient, instead of just as entertainment for Crookshanks. She irrigates the wound with steady wand movements, then banishes the water and seals the saline bottle to keep it as sterile as she can. Hermione casts a cleaning charm as an added measure, then sets to work.

Healing is near-mindless for Hermione. Her magic, body, and brain know the process, allowing her to cast her mind elsewhere. She considers what Malfoy had said—that he’s been here before. She wonders under what circumstances he’s visited previously, whether it was a situation like this where he sought help or if it were something more—violent, on his part. She’s joining the next layers of flesh and muscle when she wonders whether any of the hospital staff recognize him, which spurs her to break the mostly-comfortable silence.

“What name do you check in under? Do you use your given name or just obliviate everyone who treats you?” Perhaps he has access to Muggle ID avenues. Hermione wouldn’t be surprised if he had several Muggle identities, though it’s beyond her what he would use them for. She knows nothing of his current life beyond the few auror assignments he shares with Ron, which she hears bits and pieces of through Ginny.

Hermione looks up just in time to catch the corner of his mouth twitching into a not-quite smile.

“My name is Daniel while I’m here. Daniel Mallory.”

Hermione doesn’t really think he looks like a Daniel. He’s too… Draco Malfoy… to be a Daniel.

“What does Daniel tell the emergency department when he shows up in big black robes with injuries such as these?” Maybe he makes up an elaborate story, or maybe he doesn’t say anything.

His brow furrows. Hermione is suddenly nervous that this is the moment he blows up and kills her—but he just opens his mouth and closes it again, frowning this time. Refocusing on her healing, Hermione reminds herself that this Draco Malfoy seems pretty far from the Draco Malfoy she knew as a teenager.

“After the first time, they assumed I was… larding? Larting?” He shrugs. “Either way, it stuck.”

Hermione can’t contain the laugh—it bursts from her as she throws her head back and nearly drops her wand.

“LARPing!” She shakes her head and goes back to joining another layer, a grin on her lips. “It’s an acronym that stands for Live Action Role Play. It’s a real nerdy thing, but isn’t unheard of in this area. They assumed you got injured in a sword fight or something—that you were play-fighting with friends in the woods.” She can tell the wound is close to its limit—it’ll stop accepting her magic soon. Her smile fades, and she adds, “If only they knew how real the war was.”

Another silent 60 seconds go by. Hermione sighs, then rises to her feet. She stretches for a moment and retrieves a roll of sterile gauze from the end of the bed. As she opens the plastic package, she kneels again at Malfoy’s side and tells him about her next steps.

“This is all the healing your body will take today. You should be able to take a little more tomorrow, since it can all be focused on your wound, instead of healing extraneous injuries as well. I’m going to get this gauze wet now and replicate the dressing I took off earlier.”

He nods and shifts slightly in the bed. Hermione catches a glimpse of a tattoo on his forearm. It was in the right spot to be his Mark, but it seems less vibrant and angry than other Marks she’s seen. She takes a breath to refocus and charms the saline around her arm again. She does most of the work with her wand, wetting sections of gauze and then tucking them into the wound, making sure to get it into the corners. It takes her ten minutes and nearly the whole roll of gauze, but Malfoy’s wound is packed again. Her work is precise but not excessive. Just the way it should be.

She banishes the excess water, seals the bottle again, and opens a large bandage to set on top of the packing. Then she sits back on her heels and gnaws at her lip for a moment.

“Can you… bend and lift your knee? Or should I brace your leg in order to wrap the bandages again? I suppose I could tape it but it’s much less secure and Muggle adhesives are pesky.” Hermione gnaws at her lip again before saying, “Nevermind, I don’t think you should strain it right now.”

She opens another roll of gauze and gives it a starting point by taping the end to the large bandage, then charms it to respond to her wand movements. Then she meets Malfoy’s eyes. He seems tired but his eyes are steady, and he meets her gaze openly. He’s so much more subdued than the rich fop she knew in school. It’s intriguing to her—but she’s here to finish his bandage, not solve the puzzle of him.

“I’m going to put my hand under your knee and support your leg while I wrap the bandage. Please give me your weight, don’t try to lift your leg, just—“

“I can relax, Granger. Do what you need to.”

She slips her hand against the soft spot behind his knee and lifts, working to keep her movements smooth as she hooks her elbow under his knee and straightens. His leg is as heavy as she expected it to be, which is a good sign. She’s had too many patients injure themselves further by straining to keep their weight off of her. She works hard to be able to take the weight and do her job. It’s one of the things that makes working out so satisfying.

Even with her non-dominant hand, her wand movements are precise and practiced as she has the bandage wrap—snugly but not tightly—around his thigh.

“Relaxing just seems antithetical to the Malfoy name,” she says after a moment.

“It’s something I had to learn—after the war.” His voice is quiet.

“I think it’s something everyone had to learn.” Hermione tucks her wand behind her ear (the movement isn’t as smooth—she hasn’t been practicing this motion with her off hand the way she’s been practicing other wand movements) and brings the roll of gauze to her mouth. She rips the gauze with her teeth (not very sterile of her) then tucks the tail into the wrapping. Moving slowly, she adjusts her arm and sets Malfoy’s leg back on the bed. She glances at her watch and notes that her lunch break is over, she was due back on shift three minutes ago.

“Unfortunately,” she says, rising to her feet, “I’m not sure if it’s something I’ve really learned yet.” After casting a disinfecting charm on her hands, she conceals her wand in the glamoured pocket and collects the trash she’s generated, disposing of it in the bin before turning to face Malfoy again. “I have to get back to my shift, but once you feel ready to, you should be able to apparate. Please do so before anyone returns to this room, else your healing will be hailed as a miracle.” She turns to go.

“Granger,” Malfoy says, so she turns back to meet his eyes again. “I’m glad Daniel came to the hospital that Dr. Whitcroft is doing her residency at.”

“I am too,” Hermione replies. It isn’t until she’s closing the door behind her that she realizes he must have read her name tag. Dr. Hillary Whitcroft is the Muggle persona she’s been operating under since starting her degree. As she makes her way back to her mentor doctor’s station, she ponders on the enigma of Draco Malfoy and the person he’s become, and wonders if she’ll ever solve his puzzle.

Chapter 8: August 15, 2005

Notes:

This is the last chapter in this flurry of posting—more will come soon! I jumped a little too far ahead in the plot with the writing I’ve been doing and need to write the in-between chapters.

Draco Malfoy has no desire to ever associate with magical beasts of any genome or of any nature, ever again. He can’t even say what he was injured by—not just because it’s auror business, but because he literally doesn’t know. What he does know, on the other hand, is that having his guts gored out by whatever horn-having beast it was sounds more pleasant than the centimeters-deep wound in his thigh. Putting his intestines back in his body is something he can do (and has done) but healing of this magnitude is so far out of his capabilities it might as well be on another continent. Even the Manor elves and Draco’s mother are of little help. Topsy’s willing to take the gauze out of the wound but is nervous about how to replicate its placement.

Out of desperation, Draco summoned a healer yesterday. Regardless of her advanced status at St. Mungo’s, she obviously had not been healing during the war. She froze at the sight of the gauze packing, which Granger had done so expertly that Draco assumed it was a standard wartime treatment. The healers reaction could have also been to the open-wound odor, but either way she was of no help and was quickly dismissed.

Draco sent his owl to Granger at 12:04 last night, when he could no longer sleep due to the discomfort. The owl carried a brief note and all of Draco’s pride.

More healing needed. Notify of soonest availability. -DM

This morning, groggy from a near overdose of Dreamless Sleep draught, Draco finds a purple envelope on his desk. His hands are slow to respond, which is unnerving, but after a few tries he gets the envelope open and reads the note inside.

I have some time over lunch but I fear this will require more time than that.
Please be at my home by 10pm this evening. -HJG

Her address is scrawled on the reverse.

Draco downs a sobriety potion (Dreamless Sleep likely has a reversal but sobriety is what’s on his desk) and chases it with one for pain relief, then runs a hand through his hair. He wonders how to spend nearly twelve hours of the day when he’s nearly incapacitated. His limp is pronounced and painful, even with consistent pain relief potions, and his focus is shot. No remodel work will be done today. Nothing sounds appealing because everything sounds like too much effort.

“eivie,” he says quietly as he moves awkwardly from the desk to his bed. Draco hates to summon the elves with shouts the way his father would.

The elf appears immediately, regarding him with wide eyes and a tilt to her head.

“I need a book to read,” Draco tells her as he lays haphazardly on the mattress, “Something mentally engaging but not mentally challenging. I trust your judgement.”

eivie nods and disapparates. Draco lies on top of the covers with an arm over his face until she returns twenty minutes later.

“Would the Master fancy to be learning of magical hedges?” The elf asks. Draco lifts his head to look at the slim but wide book in her arms. It looks fairly heavy.

“Is this one of Mother’s books?” He holds out a hand for it. She toddles forward and awkwardly pushes the book to him.

“Yes, eivie thought it interesting for the Master to be reading while he is hurt.”

Draco thanks her, rearranges a few pillows, sits up, and flips through the first few pages. He’s about to dive into the introduction when he notices that eivie hasn’t disapparated yet. She’s just standing there, looking nervous.

“eivie, is something wrong?”

“The Master is not getting better. eivie is wanting for permission to be calling a healer.” She wrings her small hands.

Draco gives a small smile. “I appreciate your concern, eivie. I’m meeting with Healer Granger again tonight. I think we should leave the healing in her capable hands. I’ll be on the mend soon enough, you needn’t worry.” He speaks with her softly—she’s meaningful to Draco, and her relationship matters to him, so he’s much more aware of his tone of voice now than he was as a teenager. While he was gone, he came to appreciate all that eivie did for him, even when he was an awful person and came home dripping with Dark Magic. Draco isn’t that person anymore. He’s softer now, especially at home.

eivie pats his hand and smiles a sad smile. Draco thanks her again and turns to his book, looking forward to reading about herbology for the first time in his life.

Chapter 9: August 15, 2005

He can’t say that much was learned in his day of reading this book on magical hedges, but he certainly is more appreciative of the work his mother puts into the landscaping. Apparently magical hedges have a tendency to gain sentience and just… wander off? So gardeners have to engage magically with the hedges quite frequently in order to keep them around, which sounds exhausting. Draco’s mother does have a small grounds staff, but he feels like she oversees the hedges herself. He’ll have to ask. They’re just hedges—it’s not as though they’re the most spectacular landscaping on the grounds. Why does she invest her own time in them?

The unfortunate thing is that Draco finished the book too early, and so felt that he had no excuse when asked to do a bit of surveillance at a pub suspected to be a front for black market potion ingredients. It’s not anything strenuous—he’s getting a softer assignment load on account of being horribly injured. So Draco accepts the job, even though a small part of him doesn’t want to, and is ultimately grateful for another sort-of occupying task to get him through the evening til his appointment with Granger. Sit in a pub for a couple hours and be unnoticed on purpose? Perfect for an auror who can’t walk and would rather be caulking baseboards.

Draco sits by himself at the best table for surveillance. It’s in the corner, giving him a wide view of the front of house, which is good, but it’s also near the door to the back of house, which is great. And these fools haven’t placed any wards or barrier charms around the back rooms, meaning that with a few well-placed spells and a handful of patience, Draco’s able to hear quite a bit of what isn’t intended for the ears of customers.

By 9:45 that evening, Draco has surmised that the pub is a front for black market potion ingredients (there was much bragging about the troll teeth, for some reason), but not really. It’s more like a… hub? He figures that if the owner of the pub were involved, it would actually be a front, but the men bragging about troll teeth were also bragging about doing this under their boss’ nose. Draco’s glad he spent the time (and the money, it’s a good pub) gathering more information. Otherwise the DMLE would just raid this place and the uninvolved owner would lose their nice pub.

When Draco gets into a nearby alleyway, he lets the limp return to his gait (it would have been far too memorable to have as a pub customer). He casts a patronus charm and instructs the salamander to carry a message to the auror office. He relays his findings and adds a suggestion: that a pair of aurors investigate further and seek to detain an employee by the name of Ridger. The salamander scurries off and Draco sets his mind to getting to Granger’s place in one piece. The few drinks he had helped a bit, but now the pain is radiating from his thigh and it’s affecting his focus. He pulls her note from a pocket in his robes and rereads the address. It’s fairly close to the hospital she’s doing her residency at, which makes sense. It’s also convenient for him—he spent a lot of time in the surrounding area, though never in Granger’s neighborhood specifically. He’s glad for that; running into Granger would have been treacherous while he was trying to leave almost all of the wizarding world behind. He probably would have been mean to her had they met then, which is a bit sad.

Draco decides to apparate to a park he frequented then walk to Granger’s place. He hopes he can make it all the way there—it would be mortifying to collapse in pain two doors down from his healing appointment.

The park is empty when he appears there, so he sleeves his wand and walks as quickly as he can—limping because he can’t help it anymore. Granger’s neighborhood is quaint, street lamps casting golden light across the drive and lots of trees in front of the small homes. It’s a neighborhood that seems very fitting of Granger; that she chose this Muggle street to live on is unsurprising.

Her house isn’t hard to find, thanks to the large-bulb patio lights illuminating the number by the door. He walks—limps—up the steps, grateful that there are only two of them. Draco glances at the Muggle watch on his wrist (still glamoured from his time in the pub) and knocks thrice at exactly 10:00.

There’s a meow—Granger has a cat?—and what must be the sound of claws scrabbling on a wood floor. Then the door opens halfway and Granger is standing there, wand between her teeth as she undoes her braid. She’s wearing these little shorts that the Muggle girls loved while he was away. She’s standing on one leg—one long, very visible leg—and kicking at something behind the door, assumedly the cat that’s still shouting. The amount of multitasking she’s doing is staggering.

“Thowwy,” Granger says around her wand. Then her cheeks flush and her hands abandon the half-undone braid to pull her wand away so she can speak again.

“Sorry, Crookshanks is like a puppy barking at the door. Come on in.” She bends down and when she straightens there’s a writhing ball of orange fur in her arms. The door swings open all the way and Draco steps silently over the threshold. The pain is nearly insurmountable now. It started to itch on the walk, which is somehow worse. Were he someone else, maybe he’d let the pain show on his face, maybe he’d even cry. But if the Dark Lord had taught him nothing else, he learned to keep his pain to himself, otherwise it just became leverage for Voldemort. So he’s holding tension in his abdomen, his right arm, and probably his neck based on how poorly he slept last night. It’s been a while since his sleep was that disturbed, which makes him grateful for the mostly-good sleep he gets these days.

Regardless of where he’s holding tension, he can’t hide the limp at this point. Granger frowns at him from behind the orange fluff, which isn’t as wriggly now. Draco has no idea where the cat’s eyes are, or even if it has eyes.

“Crookshanks, this is Draco Malfoy. He’s a patient and I need you to not interfere in his treatment.” Granger holds it out in front of herself, like she’s looking it in the eyes. At least she can find the eyes on this thing. It meows and swats at her cheek.

“Good cat,” she says, then bends only slightly before dropping the fluff to the floor. The cat scurries off and Granger beckons Draco to the right.

“Remove your robes and lay on this sofa, please,” she says, “I’ll be back in a moment with some supplies.” Then she walks past a physics-defying stack of books and disappears into another room.

Draco does not watch her legs as she walks, nor does he watch her hands continue undoing the braid in her hair. And he certainly isn’t glad to see her hair released from its plaited prison. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and unclasps his cloak. He drapes it and his robes over the arm of the sofa and finds himself standing in Hermione Granger’s living room in a slightly-wrinkled button up and a pair of unfashionably tailored trousers (which means Draco’s fond of the close-fitting look but the cut isn’t in style amongst wizards, though the Muggles seem to be leaning slightly in that direction). He reclines awkwardly on the sofa, favoring his bad leg, and stuffs a throw pillow behind his head.

Granger’s still rummaging in the other room, so he looks around. Her living room is more cluttered than he initially would have expected—aside from the aforementioned book tower there are several smaller piles of tomes, an armchair full of (hopefully clean) laundry, and a basket full of letters with mussed and torn envelopes. There’s a television on a low console across the room from the sofa, and little colorful boxes lined up on the shelf. He recognizes the book-like boxes from other Muggle homes he visited while away but isn’t sure what they are or why they’re always near the televisions.

He’s squinting his eyes at a framed photo on the wall near the door when Granger reemerges, her arms full of things. She dumps it all unceremoniously in the center of the living room—there’s a faded floral rug on the ground—and Draco only recognizes about half of it from when she healed him in the hospital. She kneels in front of her pile and begins straightening things into an order that makes no sense to him but seems to be natural for her.

“Sorry it took me a bit, it’s been a while since I healed someone here and had to dig for the wound care supplies I needed.”

He can’t see her face as she talks—her hair has slipped over her shoulder and is swaying in front of her face as she organizes the supplies.

“You apologize a lot,” He says. It’s the first thing he’s said to her tonight, and while it’s not incorrect, it is fairly direct. Maybe he should have said something else, or just not said anything.

Granger pauses her rummaging and sits back on her heels. She looks at him with her eyebrows furrowed, then says, “You’re right. I suppose I hadn’t registered that. Thanks for pointing it out, I’ll work to be more aware of it now.”

It’s not the response Draco’s expecting. Muggle girls he had pointed that out to did not thank him for doing so. She seems to be responsive to feedback, which makes sense, considering her drive to pursue so much extra education.

Granger shuffles closer to kneel next to the sofa. “How is your wound?” She asks, “The fact that your limp is so pronounced is worrying to me.”

Draco opens his mouth to lie, then grimaces. “I told you I had a healer but I don’t, and this level of healing is far above my capabilities, and my house elf was intimidated by the gauze, and now I’m in a lot of pain and it has even started itching.” The words spill out of his mouth, faster and faster until his voice just drops into silence. Then his cheeks flush. He keeps doing this—keeps doing silly and unflattering things in front of her. Impressing her isn’t a priority, but damn, can’t he at least maintain what dignity he has?

“I wondered, when you sent your owl,” Granger says with a slow nod. “I’ll do what I can tonight, though it’s likely that we’ll need to do daily dressing changes—the itching is probably from an infection or the gauze sticking to your skin, maybe even both, which happened because the dressing wasn’t changed.” Then she levels her wand at a stack of pillows by the laundry armchair and snatches one from the air when it sails towards her.

“I’d like to prop your leg up so I can access the bandages better. Is that okay?” She meets his eyes and waits for him to respond. Consent is still new to him. Well, his own consent is still new to him. He’s been more conscious of respecting the consent of others for a while but the fact that other people can ask for his consent is still baffling sometimes. Voldemort never asked consent before doling out assignments or punishments.

Draco nods after a moment. “I’m assuming you want me to give you my weight like the last time you lifted my leg?” The words flow much slower this time.

“Precisely,” Granger says, handing him a potion bottle. “Pain relief.”

He downs the potion as she puts her hand under his knee again. She lifts smoothly but it tugs viciously at the edges of the wound. His jaw clenches and his breath hitches. She moves the pillow under his calf and sets his leg down, which relieves a bit of the pain but certainly is an uncomfortable position. Then the potion kicks in, smoothing over everything and removing the pain, which is lovely even if it’s still itchy. Draco had run through the Manor’s stock of pain relief potion, and though he could have obtained more, eivie warned him of an overdose and suggested that he wait until his appointment with Healer Granger.

“I’d also like cut off your trouser leg,” Granger says quietly, but when Draco meets her eyes she quickly adds, “I’ll certainly reattach it afterwards, I just figure that’ll be better than having you take them off.”

Draco lets out a half chuckle and tells her, “Do what you need to.” Just please make it stop itching.

So Granger cuts off half of his trousers and gets to work, and Draco keeps his gaze up, focusing on finding patterns in the textured ceiling instead of the tugs and the twinges occurring in his thigh.

Chapter 10: August 15, 2005

Notes:

Surprised myself and got this chapter written faster than I was expecting! Hope you love regretful Draco and haunted Hermione cuz there’s gonna be more angst to this fic than I initially planned.

Hermione has decided that Malfoy wears silly trousers but wearing 55% of them is even sillier. It would be funny—the way he looks so uneven and off-kilter with only one leg to his trousers—if his wound wasn’t extremely irritated and if he wasn’t in obvious pain. His right fist didn’t relax until the pain relief potion took effect, and now he’s just staring at the ceiling. She feels less inclined to explain her work or preface her movements because he seems so checked out.

She works smoothly, falling into the comfortable quiet of healing. She was right—the wound is accepting many more healing spells this time around, and being able to use her salves is an added bonus. This certainly delayed Malfoy’s recovery, but it hasn’t been derailed. An image flashes in her mind of a flesh-eating curse that ate through someone’s thigh before she was able to get to them. She pauses and squeezes her eyes shut for a moment before letting out a slow breath and continuing her work. This isn’t a flesh-eating curse. It’s just a deep, angry wound, and she’s seen people make full recoveries from wounds like this. Malfoy isn’t going to lose his leg. He’s gonna be—

“You alright?”

She opens her eyes—when had she shut them again?—to find Malfoy looking back at her, his mouth a hard line.

“Um, sorr—I mean—“ Hermione shakes her head and starts again. “I just got a little lost in thought.”

“Pardon my intrusion,” Malfoy says, “but healing seems very mindless work for you, like you don’t have to think about it.”

Hermione blinks a few times and nods before refocusing on getting a few layers of tissue to rejoin. There’s a few moments of tense silence before Malfoy speaks again.

“Granger, you’ve logged more than two hours into healing my damn leg. I know that you being lost in thought looks like you doing the thing, like, engaging with the healing work. You weren’t lost in thought, you just tried to purge an intrusive thought.”

Hermione’s eyes flash to his. Is she that easy to read—all her internal dilemma out on display?

Malfoy’s voice is quieter when he adds, “I know because it happens to me too. And I know that not talking about it can make it worse sometimes. I acknowledge that I’m not a confidant of yours but you can voice that thought and dismiss it. Being able to voice intrusive thoughts to my mother or the Manor elves helps it not bounce around my head as long.”

Hermione opens her mouth to speak but Malfoy interrupts her.

“You don’t have to say anything, I just wanted to offer something in return for your help.” He speaks too fast, like he’s embarrassed, and then he shrugs and looks at the ceiling again.

Hermione murmurs her charm for the saline and starts wetting gauze for the packing. His leg is close to taking all the magic it can today so she’s moving onto the wound care. She bends over his leg and starts packing the wound, then she speaks, her voice even quieter than his was.

“Your wound reminded me of the flesh-eating curse for a moment. Once I had to amputate someone’s leg because the curse ate entirely through their thigh and was working on their knee by the time I got to them. I was trying to reassure myself that this isn’t that. Whatever caused your wound, you’re healing relatively smoothly and it’s not continuously eating away at you. You’re gonna be fine.” That last bit is as much for her as it is for him.

There’s another pause before Malfoy says, “I always hated the curses. I hated that the Dark Lord waged a war of pain, not just death. Death would have been kinder.”

This makes Hermione pause. She rocks back on her heels, looking at Malfoy’s face, still turned towards the ceiling.

“Do you regret it?” The words are out of her mouth before she can remember her bedside manner.

He turns his head to face her, and his eyes are tortured, deep and full of tension.

“Every second,” He whispers. Then he swallows and says, “Granger, I’m so sorry. I don’t know if my actions have hurt you or anyone you love but I’m sorry anyway and I wish I could apologize to everyone. It haunts me that I can’t.” He swallows again and props himself up on his elbows, staring at her with those tortured gray eyes. “Even beyond the war, I’m so sorry for being awful to you in school. I swear I’m a different person now.“

Hermione just blinks for a few seconds. It’s all she can really do. The Malfoy who ridiculed her in school seems nowhere to be found in the apologetic man lying on her sofa. She could tell he was different when he owled her and asked for help, but to hear it directly from him feels like a whole other matter.

“I…” she starts, then tries again, “Thank you, Malfoy. Regardless of what’s behind us, I’m glad to get you the healing you need.”

“Thank you for being willing,” he says, then he turns back to stare at the ceiling.

Hermione finishes packing and bandaging the wound, then repairs his trousers.

“Will you be able to come back tomorrow at the same time?” She asks while gathering rubbish.

He sits up and nods without looking at her.

“I’ll be here.”

“Your limp should improve, and you shouldn’t end up in that much pain again, but take a pain relief potion if you need it. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Hermione vanishes the rubbish and pushes the remainder of her supplies into a pile by the sofa.

When she gets to her feet, Malfoy is swirling his cloak around his shoulders. He walks out the door and disapparates without saying anything else.

Chapter 11: August 17, 2005

Draco thought he would get tired of this new evening routine—hang out in a pub for a couple hours then go to Granger’s house to lay on her sofa—but on the third night, he finds that he’s antsy to get out of this boring surveillance job and get to Granger’s. She was able to close his wound yesterday, and having a simple bandage on his thigh is so much better than a pile of gauze. Granger says tonight she’ll do some superficial healing—for the bruises and the scar. He doesn’t mind adding a scar to his collection, but he couldn’t bring himself to say no to another invitation into her home. It’s… nice there. Warm. The sofa isn’t necessarily very comfortable but her living room is cosy, and it reminds him of being away, when he stayed in Muggle hotels and homes. Granger’s home is a far cry from the Manor, and Draco’s finding that he enjoys spending time there.

So when 9:30 rolls around and Ridger (the unfortunate lad he’s gathering intel on) leaves for the night, Draco can’t think of a reason to stay. So he walks out—Granger was right, by the way, the limp was much improved yesterday, and is practically gone today—and apparates to Granger’s doorstep. Even with the speed of apparating, going home to the Manor at this time of night feels off. He’d want to either go to sleep or work on the sitting room, neither of which work with an appointment in thirty minutes.

He appears on the porch and while the patio lights are on, none of the interior lights are. Did I beat her home? He’s suddenly very worried that some Muggle neighbor just watched a tall man in a black cloak appear out of nowhere on this nice lady’s porch. He whirls around and casts a revealing spell. But even with the added insight of magic, the only people who could have seen him are the neighbors next door (seemingly having a heated argument at the dining table in front of a window) and the couple down the sidewalk (walking a very excited and very large dog). Maybe Granger’s smart and has some wards on her porch to protect the visibility of those apparating here. He didn’t think to ask about it before, but he should ask tonight. Draco lets himself relax a bit, which is quite unfortunate timing because Granger’s cat thumps its face against the window, making Draco jump. Its eyes (it does have eyes, turns out) are wide and staring at Draco from a frumpy circle of orange fur while its breath fogs the glass. The cat has been practically invisible during his visits to Granger, except for the occasional orange hair he finds on his cloak.

Draco has no idea how to respond so he… waves? The cat puts a paw up, little toe pads spreading on the glass. This cat seems cute but stupid until Draco remembers the last time he saw the cat. Didn’t Granger give it very specific instructions to not interfere with Draco’s treatment? So maybe it does have some intelligence, but only in inconvenient ways?

He briefly considers asking the cat to let him inside but figures that would startle Granger, and he’d be unpleasantly surprised to find someone in his home when he returned, so he settles into the rickety-looking chair on the porch. It is quite nice—the late summer night is pleasant. He typically doesn’t choose to wait outside when he has to wait, but with the patio lights and the warmth, Draco’s glad to have a few minutes of silence.

The pub was surprisingly busy for a Wednesday night, but apparently Ridger wasn’t getting the kind of traffic he was looking for. He was bored by 9, and left a half hour later while the pub was still crowded. The owner of the pub still hasn’t caught on. If Draco weren’t disgusted by Ridger’s behaviour, he’d be impressed by the lad’s ability to keep his operation undetected.

It only takes a few minutes for Draco to be tired of thinking about work, so then he mentally runs through the plans for remodeling the sitting room, which is near complete. The upholstery on the armchairs needs to be redone to match that of the chaise. The crown molding needs to be installed and painted, but of course that can only happen after the walls are painted. There’s that stain on the hardwood flooring that needs to be treated, which reminds Draco that the mantlepiece needs to be stained and sealed, as stripping the black paint revealed a lovely cherry wood.

Unfortunately, the sitting room remodel is so near completion that recalling the task list takes far less time than he had to fill. While he could deepen the exercise and think through the process for each task, Draco decides it’s too late at night for such a thing.

So he tries to focus on his surroundings again. There’s a slight breeze, bringing with it a floral scent that reminds him of his mother. The neighbors have stopped arguing but the television is on, playing something loudly. No one is out on the street, and it’s properly dark now. While this chair isn’t all that comfortable (he’s noticing a trend in Granger’s seating options), sitting on this porch is charming. The patio lights cast a soft warm glow that feels inviting. It’s reminiscent of her cluttered but cosy living room. He hadn’t noticed it previously, but there are several vines of ivy coming up the railing next to this chair. The vines curl and trail and it reminds him of the way her hair falls in front of her face. When he was a kid he thought her hair was too big, but now it’s nice. It deserves to take up space. When she has it in braids or buns it seems trapped, like its—

Oh. When had this turned into thinking about Granger’s hair?

Draco shakes out his right hand as his brain scrambles for something else—anything else—to think about while he waits.

The first memory his brain offers is that of a battle that significantly increased his body count. Draco stands and leans on the railing, working to clear that from his mind.

The second memory is of ridiculing Granger about her teeth. He presses his palms over his eyes. Okay, maybe he doesn’t want to think about just anything.

The third is a train of thought he hasn’t considered for several months. He returns his hands to the railing with a sigh.

“I suppose it’s worth investigating,” he murmurs, then adjusts his robes and sleeve to expose his left forearm. The Mark is fading. It’s a dull gray now, half the black it used to be. It stings a bit, but it used to burn, worse when he was summoned. Draco slips his wand out and casts the specialized diagnostic charm Severus developed. Half a dozen rings of light circle his forearm, and he’s staring at them with his head tilted when the door behind him opens, louder than he remembers.

He whirls and finds Granger standing in the doorway, wearing gray scrubs with her hair in a high bun. He stares at her for a moment before blurting out, “I got here really early and have just waited on your porch, I can give you a few minutes if you—“

“What is that?” She’s pointing at his arm, still encircled with rings of the diagnostic.

“It’s um,” is all he can get out before she closes the space between them and lifts his arm out to the side. This is the first time she’s stood so close to him—he hadn’t realized how tall she is.

“It’s a diagnostic Snape developed for the Dark Marks,” he explains as she stares at it. Her eyes are incredibly focused. Like he mentioned the other day, she seems fairly absent while healing, as though she’s only as engaged as she needs to be. Right now, Draco wishes for nothing other than to put his arm down. Having his Mark be at the center of her full attention is uncomfortable and almost panic-inducing.

“Come inside and explain it to me,” Granger says, turning back to the door.

Draco lets out a breath of relief and follows her inside. The cat is zooming around the living room, stopping every time it passes Granger to bat at her ankles. She seems nonplussed and takes her hair down. It’s got this silly bump in it from being up. She scratches her hands across her scalp and her hair gets really big before she ties it back in a low, loose ponytail. Draco realizes he’s been standing in one spot watching her when she speaks.

“I’m gonna change out of my scrubs, you take off a couple layers and I’ll meet you at the sofa.” She walks into another room, but she goes in a different direction than she did when gathering supplies that first night. Draco wonders at the floor plan of her home, then shakes his head and shrugs his cloak off. He’s pulling his robes off when Granger reappears wearing a tee shirt that falls off one shoulder and white sweatpants—a severe detour from her normal little purple shorts. Draco Malfoy certainly does not miss the little purple shorts. Okay, maybe he does miss them, but on the other hand, the slouchy tee is a fair enough trade.

Granger snatches the cat up from the sofa and holds it up in front of her like she did that first night.

“Malfoy’s here and I need to be with him now.”

Why is the back of Draco’s neck tingling?

Then the cat is scrambling out of sight and Granger is pointing at the sofa.

“Sit down, Malfoy. You explain Snape’s diagnostic and I’ll finish your healing.”

He sits with his back against the arm of the sofa and lifts his knee so Granger can cut off his trousers again. He’s so glad to have full use of his leg again. A day or two of limping was a breeze when he thinks about the fact that it could have been months. During the war, he never really had an appreciation for healers, but now that he’s been fully treated by one he knows how valuable their magic is.

Granger’s staring at him expectantly, holding a jar of salve in her hands like she’s waiting for something. Her healing has never been contractual like this before, though he doesn’t believe that she’d actually withhold healing from him were he to default on his end of the deal.

Draco lets out a brief chuckle, then recasts the diagnostic on his Mark and begins.

“There are six rings, and the vibrancy of their colors is tied to the data they track. Red is closest to my elbow and is a blood marker. The Dark Lord’s army had little regard for physical health, but tracking the health of your blood was a cryptic though useful statistic in considering battle readiness. Next is—“

“Wait,” Granger says, “What about your blood does it tell you?”

“Beyond general health? I wouldn’t know, but I assume… what?” He looks at the red ring because Granger’s eyes are flicking between the ring and his face, her mouth a hard line.

“I…” She rocks back on her heels and sets her fists on her thighs, then blows a breath out in a rush. “I’m researching blood right now and would find it incredibly helpful to monitor your blood through this diagnostic for a few hours. Is that something you would feel comfortable with? I haven’t come across a diagnostic charm that targets the blood like this, and I’d love to see what it tracks and how I can replicate it.”

“Um, sure,” Draco says slowly, then he shrugs. “I don’t see why not. What are you researching blood for?”

Granger returns to her task of spreading a salve over the red scar across his thigh before saying, “We can talk about that another night—tonight we’re talking about this incredibly complex diagnostic charm that you just happen to know. You’ve only covered one ring.”

Draco can’t help the small smile that comes to his lips as he explains the next one.

“Green is a marker of magic. The brighter the green, the higher capacity you have for casting at a given moment. It’s another statistic useful in battle preparation: anyone with a dull green isn’t worth sending out, they’ve either already exhausted themselves or their magic is poisoned or otherwise negatively affected.”

“And orange?” Granger asks, then murmurs a quick succession of healing charms, tapping her wand along the scar. The angry red fades a bit before his eyes, and he suspects that it’ll continue fading as it absorbs the magic.

“Orange is specifically tied to the wand you cast the diagnostic with. The army ran through a surprising number of wands—turns out each one has a certain amount of Dark Magic it can withstand. Like the other two markers, if you have a pale orange you either need to get a replacement wand or stay out of a fight.”

Granger looks up at the diagnostic for a moment, then asks, “Is that a new wand?”

Draco twirls the wand between his fingers. “No, actually. This is the hawthorn and unicorn I got when I was eleven. This wand has only cast Dark Magic once; I used a variety of other wands in the war.” He doesn’t tell her that the wand burned his hand for years after that one Killing Curse— only after he came back from the Muggle world was he able to wield this wand again.

“I’m going to massage some bruise paste in around the scar. It might be tender—please let me know if it becomes too uncomfortable.”

Draco nods and braces for the pain, but her touch is much gentler than she made it out to be. She’s taking this conversation a lot better than other Order members might. She isn’t horrified at the strategy of the Dark Lord’s armies, but she’s also not lapping up said strategy like a spy. She seems most motivated to learn about a diagnostic charm she wasn’t aware of. It’s… nice, to have someone treat the war with such neutrality. They might have been very involved players on opposite sides of a war, but Granger’s acting as if the whole thing were just a portion of history, providing context to something she’s interested in.

“Still doing okay?” She asks as her fingers move the buttery paste in small circles. Her question draws his focus back to his body, and suddenly he’s trying to not pay too much attention to the way she’s touching him.

“Yeah,” Draco says, sounding absentminded. “Um, I haven’t explained blue, yellow, or purple. The next ring is supposed to be blue, it tracks the health of your squadron. Squadrons aren’t used anymore, and there’s no one to assign squadrons anyway, so that ring has been a really light blue for a while now. But segments of it would pale when members of your squadron were down.”

“I’m assuming that marker relied on data gathered and transmitted by the other markers?”

“Exactly,” he responds, then continues before he can think about how she’s pressing a little harder now and it’s an intriguing duality of pleasant and unpleasant. “Yellow is interesting. The Dark Lord was told it was a display of one’s commitment to him, but Snape actually built it to track Voldemort’s physical proximity to you. So if the Dark Lord examined your diagnostic, all he’d see is unwavering commitment. In reality, it allowed us to be more aware of his location. If he were far from you, it would be a light buttery color, but it’s been practically white since he died.”

Granger taps her wand across the scar thrice more, then nods with a satisfied look on her face. She repairs his trousers as she speaks.

“All of these markers are very interesting—I’m learning a lot about the way you functioned as an army but also about how you were as people. Were I in your shoes, I’d want to know when Voldemort was close. I don’t imagine that he operated with any sort of warmth or appreciation—it seems like the army was on edge all the time.”

“It certainly was always unpleasant, at least for me.” In comparison to any moment from the war, this moment is nearly blissful. The tension and fear are practically absent from him. He’s at ease in Granger’s living room, watching her pack up her salves. He recasts the diagnostic to refresh it, then explains the final aspect of the charm.

“The purple ring is the reason I had cast the diagnostic on your porch—it’s a marker of your ties to the Dark Lord. It’s a deep, vibrant purple when you’re being summoned or are active in an assignment, then turns lavender when you’re dismissed. But now it’s this odd color I can’t put a name to, and that linked with the fading of my Mark—a Dark tattoo that was supposed to remain as fresh as the day it was given—has me confused. Severus is the only other Marked person I have contact with, and he has two hypotheses.” Granger is sitting cross-legged on the ground now, looking up at him with wide eyes that remind him of the girl she was in school, desperate to learn. “The first is that Voldemort is still out there somewhere, drawing his extant power back to him. Neither of us put much stock into this one—he’d need help from someone Marked and we’d likely hear about that, if not be the ones he approached. The second is that Voldemort’s grasp on this plane is simply… fading away. His power crumbles more and more the longer he’s dead, and that means the Marks are fading.”

He dismisses the diagnostic and, in a moment of bravery, holds his forearm out for her to see. She tilts her head a bit and is very still as she considers the Mark.

“That is very intriguing,” Granger murmurs, “I would be interested to get periodic updates on that.”

Draco is surprised at how pleased he is to hear it.

Notes:

Building a cool complex spell was really interesting! Hope it makes sense and that you also find it interesting :)

Chapter 12: August 20, 2005

Hermione keeps getting lost in daydreams about what insights monitoring Malfoy’s blood will provide. After she sent a crow to Malfoy with a note asking him to visit her again this evening, she was almost late for her shift because she sat at the kitchen table for nearly half an hour, just gazing out the window. She’s more focused now, but every so often she’ll come back to herself and realize she was contemplating the sorts of trends she’ll be able to uncover instead of paying attention to the cast she’s setting or the vitals she’s checking. Normally she’s really quite engaged throughout her shift; it’s work she enjoys doing and sees as meaningful. But today Hermione finds herself looking forward to getting home and getting out of her scrubs and getting to work. Well, it’s not as though this isn’t work, but her residency is a means to an end. Malfoy presents an opportunity to make strides in what really matters to her right now.

So when her mentor says she’s free to go an hour early (they finished up a procedure faster than was expected—a rare occurrence), Hermione does her best to communicate the reticence that she should feel, but there’s an undeniable lightness in her step as she leaves the hospital. Her commute home is a little different: instead of taking a bus halfway home she just apparates the whole way with little regard for any Muggles who may be watching her. She figures that if anyone were actually paying attention to her comings and goings, they’d already have noticed the discrepancies.

Hermione arrives home much earlier than normal, and it startles Crookshanks. He jumps a few feet in the air when she appears with a crack in the living room but immediately settles back into his routine of greeting zoomies. Hermione smiles when he bats at her ankles and moves towards her bedroom. She’s relieved to be able to change into more flexible clothing. While she’s picky about her scrubs, they’re still nothing next to a pair of leggings and a loose tee. Tonight’s tee is a big boxy thing with a nice crop—something a little breezier sounds nice after a day in stuffy OR rooms.

Leaving her hair braided for now, Hermione pops into her study to set a few things up. She scoots the cluttered table against the wall from the center of the room, then pulls her Copy Quill and a fresh notebook to the top of the pile on the table. She adjusts the charm on the quill to record information from the diagnostics at periodic intervals. This will allow her to have a written record of what she sees in Malfoy’s blood without having to write it down herself.

She also pulls out the pulse oximeter and plugs it in to a computer to track the data. She pays no heed to the blood pressure cuff—Hermione already knows that blood pressure is marginally connected to platelet counts but it’s almost irrelevant to her spell. Besides, having one’s blood pressure taken regularly can be really bothersome.

After these preparations, there’s one last thing to do. She returns to the living room and levitates an armchair through the hallway (it’s tight but passable) and settles it in the centre of her study. She turns the two lamps on and switches off the overhead light, then wanders into the kitchen to find a snack.

There’s a soft knock at the door as she bites into her third Oreo. With a hand under her chin and the cookie crumbling into her palm, she moves to the entryway. Malfoy is—apart from the other night when she got home to find him standing quietly on her porch—incredibly punctual, it’s ten o’clock sharp. Crookshanks is at the window, watching Malfoy instead of trying to eat through the door to see who it is.

Hermione shoves the remainder of the Oreo in her mouth as she opens the door, holding a hand politely over her mouth and gesturing Malfoy in with the other. He’s not wearing robes tonight, just a cloak over his normal button up and trousers. He quirks an eyebrow and steps over the threshold. Crookshanks jumps down from the windowsill, brushes past Malfoy’s legs once, then skirts away to hide in her bedroom, which is interesting. The first few nights Malfoy visited, Crookshanks avoided him at all costs. Hermione closes the door as Malfoy moves into the living room.

“Midnight snack?” Malfoy asks, swirling his cloak off and draping it over the arm of the couch. The motion is so casual that it’s like he’s been doing it for years and not just a few days. Hermione swallows and forces herself to look away from the way the fabric of his shirt folds across his back.

“Uh, yeah,” Hermione says, then louder, “Have you had Oreos? A classic Muggle snack—I loved them as a kid and buy them sometimes.” She walks into the kitchen and grabs the blue package, then returns to the living room and holds it up for Malfoy to see.

He narrows his eyes a little and tilts his head, which reminds Hermione of when Crookshanks is trying to decide if she’s offering him a treat or medicine.

“I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure,” Malfoy says.

“Do you want to try one?” She opens the obnoxiously loud plastic and pulls out three Oreos. “I shouldn’t eat this whole package myself.”

Malfoy shrugs and holds his hand out. Hermione passes him an Oreo and returns the package to the counter. When she returns to the living room, she gets to watch Malfoy take a tentative bite and do the panicked scramble when the cookie breaks outside of his mouth.

Hermione can’t hold back her laugh as he awkwardly holds half an Oreo in his palm. “It’s part of the experience, it happens to me all the time.”

Malfoy meets her eyes and gives her a bewildered look.

Hermione walks to the hallway and gestures for him to follow as she says, “We’ll be in my study tonight.”

Malfoy trails behind as she walks to her office chair. She sits down and proceeds to pull her two Oreos apart so she can mash the two frosted cookies together, the way she did as a kid.

“I wondered where the armchair had gone,” Malfoy says, “I’m assuming this is my seat?”

Hermione nods and tells him, “I’d like to monitor you for at least an hour, and I wanted you to be comfortable.”

He relaxes into the chair and rolls up his left sleeve to expose the Dark Mark. The sight of it still makes Hermione’s breath quicken. It takes her back to her fighting days, when she was out there with Harry and Ron, before—

She cuts off the thought and stands to refocus.

“Will you be able to sustain the diagnostic for an hour?” She asks Malfoy, kneeling in front of him and holding out the pulse oximeter. He obediently places his left pointer finger in the device, which reminds her of when he said he’d been to her hospital several times. She wonders again at the nature of those visits.

“Magically, it presents no challenge, but I might need…”

Hermione’s gaze flashes up to his, trying to guess what need he’s about to ask her to fulfill. She senses no danger, but there’s no telling what’s going on behind those gray eyes that held so many secrets. Is this where he asks for some wild favor as payment for his assistance? It’s just that he seemed so casual the other day when she asked about monitoring him, but that could have been a ploy to get her relaxed so he could get back in her home and make her grovel or—

But then Malfoy smiles and shakes his head, “I think I’m gonna need some more Oreos, Granger.”

Notes:

Got a little busy there but it felt really nice to finish this chapter!

Chapter 13: Fan Art!

Notes:

Sorta sorry for the upload pause, I was making art! Here’s a drawing I’ve worked on since updating last, it’s a bit of a sneak peek for what’s to come :)

Hope you’re ready for artful Draco! I’m excited to keep making my way through the story, and I hope you are too!

Fun Halloween adventures are coming but won’t be here in time for Halloween in just a few days :( but soon enough!

Please click the link below to view my original fan art! This artwork is mine—please respect ownership and artists’ rights. 

Drive link to art!

Chapter 14: August 20, 2005

Notes:

Thank you for 1,000 hits! Here’s a new ~long~ chapter for you, with some hurt/comfort themes, mild angst, and Oreos!

Granger visibly relaxes, and then lets out another laugh. It brings up conflicting feelings in Draco. Her laugh is nice, loud like it’s unrestrained. But the way she looked so tense when he was trying to bring himself to ask for a silly Muggle snack worries him. He has never considered harming her in their time together, not even in passing. That part of his life—of him—is in the past. What does he need to do to get her to see that?

“You can have as many as you like,” Granger says, then waves her wand to summon the package. “Let me know when the great Draco Malfoy wants to try more Muggle snacks. I promise there is a huge variety in junk foods to be explored.” She opens the noisy plastic again and proffers it to him.

“I feel like I sampled several a few years ago, but this one’s new.” Draco bites into another Oreo, cuz, damn. They are surprisingly pleasant. Draco wasn’t expecting to enjoy something so obviously mass-produced, but now he understands why Granger offered him some in the first place—it would not be difficult to consume the whole package in very little time.

“Are you weddy to begi—“ Draco stops and makes himself swallow his food before repeating his question, but he doesn’t, because Granger’s looking at him wryly.

“What?” Is the question he asks instead.

Granger looks down and smiles, then says, “Who taught you to speak with your mouth full?”

Draco’s practically astonished. “Literally you, Hermione Granger.”

Her jaw drops and she gets to her feet. Her voice is higher when she says, “No, tonight I politely covered my mouth.”

“Okay, sure, but the first night I came here you answered the door and said—and I quote—‘thowwy’ around your wand.”

She draws herself up and almost shouts, looking flustered. “That’s because—“

“Granger,” Draco cuts her off, his voice firm. Softer, he says, “I’m just teasing you back. I’m not trying to upset you.”

“Oh.” Is all she says for a moment, and her posture relaxes. She turns away, fiddling with something on the cluttered table. How she finds anything in that pile is beyond him. “Harry and Ron used to get me worked up over silly things like that. Sometimes it was funny, and I think sometimes they did it on purpose.” She’s not looking at him as she says it.

“They don’t sound like very good friends.” Draco’s voice is barely above a whisper. Granger turns, and he feels the need to clarify, “But I think it’s hard for teenagers to be emotionally mature enough to be good friends, especially when there’s a war on.”

She avoids his gaze, but nods.

“Anyway,” he says quietly, “should we get started?” When Granger meets his eyes, he adds, “Is there anything beyond keeping the diagnostic constant that you need me to do?”

“Just stay awake,” she says, sounding more like herself as she sits in the chair across from his. “I know it’s late, so thanks for being willing. I’m sure a few Oreos will help.”

They share a brief smile. Draco’s sure that his is tainted by chocolate cookie crumbs, which is embarrassing but he’s choosing to not let it affect him. It’s not as though she’ll think less of him with evidence of the snack she gave him on his face.

Granger continues, “I’m going to cast some simple spells on your diagnostic that will pull data for me, which will be recorded by the Copy Quill on the table. I’m also hoping to perform some analytical spell work that will help me understand how your diagnostic functions and is targeting the blood. I’m sure I could ask Severus about this but wanted to investigate it myself first.”

Draco nods and slips out his wand to casts the diagnostic, then watches as Granger casts several spells in quick succession. One she sends towards the rings of light on his forearm, which connects the red ring to the quill on the table with a string of golden light. The quill practically leaps into action as it begins scurrying across the page. Another spell is sent towards the ceiling, which creates a… halo? It’s a ring of that golden light hovering half a meter above his head. Draco knows he’s entirely undeserving of a halo, and doesn’t understand why Granger would give him one until she casts the third spell to connect the halo to the Muggle medical device on his finger.

His expression must still bear the confusion and shame he felt, because Granger stands abruptly and speaks in a rush.

“It’s a record-keeping diagnostic spell I developed to integrate my Muggle medicine—it tracks the pulse oximeter on your hand and monitors other vitals like your blood pressure and temperature.”

Draco neutralizes his expression and nods, though the movement is too stiff to be natural. He didn’t expect to be so bothered by angelic comparisons, but now his brain wants to drag him down a shame cyclone.

He’s staring at the floor when Granger’s trainers step up in front of him. He barely sees them. Instead, he’s seeing flashes of angelic and demonic figures from classical paintings he grew up studying, and there’s a roaring in his ears, and everything is shrinking and he’s drowning in guilt and everyone he hurt lies before him and there’s darkness everywhere and and—

“Malfoy?”

A hand on his shoulder.

A deep breath.

Cold glass pressed into his palm.

“Ma—Draco, can you hear me?” A soft voice. Granger’s voice. “I’m here with you.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezes slightly.

A deep breath.

“Can you feel my hand on your shoulder, or the silly overstuffed armchair I thrifted two years ago?”

A face floats out of the darkness.

Granger. A person he hurt—but a person who is kind to him now.

“Can you see me, Draco? You’re here in my study.”

A deep breath.

“Those deep breaths are great, Draco, focus on them, on your body, on coming back to where you are.” Her voice is so gentle. Even his mother isn’t this gentle with him.

A hand on his own. Is he holding something?

“This is a calming draught, I took the stopper out of the bottle so you can take it when or if you’d like.”

A deep breath. This is typically when the shaking begins—he can feel the start of tremors along his Mark.

The hand on his moves away and he registers the glass bottle again. He takes another breath, blinks a few times, and lifts it to his lips.

His left arm stills once he’s downed the potion. He slumps back in the armchair and is finally able to see clearly again.

Granger’s standing there, leaning forward with her hands extended slightly towards him. She looks concerned but collected. She kneels in front of him again and takes the bottle from his hand.

“Are you okay, Draco?”

“I’m on my way to okay,” he whispers—it’s all the volume he can muster right now, “Thank you, for the potion and for… talking me down.”

She rocks back on her heels and nods. “I’m glad it was helpful. Was that a panic attack?”

Draco nods slowly, absolutely drained. “My brand of them, at least.” Still whispering.

“Do you… want to talk about it? I remember you said that talking about it is helpful.”

He smiles internally but can’t muster the energy required for the expression.

“Your spell,” he says with a weak gesture upwards, “It reminds me of a halo, and my brain fell apart at the sight of an angelic comparison. I’ve… never considered myself deserving of such a thing, and my demons were dragging me back.” After saying so much, he’s almost panting. It takes a minute for his breathing to stabilize—a minute that Granger patiently waits through. Her gaze is elsewhere, Draco can’t pin it down.

“I’m sorry my spell caused such distress, I can move it so it’s less halo-like.” She points her wand at the ring of golden light and swishes it to settle on the wall to his right. Then she meets Draco’s eyes. He’s never noticed the flecks of amber in her brown irises before.

“For the record,” she whispers, “I don’t feel deserving of a halo either.”

“You, the Golden Girl? An Order member? A healer?”

She looks away, almost grimacing. “If there’s anything I’ve learned from our time together, Malfoy, it’s that human beings are much more dynamic than their careers or the sides they stood on in wartime.”

“You’re right,” he says immediately, voice a bit stronger than before. “I’m sorry. It’s just easy for my brain to compare my inner shame to your outward goodness.”
His feelings seem to flow out of his mouth so quickly when she’s around.

Granger reaches out and pats his knee, then gets to her feet. “Everyone carries shame, but no one is defined by it. Especially not the man sitting in my study eating Oreos.”
The smile that comes to his lips is unexpected but right-feeling. Regardless of what internal recesses he garnered the energy from to do such a thing, Granger deserves a smile for her kindness and the relief her words bring.

“Do you still feel up to this?” She asks, her voice more direct now.

Draco gives another slow nod. “I don’t feel up to apparating home right now so hanging out in your study and eating your snacks for an hour or two sounds lovely.”

Granger chuckles, “Eat up, I have lots more junk food to introduce you to.”

He obediently eats an Oreo, chewing slowly as he watches her flutter around the room in that way that Muggle doctors do. After another two Oreos he feels strong enough to recast the diagnostic. The beam of light immediately connects it to the Copy Quill, and Granger flutters over to him and casts a few spells on the diagnostic directly, which summon plates of golden light that spin slowly. She studies them for a moment before doing a silly wand motion that seemingly zooms in on various plates.

It’s a little dizzying for Draco in his current state, so he drops his gaze and focuses on eating Oreos. The flavor is still pleasant after… a dozen? More?

Granger steps back and waves her wand, multiplying the plates, which form a dome over her head. Draco has no idea what she’s looking into and has no capacity to want such a thing. The spinning is less headache-inducing at a distance, so he watches with curious eyes and a moving jaw. Granger tucks her wand behind her ear like a pencil (it’s a distinctly Muggle practice—wizards do not do this with quills) and sets her palms against the plates at the bottom of the dome. She’s making nearly-imperceptible movements with her fingers that send tiny ripples through some plates and add runes to others.

It’s at this moment when, entranced by Granger’s method of analysis, Draco reaches for another Oreo and, upon meeting the plastic tray instead of a chocolate cookie, lets out an unintelligible exclamation that makes him sound like a rich prat suddenly denied something he feels entitled to.

Granger starts and peers at him through a gap in the spinning plates. His cheeks get warm and he shrugs, holding up the empty package as an excuse for the pathetic sound he just made. She smiles, then chuckles. She lifts her wand to the center of the dome and—oh. Draco hadn’t realized that her top was that cropped. There’s a moment where a nice line of her midriff is visible, and then there’s the ridge of her ribcage protruding as she stretches upwards.

She holds the dome like an umbrella, then pushes it upwards to hover near the ceiling, rotating gently. The extended movement lifts the hem of her shirt even higher and—Draco forces himself to look at her trainers as she steps past him.

“I’ll grab you more snacks,” she says, "You keep that diagnostic active.”

Only when she’s out of the room does Draco allow himself to confront what just happened. Granger likely didn’t wear that top to distract or attract him—she’s an adult who wears clothes for a myriad of her own reasons. He then spends too long trying to reason with himself about this, but the truth of the matter is that Draco saw Hermione Granger’s midriff, and it made him want to see more. The sight was undeniably and unexpectedly pleasant, and he wants to spend more time looking at her skin. He can’t deny that, but he certainly can’t act on it either. Especially not tonight, when his job is simply to sit in this chair and be a source of data. And it’s not really something he can allow himself to think about further, since she’s walking back in with an armful of crinkling plastic.

“Okay, I brought lots of options,” she says, unceremoniously dumping everything on the already crowded table. “I didn’t know if you wanted to go salty or stay sweet.”
It’s not until she looks over her shoulder with an eyebrow raised that he realizes she’s waiting for a response. Draco’s just been watching the way her shirt moves with her body.

“Uh, sweet,” he says too quickly.

“These are other mass-produced cookie biscuit things, let me know if you enjoy them or if you’d like something else.” Granger passes him a plastic package similar to the last one as she walks back to her golden umbrella.

She reaches up and sets her wand back in the dome. Now that Draco’s prepared for it, he’s able to enjoy the sight a little more. Then she’s half-obscured by the golden disks of light again. He watches her and snacks. These ‘biscuit cookie things’ aren’t quite as addictive as Oreos but they are enjoyable. Besides, staying quiet about the snack options gives him more time to watch her while she works. She mutters under her breath every once in a while but pays him no attention, allowing him to give her all of his.

He focuses on what he can see clearly: her legs.

She’s in close-fitting leggings which contrast the loose boxy tee nicely. The side seams twist around her calves in an interesting way but he can’t tell if it’s because of the garment construction or the way she put them on. He’s visually tracing the back of her knee when she snaps her fingers and he startles, loudly crinkling the plastic package in his lap.

She steps out from under the umbrella—Draco’s too disoriented to appreciate the midriff shot this time—and waves her wand to turn the dome into a wall behind her.

Granger gives him a quizzical look, then says, “You are surprisingly jumpier than I would have thought.”

Draco’s cheeks flush. “I’ve been out of war and have lived a purposefully slow life for several years. I’m not exposed to anything to keep me not-jumpy.”

“That’s good, I suppose,” She says after a moment, then turns to the wall of plates that spin slowly like gears in a machine. “Can I ask—was the diagnostic charm difficult to learn?”

Draco shrugs. “Not terribly. Some in the army struggled to master it but I wouldn’t say they were expert casters in the first place. Severus has told me that he designed each portion of the charm to interlock together, so that even if cast weakly, the entire diagnostic would still appear, though faintly.”

“How long did it take Severus to develop this?” Her arms are folded across her chest and she’s nearly silhouetted against the golden light.

“Close to a year, I assume, though amidst all his other commitments and responsibilities I’m surprised it was that quick.”

The lines of her thighs are easier to follow now, and it’s nice.

She’s nice to look at.

“I’m surprised as well, this is an incredibly complex spell.” She’s gently swaying side to side now, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and back again. The movement creates new lines to follow.

“Have you been able to find what you were looking for in analyzing it?” He can feel the diagnostic dimming, so he recasts the charm to refresh it.

Granger turns to face him, then returns to her seat for the first time since before his panic attack (which already feels like it happened hours ago). She crosses her legs, then launches into a response.

“Yes, actually, I had just found the link to the bloodstream when I startled you. It’s fairly straightforward, focusing on the heart and tracking the pulse as it pulls the data used to measure blood health. It’s more of a superficial sampling than a deep blood analysis, but that makes sense for the nature of the charm. I think the fact that the magic is always directed at a fairly reliable vein makes it function—were the Mark placed on your leg or something the diagnostic would have a harder time finding your heart.”

“What data does it pull? I’ve never thought about it this much.” Draco eats another cookie. The conversation is engaging and intriguing and it’s making him think. He’s surprised but grateful to not feel the fatigue or darkness that typically follow his panic attacks.

Granger flicks her wand and one of the disks leaves the wall she created and hovers between them. Draco has no concept of how to read the spell but appreciates the visual regardless. She uncrosses her legs and leans forward in her chair to point at various sections of the disk as she speaks.

“Factors like alcohol or substance content, white blood cell count, and blood volume are considered. These will tell a general if a soldier is too drunk, too sick, or too injured to fight. Like you said in the past, it’s a cryptic but fairly reliable marker of battle-readiness. However, these aren’t necessarily markers that a hematologist would pay that much attention to if you were seeking treatment for something, so I’m more interested in how the charm works rather than what it examines.”

“Are you studying hematology?” It didn’t seem that way from their brief hospital interaction, but maybe she sniffed out the random wizard in a Muggle emergency department from a different wing.

“No, it’s just a personal research avenue.” Granger flicks her wand and the plate returns to its place among the other golden gears. “Can I have a cookie?”

Draco finds it interesting that she doesn’t just summon one, but does appreciate that she would ask. In response, he leans forward and passes her a cookie.

She takes it and asks, “Are you feeling better? Your body seems to be much more stable, but that doesn’t always mean that you’re okay.”

“I am, yes.” Draco eats another cookie biscuit thing. It’s comfortably quiet until he swallows and says, “Thank you.”

Granger looks up at him sharply, her brows furrowed, “No, thank you for taking the time to help me with this. It would have taken me months to figure this stuff out on my own.”

Draco tilts his head and narrows his eyes, “Are you not working with someone at St. Mungo’s on this personal research of yours?”

The question seems to strike a nerve, because Granger crosses her legs again. Draco can’t help the tiny frown his mouth makes as he watches her shoulders curl inwards. She looks down and says, “I guess I burned bridges when I chose to pursue a Muggle medical degree instead of continuing my training at St. Mungo’s. They… discourage my desire to integrate medicine into healing magic. Plus, they think this specific research question isn’t worth pursuing, so, no, I’m not working with anyone on this. You’re the first person I’ve been able to involve in my work, and you’ve done wonders, so, thank you.”

Draco’s curious about what this research question actually is, but senses that she’s avoiding it on purpose so doesn’t press.

Granger opens her mouth a few times before saying, “I believe I’ve garnered the information I was looking for, so you’re welcome to go home and get some more rest.” She meets his eyes for the first time in several minutes, then adds, “Thank you again.”

“I’m glad I was able to help,” Draco says quietly. He takes another cookie then passes the package to Granger, and the sound of the plastic crinkling feels too loud for the moment.

“Let me know if there’s more you need from me,” Draco tells her as he gets to his feet. He can feel the stiffness and fatigue beginning to set in. Getting home is probably a good idea. He stretches, then walks out of the room. Finding his way back to the living room is simple, but finding the motivation to actually leave this place is more complicated.

“Draco,” Granger says from behind him, and the sound of his name in her voice creates a new kind of tension in his abdomen.

He turns to find her leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. The look in her eyes is the same as it was when he came out of the darkness, but a little less collected.

“I’m sorry my spells made you have a panic attack. It wasn’t my intention.”

Draco gives her an understanding nod. Then an earlier interaction comes back to him.

“I saw how I made you uncomfortable when I hesitated to ask for your snacks, and I’m sorry for that. It has never been my intention to harm you in our time together here.”

Her arms fall to her sides and she stands up straighter. She blinks a few times and utters a soft, “Thanks.”

“I’m gonna go now, Granger.” It’s honestly more for his motivation than for her knowledge.

The cat suddenly appears out from under the sofa and scurries around Draco’s feet, which draws a near-explosive laugh from Granger. Draco meets her eyes and can’t help but grin. He makes himself turn around and step carefully (so as to not trod on the orange fluff running laps around his shoes) to the door, which opens upon his approach. He shuts it behind him and apparates to the Manor before he can convince himself to go back inside.

Chapter 15: August 27, 2005

Notes:

Just a mini interim chapter for you! This one contains a task list Hermione writes for herself on a rare free day.
You should know that Lily is Ginny & Harry’s 5-year-old daughter! And don’t stress—Harry had time with her before he sacrificed himself to end the war.

Day Off Task List:

1. Feed Crooks a substantial meal
2. Synthesize Malfoy data into research


A. Are the trends different during panic attack?
B. How does Calming Draught affect bloodstream cellularly?
C. What aspects of charm will create a blood-centric diagnostic?
D. What’s the next step—what am I still missing?

3. Try the new Indian place for lunch
4. Aquarium with Ginny & Lily


A. Wear something cute?
B. Don’t forget your student ID!
C. Bring Spectrespecs and 3D glasses for Lily
5. Read for 60 minutes and go to bed early, please!

Chapter 16: August 27, 2005

Notes:

Another mini chapter for you!

Painting the walls of the sitting room is leaving Draco’s mind much freer than he would like today, but obviously he can’t put down the roller halfway through this coat. So he keeps painting, and keeps trying to think through the remainder of the remodel, and keeps thinking about Granger instead. It’s been over a week since he’s seen her. He can’t help replaying what she said to him during his panic attack, the way she talked him down so gently. He’s not replaying the attack, thankfully, just his memory of her voice and the ways she helped him recenter.

The memory makes him want to see her again.

Especially when compounded with the memories of her midriff and the way she said his name before he left.

Draco sets the roller in the paint tray and jumps up and down a few times to refocus. He cannot just show up unannounced at Granger’s house just because he wants to see her again. Cannot.

He finishes this coat of paint in a rush (any flaws will be smoothed over by a third coat anyway) and immediately goes for a run out on the estate. He’s full of nervous energy that only wants to apparate to Granger’s home and running is the only thing he can think of that will both redirect that energy and tire him out so he doesn’t do what 90% of him would really like to do in this moment.

Chapter 17: September 5, 2005

Hermione finds herself scrawling the note before she thinks twice. It’s so natural and automatic that it’s not until she’s signing her initials that she registers what she’s doing. Not only is she asking for Malfoy’s help again, she’s asking for his blood, which is a lot more involved than sitting in a funky armchair for an hour. It’s not even for a personally medical purpose—it’s for her research, not his health. But, she reasons, he did have a panic attack under her care, so maybe giving her a blood sample is no less vulnerable.

She puts her hands in her lap and frowns at the scrap of lined paper, torn from the bottom of the last page of Malfoy’s data recorded by the Copy Quill. It just seemed like the next logical course of action—she read over the data for the third time, noticed what was missing, realized that having a blood sample to study would fill the gaps, and subsequently wrote a note to Draco Malfoy that more or less asks him to blindly offer up his body in the name of her research.

She tells herself that if she could use her blood, she would. She allows herself to study her own blood every other month, and while it’s helpful, having a data set from someone else’s blood sounds like a dream. Her blood is relatively unchanging and Malfoy’s seems different enough to provide new insight.

So while it’s not something Hermione ever imagined doing (not in the beginning of her research, not in school, and certainly not during the war), she folds up the note, secures it with a bit of tape, and walks to the window. After opening it she taps thrice on the shutter. When a crow hops up on the windowsill, she offers a shiny button (picked from the jar on a shelf out of sight from the window) alongside the note. The crow picks up the button with a foot and snatches the note in its beak, then cocks its head. Hermione casts the navigation spell set for Malfoy Manor and the bird’s eyes glaze over for a moment before it bobs its head and flaps away.

Hermione watches it go—wondering again if it was the right choice—and shuts the window.

Then she’s antsy for the rest of the evening.

She eats through an excessive amount of her snack stockpile. She does all the laundry she’s put off for ten days. She even organizes and declutters the table in her study (it’s been months since that happened). Then it’s time to feed Crookshanks dinner and she can’t bring herself to eat anything else so she just sits on the floor stress-brainstorming ideas for instant messaging in the wizarding world.

Which feels wrong—she’s been working on this spell for years already, so why would an extra day or two be bothersome?

The clatter of claws on glass startles her from this line of thought, and she practically sprints to the window. Her heart is pounding as she pushes the window open to greet Malfoy’s snowy owl. When his owl first visited her, she thought it was Hedwig and that brought on a wave of grief. Hermione lives every day knowing her childhood best friend is dead, but it’s not something she thinks about or confronts on a regular basis. When Harry died, her friendship with Ron fractured, but she and Ginny grew ever closer after the loss. They started writing letters shortly thereafter.

But Hermione isn’t thinking about any of this as she takes the small rolled parchment from the carrying case on the owl’s back. She’s just full of oddly nervous excitement while she gives the owl a small treat and unrolls the scroll.

You caught me just in time—I’m headed out of town for auror business. I’ll be back on the 9th.
Should I plan on our usual 10pm? -DM

Hermione can’t help the grin that blooms across her face and the gratitude that fills her heart. Hoping to catch Malfoy before he actually leaves, she scrawls a quick reply with a purple pen on an index card (a stash of them was revealed while organizing the table in the study).

10pm on the 9th is perfect. I’ll have more snacks for you to try. -HJG

Chapter 18: September 5, 2005

Draco has mixed feelings about this assignment. At first he was grateful for something to keep him occupied, but now it’s just delaying his ability to do the thing he’s been resisting for weeks. Regardless of his opinion, there’s no time to back out now. After he got Granger’s note, he spent two hours staining the mantle in the sitting room and trying to come up with an excuse that would get him out of a multi-day assignment in Romania. He decided that the truth (that a girl he wants to see again asked him to come over) would be the best option, but it’s not a truth he wants to share at work, so he’s got to survive four days looking into Ridger’s vampire contact before he can apparate to Granger’s porch.

Her crow (a non-magically-inclined crow at that) arrived at the right time. He was beginning to go mad—over the last two days he’s written four notes asking if he could visit her. He felt weird about every one of them, even the one strictly inquiring about her research, so they sit crumpled next to his desk. Granger’s note brought so much relief that it’s placed carefully in the pocket of his robes as he prepares to apparate, but not before he rereads it for a third time.

I need your help again—there’s some gaps in the data that I’d like to fill. Could I take a blood sample?
Let me know when you’re available. -HJG

Letting her take his blood is an easy price for being in her home again, even if it’s not an offer he can accept right away.

He sighs, pats the pocket containing the note, slings the bag he packed over his shoulder, and apparates to London, the first stop on his multi-leg journey. He’s going to spend the next several hours apparating in between rest periods so as to not drain his magic all at once. Apparating straight from the Manor to Romania sounds like a death sentence, and, like we’ve established, Draco has somewhere to be in four days.

As he steps out of the unfortunately-small closet in the Auror’s clandestine Muggle office on the east edge of London, he determines that this is going to be a very long trip.

Chapter 19: September 9, 2005

It is with an enormous amount of relief that Draco makes the final apparation jump to Granger’s porch. He probably rushed the jumps on this return trip but he’s desperate to collapse on her mostly-comfortable sofa. He knocks with a sigh and is very close to setting a steadying hand on the doorframe by the time she opens the door.

“Malf—good gods, get in here!”

And she’s pulling him to the sofa and taking the bag from his shoulder and fluttering about like she did the last time he was here. His descent to the cushions is shaky and unbecoming—but it’s exactly where he wants to be. When his head is finally resting on a pillow (the sofa feels much more comfortable this time around), he closes his eyes and lets out a groan.

“What the hell did they ask you to do this time?” Her voice is high and quick. “The last time I saw you after an auror assignment, you had a hole in your thigh the size of your face, and now you show up with little magic and less strength and—“

She cuts off when Draco raises a shaky hand and opens his eyes. It takes him a moment to find and focus on her face. She’s standing over him with arms folded but fidgeting. The glow of a diagnostic is visible out of the corner of his eye.

“Granted,” he says with all the volume he can muster (which isn’t much), “it was a long trip, but this is just apparation drain.”

She relaxes a bit, but then her eyes bulge when he adds, “I think.”

In response, Granger casts a more complex diagnostic. He watches her look at it for a moment before closing his eyes again. She’s quietly muttering but he doesn’t have the bandwidth to focus on her words.

Louder, she says, “Your blood sugar is low—that’s why you’re shaking—and you definitely pushed your magic. How many apparation jumps did you make?”

“The trip out was ten,” Draco whispers. “I did this one in six.”

She makes an exasperated sound, then says, “Six is a lot less than ten when it comes to jumps that stretch your magic so severely. Hold on a moment.”

Sensing movement, he determines that she’s walked into the kitchen. The sound of crinkling plastic makes him smile internally. She did promise him snacks tonight.

“Here,” her voice says, much closer than she was before, “Snack on these gummy sweets I picked up. I’ll get you some water. I shouldn’t draw your blood until your glucose levels are more stable.” A plastic bag is pressed into his palm.

Draco opens his eyes to find garishly colorful packaging. Part of him wishes she would have opened the bag before returning to the kitchen—it takes him a few tries but he gets it open. He’s lifting a sweet to his mouth when Granger walks back in with a gray mug. She kneels next to him like she did a month ago. Her eyes seem eager and curious as she watches him.

The texture of the sweet is all wrong, and then it’s… pleasant? The flavor is mild but enjoyable. He was unsure about eating more but by the time he swallows he’s selecting another from the bag.

While he’s chewing, Granger quietly says, “I actually haven’t tried these yet,” and reaches for the bag. Draco does his best to steady his hand while she’s taking one, but it’s not like he’s got a lot of strength or concentration at the moment.

Granger seems to have a reaction similar to his own—she narrows her eyes and tilts her head, then shrugs a bit and chews normally. Then she chuckles.

When Draco makes a concerted effort to give her a quizzical look, she says, “This reminds me of being in school and trying various sweets with my friends. Of course, those had magical effects while these just have an oddly pleasant texture.”

It spurns a question in Draco—one that he probably shouldn’t ask, so he nods in agreement and pulls another sweet from the bag.

They eat oddly pleasant sweets in silence for a few minutes. Granger seems to suddenly remember the mug in her hand and proffers it to him. He does feel less shaky now, so he sets the package in his lap and takes the mug with both hands.

After he takes a drink, he lowers the mug and blurts out the question that’s been ricocheting around his mind for the last five minutes.

“Are you and Weasley still close? He doesn’t mention you at work, but I don’t know why he’d say anything to me about his friends. Weren’t you together at some point?” He spoke faster and louder than he had energy for, so he’s left panting for a moment before taking another sip.

She meets his eyes for a very brief moment, then looks past him and blinks a few times, chewing slowly.

“Um, yeah, Ron and I were together at some point, but that dissipated as the war dragged on. Harry was the linchpin between Ron and I so when Harry died, Ron became more and more distant.” There’s a pause before she adds, “I get together with the Weasley family now and then, but Ginny is my closest friend. I don’t get to see her very frequently but I think that’s due to my work more than anything else. Her daughter Lily is five—very darling and tenacious.”

Draco picks another sweet from the bag. “I’m pleased to hear she’s alive—the Dark Lord wanted Potter’s child killed as soon as he learned of her existence.”

“That’s interesting,” Granger says, tilting her head, “I don’t remember Ginny talking about any attacks or threats.”

“From what I can recall, I think the people assigned to the task were resistant to the idea of killing a baby and there were other people ensuring Potter’s family was well protected.”

He chews for a moment before telling her, “We’re not all Voldemort.” He doesn’t tell her that he was the one assigned to track down and kill the Potter infant. Upon receiving the assignment, he fled to Severus and together they determined a protection plan that Severus pitched to the Order. Draco did everything he could to find them, except of course, find them.

It’s been a long time since he’s thought about this, and there’s a part of him (a sad, shame-filled part) that wants him to think about it a lot more. But he takes a deep breath and realizes that he’s feeling much better than he was when he arrived. His magic still feels drained, and he’s worn, but the shaking has subsided. He takes a sip of water and when he lowers the mug, Granger meets his eyes while a wide, slow smile graces her lips.

“I’m realizing that,” she says softly. Then she abruptly looks down, fumbles for her wand, and casts another diagnostic. She gazes at it for a bit and Draco snacks on sweets and watches her. Her hair is in two long braids starting at the crown of her head, with a tiny ringlet at her temple. She’s wearing a long-sleeved top that looks comfortable, and the neckline reveals a bit of her collarbone. His gaze lingers there for a moment longer, but when she moves to look at him, he panics and lifts the mug to his lips a little too quickly, sending some water down his chin.

Granger asks, “Do you feel up to a blood draw? It’s not something I want to force on you, and I feel like you’re unwell every time I take something from you.” Maybe she didn’t notice the way he spilled water on himself or the way he was looking at her.

Draco does his best to surreptitiously dab the water from his face as he says, “I’m well enough and I know this is important to you—let’s go for it.”

Granger smiles again and thanks him as she stands and leaves the room. Draco glances around the living room and notes that he hasn’t seen the cat tonight. He’s wondering when or if it will appear when Granger enters the room and speaks as she puts silly blue gloves on.

“I’m sure St. Mungo’s has a method of taking blood samples magically, but the Muggle methodology is what I know best so I’m going to use a needle to draw blood, if that’s alright with you.”

“I’m not unfamiliar with the process.” He leans down to set his mug (now empty) on the carpet, then rolls up his left sleeve, figuring that Granger’s already seen his Mark so there’s no need to be reticent. Besides, the veins in his left arm are better for bloodletting—the Dark Lord made sure of that when he designed the Mark. Granger shouldn’t have any trouble obtaining his blood.

He lays his arm across a pillow as she kneels next to the sofa and makes sure all her supplies are in order. Picking up a little white package, she grips it as if she’s going to rip it open, but then she pauses. Tilts her head. Chuckles. Draco watches curiously as she sets the little square down and takes the blue gloves off.

“I forgot for a moment that I can do magic with you,” she explains as she draws her wand.

Granger casts a cleansing charm on her hands, then directs another at the crook of his elbow. And then—oh.

Draco forgot that the Muggle method of drawing blood requires touch. A pretty nurse once told him that if the vein can’t be physically felt, it can’t be drawn from.

Granger sets a hand just below where he’s cuffed the sleeve to on his upper arm, then presses against the fold of his elbow with the fingers of her other hand. Her touch is gentle but direct as she searches for a viable vein. Her skin is cool against his, and he wonders briefly if she can feel the way his heart rate increases. As she bends closer to his arm, a braid slides over her shoulder, brushing his fingertips before Granger sweeps it back. It’s the first time he’s touched her hair and, to be quite frank, he’d really like to touch it again—intentionally.

“Alright,” Granger mutters, “here we go.” She grabs for supplies and Draco looks past her at a photo on the wall (he has no interest watching his blood leave his body, he got enough of that in the war, thank you very much). She ties a strip of rubber around his upper arm and then does more preparations that he isn’t paying much attention to. He narrows his focus to the photograph to keep himself from focusing on her touch, as much as he would like to pay attention to the way her skin feels.

“Bit of a sting here,” Granger says.

It’s not a magical photograph, which is probably why it hasn’t caught his eye before; it’s unmoving and blends in with her other eclectic decor. He can’t make it out fully from his spot on the sofa but it seems to be a photo of a couple with a young girl between them. Draco assumes this must be a photo of Granger’s family taken when she was a child, and he determines that it deserves a closer look sometime. He keeps his eyes on the photo and his breathing steady as Granger takes his blood.

Very little time has passed before Granger does that flurry of movements that Muggles do when they’re finished with a blood draw—capping vials, removing needles, applying pressure, releasing the tourniquet. She doesn’t use magic until she heals the puncture.

“And that’s it!” She says as she tucks her wand behind her ear and cleans up the supplies scattered around. She banishes the rubbish and sends the vial floating off somewhere.

“I meant to ask,” Granger says as she shifts to sit cross-legged (this makes Draco question whether he should offer her a space on the sofa, but she continues before he can interject), “can you tell me about the auror trip you went on? You obviously don’t have to, I’m just curious.”

Draco considers for a moment as he chews the last of the sweets (should he have offered the last one to her?), then says, “I don’t see why not, it’s not as though you have contact with black market potion ingredient peddlers.” He narrows his eyes at her and adds, “Or do you?”

Granger lets out her loud laugh, then says, “I’m not a potions mistress—any specialized ingredients I might randomly need I get from Severus.”

Draco smiles and tells her, “I’ve been working on this case for about a month—investigating what was originally thought to be a front for black market potion ingredients, but it’s just this one guy peddling wares out of his workplace. I was in Romania looking into his vampire contact; tracking his movements, trying to figure out how he’s connected with the guy here, watching his conversations. Someone else will go in and talk with the guy—I’m far too conspicuous.”

“Interesting,” she says slowly. She reaches for the package on his lap and asks, “what is he getting from the vampire?” When she realizes the bag is empty, she waves her wand and a crinkle of plastic sounds from the kitchen.

“From what I’ve gathered, fangs and venom and maybe even some blood.” He watches a large bag of crisps float into the room.

“Blood? Like blood that vampires drink?” She rips the bag open and grabs a handful of crisps, which she begins munching on as she sets the bag on his lap.

“Probably,” Draco says, selecting a crisp, “but also blood of various creatures, perhaps? I wasn’t able to get strong confirmation on the blood thing, so I can’t be sure.” The flavour is odd, simultaneously sweet and savory. Granger certainly is introducing him to lots of new snacking possibilities. Snacks aren’t common in the Manor, unless you count the tiny cakes Draco’s mother sometimes serves with tea.

“Well, it’s a good thing you agreed to this blood sampling, otherwise I might have sought out such a peddler.” She’s grinning, but also half-heartedly covering her mouth even though she isn’t talking with her mouth full (gods forbid).

“This guy is not worth any of your time or your intelligence.” Draco’s response is fast, trying to dissuade her though he knows she said it mostly in jest. It’s just that Granger is good and lively and Ridger would just take advantage of her commitment to research and would probably leer at her with hungry eyes. Draco adds, “He’s not even a potions master, he’s just in it for the Galleons and the attention.”

“And he’s somehow got a vampire contact. Does he have other contacts?” Granger takes another handful of crisps.

“We’re working to determine that, but I’m sure he does. The hope is to find all the people connected to him before we bring the cage down and they all go to ground.”

“Wait, you said you went to Romania? You’re telling me you apparated from Romania in six jumps?” She puts her hands on her head and stares at him with huge eyes beneath furrowed brows. “What the fuck were you thinking—of course you showed up here with no magic!”

Draco doesn’t know what to say, so he grimaces and shrugs in an embarrassed way. He doesn’t want to say that he was desperate to see her, to be in this cluttered living room that’s full of life, to share silly snacks with her. He doesn’t want to tell her that some wizards he met in Romania wanted to hurt him for what he did in the war, and he just wanted to be somewhere that felt safe, to be with someone who didn’t treat him differently because of his past. He doesn’t want to tell her, and yet, there’s part of him that does.

He eats a crisp instead.

Notes:

We’re starting to get pining Draco and I hope you’re as here for it as I am!

Chapter 20: September 9, 2005

Malfoy left soon after they ate crisps together. Hermione forgot to tell him they were barbecue-flavored, which isn’t her favorite but was what stood out to her at the supermarket. He seemed to like them well enough.

Now, she’s drinking a cup of tea and stroking Crookshanks’ tail. She considers diving straight into analyzing the contents of Malfoy’s blood, but decides she ought to get some rest first. She’ll work on it over the next week or so. First, Hermione will run some simple labs here, then she’ll do some deeper analysis via magic. Then she’ll violate the terms of her residency contract and use the hospital’s equipment to run more complex labs. And then any further magical digging that the labs necessitate. The main priority at the moment is amassing a data set to be examined further in the future. She’s not trying to solve everything right away—she just needs to be thorough enough in her data collection to give herself all the answers she might need.

Hopefully there are answers.

When Hermione finishes her tea, she remains in the armchair and continues her stroking of Crookshanks’ tail (for he has not yet indicated that he is satisfied). She tries to put away thoughts of medicinal magic, tucking them into orderly boxes for the night. Her mind turns elsewhere, and she finds herself coming to terms with the fact that she really enjoys talking with Malfoy. She likes the way he tells stories and the way he jokes sometimes. She appreciates the way he wants to have genuine and meaningful conversations.

She likes the way he acknowledges the existence of the war without letting it affect their interactions. He’s not rubbing Harry’s death in her face—in fact, he seemed genuinely glad to hear about the wellbeing of Harry’s family. He’s not treating her any different for her involvement in the war (some people regard her far too highly, while others say she didn’t do enough), nor is he holding his involvement over her head. Malfoy’s just… nice. He’s nice to talk to and nice to laugh with and nice to—Hermione freezes, which results in a tail thwap to her chest.

Oh no.

Draco Malfoy is nice to look at.

Notes:

I’m beginning to feel like a match-maker mwuahaha here begins pining Hermione!

Chapter 21: September 12, 2005

Notes:

Two chapter day for y’all!

The realization Hermione came to after Malfoy left her house the other night is clouding her focus in the lab today. She keeps trying to lock this train of thought into a chest, but it keeps bursting open and catching her off guard. Upon completing a blood draw, she was so caught up in memories of the last blood draw she did (the way Malfoy stayed so steady while she took his blood, the way his skin was warm to the touch, the way they talked afterwards) that she threw away the vial of blood with her gloves. She fished it out of the bin, of course, and it was fine, but it was still a little humiliating. She’s especially embarrassed about how her process had been interrupted by her own mind. She needs to work on her Occlumency.

While she’s eating lunch, she lets the chest remain open. She’s allowed to enjoy his company, but she can’t allow herself to become romantically involved. It’s not something she can commit to right now, and Malfoy deserves a partner who is attentive and present. Hermione is barely able to be attentive or present at work.

She briefly considers her previous romantic engagements. Viktor barely counts. Ron was war-fueled and mostly out of convenience. Aaron and Bradley were both sex-based and short-lived. All of them made Hermione happy in the moment, but none of them made her feel alive or vibrant. Obviously, none of them are relationships she’d return to now.

When she returns to the lab, the chest does a better job staying closed. She’s able to go about the rest of her shift with deeper focus and fewer humiliating incidents (she did call a nurse by the wrong name, which he got surprisingly miffed about).

It’s when Hermione gets home that the hinges on the lid of the chest spring open and refuse to shut. She curls up on the sofa and tries to tell herself that it doesn’t smell like him. She stares at the mug still sitting on the coffee table and imagines the way his hands held it.

She writes a letter to Ginny to get out of her own head.

Ginny, have you ever thought of finding a partner? After Harry, I mean. I know Lily’s surrounded by adults who love her, and so are you, but have you thought of pursuing a relationship? If so, what might you look for in a partner? I feel like every relationship I’ve had made me happy but was missing something, you know? I’ve gone two routes—people from our world who know about the war, and Muggles who know nothing about who I really am. Sometimes it’s nice to be seen as someone separate from war and tragedy, but I think I’d rather be understood. It’s hard for me to feign vulnerability and openness with Muggle guys who have no idea that my best friend died, or that I was involved in a years-long war, let alone the fact that I use magic everyday. I don’t know. Maybe it’s silly to think about finding a lasting relationship in this world. Sorry, that’s really pessimistic of me to say—I don’t actually feel that hopeless, and this isn’t something that’s taking up a lot of brain space for me. Just a gnome hole I wandered down and thought about for the first time.

Anyway. How are you? How’s Lily? Did she enjoy the aquarium trip? I mean, when we were there she seemed to have a great time but it’s hard for me to tell sometimes.

At work today I called a nurse by the wrong name and he got really upset about it, which surprised me. First of all, I’m normally better with names, but also he seemed like such an easy-going guy. I wonder if he’s going through something and had a lot in his brain today. Part of me wants to seek him out and apologize, try to figure out what’s going on. But most of me just wants to avoid him and move on. I don’t see him super frequently anyway.

I wanted to ask if dinner plans with your family are still on for my birthday. Didn’t your Mum have a suggestion of where to go? I don’t really have an opinion—I’m just happy to be with you all.

Lots of love, HJG

Chapter 22: September 13, 2005

Notes:

Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate! Either way, here’s a treat :)

A letter from Ginny is waiting for Hermione when she gets home from the hospital. She changes out of her scrubs, finds a comfy spot in the armchair, and opens the letter.

Hermione—

Why are you suddenly asking about romance? Have you been seeing someone? This feels like a Mione-is-having-feelings-for-someone-and-doesn’t-know-how-to-process-it line of questioning. Which is absolutely fine, by the way, you know I’m always keen to talk about anything. Besides, I’d be all for it if you had found someone to keep up with you. You’re incredible, Hermione, and any man dumb enough to overlook that or, gods forbid, underestimate you isn’t worth your time. Even my twat of a brother isn’t mature enough to see you the way you ought to be seen. It’s weird to talk to him about you, he seems so blinded. Like yeah, you’re his friend, but not in the way Harry was. Which I’m assuming you felt, especially when he practically abandoned you after Harry died.

Anyway, I’ve actually been meaning to tell you that Luna and I have been dating for a bit. I haven’t told Lily, so it’s weird when we run into Luna and I have to pretend that she’s not my girlfriend. I do plan on telling Lily soon, I just—I don’t know. Moving on after Harry has been really difficult and—obviously—really different. I’ve done lots of soul-searching and have determined that I also like women? It’s odd to say and it’s still really new for me but after the war Luna joined a weird commune of hippie lesbian Muggles (so very Luna) so it’s not new to her. She’s silly the way she’s always been and that makes me happy. She’s been a source of comfort and being with her makes me feel light, like a feather.

Men make me feel heavier, which sounds odd now that I say it. I’ve tried dating a couple Muggle guys too, but magical or not, I just don’t feel like there’s a man out there to replace Harry, especially as Lily’s dad. I know I can’t ever give her back her father. And you’re right, she’s surrounded by supportive and loving adults. Even Luna has talked about how no one can replace Harry, and how she’s happy to be involved in Lily’s life but isn’t trying to butt in on my family.

So um yeah, Luna is my girlfriend! We can talk about it more in person if you’d like (just not at your birthday dinner, which, yes, is still on, because I think Mum would choke if I told her in a crowded pub at someone else’s party that I’m bisexual). But yeah, Mum has an idea of where to go, I’ll reach out and make sure she’s made arrangements and will get you details soon.

Oh! I almost forgot to respond to your question about Lily and the aquarium. She loved it. So much. Stop letting your brain convince you that she doesn’t love you. She’s been walking around the house making fish faces and spouting the whale facts you shared with her. Her magic has her spontaneously casting the Bubble Head Charm during bath time, which always gets her so giggly. Thank you for taking us to the aquarium. She had a spectacular time.

Anyway, I’m sending you lots of good vibes, especially if you’re feeling feelings for someone. I’m so excited to see you on your birthday! Lily is requesting a birthday dinner with you too, since she’s not coming to the pub with us. So let me know when we can have you over.

All my love, Ginny

Chapter 23: September 15, 2005

Notes:

I almost held onto this to post later but figured I’d just go ahead and give it to you now! Have another two-chapter day, you deserve it. 😙

Draco’s working on installing the crown molding today. He can’t understand how Muggles do this—it’s a taxing project even with magic. He’s grateful to be able to use the ceiling as a jig, otherwise getting the whole thing level would be a nightmare. It’s something to keep in mind should he want to broach the idea of board-and-batten.

The project requires so much concentration that it’s not until he’s about to install the last section that he realizes he hasn’t thought about Granger since this morning, while eating breakfast with his mother. Narcissa had noticed that Draco seemed to be visiting the kitchen more in between meals, and wondered if she needed to ask the kitchen staff to set things out for him. It reminded him of Granger, because it’s really her fault that he wants to snack in the first place. So he allows himself a moment to remember the way she touched him, and then refocuses on keeping his levitation charm consistent.

When this last section is in place, he uses another charm to evenly apply pressure across the length of it to set the adhesives, then steps back. It’s incredibly satisfying to see it all up there, and to watch the final portions of the room come together. It’s this feeling of satisfaction that makes all the effort worthwhile—it’s why he loves being able to remodel the Manor. He’s improving his home and working hard and finding things to engage with. Soon he—and more importantly, his mother and any guests she brings around—will be able to reap the benefits of a lovely sitting room. He reclines on the chaise and admires the way the crown molding makes the transition from wall to ceiling look much more elegant. It still needs to be painted, which is a project for the coming week, but even now it elevates the feeling of the room. It’s true that he could have painted it before the install, but his mother wanted to be able to visualize it better to inform her choice of colors.

His focus drifts as he relaxes and Draco finds himself thinking about Granger’s hair and how much he wants to touch it. He remembers the way her braid brushed past his fingertips, savoring the memory for a moment. He recalls the tight little ringlets that often exist near her temples and imagines himself twirling one around his finger.

Then he makes himself get up and go for another run. And admittedly yes, it is to keep himself from apparating to Granger’s, but also the trees on the estate are beginning to turn and it’s lovely out. The autumnal air is refreshing, and the richness of the colors after rain is truly a sight to behold, even if it is a little soggy out here. It makes Draco glad he came home after a few years away. Sure, there are beautiful places across Europe, and the Muggle world holds many delights, but the Malfoy estate was his first home, and reclaiming it as his own through remodeling and intentional living has been meaningful, perhaps even transformative.

The reformation of the estate has had an effect on his mother as well—she seems lighter, like she can breathe a little easier. Draco’s noticed that even her wardrobe is lighter, she’s branched out into linens and cottons in rich earth tones. He wonders how much of the black in her life came from her family of origin, how much came from his father, and how much was actually true to Narcissa herself. The further removed she becomes from the war, the more she seems to be stretching her wings for the first time—building her own identity, as it were. It’s a journey they’ve both taken, and it brings Draco comfort to watch his mother grow into herself.

His shoes and hair are damp by the time he returns from his run. He uses a drying charm on his shoes, but not his hair. He wonders if his mother will comment on it over dinner. Then he wonders if they’re having guests and if he should dry his hair.

“eivie,” he calls when he gets into his room. He slips off his shoes and is rifling through papers on his desk when the elf appears. She’s looking up at him with wide and questioning eyes.

“Are we having guests to dinner tonight?” He asks, turning back to the sea of papers on the desk. Half of them are crumpled almost-notes to Granger. He’s trying to see if he still has a note that his mother wrote at the beginning of the month that contained a list of social engagements he was to attend.

“Most certainly, Master—“

Draco turns sharply to look at her, feeling panicked, “Is it—“

eivie cuts him off in response with, “No youngish maidens for the Master, eivie is promising, just lady friends of the Mistress.”

Draco blows out a relieved sigh and ceases his search. “So should I fix my hair, or should I show Mother’s lady friends that I’m not a polished suitor for their youngish maidens?”

“eivie is thinking that the Master’s hair is looking right fine, and he needn’t worry, for Mistress is having elderly lady friends,” she says in a rather quick manner, finishing with a big nod.

“Ah,” he says, nodding as well. “You may be dismissed, thank you.” She nods once more, sending her long ears flapping a bit, and disappears.

Tonight’s guests are likely from one of two camps: either esteemed witches who gained said esteem prior to the first wizarding war or, and Draco can’t decide if this is better or worse, Hogwarts professors.

He decides to leave his hair be but puts together an outfit that eivie would call ‘medium fanciness’. He’s got close-fitting trousers in a dark green and a white collared shirt that has a faint paisley pattern to it that catches the light in interesting ways. He leaves the collar unbuttoned and doesn’t bother with robes—he’s not trying to impress anyone, he’s just trying to maintain the defining aesthetic of the Malfoy name.

Draco waits until after his mother has invited her guests inside to make his way to the dining room. As he walks down the staircase, he strains to recognize any of the voices, but none of them are loud enough to be distinctive. All he can gather is that there are three women that seem honored to be here.

When he enters the dining room, it is with trepidation that he determines his estimations were incorrect—they must be from both camps, because the only woman Draco recognizes is Professor McGonagall. He decides that this is far worse. Famous witches he can chatter with and mostly ignore, but McGonagall knew him as an unruly teen, a Slytherin, and a Death Eater.

He should have fixed his hair.

Notes:

I feel like this one opens up a can of worms and I’m interested to see where it takes us!

Chapter 24: September 19, 2005

Notes:

Warning: angst ahead!
I wrote this chapter in September, hoping to share it around Hermione’s birthday, but alas, there was quite a bit of story between then and now.

Hermione awakes on her 26th birthday with a pit in her stomach. She always does on days she plans to spend on the periphery of her parents’ lives. It’s why she plans them out in advance: every third Thursday, the first Sunday of every other month, and important off-days like birthdays. She has learned to avoid them on holidays—watching their Christmases from the outside makes her too sad, but Ginny still has to physically escort her to the Weasley Christmas parties to keep her from apparating to Australia.

But today’s her birthday, and she gets to celebrate in teeny moments with her parents. She plans to bump into them a few times this morning, adding tiny bits to the rapport and friendships she’s been slowly building over the past few years. Hermione hopes that on her birthday next year, maybe she can get lunch with them.

By the time the war was over and Hermione felt safe enough to broach the subject, her obliviation work had solidified and she was entirely absent from the minds of her parents. Being a friend or a neighbor is much less meaningful than being a daughter, but it’s something, and Hermione would rather be on their periphery than nonexistent.

Her birthday plans aren’t all lousy and depressing, you know. The Weasley’s are taking her to a new pub tonight—apparently there’s a bookstore in a back room. Molly was so thrilled when she heard about it and has been talking it up for months. Hermione is looking forward to buying a new book (or four) and getting positively smashed. It’s the one day a year she allows herself to get properly drunk. Anything more frequent than that is just a waste of time and mental energy.

Hermione dresses in functional clothing—purple leggings and an oversized beige top—that feels like both Hermione and Hillary, her Muggle identity. She puts her hair up in a high ponytail (it’s rather poofy today but she likes it) and even applies a little eyeliner (a rare occurrence, but today’s her birthday, remember?). Into a cute yellow tote bag goes her current read on blood cell content, a small leather-bound notebook, and her favorite pen. The bag doesn’t have any expanding charms on it, but it does have a glamoured pocket for her wand to slip into. That is an unfortunate thing about leggings—there’s nowhere for her to hide her wand.

When she’s ready, she apparates to the front desk of what used to be a hair salon in a strip mall on the outskirts of town. She’s aware that someday, she’s going to appear here and contractors will be remodeling this building, but she’s prepared to obliviate whoever needs it.

Gods know she’s good at that one.

Before she leaves, she casts the tracking charm that displays the locations of her parents. They’re at their favorite coffee shop, as she expected. She slips her wand back into its pocket and leaves before she can launch into a debate with herself about the ethics of tracking. It caused a lot of strife in the war so she’s got a whole argument ready to go. But being able to find her parents when she visits is incredibly helpful—the first few times she came here she wandered town for hours, hoping to bump into them. Now she can plan.

Walking out the back door (it latches but isn’t ever locked), she puts on a pair of rectangular sunglasses and heads towards the coffee shop. The early spring air is nice, contrasted to the almost-autumn back home. It’s a brief walk, especially when Hermione is so purposeful in her stride. She’s not trying to be noticed but she’s not against such a thing either. She spent most of her childhood at either extreme and would rather just occupy whatever point of the spectrum of noticeability she falls at a given moment.

Arriving at the coffee shop, Hermione is happy to see the familiar figures of her parents seated at a small table on the patio. Sitting outside sounds lovely, but she can’t approach them yet. She goes inside, orders the special matcha tea she can only find here, and sits at the bar-height counter in front of the window. Her parents—no, wait, while she’s here they are Monica and Wendell, people she sees around town and wants to get to know better—look happy and calm today. Maybe they sense that today marks something important, or even that it’s somebody’s birthday, they just can’t remember whose. Or maybe they aren’t aware of it at all.

Hermione brainstorms ways to tell them that it’s her birthday, then debates whether it’s worth telling them at all. By the time her drink arrives, she’s decided that telling them is better than not and is narrowing down her list of approaches. This makes it difficult for her to enjoy her drink—she’s on edge more than she typically is when visiting.

She realizes she’s been putting it off too long when Monica is gathering their rubbish. She stands, chugs the last few sips of her matcha, and walks out the door. She times her departure perfectly—Monica comes shoulder to shoulder with her while walking to the exit, Wendell just a few steps behind. Hermione pauses at the patio gate and gestures them forward with a nod and a smile, but cocks her head before they pass her.

“Oh, hello!” Hermione says cheerfully, which makes Wendell look up. “It’s good to see you!”

Wendell smiles broadly and slows in his pace, holding a hand out to Hermione. She takes it and walks with him as she shakes his hand.

“Hi, dear,” Monica says kindly, leaning around Wendell to pat Hermione’s arm. “It’s been a while since we’ve bumped into each other.” She’s right, Hermione had skipped her most recent visit as she felt it was too close to this one, and she skipped the one before that because thinking about it made her sad.

“I was just wondering when I’d see you again,” Hermione tells them, “I can’t believe it happened at this coffee shop, do you come here often?” They’re walking still, Monica and Wendell are likely headed home and Hermione seems to also have a destination in this direction.

Wendell chuckles, “Only once or twice a week—it’s our favorite place to get coffee.” His voice is happy, vibrant.

Monica adds, “We love sitting on the patio anytime the weather’s good.”

Hermione smiles at them. She already knows everything they’re telling her. It is kind of sad, to pretend to be unknowing, but it does make her happy to hear the excited way they say it. It reassures her—to know their lives are bright and meaningful even after she took everything away from them.

“What are your names again?” Hermione asks, “I feel like you’ve told me before but now I can’t recall.”

“I’m Monica, and this is my husband Wendell. Are you also a Brit? Your accent sounds like ours.”

“I am!” Hermione doesn’t have to pretend to be thrilled at the way she noticed the similarity. “What brought you to Australia?” It’s the first time she’s asked—this is the longest conversation they’ve had since before the war.

“Work, but only sort of.” Monica says.

“I’m in dentistry,” Wendell interjects.

“And I was, but my second career is in wildlife sciences—I wanted to study birds in the outback, so we came here.” Monica sounds thrilled, but it leaves Hermione’s gears turning. This was not part of the (albeit loose) script that she gave them. It does make Monica’s frequent visits to the nearby bird sanctuary much more sensible. Hermione is thinking (mourning?) about how little she knows these people now when Monica speaks again.

“I actually just finished my second degree—I took online classes and now I’m qualified to lead research trips for local students.” She looks proud, and she should be. She’s doing what she always told Hermione to do: get as educated as you possibly can in the things you care about. It’s one of the reasons why Hermione’s so motivated to get a Muggle medical degree even though she’s plenty competent in healing.

Hermione smiles at Monica and tells her, “That’s incredible! I think education is so important.”

“Are you in university? You seem about the right age,” Wendell says.

“I am, yes! I’m in residency to get my doctorate.” Then she adds, “The commute is hell though, I haven’t been able to find housing near my placement hospital.”

There’s a collective nod and sigh over the dredges of commuting. For several years of her childhood, Hermione’s father commuted a fair distance. Wendell likely remembers this, but it has no connection in his mind to the formative years in the life of a child.

“Well, dear—Hillary, was it?” Monica asks after a moment, slowing to a stop. They’ve been walking in the same general direction through the whole conversation, but Hermione knows this is the intersection where Wendell and Monica turn towards home. She guessed that was their next destination, but these people live their own lives and it’s possible they had other plans this morning.

Hermione nods, beaming. She’s stopped as well, but angles her body to make it look like her destination still lies ahead.

“Hillary, it was lovely to chat with you.” Monica sounds so genuine. Tears prick Hermione’s eyes as she continues, “We’re off to have a magical Monday, and I hope you are as well.”

Hermione places a hand over her heart and says, “That’s so sweet, I wish you all the best.” And she lets herself watch her parents walk away for ten seconds before setting off at a faster pace. She’s openly weeping by the time she’s able to duck behind a building and apparate home.

Chapter 25: September 19, 2005

It takes a while for Hermione to feel regulated again. She eats a few bowls of cold cereal and then a few toaster pastries with some tea. She cries while eating those because she finally realizes that she got caught up in their conversation and forgot to tell her parents it was her birthday. Then she curls up on the sofa for a while, rereading Ginny’s most recent letter.

Ginny’s found a partner. The truth of it adds a twinge of loneliness to the happiness she feels. Of course she’s ready to celebrate for her best friend, but it brings her own lack into sharper relief. She tucks those feelings away into a little box and focuses on Ginny’s news.

Hermione never expected Ginny to date women, least of all Luna Lovegood. They disagreed so much in school, in Dumbledore’s Army, in the Order. But, she reasons, Malfoy has been able to get along with her, and she doesn’t hate him, so the years after the war have probably changed Luna too. Hermione chuckles at the thought of Luna existing in a Muggle commune—hippie lesbians likely didn’t bat an eye at how integral magic is to Luna’s interactions with the world. It probably made her quirky and interesting.

She wonders how Ginny reconnected with Luna and what she loves about her and how she plans to tell Lily. All in all, she is very much looking forward to talking about this more with Ginny in person.

Once Hermione feels up to it, she spends the afternoon working on her birthday present to herself—compiling files and data to send to her 3D printing contact. It’s a new Muggle wonder and she’s curious about having manipulable elements that are more tangible than magical diagrams. So she’s having enlarged versions of various blood-borne cells 3D printed and posted to her. Hermione has seventy-eight percent confidence in the result being what she’s looking for, but it’s enough that she’s willing to engage the means to obtain the end.

It’s half the reason she wanted a blood sample from Malfoy—to log the contents of his blood and have those cells printed at a much larger scale. The book she’s reading right now is helpful but having an actual sample to examine was a game-changer. She’ll have to thank Malfoy again the next time she sees him, a thought that makes her acknowledge the fact that she would like to see him again.

The data compilation project is a good distraction, and she realizes almost too late that her dinner appointment is very soon. She quickly washes up and throws on a cute dress that makes her look taller and thus makes her feel hotter. Hermione isn’t wearing it to impress anyone—Ron is one-hundred percent off the books and it’s not like anyone else that matters is going to be there. Her ponytail is only getting poofier, which adds to the tall-equals-hot equation. Hermione even puts on some lip gloss that Lavender Brown gave her when they roomed together in the last few months of the war. Ron wasn’t pleased that his exes were friends, but Lavender was a much-needed ally and Hermione’s grateful for the small reminders she has of her.

She gives Crookshanks some obligatory scritches and sets out his dinner before grabbing her yellow tote bag and apparating to the pub.

Dinner with the Weasleys is lovely, really. She laughs more than she has in a while and certainly drinks more than she has in a while. She buys 3 new books and Molly buys her two more. The food is good, the drinks are better, and the bookstore in the back is absolutely worth returning to. She tries lots of new cocktails but has no idea what they are. It’s fun to be regaled by Ron of his recent auror assignments, including one that involved some magical beasts and lots of boasting on Ron’s part. Hermione briefly wonders if this was the same assignment that injured Malfoy so badly, as he still hasn’t told her the details of that assignment, but Ron doesn’t mention his involvement and she doesn’t want to ask. She listens to Ginny talk excitedly about Lily’s nature school program and provides what input she can. She chuckles when Fred and Molly debate George’s alcohol preferences (Molly is convinced that her son did not partake in such things before his death but Fred has contradictory evidence).

But dinner with the Weasleys also leaves her feeling a little empty. Maybe that’s why she lets herself drink so much and buy so many books. She’s so deeply grateful for the Weasley family and the way they’ve welcomed her. She loves them very much but, even now, sometimes it’s hard to be herself with them.

Hermione apparates home a little after eleven. Being with Ginny especially makes her feel less lonely, but she can’t help wishing she had more friends. So she drops the yellow tote bag now heavy with books (she can’t really remember what she bought but figures it’ll be another gift to open tomorrow) and changes into leggings and a green sweater that Molly gifted her last Christmas (the one with a purple ‘H’ on the front). She’s not totally steady on her feet, but she gets changed without falling over and thus feels pretty damn invincible. Then, likely bolstered by the sheer amount of alcohol in her system, she leaves home to make a new friend.

Chapter 26: September 19, 2005

Notes:

This is one of my favorite chapters so far!

Draco is painting the crown molding in the new sitting room when the estate wards alarm him to an apparition arrival at the main gate. He carefully sets his brush on the palette (his mother asked for a gradient and he’s fucked if the colors mix at this point). Drawing his wand and a knife, he casts a stasis charm on the molding and the palette and apparates twenty paces behind the gate. His eyes are still adjusting to the darkness, but there’s no immediate movement, so he watches for 30 seconds. Then he speaks.

“Reveal yourself!” His voice is harsher than it’s been in a while. Even the most dangerous auror jobs haven’t drawn this out of him. No one has any good reason to visit the Malfoy estate at what must be nearly midnight. He’s on edge.

And then there’s the sound of retching. Which is more confusing than anything else. His eyes pick up the outline of a figure doubled over in the bushes to the left of the gate. With a wand flick, the gates swing open soundlessly. Draco steps cautiously through the opening.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” His voice is hard—he sounds like a version of himself he’s worked hard to move on from.

“Well, right now I’m losing the onion rings Molly got,” is followed by a small burp.

“Granger?” Draco is so surprised to hear her voice in the darkness that he loses his stance. And not in a convenient way either—his knee gives out and makes him stumble.

“Lumos Adsui,” says Granger’s voice, and then it’s accompanied by Granger’s face as a thread of light wobbles around to illuminate the space between them. Granger looks drowsy and unsteady, but her grin is huge.

“Malfoy, would you like to be my friend? I need more friends. I think I’d like to be your friend.” There’s at least 40 seconds of silence, and then Granger… giggles?

“Granger, are you drunk?”

“No,” she scoffs, which obviously means yes. But then she says, “I’m positively hammered and I lost my birthday dinner in your pretty bushes and to be quite frank I have twenty-eight percent confidence in my ability to apparate home safely—I have no idea how I got here in one piece but somehow I did and I came cuz I was lonely even after the pub with the Weasley’s and I wanted a friend and you’re the only other person I’ve really talked to in the last too-long and now I’m talking far too long—“ She stumbles and whirls her arms for a moment, which send the threads of light wobbling again.

“You want to be friends?” He asks, trying to keep the hope at bay. Friends see each other more than whatever they’ve been for the last month. But she’s drunk out of her mind, and he’s never seen her like this, and it’s harder to believe her. He doesn’t want to hope.

“Yeah, I want to be friends, if I didn’t want to be friends I wouldn’t have shown up here and vomited in your bushes.” Granger looks at him, eyes bright, cheeks ruddy, and a hint of a frown on her lips.

“I’d like to be your friend,” Draco says after a moment. “I also need more friends.”

Her lips part in a grin, and she giggles again. Then she grows somber, and Draco worries that she’s about to say she never wanted friends in the first place.

“I’m sorry I retched in your bushes,” is what she says instead, “Not very friend-like of me.”

Draco can’t help but laugh, the sound ringing against the gates. “Nor was it very friend-like of me to not invite you inside. Come and drink some water—you’re too far gone to apparate again, I’m surprised you made it here in one piece. Besides, the Manor elves are likely concerned that the wards went off and I haven’t yet alerted them to the cause.” He turns and gestures up the drive, waiting for her to move first. He’s worried that she won’t be able to make the walk.

She dismisses her light threads and steps up next to him, shaky but not as though she’s about to fall over. They walk slowly, side by side, in silence until the base of the stairway. The lamps illuminate them better, and Draco notices that she’s in leggings and a green sweater. Granger glances at him, then stumbles to a stop and puts a hand on his arm for half a second.

Draco stops and looks at her, simultaneously worried again that she’s going to fall and wishing that he could feel her hand on his skin instead of just through this old flannel.

“You wear Muggle clothes? You’ve never worn clothes like this in front of me.” Her eyes are wide but a little unfocused, like she’s trying to absorb as much information as her addled brain can get.

Draco almost reminds her about the hospital gown but decides against it and looks down at himself, to see what she’s seeing. He’s in his painting clothes, the faded jeans dotted with paint smears, though he’s pretty sure Hermione isn’t noticing those.

“I actually wear Muggle clothes most of the time. These ones are particularly unrefined because I was in the middle of some remodels when you triggered my wards and vomited on my mother’s hydrangeas.” Draco begins to lead her up the stairs, taking it more slowly than before.

Granger apologizes under her breath and stumbles into his side. He places a steadying hand on her shoulder then releases it when she’s got her footing again, as much as he wants to keep it there. Maybe if Molly Weasley were that maternal she wouldn’t have let Granger drink so much. She’s normally so steady and controlled.

“If you wear normal clothes most times why did you wear robes when I was healing you and dressy clothes every other time you came over?” The slurred question is rounded off by a couple hiccups.

“At first, I came to your home from an auror surveillance assignment and didn’t see the point in changing. Other times, I felt weird showing up in these ratty clothes, so I’d change before I left the Manor.”

“That woulda been fine, remember my shorts? Very unprofessional.”

Draco does remember the shorts. They’re nice, but the leggings she’s wearing now are more fitting of the weather. It’s certainly chilly out here in the middle of the night. He watches as she slowly ascends the stairs at his side.

“Besides,” she continues, “normal clothes feel more like the Malfoy you are now. Black robes are fitting of aurors but remind me of school.”

Draco tries not to think about the way he treated her in school, and instead hopes that he didn’t cause her harm in wearing robes to those first meetings.

They’ve finally made it to the top of the stairway. Granger is winded but still holding her own. Even self-poisoned, she’s got grit and determination, which is admirable and, admittedly, attractive. Draco looks away from her and flicks his wand to open the double doors.

“eivie,” he calls as he steps over the threshold, “bring Granger some water and a cup of chamomile tea.”

eivie appears, nods, and disappears. Draco watches as Granger sways and looks drawn, her lips pursing into a line. Now that she’s properly illuminated, her skin has a green cast.

“Maybe I—maybe I shouldn’t have drunk so much.”

“We’ll have to charge Molly Weasley with neglect,” he tells her as he sets a hand on her shoulder and steers her into the sitting room. Touching her on purpose is really nice, and her hair is right there, tempting him.

Trying to stay focused, he carefully lowers her increasingly-limp body to the chaise. eivie appears and holds a glass of water to Granger’s lips as soon as she’s settled.

Draco kneels next to eivie and says, “Granger, look at me.” He waits until her droopy eyes meet his, then continues, “You need to drink two glasses of water and then the cup of tea. Once you do, we can get you settled in a bedroom upstairs. You cannot fall asleep until you’ve balanced the alcohol with liquid that’s good for you.” Her eyelids are drooping again, so he taps her shoulder and eivie holds the glass against her lips. Draco waits until she’s taken a drink to speak again.

“I’ll be here, painting the crown molding, but eivie will help you hydrate. You’ll have to—Granger, look at me—you have to drink slowly else you’ll vomit again. If eivie tells me you’re falling asleep before you’ve finished, I will come over here and make you lecture me on something dumb and obscure.”

That makes Granger giggle again, which makes eivie smile, which makes Granger obediently take another sip of water. Draco approaches the step ladder, removing the stasis charms before picking up his brush.

“Evie is a pretty name,” Granger says as Draco steps up the ladder and examines where he left off.

“You’s sayin it wrong, Miss, but eivie thanks you.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I thought I said it the same.”

Draco looks over his shoulder to find a flustered and apologetic Granger, eyes wide as she takes another sip of water. He’s can’t help but smile and explain so she doesn’t have to feel bad.

“eivie has been with my mother since she was a child. My mother wanted to name her something unique, and so insisted on the lowercase initial. It’s also a palindrome, so eivie insists on the mirrored sounds. She can tell when people don’t match the sound or emphasis across both sides of her name and is quick to correct them.”

Granger is looking at him in a curious way. eivie nudges the cup—half empty by now—against her cheek. Granger startles and takes another sip with a bashful look.

“eivie isn’t meaning to be rude, but eivie is knowing what eivie is wanting.”

Draco watches Granger smile, then remembers he’s supposed to be painting the crown molding. He turns back to the wall and lifts his paintbrush. He’s about to make the next stroke when Granger speaks up again.

“I really admire you for that, eivie. Did I say it right?” There’s a pause and Draco’s sure that eivie is giving Granger one of her smiling nods. Granger’s voice is sounding clearer, like she’s more awake. He wonders how frequently she drinks, then decides it can’t be that common of an occurrence—she’d be better at being drunk if it were. He wonders what makes today the day for drinking and remembers what she said earlier. Is today her birthday? She must have been incredibly lonely to come to the Manor on her birthday. Maybe she’s someone who gets sad when she’s drunk. Draco rescinds that thought based on the past twenty minutes and determines that she’s more of a happy-drunk, in a friendly, talk-too-much kind of way.

When Granger says, “One glass of water down,” in a sing-song voice, Draco realizes he has made absolutely no progress on the crown molding. He’s either been watching her or staring at the wall thinking about her. So he sighs, replaces the stasis charms and steps off the ladder. Then he sits on the floor next to Granger’s chaise. A cup of tea is immediately put in his hands, and with a twirl of a long finger eivie instructs him to stir in the sugar. He does so, grateful for something to do with his hands. Not finishing the crown molding tonight has him feeling antsy, but it’s not like he’d be able to focus long enough to actually finish it when Granger is on a chaise in his almost-complete sitting room, wearing leggings that are nice enough to make him suddenly very focused on ensuring that all the sugar has dissolved in her tea.

“The Miss can’t be sleeping yet,” eivie says, voice gentle but tone direct.

Granger mutters some apologies, blinks a few times, and sips some more water.

“Is today your birthday?” Draco asks once her mouth is clear. It’s his job to keep her talking now. The previous conversation was Granger-led, and eivie knows it’s not her responsibility to keep the girl awake. She’s just here to help her rehydrate.

Granger smiles wide and exclaims, “I’m twenty-six today!” Then she hiccups.

“You mentioned dinner with the Weasley’s, what else did you do for your birthday?”

Draco expected her to chatter on about this topic in a manner just as bubbly as the rest of her conversations have been. But she doesn’t. She just looks a little sad.

“I visited my parents this morning,” she says, then takes another sip of water. “It was happy-sad, the way it always is.” She’s regulated enough that eivie is letting her hold the glass while she drinks, but not in between sips.

“Are they ill?” Draco asks. Maybe that’s why she’s so motivated to get her research right.

“No, they—“ a hiccup “—they don’t remember me.”

“Oh.” Is all Draco can say for a moment. Then he asks, “Did you… obliviate them? During the war?”

She draws in a deep breath and nods, looking like she’s trying not to cry. The glass is pushed into her hand and she seems grateful to take another sip. Draco can tell she probably needs to discuss this further, but figures she should be sober before he pries more. So he asks about the gap in her schedule.

“If you were busy this morning and had dinner plans, what did you spend the afternoon doing?”

Granger immediately brightens. She’s very emotive when drunk—her face has not been this expressive in the time they’ve spent together over the last month.

“Okay okay okay,” she says in a rush. She opens her mouth to speak again and eivie insistently presses the glass into her hand. Granger’s cheeks flush and she takes a quick sip before starting again, “This year the Muggles developed a new technology that allows them to print things—“ she breaks off and squints at him. “Do you know what a printer is?” He nods so she barrels on, “They’ve invented 3D printing. I’m not really sure of how it works cuz I’m not willing to pay thousands of pounds for my own printer buuuut I found someone willing to print some models for me so I was compiling data and instructions for them.”

eivie interrupts her with another sip of water—she’s only got a few left.

Granger barely lets herself swallow before she’s speaking again, “I’m making models of various cells that would be found in bloodstreams so I can manipulate them tangibly as I perfect my platelet spell.”

“Your platelet spell?” This is the first he’s hearing of such a thing. Draco didn’t realize she was interested in spell development. Wait, didn’t she use a weird Lumos earlier? And didn’t she have a special spell for the water she used while healing him?

Granger nods and knocks back the rest of the water, causing eivie to click her tongue in the reprimanding way that Draco is all too familiar with. eivie takes the teacup from Draco and passes it to Hermione, who holds it steady as she speaks.

“I did lots of research to determine which cells are targeted by blood-replenishing potions, and platelets aren’t one. They’re a marker of general good health but can mean the difference between life and death when injured or in surgery. Low platelets are especially linked to hemorrhaging and blood clots. Anyway, rather than developing a new potion for platelets, I’m working on a spell to increase or at least stabilize platelet counts. I’ve been working on it for a couple years and feel that I’m closer but I’m still missing a component. I think having tangible manipulables will help.” She says all of this far too fast, then eivie taps the rim of the teacup and Granger lifts it to her lips. Her movements seem much steadier now—she’s stabilized significantly. After taking a drink, she’s back at it.

“It’s why I needed your help, I was monitoring your blood flow over time to get a sense for what I’m overlooking. Unfortunately—well, fortunate for you but unfortunate for my research—you’re in good health and thus have good platelet levels, so you’re not the perfect candidate but being able to monitor someone else’s blood flow was really helpful, and the blood sample was even better.” Granger takes a drink, longer this time. Draco reaches out and gently pulls the cup away from her mouth. She releases it into his grasp.

“Slow down, Granger, or you’ll make yourself sick.”

“Sorry this is just—really good tea.” She’s sounding sleepy again, which is perfect. eivie’s chamomile tea is very lightly laced with Draught of Dreamless Sleep. It’s likely that Granger won’t finish it before she falls asleep—there were plenty of nights Draco couldn’t finish his tea when eivie helped him through this same process.

“eivie makes lovely tea.” Draco tells Granger’s drooping lids.

“Oh, thankyou, eivie, it’s very wonderffff—“ she breaks off and yawns.

“Would the Miss be liking one more sip?” eivie pats Draco’s hand when Granger nods and he passes the teacup back. Her hold on it is precarious so he keeps his palms hovering over her knuckles.

Granger’s eyes are closed by the time she swallows. Draco smoothly takes the teacup from her hands before she drops it.

“Now you can sleep, Granger,” Draco says softly as her chin dips. He levitates her body as her head lolls and gets to his feet.

“The Miss can be sleeping in the third guest room,” eivie tells him. He gives her a grateful smile and leads Granger’s floating and sleepy body up the stairs.

Granger mumbles as they go, and Draco thinks he catches something about the absurd number of guests rooms he has. Which is a wholly valid point—there are five all in a row on the second floor of this wing. It frequently feels odd to have so much empty space. Even the occasional hotel suite had felt like too much space when he was away.

The door to the third guest room swings open at his approach. Granger is still mumbling incoherently as she’s levitated into the room. Draco sets her carefully on the bed—the covers of which have already been refreshed and pulled back, awaiting their occupant. With a wand flick, her shoes come off and the covers settle over her body. She nestles in like a cat and is likely already asleep. Draco debates speaking again, standing at her bedside for a moment before turning towards the door. He pauses in the doorway without really meaning to. Looking back at her in the low light, he can make out the poof of her ponytail.

“Happy birthday, Granger,” he tells her sleeping figure.

Chapter 27: September 19, 2005

It takes a lot of effort to close the door and walk away. Draco’s had a few girls stay overnight at the Manor, but they’ve all slept in his bed, not in his third guest room. There’s a small part of him that wishes to climb in that bed and just be near her. There’s another small part that worries she’s going to somehow die overnight, but he reassures himself that Granger has survived many a night sleeping alone. While her surroundings may be different, she should be entirely safe.

Should be.

Draco pauses in the silent hallway.

‘Should be’ is no guarantee.

He stalks back to her door and casts a few simple wards. One is for sound detection and the other is for motion. The third is a monitoring ward that will alert him to any changes in Granger’s general wellbeing. With a long exhale, that small part of him filled with worry is put to rest now, but being at her door again makes walking away for the second time much harder. He apparates into his room to keep himself from opening the door.

He lays on his bed, face down and fully clothed. It’s been an odd week. If he told his sixteen-year-old self that the Manor was politely visited by Professor McGonagall and Hermione Granger in the same week, that foolish young boy would have laughed in his face. And it would be worse if he told that version of himself that not only has Granger visited his home, but she’s sleeping under the same roof tonight, and Draco would really really like to be with her right now.

He wants to respect her privacy and her need for rest, and he especially wants to respect the fact that she’s unable to provide informed consent to his presence at the current moment. But he also wants to take her hair down and run his fingers through it and braid it for her if she wants.

Hold on.

He’s never wanted to do that for any other girl he’s slept with, dated, or even expressed interest in. Their hair was always just pretty and plain, but Hermione’s hair demands his attention, and he’s desperate to give into its temptations.

Does that mean that he’s interested in her?

He rolls over and stares at the ceiling, feeling dull for even asking that question.

He wants to feel her hair in his hands and feel her hands on his skin and he wants to listen to her talk. He wants to look at her legs and be in her home and watch her eat snacks. He wants to pet her silly cat and go on walks with her and tell her about his remodeling projects.

Of course he’s interested in her.

Draco is suddenly and intensely grateful that she apparated to him and asked to be his friend. Being Hermione Granger’s friend sounds incredibly lovely and is exactly what he wants right now. While it may not be everything he wants, being able to see her whenever he’d like sounds like a dream.

It feels relieving to acknowledge his feelings in this way. He’s able to undress and lay in bed again with the intention of actually sleeping.

That small part of him worried for Granger’s safety speaks up again as he’s trying to fall asleep, but the fact that his wards have been silent is reassuring. His sleepy brain reminds him of something Professor McGonagall told him the other night—that the Manor feels much lighter in its magic. That’s also reassuring. His home isn’t going to kill the girl in the guest room, a girl full of light.

Draco’s journey to sleep is smooth and, interestingly, faster than normal.

He dreams of braiding Hermione’s hair.

Chapter 28: September 20, 2005

Hermione wakes up slowly with a positively awful headache. The first thing she becomes aware of is the bed underneath her—warm and comfortable and… old-feeling, as though it has become unfamiliar with occupants. It takes her an extra moment to determine that this is not her bed—Crookshanks isn’t weighing down the blanket over her feet and the pillowcase is cotton, not satin. She lifts a slow hand to her head and realizes that her hair isn’t in a bonnet, so her bedtime routine was certainly interrupted.

She opens her eyes, just a tiny bit, because the light is brighter than her headache can tolerate. The room is a little blurry, but the walls seem to be dark green, and there seems to be a big dresser across the—

She’s in Maloy Manor.

Alone in Malfoy Manor.

Trapped in—

Regardless of how her head feels, Hermione pushes herself into a sitting position and backs against the headboard, eyes wide.

Her breathing is too fast, her heartbeat is everywhere.

She pushes up her right sleeve and rubs at the stinging skin of her forearm.

She tries to take a deep breath but it catches.

The letters are faint, just the way they should be, but—

The door swings open so quickly that she can’t draw a breath to scream, it all just wheezes out of her.

Chapter 29: September 20, 2005

Notes:

Finally got through finals so here’s a follow up to the cliffhanger I left you on ten days ago!

It’s been a long time since Draco was awoken by alerts from his wards. It must be early morning, by the looks of the light filtering through the curtains. He’s groggy and slow until a barrage of alerts flood his mind, one after another. Hermione—

He’s outside the door, swinging it open.

Two long strides and he’s at the foot of the bed.

She’s gasping, scrambling against the headboard and straining away from him. Her head is down, arm extended, sweater sleeve pushed up to her elbow. Whatever caused her panic, she’s seems far from bringing herself back to a regulated state.

“Granger, look at me.” He tries to speak the way she spoke to him when he had a panic attack, gently but firmly.

She’s shaking now, bowing her head further and averting her gaze. He grimaces and plants his feet, worried that he won’t be able to approach her until she calms down at least a little. She looks terrified of him, and that claws at his heart.

“Hermione, please.” Softer now. “I’m here to help, not to hurt you.” She takes a breath that’s a little deeper than her gasps. Her arm is still extended, palm facing him like she’s bracing for an attack.

Draco hesitates for a moment, then says, “I won’t take anything from you—I don’t—the only thing I want is for you to breathe more deeply. Please, Hermione.”

He watches as her head lifts cautiously and her wild eyes meet his. He gives her a small smile.

There’s another stutter in her gasping, and her head lifts further. She blinks a few times.

“Can I sit next to you?” He speaks like he’s talking to a hippogriff and she’s about to take off.

Her arm slowly drops to her side as she gives a tiny nod. He can still see her shaking, and her breathing is a little steadier now, but she’s not getting nearly enough oxygen yet.
He settles on the bed and reaches for her hand. She lets him take it, and then she’s clutching at him.

“Take a deep breath, Hermione, be here with me.”

The breath she takes is shaky but the deepest she’s gotten since he came in.

“Take another one, I’m here with you.”

She’s meeting his eyes and while hers are still wide and wild, she’s becoming more steady. Her hands aren’t shaking as much. The next deep breath comes without prompting.

“You’re safe, Hermione.” He remembers that she’s hungover, and might not recall how she got here. “You came to the Manor last night and I helped you drink some water before letting you sleep here. You told me about your birthday and said that you wanted to be my friend.”

“I threw up… in your bushes,” she whispers shakily, nodding.

Draco chuckles. “Of course that’s what you remember, but it’s really a non-issue, I assure you.”

He looks at her for a moment. She’s only looking at him, but she’s not quite meeting his eyes anymore. Her shoulders are curled in and her knees are drawn up, like she’s trying to shrink.

A memory, from near the beginning of the war, resurfaces for the first time in years. A younger Granger, drawn and dirty, locked in the basement, laid out on the floorboards, screaming and shaking, and Aunt Bella—fuck. He brought her up here and closed the door and left her alone, of course she scrambled away from him.

He’d been wrong—his home did try to kill her.

“I’m so sorry, Granger,” he whispers. He drops his gaze to her arm, sweater sleeve still pushed up to her elbow. The letters are just barely legible, it makes sense that he’s never noticed them before.

Mudblood.

Granger was tortured in this house, and he left her alone in this room, knowing she’d wake up hungover.

“I had forgotten—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you alone.” He meets her eyes again and reaches his free hand to her arm, moving slowly so she can react if she’s uncomfortable. He sets his hand on the side of her forearm, then brushes his thumb lightly across the text.

She purses her lips and tightens her grip on his hand. She takes another deep breath.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

There’s a tiny movement in her shoulders, then she speaks, her voice still quiet and small, “My head hurts like hell. It all came back to me really quickly when I woke up. I guess I… forgot that coming to see you meant… coming here.”

He glances around at the dark walls. “I haven’t remodeled this room yet, so it’s still distinctly Malfoy Manor. I’m truly sorry, Granger,” He adds, meeting her gaze again.

She nods, and her voice is stronger when she says, “Thank you. For getting here so quickly, for… being you, and reminding me of that.”

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

Her face scrunches in a gesture he’s never seen her do before.

“Sorta?” She says after a moment. “I don’t think I’m ready to talk about—“ She waves her hand about in a gesture at the room.

“That’s understandable. What do you want to tell me?” He moves off the bed and summons a padded stool so he can still sit next to her. Then he summons a pain relief potion and hands it off. Granger downs it eagerly—he probably should have done that earlier.

“Thank you, that helps a lot.” She hands the bottle back to him, which he vanishes back to his desk.

“Do you want to tell me anything?” Draco asks. “You don’t have to.”

There’s a beat before she says, “Every healer I saw told me that the letters would never heal, that it was a cursed wound, practically hopeless. That’s when I started pursuing healing, when I left Harry and Ron to fulfill their roles in the war. I did so much research and spent so much time trying to heal myself. Ron always told me I was selfish—wasting my time on my own problems when so many people needed our help. That is, until members of the Order started coming home with cursed wounds far worse than mine and I was the only one capable of healing them enough to keep them alive. Then my research was lauded and the time I had spent was finally seen as worthwhile.” She trails off and glances at the window, heavy curtain pulled to the side. The morning light is streaming in, and it’s nice, even in this dark place.

“It took a few years, and some more research, but the wounds eventually closed and the scars faded to this.” Granger holds her arm out towards him and he reads the word carved there in faint white lines.

“It’s something I’ll always carry but it’s not a bother—at least it wasn’t ‘til I woke up here.” She trails off again, looking away from him and pursing her lips. Draco assumes that she’s gotten to the bit she doesn’t want to talk about, so he offers an alternative.

“Would the renowned healer Hermione Granger like some breakfast?”

She immediately perks up and gives him a full smile for the first time this morning.

Chapter 30: September 20, 2005

Notes:

Some fluff for you after the angst!

Apparently breakfast isn’t a formal matter in the Malfoy household. After Hermione agreed to it, she worried that she’d be sitting across a dining table from Narcissa Malfoy, trying to eat the last of her hangover away while her appearance is in a very questionable state. But Malfoy just apparates her to the kitchens and introduces her to the rest of the Manor elves. They’re all incredibly happy, and she can’t blame them—the walls are a lovely baby blue and there are cute line drawings of food everywhere that there isn’t some kitchen tool or appliance taking up wall space. It’s a well lit, spacious room and feels comfortable and bright.

eivie is there, and she gives Hermione a wide smile when she appears at Malfoy’s side. She almost immediately takes Hermione’s hand and leads her to a chair. Once seated, a small pastry is placed in her hands by a wiry elf with ears that seem far too large. Malfoy introduces it as Mouse, who quickly scurries back to a stove. An elf with big purple eyes (her name is Chixie) makes a cup of tea on a saucer hover near Hermione’s knee. Two elves named Pebble and Milphie don’t approach her, they just wave from their spots at a countertop, smiling as they stir something in large bowls.

Hermione watches Malfoy as she eats her pastry and sips at her tea.

The elves love him. They smile and hop around his legs and tell him about the dreams they had during their naps. They hand him things and send food flying at him and laugh when he catches it. He eats two pastries in quick succession and jokes about being full. He listens to their stories and casts silly charms on the food they’re making and teases them about throwing food at him.

It’s nothing like what she imagined the experience of house-elves in Malfoy Manor to be. And, she realizes, it’s probably nothing like what it used to be. Malfoy must have remodeled the kitchens into this lovely, comfy space. He must have worked hard to build these relationships with the elves, must have tried to convince them that he had no desire to hurt or hold power over them. Hermione remembers Dobby for a moment, remembers the self-harm forced upon him, the fear of the Malfoys that filled him. He would have been thrilled to see his fellow elves living and working so joyously in this place that hurt him.

She can’t help but smile. These are the happiest house-elves she’s ever met. Fourth-year Hermione would be shocked that she met them in Malfoy Manor.

Chapter 31: September 20, 2005

Draco watches Mouse take another muffin to Granger, who smiles wider and thanks him. He bows his head, making his ears flap, and scurries off again. He’s always been more fidgety than the other elves. Not anxious or scared anymore, just squirrelly.

Granger watches him go, and then her gaze flits up to meet Draco’s. Her eyes are soft and smiling. She turns away after a moment, watching the elves prepare his mother’s habitual breakfast. It’s nice, seeing her in the kitchens, away from the dark guest room. It’s a space more fitting of someone like her, someone bright and—and lovely. He didn’t necessarily bring her here to show her the kitchen remodel or that his treatment of house-elves has changed, but he’s glad to be able to introduce her to the people he talks to more frequently than almost anyone else, certainly anyone at work. His mother is a close second on the time-spent-talking-to list, likely followed by Granger herself at this point.

When Granger fidgets with her sweater, he realizes that she’s wearing the clothes she wore last night. If he had been out drinking and had slept in his outfit, he’d be desperate for a shower by now.

“Are you ready to go home?” He asks, stepping towards her.

She turns to him and nods before levitating her teacup and saucer towards the sink. She makes them spin and clink against each other gently, and it makes Pebble and Milphie giggle. Draco hopes he can bring her back here—he’s sure the elves will appreciate her way of using magic.

Granger stands and smooths her sweater as she turns to face him. Then she holds a hand to her head and grimaces slightly.

“Um,” she says, “I—“

“I’ve been planning to apparate you home, Granger. You’ve had quite the day and it’s not yet ten o’clock.” He extends an elbow to her.

She loops her arm through his and, like earlier this morning, clutches to him after a moment.

He gives her a second to settle, then apparates to her front porch.

She’s a little shaky as she unlocks and opens the door, but seems steadier by the time she looks over her shoulder and invites him inside.

Draco was not expecting an invitation but will very gladly accept one. He steps over the threshold as a pile of orange flies into Granger’s arms, which she catches with an oof and a chuckle, but the force knocks her back against Draco’s chest. His hands come up to steady her and he gets a face full of hair that smells of the Manor’s laundry and something indiscernible. It’s incredibly pleasant for the split second before she moves away from him. He has to clench his fists to keep himself from pulling Hermione back and determining what else her hair smells like.

“Hi, Crooks!” She says, moving towards an armchair, “I know, I know, I didn’t come home last night but Malfoy took care of me and helped me not feel so sick after drinking too much.” She plops down and gestures Draco inside while she chatters happily to the cat in her lap.

Draco closes the door behind him and can’t help the smile that lights his face as he steps into the living room. It’s nice to be back. The space is pretty much the same as ever, though the carpet is a little more cluttered and a few things catch his eye. The basket full of envelopes has overflown and it makes Draco wonder who Granger writes so frequently. Didn’t she say she was closest with Ginny? Maybe they have a steady letter-writing habit. He remembers the way Granger had a crow deliver notes to him and is once again dumbfounded as to how she managed that.

A yellow bag stuffed with books was haphazardly dropped in the middle of the room; next to it is a pile of blue fabric that Draco has to quickly look away from because seeing her clothes on the floor is not something he was mentally prepared for and it’s bringing up all sorts of feelings he can’t act on right now.

“Er, did you want me to stay, or anything?” His voice seems off and he hopes she doesn’t notice.

She stops chatting for a moment, and when she speaks again her voice is different from the higher, faster voice she talked to the cat with. “You can if you’d like, I’m likely going to take a shower and get cleaned up. Sometimes Crooks gets real clingy after I’m away for a night so it might be helpful if you kept him entertained so I don’t have a sopping cat to deal with after my shower.”

Draco goes to put his hands in his pockets and realizes he’s wearing the one pair of joggers that doesn’t have any. So he shrugs. The moment feels awkward—Draco would like to stay but doesn’t want to intrude, especially if she’s going to shower.

“I can keep a cat out of the bathroom,” He tells her, trying to sound confident. The cat turns it’s head towards him, and it’s gaze seems amused, which lessens Draco’s confidence. Can he keep a cat out of the bathroom?

“He’s quite a clever cat, but he doesn’t like getting wet, so joining me in the shower fulfills one dream while fulfilling another nightmare.” She pats the cat’s head before scooping it up and setting it on the floor. It bats at her ankles playfully as she walks across the room. When she gets to the hallway, she turns around and looks pointedly at the cat.

“Crookshanks,” she says in almost a scolding tone, “You have yet to acknowledge our guest! Malfoy’s been here for nearly five minutes and you’ve been so caught up saying hello to me that you walked straight past him. Go and say hello to my friend Malfoy, please.”

The cat tilts its head for a moment then turns and trots towards him. It pauses and meows at Draco before weaving through his legs. Granger mouths her thanks and disappears into what he presumes is her bedroom.

Draco addresses the cat for the first time, “Crookshanks, can I pick you up?” An idea comes to him and he adds, “Your fur looks so soft and I’d love to be able to hold you.” He’s always been good at flattering annoying rich people, maybe it’ll work on a cat?

It rubs against his shin and looks up at him. The cat meows and it sounds permissive, so Draco bends and slowly puts his hands underneath it and gathers the fluff of orange fur into his arms. There’s another meow that sounds content.

Draco strokes its fur and walks slowly around the room, examining the decor on Granger’s walls. A lot of it is nice but doesn’t mean much to him. There are a few magical portraits, small ones of Hogwarts professors, but most of the art is more abstract. Magical photographs of Granger with other Gryffindors (mostly Potter and various Weasleys) are arranged in a grid above a small mirror. Beneath the mirror is a similar photo grid, but none of these photographs move. Some are older, of a young Granger at home for the summers, and others are more recent, of a Granger more familiar to him posing with a smattering of people he doesn’t recognize. He wonders if these are classmates from her medical program, maybe neighbors or other acquaintances. It makes him sad for a moment as he realizes that none of these Muggles know Hermione the way she should be known—full of magic and light and vibrancy. They probably don’t even know her as Hermione. What did she say her name was at the hospital? He’ll have to ask.

“Your mistress is quite lovely, you know that?” Draco quietly tells the cat purring in his arms, “I’m glad to know her.”

He moves around the couch and his eyes land on the photo he saw a while ago—the one he never got a chance to examine more closely. There’s a moment of hesitancy as he approaches it, a feeling that he’s intruding on her life, and he’s reminded that her parents don’t even remember her as their daughter. Then a sense of determination washes over him. He may not be able to make them remember their child, but he can damn well make sure they come to know her as he does. She deserves a meaningful relationship with these people, and that’s not going to be obtained by infrequently bumping into each other at coffee shops.

Draco lets a part of his mind scheme as he studies the photo. Granger’s a small thing, wearing first-year robes and beaming at the camera. Her teeth do seem oversized, but in a charming, cute-kid way. He wishes that he hadn’t ridiculed her for them, or for the bushy hair she hadn’t yet learned to care for. Unfortunately, what’s done is done, though she continues to not hate him for it. He’s deeply grateful for her kindness and grace. He’s entirely undeserving of her friendship and yet, she came to the Manor and asked him to be her friend. He’s… honored.

He’s also let his mind wander, so he refocuses on the photograph, studying Granger’s parents. She gets her height from her father but the soft brown coloring from her mother. Both of her parents seem to have curly hair, which explains the explosion that is Granger’s. They’re a cute family, though a handful of years ago he would have said that they look poor and boring. Truthfully, they don’t seem poor at all, even in this photo from over a decade ago. Is Granger poor now? He has no idea how Muggle money works, especially in her case as she’s working but still in university. It all seems very messy to him and he’s both grateful and ashamed to have the Malfoy wealth behind him.

He turns from the photo and considers his scheming as he wanders around the living room. He’s got to accompany Granger on her next ‘visit’ to her parents. He’s got to play the flattering rich boy and pique their interest. He’s got to get them to want to be with her more, and he’s probably going to have to make a bold invitation himself. Granger may be building rapport with them, but he saw how sad she was when talking about them the other night. She’s moving far too slowly, and Draco’s determined that he must take this matter into his own hands.

“Malfoy?”

He turns towards her voice and finds her standing in the hallway, scrunching wet curls in a tee shirt. She’s wearing her little shorts again, and a green boxy tee. She looks… radiant, and there’s a surge within him that steals a breath.

The cat jumps from his arms and races to her, weaving between her legs. Draco finds himself standing there like an idiot, arms hanging empty and awkward.

“How was your shower?” He asks, swallowing hard and looking at the cat to keep his eyes off those cascading curls, dark brown and damp.

“Very refreshing,” Granger says, “Thank you for keeping Crookshanks company—I’m surprised he let you hold him. He’s typically reticent about such things.”

Draco shrugs with one shoulder. “I was similarly surprised, but he seemed content.”

A moment of silence passes, and Draco looks up to find Granger looking back at him.

“I, um, wanted to ask you about your parents. If you want to talk about them, that is.” Why is he so nervous? He used to be so level-headed around girls. Now Granger stands there, all long legs and wet curls, and he can’t put sentences together.

“I need to braid my hair, come in here and I’ll tell you whatever you’d like to know.” She turns and steps down the hall, walking through a doorway across from the only other one he’s been through.

Draco finds himself in a warm bathroom, steam still clouding the edges of the mirror. He watches as Granger stands in front of the vanity and rubs some product through her hair before parting it down the middle and beginning to braid it in what seems to be a French style? He may know how to braid but the ones that start on the head have always baffled him. Watching her hands move through the curls is almost tantalizing. He leans against the doorframe and folds his arms across his chest to keep from touching her.

Maybe he should just leave.

“Where are your parents these days?” He asks, mentally glueing himself to the doorframe.

She tells him, and they talk. With each question he asks, he adds another measure of strength to the bounds holding him in place. With every answer she gives, he comes a little bit more undone.

By the time she’s done braiding her hair, he’s ready to fall at her feet and beg her to undo it and let him braid it again. He’d worship her for hours just for a few brief minutes of having her hair in his hands.

He excuses himself quickly after that. Tells her he’s got to get back for an appointment at the Manor, which isn’t true, but it’s the best he can come up with. He’s got to get out of here before he falls apart.

When Draco appears in the foyer, he falls to his knees and lets his body shake. He’s positively drained from the exertion required to keep himself in line.

Asking himself last night if he was interested in Hermione Granger was the stupidest question he’s ever asked.

He’s not merely interested, he’s drowning in her.

Notes:

Let the unhinged yearning begin! Hope you’re excited for the ride and satisfied with where you’ve been so far. I wasn’t really expecting to dive in so deep for another few weeks of the story, but I think it’s time, for Draco at least.

Chapter 32: September 21, 2005

Draco spends the day in a daze. It isn’t until supper with his mother that he starts feeling lucid again.

It’s good timing, because Mother is requiring his conversational presence.

“I’m sorry I was indisposed yesterday when Miss Granger visited—I wish I could have been there to assure her that we’re working hard to remove the stains of Dark Magic from our home.” Mother says as she ladles soup into a bowl. After a moment, she adds, “Why did Miss Granger visit? It seems unlike her to pop into places so reminiscent of the war.”

Draco tears apart a buttery roll and comes to terms with the fact that he should probably tell his mother everything. With a sigh, he begins.

“She apparated to the front gates at midnight the night previous, drunk out of her mind. I brought her inside and walked her through eivie’s bedtime routine for drunks. She asked if I wanted to be her friend.” He takes a bite of bread.

“Why would she—“

Draco holds up a hand, glowering across the table as he chews. “I’m about to give you all the context you need, Mother.”

She shakes her head and smiles at her soup. Draco backs up in the timeline, starting at the beginning. Well, the new beginning. The actual beginning would be their first year at Hogwarts, but that’s irrelevant at the moment.

“Remember when I was gravely injured on assignment and ended up healing far faster than anyone expected? That was Granger’s doing. She stumbled upon me in the Muggle hospital I went to while I was away—I accidentally apparated there instead of St. Mungo’s. She’s the healer I went and saw a few times that week. In combining Muggle medicine and magical healing, she helped me make a miraculous recovery, even by magic’s standards. We’ve… kept in touch since then, and now we’re proper friends. She’s incredibly forgiving, and clever, and lovely and—“

He meets his mother’s eyes before saying it out loud for the first time, “Mother, I am absolutely smitten by her.”

Chapter 33: September 21, 2005

Narcissa can’t keep her glass in her hand—the goblet slips to the table and bounces, shattering on the hardwood and sending water everywhere. An elf appears to clean up the mess, she thinks it’s eivie but can’t be sure as her eyes haven’t left her son’s face.

“Mother, if you start going on about her blood status, I’m going to—“

Her voice is stronger than she feels when she cuts him off, “This isn’t about blood, Draco.”

She takes a breath and swallows the rising hysteria. “It’s about my son.”

He freezes—mouth open, head tilted, eyes questioning. His hand is half-raised, paused as it brings another bite of bread to his mouth.

“It isn’t very noble or brave of me, but… as your mother I’ve been worried about the lasting effects of your Dark Magic. I know about the nightmares, and I know about your panic attacks, and I know how much work you put into maintaining the wards around the estate. But I’ve always had this fear that it tainted your ability to connect with other people. I love you deeply, Draco, and family runs deeper than Dark Magic, so I’ve never worried about us. But beyond the Manor elves, you don’t connect with others. I know you work politely with other aurors and you used to bring girls home, but it’s been a long time since you had a friend, and it was worrying me.”

He unfreezes and chews the bite of bread slowly, staring at her, waiting for her to say more.

Tears prick her eyes but she pushes through the rising wave of emotion, “To hear that not only have you found a friend, you’ve developed romantic interest, it’s… it sounds silly to say but it feels like a miracle I didn’t know I was wishing for. Thank you for telling me, for trusting me.”

He swallows, smiles, and nods.

“Have you… told her how you feel?”

Draco looks down, stirs his soup noncommittally. “No. She just asked if we could be friends, I feel it’s too precious to go stomping around on with professions of affection. I’m going to keep it to myself for now.” He sighs and leans back in his chair, then adds, “If I can keep my hands to myself, that is.”

Narcissa chuckles and tears a small chunk off a bun. She dips it in her soup and lifts it to her mouth, raising an eyebrow at her son.

He rubs a hand over his face and says, “Mother, I watched her braid her hair yesterday, and it nearly did me in. It was the most self-control I’ve ever had to exercise—trying to keep my hands from touching her hair and my mouth from asking to braid it for her. I don’t want to make her nervous, or scare her off, or ruin the friendship we have. I want to move slowly, to respectfully transition our friendship into something deeper, but damn, she’s consuming me.”

Narcissa lifts the repaired and refilled goblet to her lips in an attempt to hide the grin she can’t help. Draco’s never talked about anyone this way, even when he was a teenager with whimsical fancies. It’s endearing, seeing her son so deeply in love. He might not yet use such a label, but it’s obvious to her.

“Could we have her to tea sometime in the next week? I’d love to get to know her better, thank her for healing you.” It also sounds like a fun show, watching her son pretend he’s not in love.

His cheeks flush and he rushes to say, “As long as you don’t compromise me by insinuating what I’ve shared with you—in confidence—today.”

She laughs, “No, of course not, Draco. It’s your responsibility to tell Miss Granger how you feel, and I’ll leave that to your discretion. Besides, now that you’ve finished the sitting room we need to make use of it.”

He nods, smiling. “I’ll extend your invitation.”

Narcissa smiles back, trying to contain her somehow ecstatic relief. The Dark Lord may have permanently altered her son, but he did not crush Draco’s spirit, and for that she is eternally grateful.

Notes:

Wasn’t expecting to write from Narcissa’s POV but she had something to say!

Chapter 34: An Exchange of Notes

Granger—
My mother would like to have you to tea sometime in the next week.
She’d like to thank you for healing me, among other things probably.
When would you be available?
DM

~~

Malfoy,
I’d be honored. I think. Coming back to the Manor intimidates me but
I genuinely would like to join you and your mother for tea.
I can make this coming Sunday work, would that be alright?
HJG

~~

Granger—
Sunday would be perfect, apparate to the main gates at 2:30 and I’ll walk you up.
I hope this can be a better experience in the Manor for you—
I’d really like to show you some other remodels and ask for your opinion on my next project.
DM

~~

Malfoy,
I’m looking forward to it, thank you for your thoughtfulness.
I’ll see you at 2:30 on Sunday.
HJG

Chapter 35: September 25, 2005

Notes:

This is probably the longest I’ve gone without uploading, so thank you for your patience and I hope this is a satisfying chapter to come back to! Coming off the holidays into a new semester of college meant less time spent here, but I’m glad to be back. Hope you enjoy!

Hermione sighs and tosses yet another seemingly-viable outfit onto the steadily growing pile. She’s been getting ready since noon and still has no idea what to wear. At least her hair didn’t give her this much trouble—it’s large and curly today and looks lovely without much adjustment. All she had to do was clip a little section near her face back with a barrette to let the little ringlet at her temple show.

She turns back to her closet and broadens her search terms—maybe something a little more formal than the outfits she’s tried would work. After all, Narcissa Malfoy is the peak of refinement and wouldn’t bat an eye at a semi-formal outfit.

Right?

Her eyes land on the blue dress she wore only a few days ago, the one that makes her feel tall and hot and confident. That’s the kind of energy she needs in Malfoy Manor. She slides it off the hanger and considers it in her hands. Would it be lame to wear it out for the second time in a week? Probably not, right? Besides, Draco didn’t see her wear it so it’s as if she’s wearing it for the first time.

But it was on the floor when he came over so maybe he’ll know.

Hermione glances up at the mirror on her closet door and makes a silly face at herself. She shakes her head and decides she’s thinking about this too much. Just wear the damn dress. She’s already decided that she needs to feel hot and confident to survive another encounter with Malfoy Manor.

She gets dressed, adjusts her hair a bit, decides against wearing makeup, and chooses to wear a pair of ankle boots in a warm brown color. She straps on a thigh holster and feels a little silly for it, but this dress has no pockets and she’s not bringing a bag to stash her wand in, so thigh holster it is. She doesn’t expect to need her wand while she’s out, but she hasn’t gone anywhere without it for years.

At 2:28, Hermione is finally ready to apparate to Malfoy Manor, and she’s right on time, which is incredibly satisfying. She arrives outside the gates, which look a bit more foreboding in the daytime, precisely at half past. In the time it takes her to situate her hair—apparating always tousles it—Malfoy appears beside her.

He’s wearing a light gray button up, with the sleeves cuffed at his elbows, and a pair of dark wash jeans in a similar fit to the trousers she once cut off of him. He looks comfortable and rather like a Muggle and… delicious, which Hermione’s surprised to admit. She swallows and looks at her boots, trying to decide if this is a blessing or a curse. Blessing because he’s a distraction from her memories of the Manor. Curse because he’s a distraction from purposefully connecting with his mother, which is one of her main goals this afternoon.

“Granger, come on up,” Malfoy says, his voice casual and steady, “I trust you’ll be able to make this walk much more confidently than you did last time.”

She looks up and follows as he approaches the Manor. He’s a few steps ahead of her, and seeing the back of him makes her decide that he’s both blessing and curse. Is there a word for that?

She shakes her head and quickens her pace to walk beside him—mostly to get her eyes off his body.

“You’re right,” she says, “I probably walked agonizingly slow the other night. I don’t know if I ever thanked you, by the way, so, thank you, for helping me and being kind.”

Draco laughs a little and glances at her, but his gaze has returned to the Manor by the time she can turn her head.

“I’m fairly certain you did thank me, but I appreciate your thoroughness,” he says with a smile.

Hermione smiles reflexively. Walking next to him, talking with him, hearing him laugh—it’s all very pleasant. She’s grateful that coming back to Malfoy Manor means coming back to Draco. He makes this place different, lighter somehow. His goodness has persisted in the face of the darkness held by his home, which is… quite impressive, Hermione decides.

Malfoy tells her about his mother’s landscaping efforts as they walk up to the Manor. Apparently she spends a surprising length of time each week working with or even training the landscaping crew. He tells her about the amount of gardening and herbology books in the Manor library, which makes Hermione realize that there is a library in this cursed place and that she’d really like to see it. She doesn’t bring this up though, because he’s showing her through the doors now and eivie is there to lead them into the sitting room.

It’s… beautiful. She didn’t get a good look at anything the last time she was here, and she’s suddenly very glad to have been invited back—if only to see this room.

The walls and ceiling are a lovely soft green color, punctuated by creamy lightweight curtains and a comfortable-looking window seat. There’s the chaise she recalls laying on, though it’s light pink color surprises her. The off-white sofas look soft, and one of them is occupied by Malfoy’s mother. She looks much more vibrant than the last time Hermione saw her, though that was in the depths of the war and only in passing. She seems healthy and even happy. She’s dressed in a deep, earthy reddish color that matches the coffee table fairly well. The fabric settles around her in a lovely way, and it makes Hermione curious about the fiber content of the dress.

“Miss Granger, please, take a seat,” she says, gesturing to the sofa across from her own.

“Thank you, Lady Malfoy.” Hermione settles on the sofa and works to keep herself from slouching. It makes her painfully aware of how odd her legs feel and how no arrangement of them feels natural.

“Officially, my title would be Madam Malfoy, but I’d prefer you call me Narcissa.” She gives a small, polite smile.

“Thank you—Narcissa—for your invitation.” Hermione takes a steadying breath and smooths her dress over her thighs. It reminds her to feel confident and capable and grounded. She can do this. She can be here, in this place. She can make polite conversation and connections with Narcissa Malfoy. She can—Hermione glances to her side, realizing that Malfoy chose to sit next to her instead of his mother. He’s leaning forward, forearms on his thighs, staring at the coffee table. The very edge of his Mark is visible to her, but more than that she notices the tension in his arms, or—maybe it’s not tension, maybe his veins just look like that when he sits that way. She wants to touch him, trace her fingertips over his raised veins the way she did when she drew his blood. She didn’t take advantage of it then and almost wishes she had slowed down to appreciate the way his blood moves through his body. Her mind is crowded with memories of touching his body. Oh, how she longs to feel his pulse against her fingertips again.

Draco parts the seas of memories in her head by looking up at his mother, the movement of his head sharp and quick. Hermione has to bite her cheek and take a deep breath to refocus.

“I know I’m committed to limiting my use of magic in remodels, but the stain on this coffee table settled so unevenly. I’ll have to correct that later.” He pauses for a moment, then says, “Sorry, I, er, got tunnel vision for a moment. Are we—ready for tea?”

“Of course.” Narcissa’s lips slide into an almost-smile and she makes a graceful gesture with her hand as she adds, “eivie, dear.”

eivie appears, holding a steaming teapot in a quilted cozy. She moves to the buffet cabinet behind Hermione’s sofa and the sounds of clinking china begin.

Narcissa speaks again, meeting Hermione’s eyes with a gaze that’s sharp but not piercing.

“Miss Granger, my son informed me only this week that it was you who facilitated his near-miraculous healing. I am very grateful and, to be frank, honored.”

Hermione’s brow furrows. “How do you mean?”

“You saved my son’s life despite the history that haunts us.”

“I—“ Hermione breaks off and looks at Draco, then starts again, her voice softer, “regardless of your role in the war, you were in desperate need of healing, and you were kind to me, so I couldn’t leave you to fester.”

Draco’s eyes are wide and soft. He blinks once, then twice, and then looks down as eivie places a teacup in his hands. Hermione can’t be sure—is he blushing? Why would he be blushing? She simply stated a fact that both of them had acknowledged before.

“You are a good person, Hermione Granger,” Narcissa says, accepting her own teacup from eivie. After taking a sip, she continues, “I hope you know how much work we’ve put into erasing the Dark Magic from ourselves and our home.”

Hermione smiles and gestures at the beautiful, airy room around them, then takes the teacup proffered to her. “That work is not invisible to me. Thank you for inviting me back into your home. I can’t say I’m perfectly at ease here, but I do appreciate the chance to change how I regard this place.” She takes a sip of tea and it enables her to relax into the sofa by a few degrees.

“Draco’s remodeling work has helped me change my regards for this place.” Narcissa’s gaze wanders off listlessly and she lifts her teacup to her lips. When the cup lowers, she adds, “I used to hate it here but it feels lighter now, lovelier.”

Hermione nods and drinks her tea, a little absentminded as she sinks against the throw pillow behind her. She remembers the feeling of lightness that Malfoy brought as they walked up to the Manor—what would this place be like without him?

A comfortable silence hangs over the three of them for a few minutes, and Malfoy’s the one to break it.

“Mother,” he says quietly, “Did I tell you that Granger is in residency to become a Muggle doctor?”

Narcissa straightens and smiles, “You did! I asked around a bit but I’d love to hear about it from you, Miss Granger. Are you really working yourself to death?”

Hermione can’t help it—a laugh bursts from her. Once she’s recovered from nearly spilling her tea, she shakes her head.

“Medical students are pushed really hard. Some spend close to a hundred hours a week at the hospital. I… don’t. It reminds me of the war. I do what I can, and obliviate my insufficiencies from the minds of those who care. It’s not as though I need the experience—I’ve gotten more than my share of trauma response.” She pauses for a moment, somber. “I’m just doing this to learn what I can and help where I can, though having the degree will foster a steadier career and will hopefully be a catalyst for change in St Mungo’s operations.”

Malfoy runs a hand through his hair. “Is that the goal?”

Hermione shrugs. “I’ve told you about my spell research and development, and that’s the biggest goal for me. But maybe with actual credentials—even Muggle ones—the lead healers will take me seriously.”

“Draco’s recovery has got to be all the evidence they need,” Narcissa states, setting her teacup on the coffee table. “The work you do is important, and they risk lives by dismissing you.”

“Thank you. It’s… not something I’m ready to commit to yet, but I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

Narcissa smiles, then rises to her feet.

“Thank you for joining us for tea,” she says, “It was lovely to get to know you and I hope to see you again soon. I have some gardeners to meet with, so I’ll dismiss myself, but I hope you’ll take some time to examine all the details of Draco’s remodel.” She walks from the room, then disapparates.

Hermione feels a large chunk of any remaining tension bleed away. She sets her teacup on the coffee table, where it is quickly joined by Malfoy’s cup.

“Meeting your mother was lovely, but she’s rather—“

“Intense?” Draco asks, then chuckles. “Yeah. I love her, and I’m glad she’s here, but I feel like I have to be a certain version of myself when I’m with her. Not because of any expectations she holds me to—it’s just the way she is and the way our relationship works, I guess.”

“I understand that,” Hermione says with a nod. She feels that way with a lot of her Muggle colleagues. “Do you… wanna show me some details?”

Draco grins broadly and pulls Hermione to her feet. His hand lingers in hers for half a moment longer, and then he’s walking towards the window seat. Hermione follows, trying to rationalize away the way he looks at her.

Notes:

I hope you noticed how she calls him either Malfoy or Draco depending on the moment!

Chapter 36: September 25, 2005

Notes:

My upload pace is slow right now but I was able to write a good chunk today. I hope you enjoy!

Draco’s practically giddy as he leads her around the room. He points out the charm on the curtains above the window seat that has them move ever so slightly. He tells her about stripping the black paint on the mantle and finding this lovely cherry wood, which is when he decided on the color scheme for the room. He complains about how exhausting painting the ceiling was and mentions how he learned to reupholster furniture for this remodel. What he’s most excited to show her, though, is the crown molding. He leads her to the center of the room, by the sofas again. Then he points up at it.

“My mother thought that a gradient would be nice. It was difficult and time consuming but, damn, it’s lovely.”

Granger gasps, and when Draco looks over at her he watches her eyes trace the color from cream to pink and back again.

“Draco, that’s… incredible.” She meets his eyes and smiles wide, and it nearly takes his breath away.

She’s beautiful.

When she showed up wearing this gorgeous blue dress, he realized the color matched the pile of fabric on the floor the last time he visited her, and that about did him in. He had to put her out of view for a few paces to get his impulses under control again.

Draco smiles back and tells her, “It’s probably what I’m most proud of with this remodel. I was finishing it up when you visited the other day.”

She turns around in a slow circle, saying, “You’ve done a really lovely job. This room barely feels like Malfoy Manor anymore.”

“That’s the goal,” Draco reminds her. “Speaking of which, I’m planning to remodel that guest room you stayed in next, do you have any input or ideas?” He makes sure to keep any indication of his real plan for the room out of his voice.

She turns to face him and he notices the little ringlet at her temple, has to put his hands in his pockets to keep from twirling it around a finger.

“I don’t think guest rooms need dressers that large,” she says, “Even someone staying for an extended period of time won’t be bringing enough clothes to fill all of those drawers.”

Draco chuckles. “Smaller dresser, got it. Anything else?”

Her eyes stray from his and glance around the room for a moment before she hums and says, “If you’re looking for color suggestions, maybe purple—but not too much of it, just a few touches of a deep purple and some lavender.”

“I can do that,” Draco says with a smile. The trim and baseboards will look good in a deep purple and he can pull lavender in through decor, maybe the bedding too. He’s hoping the floor will be lighter if he strips the wood and refinishes it. Probably similar curtains to what he used here, and he’s gonna need a new table, maybe something more like a counter that doesn’t have much depth to it.

Would Granger like it more if new furniture came from the charity shops? She mentioned once that silly sofa of hers was secondhand. Would she want to make a trip with—

“You’re already planning for it, aren’t you?” Granger interrupts him.

Draco’s thoughts sputter to a stop, and his cheeks flush. He looks down and taps his shoe against the leg of the coffee table.

“I guess I am, yeah,” he says after a moment. “Now that this project is finished, I’ve been itching to get started on another.”

“Would you… like to?” She asks, raising both her shoulders and her eyebrows. She holds his gaze for a few seconds, then adds, “This isn’t really a dress for remodels but we could at least do a few preliminary things. If you wanted to.”

It takes him at least half a minute to process this. He’s about to open his mouth and accept her offer—tell her that he’d love her help taking the curtains down and cleaning the windowsill—when a small bell rings, tinkling from the foyer.

Granger turns towards the sound, the mass of curls swaying over her shoulder and becoming a temptress once more.

Draco steels himself and steps past her, muttering, “Who is sending owls on a Sunday afternoon?”

“Was that—is that how you know if you’ve an owl?” Granger asks from behind him, following as he paces through the doorway. She keeps talking as she walks: “Owls always came through the windows at the Burrow and they do the same at my home, but I suppose it would be difficult for an owl to find the window of an occupied room in a manor this large, so having what is essentially a doorbell to alert you of an owl is really rather clever.”

Draco reaches the stand occupied by a reddish brown owl and shares a smile with no one but himself—it’s been a while since he heard her prattle on like this. It was irritating as a teenager but is surprisingly endearing now.

It takes him longer than usual to retrieve the scroll from the case—this bird is damn fidgety—and it flaps and scurries and claws its way back outside before he can give it a treat in thanks. With a sigh and a shrug, he opens the roll of parchment.

Malfoy, progress has been made on the Ridger case, and Zabini was scheduled to track an acromantula contact in the Middle East beginning tomorrow, but now the poor lad’s down with vanishing sickness and apparently keeps losing track of his hands. Regardless of hesitations you’ve expressed in the past, I need you to take on this assignment. An owl will have delivered all the information I can provide by dawn. — Greta

Of course something like this would happen—of course he’d be called away when being apart from her is starting to become difficult; of course he’s the only other auror with the skill set required. How the hell did Zabini catch vanishing sickness?

“I’m sorry, Granger,” Draco says, looking up at her, standing there looking curious and lovely. Turning her down is almost more disheartening than facing another out-of-country mission. “I can’t do any remodeling with you tonight, it’s very last-minute but I’ve been assigned another work trip and need time to prepare.” He tries steeling himself against her disappointment but watching her face fall is a stronger blow than he expected.

Then her eyebrows furrow and her eyes get all intense. Her voice is hard and quick when she asks, “Where have they got you going now? I feel like you just got back. Tell me you’ll make shorter apparition jumps. How can I help you get ready?” She steps towards him.

“I—you don’t need to see that,” he looks down and shakes his head, the scroll held loosely in his hands.

Granger’s feet move again, and then she’s taking the scroll from him.

“Draco,” she says, and it gives him the courage to meet her eyes. “What do you need to prepare?”

His chin drops again because he can’t bear to look at her when he mutters, “A Dark Magic tracking ritual.”

She takes half a step back, just like he anticipated—it’s right for her to hate him for this, he hates himself for it, hates that in trying to use his magic for good work he just ends up right back where he started.

“Must it,” she begins in a whisper, but her voice is stronger when she begins again: “Must it be Dark Magic? I use a tracking charm on my parents, and while it’s quasi-ethical magic, it’s not Dark.”

Draco snaps his gaze back to hers, desperate hope clawing at his throat as he pleads, “Teach me.”

Chapter 37: September 25, 2005

They go back to the sitting room, though the light colors and the swaying curtains feel a tad heavier this time around. Hermione slips her wand from its thigh holster—trying not to flash Draco too much (they’re just friends, and that means being polite with her body). As she does, she’s scouring her memory: if he used that ritual on his last assignment, she must have been too concerned and too distracted to notice the Dark Magic clinging to him when he apparated to her home from Romania. Dark Magic had swirled around the people she healed in the war, too, from the curses they took and the atmosphere they breathed on the battlefield. She hadn’t realized how she’d become desensitized to Dark Magic in the same way as blood and gore. It had become integrated into the process of healing for her.

It’s an interesting realization to make.

Draco looks haggard as he sits on the sofa, his brow creased and his shoulders slumped. In spite of this, there is a brightness of hope in his eyes, and it pleases her to share her magic with him in this way—replacing Dark with… well, it’s not exactly Light but it is better than a Dark ritual.

“Appare Vestigium Specifica,” she murmurs, and tiny blue versions of her parents appear in her palm. There’s a tug in her gut, and she knows they’re to the southeast of her, across continents and oceans. She watches their tiny replicas for a few moments; they seem to be out on a tour of the nearby wildlife conservatory, sitting next to each other and swaying in an invisible vehicle. Mom looks elated, holding her wide brim hat to her head, while Dad looks a bit carsick. It makes Hermione smile—a small and sad smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“It’s a bit of a complicated charm to cast initially, but it’ll hold until you choose to release your magic from it,” Hermione explains, tapping her wand against her palm to dissolve the replicas and relaxing against the throw pillows. “It will show you a live feed of the person, like you saw, but it also gives you an internal sense of their location in regard to you. I know that my parents are to the southeast of me, and not just because I know where Australia is on the globe.”

“I’m assuming the complications arise from requisite components—it seems a rather simple incantation.” Draco’s leaning forward a bit and he sounds incredibly focused. It reminds her of being in school with him—even though he was rude and often acted for popularity, he’s driven and bright and clever when it comes to learning magic. It’s… rather refreshing, if Hermione’s honest. Harry and Ron were awful study partners.

“You’re correct,” she says, “To cast it initially, you’ll bookend information about the intended target with the incantation. It’s helpful to include as much information as you can—name, age, sex, general location, and even interests or occupations if you can provide them. The goal is to enable the magic to narrow its scope as much as possible. The charm could give you the wrong person at first, in which case you’ll need to provide more information or try to be more specific with what you do have. You can also focus the spell with a material component—I used photos and clothing belonging to my parents and that seemed to help.”

Draco nods, and while his brow is still creased, his shoulders have straightened. “Is there a somatic component, or is that negligible next to everything else the charm requires?”

“I haven’t found one,” Hermione says with a shrug. “I mean, you saw how I dismissed the replicas, but my initial casting worked when I just sat on the floor and talked at the wall while holding my wand.”

“Could I practice?” He asks, “Before I have to commit to tracking an acromantula dealer, I mean.”

“Great idea!” She smiles, then offers, “I guess I could leave you with something of mine and go upstairs, and you could practice on me. The targets have no awareness of the charm, so I won’t know if you succeed but there’s also no risk of hurting me if it goes sideways.”

“Thank you,” Draco says warmly, “I really appreciate your willingness to teach me this.”

Hermione stands and smiles at him again, “Of course! I’d much rather you be doing quasi-ethical magic over Dark Magic.” She selects a curl from over her shoulder and uses her wand to shear off half a dozen centimeters or so, then secures the bundle together at one end with a quick binding charm. Draco’s eyes are wide when she holds it out to him. The look pulls a loud laugh from her throat.

“Don’t worry—I’ll work on regrowing it while I’m upstairs. Remember, the incantation is Appare Vestigium Specifica.”

He tentatively takes the curl from her and summons his wand from seeming nowhere. She gives him one last, encouraging smile and walks from the room.

The heels of her boots resound against the floor as she crosses the foyer and climbs the grand staircase. It’s a massive thing, probably close to 10 meters wide. It’s excessive, but Hermione can’t help but feel impressed, too. Malfoy Manor may be an imposing place, but it is beautiful, in its own way. The thought makes her excited for how Draco will remodel this expansive space—it would completely transform the impressions one has upon entering the Manor.

She reaches the top of the staircase and meditates for a moment on whether to go left or right. She figures this is as good a time as any to explore the Manor—to reform her memories of it on her own terms. She’s free to roam, she isn’t trapped here. Besides, it would make it too easy for the charm to find her if she stayed in one spot, so she decides to go right, having vague memories of floating down this hallway a few nights ago.

Her memories prove correct—the third door is the room she stayed in, with its too-large dresser and its green walls. There are five doors in all, and all of them lead to similarly decorated guest rooms. They’re well-kept and none of the furniture is covered, so the Manor elves must spend time keeping these rooms viable for guests, though Hermione isn’t sure what occasion would fill all five rooms at once. All of the doors are on the left side of the hallway, and the wall on the right is occupied by evenly-spaced identical frames with various Malfoy propaganda. There are photographs of the Manor and its grounds throughout the last century or so, photographs of Malfoys with past Ministers and world leaders, and a few portraits of the Malfoy family as she knew them.

She stands in front of the family portrait for a moment. It seems to be from before the second war, when their lives were just about being rich and pureblooded and Slytherin. The three of them stare back at her for a moment, then Lucius curls his lip and leaves the frame. Narcissa huffs and looks up and away, but Draco—the Draco she knew in school, the Draco who called her teeth big and her hair ugly, the Draco whose raised hand was chosen in class because he was a popular Slytherin and not necessarily because he had the right answer—just… tilts his head a little and continues to look at her. It makes Hermione wonder what he would have been like, without the pressure of his parents and the expectations of Slytherin house and, later, the rise of Voldemort. Would he have been kinder? Would he have been willing to befriend someone like her?

What would this Draco think of my Draco downstairs, the one who is my friend, Hermione asks herself. Then she’s moving on to stand in front of the next portrait—one that only contains Narcissa. She looks gentle and soft here, black hair just beginning to be streaked with white. She sits primly in a chair, hands in her lap, black gown free of wrinkles. Her gaze seems affectionate and there’s a hint of a smile on her lips, which is reminiscent of her expressions during tea this afternoon. She’s painted with less finite details than the figures in the family portrait and the background seems unfinished, but in that on-purpose way that painters do sometimes. Hermione expects the same reaction from this portrait—a turning up of the nose in disgust—but Narcissa’s expression doesn’t change, and that’s when she realizes that this isn’t a magical portrait.

Why would the Narcissa Malfoy sit for a nonmagical portrait? And who painted it? It was certainly done by a different artist than the family portrait, but why would the Malfoy’s let a Muggle paint them—and why is Narcissa looking at them that way? So many questions—she’s got to disengage. She’ll just have to ask Malfoy about it when she gets back downstairs, which reminds her that she’s supposed to be working on regrowing her hair.

As she returns to the staircase, Hermione draws her wand and coaxes it along the curl she cut short, murmuring incantations she learned in second year. Some of her hair broke while she was petrified, and afterwards Parvati taught her the charms to regrow it gently with the hope of preserving its health. It’s a slow charm, but that means it’s perfect for exploring the hallway on the other side of the stairs.

Chapter 38: September 25, 2005

Notes:

Happy Valentine’s Day! Here’s another quick upload for you! This one has some fun banter. :)

Draco can’t believe he’s holding her hair. Granted, it’s no longer connected to her head, so that’s odd, but feeling it curl around his fingers almost makes him lightheaded. He’s lifting it to his face before he can stop himself, inhaling the scent of her hair. It’s lovely but is hard to pinpoint, and it reminds him of when she got out of the shower the other day.

The sound of her steps on the staircase remind him that he’s supposed to be casting this charm, not daydreaming about her hair, so he straightens on the sofa and recites the incantation a couple times in his mind. He takes a deep breath to hopefully calm his racing heart, and then he begins.

“Appare Vestigium Specifica, Hermione J. Granger, female, twenty-six years old, birthday September nineteenth, located in Malfoy Manor. Uh, she’s a healer but is fascinated by hematology, and she’s getting a Muggle medical degree, but not in hematology for some reason. She has big hair and a silly cat and gets sad when you talk about her parents. She’s incredibly kind, and I think she’s lovely. She carries Light and goodness with her everywhere she goes, and she makes my heart feel lighter. She’s clever and studious and she’s even invented her own spells. She likes the color purple but right now she’s wearing this blue dress that will make me lose my head if I think about it too much, so I’m going to talk about something else. Um, she cares deeply about other people and she… cares about me…” Draco trails off, staring at the coffee table. She must care about him—she’s teaching him this ‘quasi-ethical’ spell—oh right.

“Appare Vestigium Specifica,” Draco rushes to say, completing the charm. There’s a tug within him, and he knows she’s to his left—close but still up a flight of stairs and down a hallway. He vanishes the bundle of her hair to his desk and rotates his hand so his palm faces up, and then, like she showed him, a tiny version of her appears in his hand. He can’t see her surroundings, just her, but from her posture it looks like she’s leaning on a railing, and from the absolutely elated look on her face he’s got to assume she’s found the little balcony that looks out on the library. He smiles, and has a sense of unwinding tension, like something within him is finally relaxing. Being able to see her when she’s not here is… he can’t think of a better word than incredible. Having the ability to know that she’s safe and happy wherever she is will make this inconvenient and unwanted auror assignment a lot easier to bear.

Draco breathes a slow sigh, then taps his wand to his palm, dissolving the little blue version of Granger. He stands and sets off to find the real Granger, thinking it would be fun to surprise her from the first floor of the library. He should have known it’s a place she’d want to see, didn’t she spend half her years at Hogwarts cozied up in the library?

He casts a Disillusionment charm and steps as quietly as he can through the double doors (thankfully they don’t creak after he adjusted them last month). Navigating along the wall that the balcony looks out from, he gets close enough to hear her murmuring something. It sounds like an incantation of some sort, but it’s not one he’s familiar with and for his sake he hopes it’s not something like Revelio. Once he’s directly underneath her balcony, he moves towards the nearest shelf and picks up a book gently, silently. He moves a little further into the library, to where he’d be visible from the balcony, and leans against the shelf, trying to seem nonchalant. Opening the book, he tries to keep it from making obvious book-noises, which Granger’s bookish ears are likely to be attuned to. He looks up, and she’s standing there, looking out over the library, running her wand along a curl, maybe she’s regrowing it? She mentioned she’d work on that while up—oh no, she’s turn—

Draco lifts his Disillusionment charm and rustles a page purposefully. He’s looking at the book by now, so hopefully he’s actually caught her attention. He bites his lip to keep from either laughing or calling out to her.

“Draco? How did you—“ then she laughs, and it echoes through the library. If he hadn’t already been exercising restraint, he’d be on his knees.

“Of course you found me,” she says, and he finally looks up at her, unable to keep the sly smile off his face.

“The tracking charm worked,” she continues. Draco nods and closes the book, pushing off from the shelf and stepping towards her.

“Come explore the library, Granger,” he tells her, then he looks down and tries to remember where he pulled this book from. He doesn’t even know what it’s about—this isn’t a section of the library he spends a lot of time in. Apparently the title is Magical Weather Patterns and Where They Occur, so it’s unlikely he’ll ever come back to this section of the library. He’s just found the gap in the books where this one is bound to belong when there’s a whoosh next to him, and then Granger’s boots are resounding on the floor as she approaches him. He looks up, brows furrowed.

“Did you just—“

“I jumped and used Arresto Momentum.”

“Wordlessly?” This witch is more powerful than he ever knew. What did the war teach her besides healing?

“Yes, and you have a lot to learn about handling books.”

He looks back at the shelf. “What do you mean? I’m pretty sure this is exactly where I pulled it from and I’m about to put it back, like a proper student.”

“You’re right, this is probably where it goes, but I can tell from the way you left these other books that you picked it up wrong.”

He shifts his weight to level his gaze at her. “You’re telling me there’s a right way and a wrong way to get books off the shelf?”

“Exactly,” she says, and takes the book from his hands. She holds it up between their faces and puts a fingertip on the top. “You probably pulled it off like this, correct? By the headband.”

“Yes,” Draco responds slowly, feeling a bit like he’s about to be berated for his behaviour by the Hogwarts librarian.

“This will lead to inevitable damage and might be the cause of the spine damage other books here have taken. To prevent damage to the headband or the spine—“ she turns and reaches for another book on the shelf, “—you need to push back the neighboring books until you can grip the desired book by the covers and pull it off the shelf.” And she does so, seamlessly. She hands him the book she retrieved with a smile and gently replaces the book he grabbed earlier.

Hermione turns to look at him, and he realizes that not only do they stand eye to eye, they’re standing rather close to each other. She smiles again, then speaks quietly.

“This technique also makes it easier to find where you took a book from: natural gaps on the shelf won’t look like this.” She takes the book from him and replaces it, then pulls her wand from behind her ear and taps the neighboring books to shift them forward.

Draco swallows and feels his cheeks warm. “Granger, I—“

“I know,” she says, “What else do you need to prepare?”

“I’ll need to pack,” he tells her, but he wants to say, You don’t know, Granger. You don’t know how warm and light and desperate you make me feel. You don’t know how I feel about you, and granted, I’m not sure I understand it either, but I—

“What do you need from me?” She asks.

So much of him wants to ask to kiss her.

“Could you find me some books on acromantula breeding?” Is what he asks instead.

Chapter 39: September 26, 2005

Notes:

It’s been a long time since I was able to update, but here’s a quick little chapter to hopefully sate you!

In between apparition jumps, Draco reflects on the previous day—a long and varied day. It started with sleeping in and trying to decide what to wear and beginning to scheme for the guest room remodel. And then it was reassuring his mother (she was more anxious about this tea invitation than most others) that Granger would show up. And then it was making preparations for tea and walking Granger up the drive and trying to not think about her dress. But then she was here, and she was lovely and charming. His mother seemed to like her, and that was oddly nice—he had long since given up on courting for his mother’s approval but seeming to have it was reassuring.

And after tea he got to show Granger the remodel and they chatted about the guest room, and then he got that damned owl, which turned everything on its head. But, he supposes, he wouldn’t have learned this tracking charm without it, nor would he have been able to see her on the library balcony.

He’s standing in the broom closet of the Baghdad auror office, about to make the last apparition jump, when his reflection on yesterday slows down.

While he was packing the last of his supplies, Granger knocked on his bedroom door and brought in a few books she had managed to find in the library. It was odd to stand in his bedroom with her, but he tried to avoid dwelling on it. She briefly explained what each one contained and how they might be helpful, then asked how long he’d be gone for.

He told her that he should be back by Friday night, and her face brightened.

“Saturday’s the first of October! I’ll plan some autumnal activities for us.” She smiled as she said it, dress swaying a little.

That was like a breath of fresh air for him—to know that he could see her almost as soon as he got back, to know that she wanted to be with him.

Draco smiles at the closet door and realizes he’s been stalling. He apparates to a hotel room on the outskirts of Tehran, one that Greta booked and described in her notes. This is where he’ll be stationed for the duration of his time here. For his purposes, it’s more of a bunker than bedroom—he doesn’t imagine getting much sleep.

His next task is to cast Granger’s charm and locate this acromantula dealer. From there it’s getting eyes on the guy and hopefully observing a transaction to determine how he trades and what he trades. The DMLE knows that Ridger gets venom from this dealer, but who’s to say that’s all he’s offering? Locating his store of resources—highly aggressive giant spider beasts—is also a priority, though that one is assigned with more caution. Greta specifically wrote don’t get eaten, Malfoy, you’re needed for future assignments in her notes. Granger’s books will likely prove helpful in determining where on the Iranian Plateau this guy is breeding acromantulas—and how he’s managing to do so without being digested.

Draco settles into an armchair and lets out a sigh. His magic is near depleted, and it’s going to take a bit before he’s capable of casting Granger’s charm anew. However… it would take far less magic to cast the iteration of the charm he’s already invested energy into. He mutters the incantation, staring at his palm expectantly.

She appears there, tiny and blue, striding forward though never advancing along his hand. She’s wearing scrubs, like she was when they met in the hospital. She’s got a clipboard in hand and her mouth is moving, though Draco can’t see who she’s speaking to or hear what she’s saying.

He wishes he could follow the tug in his gut, follow the charm’s guidance and go back to her.

Unfortunately, that’s still days away.

Chapter 40: October 1, 2005

Notes:

Thank you so much for 6k hits! It’s really cool and not something I anticipated.

Here’s a chapter for you—forever after my last update, but I hope it’s worth the wait!

Hermione looks at her list again and wonders if she should add more to it. She’s been wanting to keep it simple because Draco’s probably exhausted, but is it too simple?

She sighs and stands up, leaving the list on her desk for the moment. It’s time to get dressed, anyway. Thankfully, she chose an outfit yesterday, so she doesn’t have to go through that process. Hermione slips off her sweatpants and dresses in a pair of dark blue skinny jeans and an oversized sweater, deciding against the scarf because it’s not supposed to rain today. She glances at the mirror and smiles—her hair is big today but it works well. Adjusting the rolled cuffs of the sweater, she notices how the rust color looks against her skin tone, which brings another smile. Yesterday she set out her brown boots because they seemed activity-appropriate, but today she’s wondering if it will really matter. After debating it for a moment too long, she decides to just trust the decision she made yesterday. She packs the yellow tote bag, placing within it her wand, a scrunchie in case her hair becomes uncontrollable, the list, and the book she’s reading at the moment. Just in case.

And then, with a parting pat to Crookshanks, she apparates to Malfoy Manor.

Hermione doesn’t relish having to walk up the drive, but does appreciate seeing autumn on the grounds—it’s reassuring and means that the first item on the list won’t be a waste. Stepping up to the Manor isn’t as imposing as it has been in the past, and eivie is standing in the open doorway, which is a pleasant sight. She smiles and gestures Hermione inside.

“Master Draco is breakfasting but was knowing when Miss Granger arrived,” eivie says while shutting the large door, “If Miss Granger be following eivie to the kitchens, Master will be greeting her there.”

“Please, lead on,” Hermione says with a smile and a nod.

eivie leads her through the Manor, past portraits she hasn’t seen before. Half of them sneer at her, and the other half are empty. Hermione straightens her shoulders and meets the eyes of every glaring portrait, if only for a passing moment, to prove to them her unwillingness to cower under their scrutiny. Draco’s the Master of this Manor and he wants her here, so these stuffy old Malfoys will just have to endure her presence.

eivie stops at the end of the hall and instead of walking down either of the intersecting corridors, she knocks on the wall straight ahead until a door appears. She pushes it open and gestures for Hermione to enter first.

Stepping into the kitchens, Hermione is greeted by the aromas of fresh baked bread and coffee, and it makes her hungry even though she had a filling breakfast. She steps down a small staircase and as soon as her boots touch the concrete floor, elves appear around her. The one with ears too big even for a house-elf is holding a croissant above it’s head, and the one with big purple eyes seems to be asking what she’d like in her tea, but the other two are chattering about something and asking her loads of questions she can’t quite parse out.

“You’re crowding her, silly elves,” Draco says. Hermione looks up to find him leaning against a counter, a mug in his hands. He’s wearing jeans and a blue/white plaid flannel with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is tousled and she has to press her tongue hard against the back of her teeth to keep herself from asking to fix it. He looks so at ease in Muggle clothes, which is not something Hermione expected to find attractive, but damn.

The elves disperse, allowing her to step forward, closer to him. He summons a couple bar stools and sits on one, gesturing for her to join him. She does, setting her tote bag on the counter. Elves are chattering at her again once she’s seated, and Malfoy shakes his head, which silences them. After a moment, the elf with big purple eyes pipes up.

“Would Miss Granger be liking any tea this morning?”

Hermione smiles and shakes her head, “No, thank you, but I would like a croissant.” A small plate immediately appears before her, and the elf with too-big ears is standing next to her stool, lifting the croissant above its head again. She takes it, murmurs her thanks, and sets it on her plate.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t remember any of your names,” she says.

Draco chuckles, then tells her, “It’s nothing to apologize for. Big-ears over here is Mouse, and big-eyes over there is Chixie. It’s okay if you can’t tell Pebble and Milphie apart, they’re twins and I still mix them up sometimes.”

His voice sounds tired. Hermione glances at him. He looks tired too, now that she’s closer she can see the purple rimming his eyes, and the—

“Are those bruises?” She blurts out, her hand lifting halfway to his face before she catches herself and picks up her croissant instead.

He grimaces and brushes a hand over his cheek. “Yeah,” is all he says for a moment. Then Hermione makes a demanding squeak around her croissant and he continues.

“Apparently acromantula breeding is quite the operation, and while the recruited Muggles don’t really know what’s going on, they’re quite committed.”

Hermione swallows, then asks, “So you got in a fist fight?”

He nods, looking across the table instead of at her. “It’s been a while since I had to work like that—it uses a completely different set of mental processes and they were a couple hits in before I could recall how to function in hand-to-hand combat.”

Hermione takes another bite to keep from being overcome by a desire to touch him. It hasn’t been this bad in the past—maybe because it’s been almost a week since she saw him? And now he’s sitting here, slouching on a bar stool and nursing a mug of what’s probably coffee, hair tousled and cheekbone bruised, and she wants to touch him.

She chews and tries to focus on something else.

“Were you able to gather the information you were after?”

He looks over at her and his eyes brighten.

“I think so,” he says, “I was able to confirm our suspicions about the dealer’s identity and watch a transaction. He’s pretty ruthless—expects other people to do most of the hands-on work and punishes them if their productivity is low. It’s surprising to me that he’s just now on the DMLE’s radar, this guy isn’t overly quiet about his operation. At least he pays the spider-handling Muggles decently well, so I can’t hold that against him.”

He looks so tired by the time he stops talking—the brightness that was there when he started has all but faded. It makes Hermione worry if an activity-filled day is something he actually feels up to, or if he’s just going along with it to not let her down.

“Do you—is this—“ she stumbles over the words, then presses her lips together and starts again.

“Do you feel up to doing something today? I mean, I haven’t planned very much but you seem exhausted and I don’t want you to feel obligated to go along with it just because I’ve made plans if you—“

“Granger,” he says, soft and stern, as he places his hand on the counter next to her plate. “I would love to engage in what you’ve got planned. I’m tired, sure, but I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

Hermione’s eyes widen. “You have?” Her voice is small and squeaky, and she wishes it weren’t.

He chuckles and nods, “Yes, I have. Can you tell me what you have planned, or is it a surprise I’m not yet privy to?”

She brushes her thighs to disperse the croissant flakes from her hands, then reaches in her bag. The paper has become a little crunched by the book she brought, so she flattens the list on the counter. She looks at it for a moment, then lifts her gaze to Draco’s face.

“First, because we’re already here, I figured we could go for a walk around the estate, to uh, revel in the autumn colors.” Her cheeks feel hot, and now she’s embarrassed about feeling embarrassed about her plans.

“That sounds lovely,” Draco says, “I feel like most of the trees turned while I was away and I haven’t had a chance to revel.”

Hermione can’t help the smile on her lips. She continues, “Then I thought we could go to a coffee shop, which may or may not be what you want to do because you’re already—“

“Granger, shut up, I told you I wanted to do what you have planned.”

She presses her lips together, but it only lasts a moment because a giggle escapes her. She looks down and gathers her thoughts.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “Ginny and I typically make plans via letters; it’s been a while since I verbally proposed plans to friends, and it’s a lot easier for my doubts to filter into my speech.”

After a moment, Draco says, “I appreciate your concern, Hermione, I really do.”

She looks up and gives him a small smile.

“But I need you to trust that I’m not going to contest or refuse a portion of your plan.” He’s looking at her intently, and she wants to touch the bruises on his cheek, heal them away with her wand.

Then he talks again, and she refocuses. “Tell me abut this third point.”

He takes a sip from his mug as she says, “I want to go to a pumpkin patch! I haven’t been to one in years.”

She watches him knock back the rest of his coffee, rub the back of his hand across his mouth, and say, “Sounds like a great plan. Shall we?” He’s looking at her with that brightness in his eyes again.

Hermione smiles and nods as she pushes to her feet. She shoves the list in her bag and pulls the straps over her shoulder. The elves appear again—when did they disappear?—and clear away their dishes. She’s walking towards the door when Draco catches her elbow.

“C’mon, silly witch, we can apparate there.”

He’s pulling her closer and Hermione’s only point of solidity for a moment is his hand on her arm. Then she’s on solid ground again, shaking curls out of her eyes. Draco lets go and steps away, and she almost wishes he wouldn’t. She looks up to find a sprawling tree canopy above her, full of greens and yellows and oranges. And she revels.

Chapter 41: October 1, 2005

Notes:

Thank you for your patience as I finished up another semester of college. It’s been over a month since my last update but know that more is coming soon!

Draco finds himself reveling more in the woman next to him than the colors around him. She keeps picking up leaves and holding them close to her face for a moment before letting them fall to the ground again. She finds a particularly brown one and crunches it in her hands, giggling. She looks up and twirls in circles beneath the trees. Her joy is a boon to his heart; her laugh a salve to the bruises on his ribs.

Walking pleasantly on the Manor grounds with Hermione Granger is not something he could have ever predicted. But now that it’s happening, he’s grateful. Malfoy Manor feels more like home when she’s here.

They’re nearing the front steps when Hermione turns to him.

“You’ve been awfully quiet—you okay?” Her eyes are bright and joyous, but he can see the way her brow is furrowed a bit.

“Yeah, of course,” he says, then adds, “I’ve been reveling.”

She throws her head back and laughs at the sky.

“I’m so glad,” she says, “You ready to move on to item number two on the list?”

He nods, almost extending his hand. Walking beside her is accompanied by the near-constant desire to interlace his fingers with hers. It only fades when the desire to run his hands through her hair becomes inescapable.

“There’s this coffee shop in my neighborhood that I still haven’t been to—it’s one of those places that I should have tried already because it’s right there but I just always find myself visiting other shops. So I figured we’d go there.”

He watches her brush hair out of her face, moving so casually the fingers he’s seen work so precisely. He remembers the way she healed him, the way she drew his blood, the way she took the book from him in the library. He’s lost for a moment, watching her lips move and her eyes shine, and then she’s stepping towards him and damn he’d like to kiss her and then her hand is on his arm and he’s apparating before he can react.

He’s stumbling when they reappear, reeling from the suddenness and the stifled feelings. He curses under his breath as he tries to get his bearings but is still dizzy when he’s pulled into leafy foliage of some sort.

“Merlin’s beard, Draco, hush,” her voice is soft near his ear, and now he can feel the steadying press of her hand on his side.

He mutters an apology and steps away—he’s trying to get the leaves to retract from his collar but it also means that her hand drops. They’re standing in the bushes along what appears to be the back wall of a small white building.

“You don’t have to apologize,” she says, pulling a loose twig from her hair, “I asked if you were ready but you didn’t look ready so I should have trusted my gut.”

“Are you kidding me? That was all on me—you have no right to implicate yourself.”

They’re walking around to the front of the building as Hermione sighs, “Yeah, but—“

“Politely: shut the fuck up, Granger. I need another coffee.” He swings open the door and gestures her inside.

She’s got this bewildered look on her face and if he wasn’t (playfully) frustrated with her and at least a tiny bit embarrassed, it would be a rather endearing look. But, as it was, he simply follows her inside and breathes deeply the scents of coffee and cinnamon.

 

Draco should have guessed that Hermione Granger is an enjoyer of seasonal drinks that Muggle coffee shops sell at steeper prices.

They’re sitting near the front door, looking out the bank of windows more than at each other, which is okay. He’s sipping his coffee—somehow the barista got the cream ratio just right—and trying to keep himself from losing focus the way he did earlier. Gazing at the dampening world is probably the better choice at the moment. Hermione’s drinking her cinnamon chai tea and chattering about how she didn’t expect it to rain today so she chose not to wear her scarf and now her neck might get wet, which is something she’s not fond of.

He likes listening to her talk. It’s refreshing—nearly everything his mother says matters in some sociopolitical way, and here Hermione’s going on and on about something that doesn’t matter, but also… does? He cares about what she has to say, even if it’s silly or inconsequential.

He’s nearing the bottom of his coffee cup when she asks, “Did you ever carve pumpkins as a kid?”

It’s something he has to think about. Certainly not after the Dark Lord’s return, but it’s not that likely even before then. His father was not one for frivolities or childhood joy. The Malfoy Halloween gala only existed in its full glory after the war ended, and before Draco attended Hogwarts it was a fun secret to share with his mother and the Manor elves. But even in those happy moments, Draco can’t imagine a world where the messy tradition was a priority for his mother. He does remember setting out to carve pumpkins one Halloween in his early years at Hogwarts, but the culmination of the event is absent from his memory.

He delicately takes a final sip, avoiding the generous portion of coffee grounds. “I don’t think so. It wasn’t something I really did at Hogwarts. When I was quite young, my mother and I celebrated Halloween in a way hidden from my father, and thus couldn’t ever manage carving pumpkins.”

Hermione nods, popping the lid off her cup before resealing it and popping it up again. She’s not looking at him or the cup in her hands. “I remember not liking how messy of a process it is—it would probably be better with magic.”

“Are you wanting to try?” Draco proffers.

She meets his eyes for a moment, then drops her gaze. “No, not this year. But I would like to find a pumpkin or two to put on my front steps, if you’re up for braving the patch in the rain.”

“Anything for—the list of autumnal activities.” He’s glad he caught himself. Would he really do anything for her? Rain is practically negligible, but anything is a hefty sum.

Chapter 42: October 1, 2005

Notes:

prepare for some pumpkin patch shenanigans!

She really should have worn her scarf. It’s not raining very heavily, but water is falling from the sky and now her hair is gonna get bigger but probably not big enough to become a wearable umbrella. Thankfully, the decision to wear her boots was a good one—the pumpkin patch is a bit muddy.

Hermione’s browsing the larger pumpkins, looking for a few large enough to establish a presence on her front steps but not so large that they can’t stay on a step. Tumbling pumpkins sounds like a recipe for disaster.

Draco’s trailing behind her, quiet. She wonders if he’s reveling here too—has he ever been to a pumpkin patch? This one’s a cute little patch behind someone’s home because Hermione believes in supporting local farmers even if she’s not good at making friends with those in her community.

She stops next to a pumpkin that might be the right size. Crouching, she tries to hold her hands at approximately the width of her front steps to get a good comparison, but it only makes her more unsure.

“I don’t think it actually matters, you know,” he says over her shoulder.

She’s about to retort when the pumpkin shudders and quickly becomes larger than her estimation. In trying to shift away from it, her heel catches on a root and then she’s flailing and now her bottom is in the mud. Hermione glares up at Draco as he laughs, doubled over, but the smile on his lips wears her down. She shakes her head at him, casting her eyes about to make sure that no one else saw his obvious magic. They’re not alone at the pumpkin patch but the only other group is a young family—the father leading his orange-clad toddler through the muddy rows while the mother follows with a digital camera.

Draco’s laughter slows, but then he barely catches his breath before he’s giggling again. She’s never heard him laugh like this and it reminds her of simpler times, before the war. It makes her wonder what he’d be like without the war or even without the poison of his bloodline. Would his life be full of play and spontaneity? Her eyes drift to the young family again and, for the first time since she was thirteen, she wonders what having a family would be like.

“I’m sorry you fell in the mud but you were being so picky about size—I just couldn’t resist,” Draco says, the giggles mostly gone. Hermione looks up at him, feeling the raindrops on her cheeks and the mud dampening her jeans. And she wonders whether she’s been falling in love with Draco Malfoy this whole time. She remembers punching him in the face—she was thirteen then—and a suppressed memory comes to her: telling her roommates about the dream she had about him and trying to laugh it off. It took weeks for the blush to stop coming to her cheeks when she’d look at him across the Great Hall. Well, shit. Looks like the silly dreams of a silly girl can survive a war and worse.

He extends a hand to her, and she’s grateful to have help standing, as she feels like she’s about to lose a boot in this muck which is getting worse by the minute. Looking down at the pumpkin that is now the largest in the patch, she sighs.

“You’re right,” Hermione tells him, “I should just find pumpkins that look cute.”

There’s a squeal, and Draco startles next to her. She tries to keep the look to herself—the look that says he’s a rich prat, up there in his mansion, forgetting that kids exist.
The toddler comes bounce-running over with tiny hands reaching for the pumpkin at their feet. The adults jog over and the mother apologizes even though she needn’t. She’s still holding the camera. The man’s jeans are muddied at the knees.

“It’s the first autumn she’s old enough to enjoy,” he says, “and she’s enamored by pumpkins. Were you planning on claiming that one?”

Hermione chuckles and shakes her head, “No, no, she’s absolutely welcome to it!”

There’s a chorus of thanks and another squeal from the toddler. She stomps in place and claps, her tiny body unable to hold all the joy within her.

Hermione smiles and forces herself to step away from the family’s moment. The last time she thought about having kids of her own was half a lifetime ago. She told Ginny having a baby during a war was the worst idea she’s ever had. She wants to hold Draco’s hand. She wants to—the vehemence with which she pushes the thought from her mind makes her stumble. A steadying hand is placed at the small of her back, but that almost makes it worse.

She needs to have Ginny and Lily over, needs to pour herself into those relationships. She doesn’t need to have a kid of her own right now or anytime soon.

Draco stops walking after a moment, catching her arm to stop her movement but dropping his hand before she’d like. She tries to avoid his eyes but his voice is inescapable right now.

“Hey, you okay?” He’s speaking softly, trying to catch her gaze, “You seem pretty shaken.”

“Um, yeah, I just—“ she glances back at the family. She can’t tell him what she’s really thinking because she doesn’t even want to think it.

“Harry died before Lily was one,” she finally says. “Seeing them makes me wonder what her childhood could have been like if he was still around.” Saying it out loud makes the intruding thoughts smaller, and she can meet his eyes again.

He looks so sad, and he opens and shuts his mouth a few times before sighing.

Running a hand through his dampening hair, he says, “Hermione, I know it doesn’t matter that much but I need you to know that I was assigned to finding and killing Ginny and her baby. I made a lot of arrangements with a lot of people to keep her safe, and it all turned out okay in the end, but I need to say this to you so it doesn’t just rot in my head forever.”

Hermione’s speechless for a moment. And then she’s throwing her arms around his neck because if she doesn’t bury her face in his shoulder she’ll end up kissing him. He stands stiff for a full two seconds before relaxing enough to set his arms around her.

“Thank you,” she says, lips against the raindrops on his flannel, “Thank you for shielding her, for risking yourself, for having a good heart.”

She feels his arms tighten, enveloping her against him. Being held by him is so pleasant, even if her face is getting wet. She has no idea what he smells like but breathing him in from this close is nice.

“Do you…” he begins, and hearing his soft voice right next to her ear brings more thoughts to her head that deserve to be swept under the rug. She pulls back to look at his face, and from the corner of her eye sees the family leaving with their too-large pumpkin in a wagon.

“Do you think I could meet Lily? I… think it would grant me the closure I need for that particular war crime.”

Hermione grins at him. “I’ve got some more autumn activities up my sleeve.”

“Well, good, because I’m tired of getting rained on and think you’re taking too long to choose pumpkins.”

She scoffs and shoves his arm before turning to the rows of smaller pumpkins because those ones are always cuter.

Chapter 43: Flurry of Notes Part 1

Ginny,
I’d love to have you and Lily over on Saturday for a movie night—would 6pm be okay?
There’s a fun Muggle Halloween movie I’d like to share with you both.
I’d also like to have over a new friend of mine if that’s okay with you.
HJG

~~~

Hermione
We’ll be there—Lily’s been loving popcorn recently so a movie night is the perfect thing
to promise to let her have as much as she wants.
I’d love to meet your new friend. Is this a new friend or…?
Regardless, I’d like to get together with you and Luna sometime so I can formally introduce her as my girlfriend.
I’m not ready to introduce her to Lily yet, but hopefully soon.
Ginny

~~~

Ginny,
I’d love to grab coffee with you and Luna soon.
I’ll have some popcorn for Lily.
HJG

~~~

Hermione
You didn’t answer my question.
Ginny

Chapter 44: Flurry of Notes Part 2

Malfoy,
Movie night at my place—Saturday at 6. I’ll have snacks.
Ginny and Lily will be there, would it be okay if I invited the rest of the Weasleys too?
HJG

~~~

Hermione—
Your home is neutral territory, I won’t cause a scene.
Would you be free tomorrow to help me refinish the guest room floor?
It’s grueling work but will go faster with more hands—my mother is
proud of my remodel work but won’t stoop to it
and the elves shouldn’t need to do stuff like this. It’s okay if not.
Also, please have some Oreos for Saturday.
DM

~~~

Draco,
I would love to help with the floor even though I’ve never
done anything like it before. I’ll meet you at the gates at 7pm.
I’ll have Oreos for you. Any other requests?
HJG

~~~

Hermione—
Something autumnal?
Also, should I bring anything?
DM

~~~

Draco,
Just the playful attitude you brought to the pumpkin patch;
we’re watching a Muggle Halloween movie that came out over a decade
ago and is rather silly. I don’t think Lily’s seen it before.
HJG

~~~

Hermione—
I’m looking forward to it.
DM

Chapter 45: Flurry of Notes Part 3

Molly—
I’d love to have you and any of the kids who can make it over to watch a
Muggle Halloween movie with me on Saturday at 6pm.
Ginny and Lily are already planning on coming, and I’ve invited a new friend
that I’d like people to be openminded about.
I would greatly appreciate it if you could spread this among your kids
since I don’t have addresses for many of them anymore.
Hermione

~~~

Hermione dear,
I’ll be there. I think Ron will be too. Not sure who else will be able to
make it—Fred is attending a local Quidditch tournament with a few
Hogwarts friends and Bill & Fleur are in France—but I’ll let everyone know.
Molly

~~~

Molly—
Thanks so much. Sending love.
Hermione

Chapter 46: Flurry of Notes Part 4

Draco—
Are you super sore today?
My back is upset that I exist and my
knees feel older than they ever have.
I can’t believe you’re doing all of that without magic.
HJG

~~~

Hermione,
I did mention that it’s grueling work, but wasn’t it satisfying?
It would be much less fulfilling if I just used magic.
Thank you for helping me—it was nice to be with you.
DM

~~~

Draco—
I’m glad I could be there.
I’ll see you on Saturday—if my body doesn’t kill me
for participating in manual labor.
HJG

Chapter 47: October 8, 2005

Notes:

I have a ton to share with you today, so buckle up!

Hermione doesn’t know why she feels so nervous. Yeah, she’s bringing the Weasleys into her home while Draco is here and, yeah, he was a Death Eater and a war criminal. And well, yeah, there’s the blood feud, but it won’t be that bad. Right?

She’s proven wrong when Ron arrives. He steps through the door wearing a Molly-made sweater and sweeps Lily up into his arms. Hermione’s smiling at how fun of an uncle he must be as he sets a giggling Lily back on her feet and straightens. His eyes slide to Draco, standing by the sofa with a mug in his hand, and then he glares at Hermione.

“Ron, I asked everyone to be openminded—“ she says calmly, but he’s already out the door. She sighs and turns back to the kitchen, needing to set out cocoa fixings anyway.

Ginny’s in the kitchen, pulling mugs from a cabinet. She doesn’t turn from her task as she speaks.

“That was Ron, right? Came and left when he saw Malfoy?”

“Yeah,” Hermione says, sounding more defeated than she’d like.

“I’m not surprised, and you shouldn’t let it bother you. He’s not good at the openminded or accepting bits of relationships. Never has been. Remember when he thought you were super involved with Krum?” Ginny turns now, levitating a chorus of mugs across to the counter full of snacks.

Hermione can’t think of anything to say and doesn’t really want to remember the dramas of fourth year, but at least her anxiety is fading. Maybe she was most nervous about Ron’s reaction without realizing it.

Lily shouts, “Grandma!” from the front room, meaning that Molly has arrived. Hermione takes a deep breath and steps out of the kitchen, all smiles for the witch who practically raised her.

Molly’s wearing what she’s always worn—skirts and sweaters with too many layers. Her embrace is warm and comforting, and Hermione is glad once again to have access to a mother who knows who she is. She pushes away the longing for a hug from her own mother and formally introduces Molly to Draco. Hermione notices the way Molly won’t look at him, but at least she isn’t storming out like Ron did.

“Is anyone else coming tonight?” She asks, leading Molly to the softer of the two armchairs.

“Fred might swing by late tonight—depends on if the team he’s rooting for gets to the finals or not.”

Ginny laughs, “Well, for our sake I hope they lose every match. I haven’t seen Fred since ‘Mione’s birthday.” She steps over and kisses Molly’s graying hair, murmuring greetings to her mother.

Hermione steps to the TV and welcomes everyone, announces the name of the movie they’ll be watching, and gets the DVD player ready to go.

As the opening scene begins, she settles in the other armchair and says, “I did say that this is a rather silly movie, please keep that in mind.”

Ginny laughs and Draco smiles at her—which, fuck, there’s a reason she chose the armchair. If she sits too close to him tonight she’s going to fall apart.

Chapter 48: October 8, 2005

Draco is very glad this child is alive. Lily is charming and playful and loved by so many people. He wasn’t expecting her to be practically glued to his side—he anticipated just watching her from across the room.

When everyone was settling in to start the movie, Lily sat right next to him on the sofa and immediately asked him to hold her plate of snacks. He sought out Ginny and raised an eyebrow, not wanting to engage with her child without her consent, but Ginny nodded and shrugged, then mouthed ‘she loves new people.’

And now he’s convincing her to try the single Oreo on her plate. It’s the only snack she hasn’t devoured—the popcorn was the first to go, quickly followed by the gummy candies and other cookies. But the Oreo is new, and thus the sole survivor.

“These are my favorite snacks,” he whispers to her.

She twists to look him straight in the face. “My Grandma says that about green beans but that doesn’t mean I like them.”

Draco chuckles and shrugs, “Guess that means you’ll just have to try it and decide for yourself.”

She squints at him for a few seconds, then readjusts in her spot and watches the movie for another minute. And then she quietly takes the Oreo from the plate.

He can’t help but smile at his success, which makes him wonder if this is how Hermione felt when she had him try all those snacks. He looks around for her just as she stands to walk towards the kitchen. She’s wearing these leggings with a spiderweb pattern on them, but he’s just focused on how long her legs are and the way her calves become her ankles. Then she’s gone and he has to watch silly anachronistic witches again.

Hermione said this movie is called ‘Hocus Pocus’ and that it was released during their third year at Hogwarts. It’s when the blonde witch is flirting with the bus driver that Lily leans over and whispers loudly to him.

“I actually like Oreos, can I have more?”

Draco nods and gives her a thumbs up, then rises from the sofa.

Hermione is standing at the sink, methodically stirring a mug full of cocoa—too full, telling by the small puddle on the counter.

He stands next to her, arranging four Oreos and a handful of popcorn on Lily’s plate.

“Thank you for letting me meet her,” He says quietly.

“Of course,” she says, not taking her eyes off the mug in her hands. “Thank you for getting her to try Oreos—we’ve got to spread the good word somehow.”

Draco smiles, desperate to touch her as he walks past and returns to the eager child on the sofa.

Chapter 49: October 8, 2005

Notes:

Branching out with POV’s a bit more!

Ginny wonders why Hermione has refused to tell her about Malfoy. She’s seen people make up across sides of the war before, but she can tell that this is the reason Hermione didn’t answer her question in her most recent letter, and why she was asking about finding a new partner after Harry.

The feelings Malfoy and Hermione have for each other are near palpable but neither of them are in on it. Ginny feels like she’s watching two Beaters trying to defend their teammates while refusing to even acknowledge each other. She wants to lock the two of them in the bathroom and not let them out ‘til they kiss.

About halfway through the movie, Lily asks for more Oreos (somehow she’s convinced Malfoy to carefully open them and let her have the half with more frosting) and Ginny finds herself alone in the kitchen with Hermione.

Sidling up, she half-whispers, “Hermione, you twat, you’ve fallen in love with Malfoy.”

Hermione chokes on her water and spills half the glass down her shirt, which is pretty funny but laughing would ruin this conversation. Her face is flushed and her eyes are watering when she splutters a defense.

“What? I—no—that’s not—“

“Shut up, ‘Mione, I know he’s the reason you asked about dating after Harry. I know he’s a new friend even if you refused to answer my question.” Ginny grabs a stack of Oreos and lets them arrange themselves in a nice row on Lily’s plate. Hermione hasn’t said anything else, so Ginny turns and raises an eyebrow at her.

“How long has this been going on?” She asks.

“A couple months,” Hermione responds, looking down and fussing with her shirt.

“You have to tell me everything.” Ginny places a hand on her friend’s arm, and then she hears her mother bustling into the kitchen and complaining about having to do everything herself. Ginny extends the plate of Oreos to her mother without taking her eyes off Hermione. Mum grumbles some more and walks out with it.

Hermione sighs and finally looks up. “I’ll write you a letter and explains things as best I can.”

Ginny squeezes her arm and smiles, then says, “He is getting hotter with age.”

Hermione blushes again but nods a lot and turns away. Ginny’s smile becomes something else as she returns to the living room just in time to see Malfoy floating Oreos through the air so Lily can snatch and gobble them. It’s cute and, while she never expected Malfoy to be good with kids, he’s got this playful side she hasn’t ever had the chance to see.

Watching this stranger of a man play with her daughter makes her wonder what kind of father Harry could have been. He loved to play with Lily as a baby—surely it wouldn’t be any different. But would he have been able to watch a man with a Dark Mark play with his daughter? Or would he have left as abruptly as Ron did?

It’s hard to think about—Harry did the right things but had deep prejudices.

Hermione’s in a different shirt when she reemerges from her bedroom. Ginny watches and—yep, there go those wandering eyes of Malfoy’s. She settles more fully into her beanbag, trying to hide the smirk that returned to her lips, and wonders how long it’s going to take them. Knowing Hermione, it’s either going to happen all-of-a-sudden tomorrow or not in any form ‘til next year.

Chapter 50: October 8, 2005

Molly can’t meet the Malfoy boy’s eyes. It’s the first time since the war that she’s been in a room with a Death Eater, let alone a Malfoy. Is he to blame for Harry’s death? Or George’s or Arthur’s or anybody else’s? She can’t be sure, but seeing this boy and knowing there’s a Mark on his arm is bringing those memories—those deaths—fresh into her mind.

She almost calls out when her granddaughter asks to sit next to him for the film—why should such a lovely child be allowed to sit so close to such a monster—but she sees the way he smiles at her and holds her plate. Is this even the same boy who tormented her babies during school, who fought in a war, who killed Dumbledore and countless others?

He seems so soft and gentle and kind.

By the end of the night, Molly still can’t bear to meet his gaze, but maybe he is different, and maybe that’s why Hermione can’t stop looking at him.

Chapter 51: October 8, 2005

Even Hermione (non-parent that she is) can tell that beneath Lily’s sugar rush, the kid is tired. She gave Molly the briefest of goodbye hugs, and Ginny’s been trying to get her to leave for the past twenty minutes. Ever since the movie ended she’s been chatting at Draco about how different the Sanderson sisters are from the witches she knows, and how not all witches want to eat children, and how her mom can see the sun without turning into a statue. Draco’s just been sitting there, nodding sagely, taking all the chatter in stride. It reminds her of the way Draco acts with the Manor elves. Some of them must be really chatty, too.

She’s in the kitchen packing away the leftover snacks when Lily pulls Draco through the doorway.

“‘Mione, can we watch another movie next weekend? My mom said it’s okay with her but told me to ask you.”

Hermione nods vigorously, kneeling to be at her level. “Of course, Lily. Muggles are obsessed with witches—we have many more movies to watch.”

Lily nearly spins in a circle while shouting, but Hermione can see the fatigue creeping in. The rims of her eyes are reddening, her voice is getting scratchy, and she’s not as stable on her feet. Once she’s recovered from the joyous outburst, she asks a question that surprises Hermione.

“Can Draco come, too?”

Hermione glances up at him—hair tousled, Oreo crumbs on his shirt, a smile on his lips.

“Well, you and your mom and Draco are my best friends, so I hope all three of you can be there. Why don’t you ask Draco if he can come to our next movie night?”

Lily turns and pulls on one of his hands with both of hers. “Draco, we’re gonna watch another movie next weekend and I think you should definitely be there and—“

“Lily,” he says, kneeling in front of her, “I was already planning on being there.”

She does another spin-shout and races from the kitchen. Hermione watches her go, hearing her excitedly relay the news to Ginny, who is (probably) listening while prompting Lily to get her shoes on. And then she looks at Draco and realizes both of them are on their knees, left behind by the person they were kneeling for. He meets her eyes, his smile softening.

Stay, she wants to tell him, stay with me tonight.

Instead she asks, “Could you help me finish cleaning up?”

Chapter 52: October 8, 2005

It’s late, Ginny and Lily left ten minutes ago, and Draco’s stalling because he doesn’t want to leave. He helped Hermione put everything away and load the dishwasher (no longer as foreign as it used to be). He even put on his shoes. But opening that door and apparating away sounds awful right now.

Hermione’s fussing with the television and all that accompanies it—something he wasn’t ever able to figure out in his hotel rooms. Maybe someday he’ll have her explain it all to him. He remembers the hospital room, the way she walked in while he was trying to comprehend the remote. It was only a few months ago, but he feels wildly different. Not only has he practically forgotten the wound he sustained and the amount of healing it took, but he also regards Hermione in a different way than he used to. He’s much fonder of her than he ever has been, and has found himself immensely grateful for her. And now he’s leaning against her front door as she stands up, runs a hand down her face, and looks at him.

“I don’t know why it feels so much later than it is,” she says, plopping down on the sofa.

Draco pushes off of the door and moves to sit next to her. He’s been dying to sit this close to her all night, but Lily wouldn’t leave his side.

“Because Lily’s so high-energy. Ginny must be so tired all the time.” He notices Oreo crumbs on his shirt and brushes them off.

“Yeah,” Hermione mumbles. Then, louder, “I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you but Ginny’s dating someone, so hopefully she won’t have to do the single-parent thing for too much longer.”

“Oh?” Draco asks, pulling a knee up and shifting so he can look at her better. “Anyone I’d know?”

She laughs, resting her head on the back of the sofa. “Again, I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell you.”

“You don’t have to, I’m just curious.” The line of her neck stretched out is lovely and incredibly tempting.

“She’s been seeing Luna Lovegood, which would have surprised me during school but makes sense now. They’ve been through a lot of the same things, and Ginny’s got this wildness that I think Luna complements well. Besides, I think she’s tired of dating Quidditch players.”

“I would be, too, based on the few years I played. They’re all either athletic and rather committed to the game, or rich snobs who bought their way into the prestige of the team.”

She smiles at the ceiling, then tilts her head to look at him, “You were such a rich snob.”

Draco holds up his hands and shrugs a little, “Can’t deny that.”

Hermione laughs again and moves away from him—he almost reaches out to pull her back—but then she pulls both legs up on the sofa and faces him, sitting cross-legged.

“You were insufferable!” She says, “And you always talked about your father as if he—“

“He had money and that’s it,” Draco cuts in, “He wasn’t even good at politics, he was just awful and was always trying to weasel his way into importance, and I’m sorry that his influence made me so insensitive and snobbish.”

She pauses and looks at him for a moment before saying, “I never liked you, Draco, not in school. But what I told Lily was the truth, you’re one of my best friends now.”

His gaze softens. He almost tells her I think I want to be more than friends, but he says, “Thank you. I’m glad to be considered your friend, and I’m grateful to have you as a friend, as well.”

She yawns and stretches in a way that shifts the hem of her shirt (in a way that Draco’s trying not to pay attention to).

“You should get to bed,” He says as he moves to stand up, “Thanks for having me over, I’ll see you next Saturday if I don’t see you before then.”

Hermione nods and yawns again, and it’s cute, but Draco needs to leave now or he’ll ask to spend the night.

Hermione walks him to the door and, for the first time that evening, Crookshanks makes an appearance, scrambling around the corner and crashing into Draco’s calves. She scoops up the cat and leans her chin on its head, which is the perfect excuse to keep him from asking to kiss her.

“I’ll see you later,” she says sleepily. Damn, he’d really love to walk her to bed.

“Later,” he tells her, then steps through the door and apparates straight into his bedroom—he can’t face any elves, let alone his mother, after being at Granger’s home for longer than the running time of most Muggle movies.

Draco takes a lukewarm shower because it’s too late for a cold one. He falls into bed for approximately two minutes before getting up and snatching a Dreamless Sleep draught from his desk. He’s got to stop thinking about her so much.

Chapter 53: October 9, 2005

Ginny,

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier—well, sort of. I don’t think I’m actually sorry,
I think if I had told you via letter you would have had a stronger reaction,
because seeing him in person makes him seem so much different than he used to be.

We chatted last night after you and Lily left, he acknowledged being a rich snob and
talked about the influence of his father (who’s dead now, if you don’t recall).
He was awful to the both of us, but isn’t he so soft now?
He was really excited to meet Lily—I’m glad she took to him so quickly.

Anyway, there’s a lot to tell you.
I met him again in August—he was injured and in my hospital.
I think he got hurt on that wild assignment that Ron was telling us about on my birthday.
That one meeting in the hospital could have been it,
but he asked me for more healing so he came over several times,
but then we just kept meeting up. He’s a great friend—very kind and considerate.
He’s remodeling Malfoy Manor and it’s (sometimes) fun to work on it with him.
He really has an eye for interior design, which I wouldn’t have expected.
He’s also rather playful sometimes, which is another surprising thing.

I… am quite fond of—oh damn it, Ginny, you’re right.
I’ve totally fallen for him. He’s just so nice to look at.
I like his hair and I like his hands and I like the way his shoulders become his back.
I like the way he thinks and I like discussing things with him
and I’ve learned a lot from him.

Last weekend we went to a pumpkin—oh, no, Ginny,
I totally put together a date for the two of us and didn’t even
consider it as a date until now.
We went to a pumpkin patch and he was quite silly.
I like his laugh and I like the way he treats other people
and I like the way he looks at me—but that couldn’t
mean anything, right? We’ve been becoming friends for a couple
months and just because I’m really quite attracted to him doesn’t
mean that he feels the same way and there’s no way to know that right now—

I’m spiraling. I can’t think about that anymore.
Yes, I like him a lot. Yes, he is getting hotter with age and,
yes, there’s a part of me that would really like to do unspeakable things to him,
but right now he’s just a friend, and
I’m okay with it staying that way for at least a bit longer.

I don’t want to spook him, Ginny.
I don’t want to be too forward and run him off.
I care for him as a person—I don’t want to lose his friendship at
the cost of seeing him naked, which is something I’m trying
to stop thinking about right now.

I value our friendship the way it is, and
I’m not trying to rush it into something else.

Does that answer your question? I feel like I told you
everything but also very little, so don’t hesitate to ask
follow up questions—just please don’t ask about how much I want to—

All my love,
Hermione.

Hermione has just finished the letter when there’s a knock on the door. Her heart leaps and she’s hoping it’s Draco, but when she opens the door Ron is standing there. She wants to ask if he’s here to apologize for storming out the other night. The look on his face gives her the sense that she’s about to get a self-righteous lecture from Ron Weasley.

“I can’t believe you let Malfoy in your house.”

Hermione sighs and leans against the doorframe. Definitely a self-righteous lecture.

“He’s actually been in my house quite a bit, which I could have told you if you hadn’t stormed out.”

“I couldn’t stand to be here while he was.” Ron folds his arms across his chest.

“It’s not like you come around anyway.”

“I mean, well, with work—“

“Don’t you work with Draco? You couldn’t have just held onto the amicable working relationship for a couple hours?”

“Yeah, I work with Malfoy, but he’s not the kind of person I want to interact with outside of work. Just because Greta trusts him doesn’t mean I need to.”

“You’re right, you don’t need to trust him, I was only asking you to be openminded for the duration of a silly movie.”

“I can’t believe you called him Draco, that’s almost worse than knowing you’re dating him.”

Hermione stands up straight. “He’s just a friend, Ron.”

“He’s probably chaining you to the bed and forcing his—“

A sharp inhale at the accusation. “Keep your sexual fantasies to yourself, Ronald. We’re not dating. I called him a friend for a reason.”

“Death Eaters don’t make good friends, Hermione. He’s killed people before and there’s no telling—“

“He’s not even a Death Eater, he’s just a guy and if you wanted to have any influence on who I befriend, you should have married me or something.”

“I wasn’t—“

“Yes, you were, Ron. Shut up and get off my porch.” She slams the door in his face and apparates to Malfoy Manor.

Chapter 54: October 9, 2005

Draco’s sanding the second side table for the guest room when the wards alert him to someone at the gate. Is his mother expecting company? It’s an odd time, as she’s already eaten dinner and retired to the greenhouse for the evening. He stands and brushes off his overalls—not very flattering or even proper attire for a Malfoy but it’s what this unexpected guest gets to see him in.

eivie appears next to him at the top of the entryway stairs.

“Miss Granger is here, Master Draco, close to shouting up the drive.”

Draco nearly loses his footing on the steps. Hermione, here? Normally she sends a note about visits—is something wrong? He quickens his pace a bit on the stairs and practically jogs across the entrance hall. He swings open the door just as Hermione reaches the front steps. eivie was right, her unintelligible monologue is escalating. He closes the door behind him so the portraits won’t be disturbed—Mother is in the greenhouse and the elves are all eavesdropping anyway, but those old Malfoys are sensitive and won’t refrain from complaining about it.

“Hermione?” He asks as she stomps up the stairs.

She looks up and, with fire in her eyes, starts shouting.

“Ron Weasley is an absolute bastard! He’s so judgmental and he jumps to conclusions and I wish he had died in the war and he ought to—“

“Hermione,” Draco says again, ushering her to the bench on the porch, “Start at the beginning.” He’s never seen her this upset. Well, there was that one time she punched him in third year, but she wasn’t wishing him dead (probably).

She sits with a sigh and her voice is still louder than it needs to be when she speaks again.

“Ron knocked on my door a bit ago and I thought he was there to apologize for being a dick last night but he was all like ‘I can’t believe you let Malfoy in your house’ and he was making wild assumptions and wilder accusations and—“

“What sorts of accusations?” He’s trying to break the outburst into smaller chunks because her magic is getting wilder.

“He practically painted you as my abuser, which is entirely unfounded because you rarely touch me without consent and I can’t believe the audacity of that man—to confront me like that on my porch, to come at me trying to exercise control over who I’m friends with, control that he has absolutely no right to because he’s not my spouse and he’s barely my friend anymore and—“

“Hermione,” Draco says firmly. She finally stops talking and stares at him. His attempts to slow her down weren’t fruitful; he’s got to give her a chance to think before the fury burns through her.

“You have every reason to be upset—Ron’s actions were inconsiderate and his words were inappropriate. We’re on the same page about that. Now I need you to take a deep breath before you break the bench my great grandfather made.”

She looks down, at the cracks appearing in the wood slats between them.

“Oh,” she says, back to her normal volume, “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize for the way your magic responds to your emotions—somehow I vaporized all the dust off my overalls when you mentioned the way Weasley perceives me.” He’s trying to avoid dwelling on it so instead he wonders if his overalls might even be cleaner than they were a couple years ago.

Hermione laughs a small, tired laugh. The fire in her eyes has burned out, and now she just looks empty.

Moving slowly so she can object if she’d like, he sets a hand just above her knee.

“I’m sorry you were on the receiving end of that. Weasley could’ve just talked to me about it the next time we were working together, but he chose to take it out on you.”

She just nods, staring blankly at the porch.

Should he…? No, not now, she’s had an emotionally draining evening. If he were in her shoes, wouldn’t he like—but there’s no way he can speak for her wants and—

Hermione lays her head against his shoulder, shocking Draco from his rationalizing as she makes the decision for him.

It’s really lovely, being this close to her, feeling her breath on his arm, feeling the warmth of her. He’d like to set his arm around her shoulders and pull her closer, but decides to just live in this moment and revel in the closeness and the contact.

He looks out at the grounds, the drive, the gate.

Autumn is pretty. Hermione is pretty.

Hermione had to walk so far to talk to him—it’s unfair, really. He slips his wand out of a pocket and begins to refresh the wards. Normally he takes a broom around the perimeter when they need resetting but adding to them like this can happen from anywhere within the protected area.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asks while he’s murmuring.

He pauses and shifts a bit, which unfortunately means she sits up straight.

“I’m adding you to the wards so you can apparate into the Manor. May I?” He’s asking for her hand and she complies and, Merlin’s fucking beard, it’s nice to hold her hand.

He returns to his spell work, channeling Hermione’s energy and unique magical signature into the dome of magic over the Manor. The wards will still alert him if she passes them, but they’re no longer preventing her from apparating onto the grounds or into the Manor. Years ago, when his father was the one warding the Manor, the magic would have rejected Hermione and barred her entry entirely. Draco saw no need for that particular ward to continue when he took up the warding a few years ago. He’s glad that he doesn’t have to change that portion of the wards today, in front of her. He just gets to tell his house to trust her.

And, now that he thinks about it, if the blood-status prejudice hadn’t been removed from the wards she wouldn’t have been able to visit that drunken night when she asked to be his friend—the magic would have lashed out at her upon arrival. He remembers, for a moment, the screams that echoed through the halls while she was imprisoned here. Then he scours it from his mind and promises himself that the magic of this Manor will not harm Hermione Granger ever again.

With his spell work complete, Draco settles back on the bench and hopes that Hermione allows him to continue holding her hand. She doesn’t pull away. He breathes a sigh and turns to meet her gaze.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, “That means a lot.”

He nods and looks out over the grounds again.

“I’d add you to my wards but they cover much less ground than yours—apparating to the porch isn’t that much different from apparating to the living room.”

He smiles at her and says, “The porch is fine. I like checking on the vines on your railing.”

She returns the smile, her eyes reflecting the orange glow of the clouds. Then she leans her head against his shoulder again and together they watch the setting sun.

Chapter 55: October 9, 2005

It’s quite dark out by the time Hermione apparates home. She’s sleepy but also absolutely wired—leaning against Draco and watching the sunset was as electrifying as it was comforting.

Crookshanks almost immediately starts batting at her ankles when she appears in the living room.

“Oh, so sorry, sweetie, I forgot to set dinner out for you.” Blearily, with her mind elsewhere (his hands are rough but he held hers so softly), she prepares a bowl of food and sets it on the floor for the cat.

“You can blame Ron Weasley for my tardiness,” she tells Crookshanks before drifting into the office to grab her sleep bonnet.

Shit, Ginny’s letter.

Without sitting down, she leans over the desk and scrawls an addendum. She’ll send the letter with a crow tomorrow but has to write about tonight.

 

PS—
I went to Malfoy Manor after writing this
(it was because Ron confronted me, so go him, I guess)
and Draco’s great at listening to my rampages but after
that he held my hand and we watched the sunset from the porch.
Oh, and he added me to the wards for the Manor.

Am I dating Draco Malfoy?

Chapter 56: Cover Art!

I drew this cover art recently but forgot to share it here! Clink the link to view it :)

 

Drive link!

Chapter 57: October 15, 2005

Hermione’s sitting with her elbow on the desk and her chin in her hand, staring at the computer screen. She’s been planning to watch Practical Magic tonight but decided to Google it ahead of time. It’s a good thing she did because most of the plot revolves around an abusive boyfriend and possession—not things she remembers the movie for, but also not things that she wants to show Lily tonight. She’ll save Practical Magic for a future Halloween.

She stands and moves into the living room, plopping down in front of the DVD shelf. Scanning titles in the witchy section, she comes across a movie sillier and cringier than Hocus Pocus but just as nostalgic: Halloweentown. Perfect for a five-year-old.

She’s pulling the DVD out when there’s a knock at the door. Hermione sets the movie on top of the shelf and goes to answer but it opens before she can stand up all the way.
And then Draco’s there, standing in the doorway looking sheepish. She feels tension unwind in her gut—it’s good to have him here.

“You can come in, Draco,” she tells him as Crookshanks scrambles towards the door, “I knew it was either you or Ginny and both of you are welcome to walk in after you knock.”

He nods and shuts the door behind him, then looks down. “Hi, cat, it’s nice to see you, too.” Crookshanks is batting as Draco’s ankles and doing that playful meow of his. Hermione’s suddenly grateful that her cat doesn’t hate this man who spends a lot of time here.

Draco moves further into the entryway, hanging up a wool coat and stepping out of his shoes. He approaches her and she wants to ask for a hug but that is way too forward. Instead she launches into a rambling explanation of her movie choice.

He flops on the sofa and shrugs. “I haven’t seen either movie so I’m not particular.” Crookshanks jumps up and settles in his lap, which is a first. He seems momentarily surprised by it but continues, “If you were set on Practical Magic for tonight, you and I could watch it after Ginny takes Lily home.”

Many images flash through Hermione’s mind, very few of which are appropriate for the five-year-old about to show up. She beats those thoughts back with a mental broom and tries to keep her voice even as she responds.

“That would be great, if it doesn’t end up being too late.”

There’s another knock on the door and Ginny is opening it slowly, sticking her face in the opening and peering at them before swinging it open wide enough for Lily to enter.

“Draco, Crooksy loves you!” Lily comes bounding up to him, red scarf flying behind her.

Ginny rolls her eyes and levels her wand at the girl, murmuring incantations as Lily chatters at Draco and pets Crookshanks. One arm at a time, Lily’s coat is pulled from her body. It and the scarf levitate over to Ginny, who hangs them up on the hooks next to Draco’s coat. The green rain boots are next, and Hermione can tell that this is a regular enough occurrence for Lily to know exactly when to bend her knee and lift her foot behind her.

Hermione walks to Ginny and makes sure her back is to Draco before asking very quietly, “You were checking to make sure we had clothes on, weren’t you?”

Ginny winks and says, “Someday I won’t be so lucky.” She sidesteps Hermione, whose jaw has dropped. Of all the things she could have said. It takes Hermione a full ten seconds to turn around and introduce Lily to the snacks she prepared for tonight.

“There’s popcorn and Oreos and I picked up some cupcakes. Little simpler than last week since there’s less of us, but there is warm cider in the kettle.”

Lily giggles and points at the witch decorations on the cupcakes.

“See?” Hermione asks, “I told you Muggles are obsessed with witches. You choose some snacks while I get the movie ready.” She passes Draco on her way into the living room and overhears him offer to help Lily fill her plate.

Ginny’s already in an armchair, feet up on a blanket pile, braiding her hair back.

Hermione kneels and sets up the DVD player. There’s a question burning a hole in her brain.

“Do you and Luna have sex?” She whispers to Ginny without turning her head.

“All the time, you prude,” is the whispered response she gets.

“Where?”

“You’re sure nosy, trying to join us?”

Hermione cheeks flush and she fumbles the DVD. She shakes her head, both at Ginny and herself. Lily and Draco come in right as Hermione’s got everything ready to go. They take the sofa and are quickly joined by Crookshanks, who thankfully is more interested in Draco’s hands than Lily’s snacks.

“This is another silly witch movie,” she announces while settling in her armchair, “It’s called Halloweentown.”

Chapter 58: October 15, 2005

Draco feels like he watches Hermione more than the movie. He likes noticing when she smiles or grimaces and likes tracing the profile of her face. He wishes he could hold her and touch her face and feel her warmth next to him. He wishes he had the courage to tell her how he feels.

It is nice to have the cat in his lap, gently batting at or licking his hands. The cat is keeping his hands busy and preventing him from getting too lost in thought as he gazes at Hermione.

It’s when the little girl on screen is levitating a cookie that the little girl on the sofa next to him giggles and turns to catch Draco’s eye. He levitates an Oreo off her plate like he did last week, which makes her giggle more before she snatches it from the air.

Draco smiles and his eyes drift back to Hermione.

Most of the movie passes without any real awareness of the film. He catches the moment when the little girl manages to turn a lock into a frog, so he transfigures Lily’s cupcake wrapper into a frog and lets it hop around the living room for a bit before summoning it to himself and turning it back. Hermione and Ginny laugh but Lily is shocked silent—she must not see much transfiguration of things into frogs, a task great for the classroom but rather impractical outside of it.

The next moment Draco’s truly aware of is when the main character’s younger brother starts showing evidence of magic. Maybe it’s because of the wizard representation in this witch-heavy movie, or maybe it’s because his attention is caught by the magical effect they’re trying to imitate. Regardless, he causes blue sparks to shower over Lily’s head until she leaps from the couch and tumbles into her mother’s arms a giggling heap. She spends the last little bit of the movie there. Draco can’t see her face but her body relaxes so much he has to wonder if she’s fallen asleep.

His suspicions are confirmed when Ginny levitates Lily’s limp little body immediately after the conclusion of the movie, nods to both Draco and Hermione, and collects her things from the entryway. She gathers Lily into her arms, steps through the doorway, and apparates away.

Hermione stands and stretches and her movement lifts the hem of her shirt just enough for Draco to see her bellybutton, which suddenly feels like far too much. He looks down and collects all the crumbs and trash left on the sofa before vanishing them. The cat yawns widely before hopping down and disappearing from view.

He watches Hermione step to the television and crouch in front of it as she fiddles with things.

“You still up for watching another movie?” She asks over her shoulder.

“Sure,” he responds, trying to look away from her ass.

“We can start it tonight but finish it later if we need to, just keep me posted.”

The film begins and she sits next to him on the sofa, filling Draco with an odd mix of relief and tension. She’s finally so close but he can’t help the way he wants a lot more of her.

He watches this movie more than the previous one, but only because looking at Hermione would be too obvious. He’s rather impartial about anything that happens on screen—the person next to him is far more engaging. The way her breathing makes her arm brush his, the way she’s so close to leaning against him. He drinks in her nearness and relishes the warmth of her like he’s freezing to death.

 

“Draco?”

Her voice rouses him—had he dozed off?

She touches his arm and he wants to hold her. He opens his eyes to find her turning to look at him. Faces are stilled on screen and he has no context for what’s happening. How long has he been out?

“We’re about halfway through the movie and you’re rather sleepy.” Her voice is soft and gentle and lovely. “Do you want to pause here and come back to this another night?”

“S’fine,” he mumbles—it’s definitely not fine, he should definitely go home and sleep in his bed, but at the same time, he definitely wants to stay here, on her sofa, leaning against her—wait, leaning against her?

He sits up straight and rubs a hand over his face. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, really. I’d like to finish the movie tonight, if you don’t mind.”

A yawn. “We’ll have to watch it all the way through some other time.”

“You can stay—doze while I watch the rest.”

He blinks a few times and meets her eyes.

“You sure?” He asks.

“Yes.” She smiles. “Now get back over here so I don’t have to get a blanket.”

Draco doesn’t let himself hesitate.

Notes:

Things are happppennninnng!!!

Chapter 59: October 15, 2005

Hermione loves that he’s dozing next to her, loves listening to the way his breathing changes when he sleeps. It becomes audible and slows down, his exhales deep rushes of air. It calms and centers her, but she can’t deny the fact that she’s also getting sleepy.

Feeling the weight of him at her side brings more joy to her heart than she expected. He’s leaning his head against her shoulder and his arm has drifted across her lap. She likes feeling his fine hair on her neck and watching his fingers twitch like spell work.

Her head bobs for the first time during the climactic coven gathering, and she doesn’t fight it the way she would have if Draco weren’t already asleep. Instead she turns the volume down and transfigures the blanket pile into an ottoman that she moves under her legs. She levitates his feet to pull his legs up on the sofa, then guides his sleepy weight-shifting to place his head on her stomach. Finally, she takes a deep breath, sets a hand on his side, and relaxes into the cushions.

The next time her eyes drift closed, she doesn’t force them open.

Chapter 60: October 16, 2005

He wakes slowly and sleepily. It’s certainly not morning—there’s no light coming through the curtains and the television hasn’t been turned off because while the screen is a dark gray, it’s not black.

Wait.

Oh, he’s still at Hermione’s. She must have fallen asleep, too. He can hear her slow breathing, feel it in a way that makes him conclude he’s lying on her stomach. In the dim light he can see her legs extend out on an ottoman that wasn’t there before.

He sits up and stretches his back, rolls his neck. Sofas are not for sleeping on. He’s not sure how to turn off the television so he won’t do that, but he can get Hermione to bed.

Standing, he levitates her body and moves towards her bedroom. The movement rouses her a bit, she inhales and stretches at the worst possible moment—he has to draw her into his arms to get her through the doorway.

Holding her is just so damn nice.

As much as he’d like to keep holding her, Draco knows she needs to sleep. He sets her down in bed and pulls the covers up over her shoulder. Unable to resist, he brushes a curl away from her face.

He notices an open notebook on her nightstand and while he can’t quite read any of the writing on the top half of the page, Draco thinks he can see well enough to write her a note underneath. He scrawls a few lines and charms the paper to rustle when she wakes.

Draco gives her hand a farewell squeeze and leaves the room, then locks the door behind himself and apparates home.

Chapter 61: October 16, 2005

Hermione wakes up in her bed—not what she had planned on. She planned to wake up on the couch with Draco still here, but he’s gone, which sucks. She feels silly for being disappointed but it would have been nice to have a cozy, sleepy morning with him. She sighs and drops her hands to the covers and that somehow makes her notebook rustle?

Sitting up, she finds his note and feels less indignant about him leaving.

Hermione,
Thanks for letting me doze on your sofa.
I woke up at 2 and couldn’t bear to leave you
sleeping there, I hope it’s okay that I moved you.
I look forward to seeing you soon.
Much love, DM

She apparates to Ginny’s flat, notebook in hand.

An hour later, she’s drinking tea and listening to Lily recount her dreams—surprisingly influenced by Halloweentown. Hermione’s quiet, thinking.

She spent half an hour whisper-raging because Lily slept in for the first time in weeks and Ginny was delighted to enjoy her coffee with Hermione instead of Lily. Ginny sipped her coffee and listened as she shared everything—the movie, the sleepiness, the snuggling, and the waking up alone. The thing she was most hung up on was his sign off. Ginny lectured her repeatedly about how Draco cares for her deeply, even if his ‘much love’ is tucking her into bed but not staying with her.

And now Hermione’s reached the end of her tea and Lily’s reached the end of her toast. Lily’s excited to tackle the day while Hermione just wants to bang her head on a table. She wants to confront Draco about his note but also wants to move on and not let this take up brain space anymore.

She feels let down, but why? Because he didn’t see through his end of a deal that she never brought up? It’s stupid—it’s a stupid reason to be upset with him. He did nothing wrong and even extended a lot of kindness to her. She’s just frustrated that in so doing he upended the not-well-considered (or even communicated) plan she had concocted to connect with him.

With a sigh, Hermione sets Ginny’s teacup on the table as Lily bounds from the small kitchen. Ginny steps over and rubs at her shoulder while speaking softly.

“You should talk to him, tell him what you want. I can tell that he wants it too, even if you’re freaked out about it.”

Hermione swipes a curl from her face (not sleeping in her bonnet made the curls all funky) and sighs, “Part of me knows that you’re right and part of me can’t believe you. I just—I don’t want to lose him.”

Ginny plops into the chair next to her. “I don’t think you’ll lose him, ‘Mione. I don’t think you can. He watched you for most of that movie last night. He’s not going anywhere.”

“So what are my options?” She asks after a moment, feeling defeated for some reason.

“One: apparate into his bedroom this morning and kiss him, at the very least. Two: write a letter explaining how you feel. Three: do nothing about it and maybe something happens eventually.”

She thinks it over for a minute, then sighs again and meets Ginny’s eyes.

“I’m going to give it two weeks. If nothing’s happened by November first I’ll talk to him. I’m not going to force anything in these two weeks but I probably will explode if nothing happens by November.”

“Strong plan.” Ginny pats her hand, then smirks, “I still think you should apparate into his room.”

Hermione rips her hand away and shoots Ginny a look but the glare is softened by the blush on her cheeks. She can’t deny that she’d really like to do just that.

When she gets home, she does write him a letter but it does not bear all of her feelings.

Draco,
I’m grateful for your kindness, though
I do wish I had been awake to say
goodbye. I’m planning to visit my
parents this Thursday—would you
want to come with me?
HJG

Chapter 62: October 16, 2005

Draco’s sitting at his desk, trying to formulate the best reply to Hermione’s note. Of course he’ll join her on her visit—no hesitation there. He’s trying to say that he wishes he had stayed without saying it. He got home last night and was tossing and turning in bed for an hour before he took a draught of Dreamless Sleep. He totally could have laid Hermione in her bed and then slept on the sofa, or any number of other solutions. He wouldn’t have needed to write her a note and he could have left after having some coffee with her this morning.

He sighs and rubs at his neck. When is he going to get the courage to tell her how he feels? It’s torture—wanting her whilst keeping himself from her. Well, maybe torture’s the wrong word. This is just a minor inconvenience when compared to the Dark Lord’s methods.

Regardless, he doesn’t like it and he’d like to change it, but every time he thinks about telling her, part of him shrivels. Of all the things to be afraid of after everything he’s seen and done, sharing his feelings with a girl seems pretty pathetic.

He shakes out his hands and picks up the quill again.

Hermione,
I’m sorry I left while you were asleep,
I’ll be sure to wake you next time.
I’d love to join you with your parents.
When should I be at your home?
Draco

Chapter 63: October 20, 2005

Hermione hasn’t introduced a friend to her parents in years. Some Griffindor on the Hogwarts Express Platform was probably the last friend to meet her parents. She’s never introduced a potential partner to them, and now that she’s going to, it feels like something she’s missed out on. Draco will get to meet Monica and Wendell—not her parents, and that’s a little sad.

Her plan right now is to show up to their favorite coffee shop a little earlier than they normally do, enjoy a drink with Draco, and hopefully be aware enough to catch their attention when they pass by. She’s trying to keep herself from feeling nervous but it’s hard when she’s left alone to her thoughts. She glances at the kitchen clock. It’s 8:52 and she told Draco to show up at nine, but it would be really nice to leave right now and stop feeling so antsy.

To distract herself, she walks into her office and boots up the computer, a process that feels twice as long this morning. She pulls up a world map and reminds herself of the apparition jumps they’ll be taking.

She’s drafting an email to a colleague when Draco walks up and leans against the doorframe.

“Ready?” He asks.

Hermione stands and nods, then rubs her hands on her jeans before offering them to Draco. He takes them and rubs a thumb over her knuckles in a way that slows her racing heart.

Chapter 64: October 20, 2005

Hermione’s getting shakier with every apparition jump. Draco can’t tell if it’s the magic drain or the increasing proximity to her parents. Does visiting them always make her this nervous?

By the time they arrive in an abandoned office of some sort, he’s holding her drooping form against his side. They stand there for a moment as she steadies herself and breathes deeply. Straightening, she steps away and he wishes he could keep holding her—if only just her hand.

“What is this place?” Draco asks as he follows her to a back door.

“An old hair salon, I think,” she says, “I always feel like someday I’m going to appear here and it won’t be abandoned anymore.”

“That’s valid,” he responds as they step through a doorway. The door swings shut behind him with a creak and a thud.

They walk side by side in silence for a while. It’s warmer here than he expected and seeing spring blooms instead of autumn colors is throwing him off.

After a bit they’re stepping through a cute little gate in front of a coffee shop. The patio is a very popular place to sit—every table has at least two people and half the chairs along the fence are occupied.

Draco opens the door for Hermione and is blasted by cool air rich with the scent of espresso. He sighs contentedly and ducks inside, following Hermione as she wastes no time in approaching the counter. She orders for them both and Draco’s touched by how accurately she relays his coffee preferences.

He glances around for a table and chooses a taller one just past the front counter. Sliding into a seat, he studies a mural on the wall opposite him. The color blending is really quite impressive—he’s not sure what kind of paint they used but getting gradients smooth on that large of a surface area must have been really challenging. The vibrant colors are surprisingly appealing. He’s never worked with colors that bright before but he appreciates the way they swoop and move and bring the eye along for the ride.

Huh. It’s been a long time since he looked at the world like that.

Hermione joins him at the table, placing a steaming mug in front of him, a clear plastic cup full of ice and green in front of herself, and a plate of tiny pastries between them.

Draco smiles broadly at her, tossing two pastries in his mouth. There’s a nutty chocolate filling in them, and the balance between filling and pastry is masterful.

“What are you drinking today?” He asks after swallowing.

“My favorite matcha—this place does it best.”

“And what exactly is matcha?” It’s certainly not a staple in Malfoy Manor.

“It’s green tea, but blended rather than steeped. For some reason it’s better here than anywhere I’ve tried back home.” She takes a long drag, ice rattling as she tips the cup back.

Draco takes a small sip of his coffee—it’s still too hot to drink quickly, but it is nice. He held off on coffee this morning so he could enjoy it here. It’s refreshing, in a warm and comfortable way.

Hermione eats a few pastries, her eyes down. Then she looks up and slides her cup towards him.

“Do you want to try it?”

The idea of touching his lips to hers in such an indirect way sounds lovely right now—the perfect level of intimacy.

Nodding, he lifts the cup and swirls the ice within for a moment. He takes a sip and nearly spits it back into her cup. Unable to keep the disgusted look off his face, Draco works hard to swallow as Hermione laughs a bit.

“How was it?” She asks.

In response he frowns and charms his hair to flash the color of her matcha for a moment, then shakes his head as she laughs some more.

“I’ll stick with my coffee, thanks.”

“And I’ll stick with my tea, but thanks for trying it.”

He chuckles and sips some coffee to clear his palate and his mind.

After a moment, he asks, “Remind me of the name you use here? You can refer to me as Daniel.”

“I’m Hillary, though sometimes I wonder if saying Hermione to them would jog some memories.”

“How much of a—“ he cuts off because her face brightens as she looks past his shoulder. Turning, he sees a woman that looks a bit like the photos in Hermione’s living room.

Hermione rises from her seat and approaches the woman who doesn’t recognize her as family. Draco drinks more of his coffee, glad that his mother knows who he is. He wonders if her parents have trouble remembering their interactions with her even now. How far will the spell go to keep her from their minds?

“—had to show my friend my favorite matcha place,” is what she’s saying when she’s back in earshot.

Draco turns to greet Hermione and her mother, feeling weird about meeting her parents without actually meeting her parents.

“I haven’t ever tried the matcha, I love the iced lattes.” The woman says.

“She had me try it and I can’t say I’d recommend it,” Draco tells her, “My name’s Daniel, it’s good to meet you.”

“You as well! I’m Monica. Hillary and I run into each other around town.”

“Where’s Wendell today?” Hermione asks, and Draco can see the tightness behind her eyes.

“He was called in for a dental emergency.” Monica says with a shrug.

“Oh, wow,” Hermione says quietly but she’s trying too hard to not be upset.

Draco sighs internally. He was going to ask how much of a relationship she’s been able to develop with them, and it’s obvious to him now. She’s not going to get anywhere if she continues to be so hesitant.

“I’d love to meet him, Hillary has mentioned how much she enjoys chatting with you both. Could we get lunch sometime?”

Hermione’s eyes brighten and her lips part a bit. Draco feels glad and a little smug.

Monica smiles, “That would be lovely, could we do the first week of November? I’ll write down my email for you, Hillary.” She pulls a small piece of paper from her purse, leans over to snag a pen from the front counter, and writes while Hermione stumbles through a sentence.

“Uh, yeah, that would be—I’d love that, definitely, are you thinking—“

Draco cuts in to save her from herself.

“Hillary likes to have a plan and gets dizzy when things aren’t nailed down. I’ll make sure she emails you by Saturday.”

“Are you a displaced Brit as well?” Monica asks him as she returns the pen to the counter and passes the paper to Hermione.

“I am! We’ve got to stick together out here.” It feels really dumb to say but it’s what Monica’s looking to hear.

She laughs and glances at her watch, then says, “I’m on a bit of a time crunch today so I’ve got to get my order in. It was nice to chat with you and I look forward to lunch soon!”

Hermione waves and returns to her seat, looking surprised. She meets his eyes and whispers to him.

“That was so forward, I can’t believe you did that.”

“You mean the thing that was necessary for you to build an actual friendship instead of an only-sometimes acquaintanceship?”

She shrugs, then considers for a moment and nods.

They sip at their drinks and much on the tiny pastries in silence for a moment. Draco thinks about telling her that people want to know what you want from a relationship and realizes it would be hypocritical of him to say. He’d love to tell her what he wants. He just… can’t yet.

“Thank you,” Hermione says, “for being with me, for trying my silly drink, for getting a lunch date with them.”

“Of course, Hermione.” He’d love to hold her hand.

“I value you. A lot. Thank you.”

Draco feels his cheeks flush.

“I…” He hesitates—should he tell her? “I value you as well.” There’s a lot more he’d like to say in regard to how he feels about her.

She smiles softly at him. After a moment, she startles and looks down, fumbling in her bag. Muttering a curse, she pulls out a small device.

“I’m being called in to work—today’s one of the days that they know I’m out—I’m sorry, Draco, I have to go.” She downs the rest of her matcha, then asks, “You okay to get back on your own or do you want to come with me now?”

Draco’s smile fades. “I’ll finish up here and get back on my own.”

“Thank you,” she says for the millionth time, standing and stuffing the device back in her bag. She goes to walk past but pauses next to him.

In that moment of hesitation, Draco’s bravery blossoms. He pulls her closer in a quick but steady embrace. He revels in the scent of her hair and the way he can hear her breath.

She pulls away before he’s ready to let her go.

Notes:

Normally I hate leaving you on cliffhangers like this but I’ll be traveling for a few days and might not have much time to write. Know that more is coming though!!

Chapter 65: October 22, 2005

Notes:

Do you think Draco collects all the letters he receives from her? Where does he put them?

Draco, I’m sorry I had to leave in such a rush the other day.
I was really enjoying our time together and wish it could have
been different. Thanks for being so understanding.
In other news, my 3D print order came in this morning!
The shapes are a little imperfect but I think they’ll work
for what I need. Having manipulable blood cells is going to
make progress on my platelet spell so much quicker.
Hopefully I can charm these shapes to interact the way
I need them to in the first place.
I’ll keep you updated.
HJG

Hermione—
That’s great news! Truthfully, I’ve no idea what most of
that means but I’m excited for you. Once you get things
figured out I’d love to see a demonstration.
Halloween is coming up, and my mother and her friends
have been planning a huge gala at the manor.
It’s next Saturday evening.
I think my mother meant to invite you to it when you came
over for tea but she must have forgotten because she asked
me this morning if you were planning on being there.
I’d love for you to accompany me at this party—any costume ideas?
DM

Draco,
I would absolutely love to attend a Halloween gala! It’s been
years since I went to a proper party.
That reminds me—some people in my university cohort are
hosting what sounds like a party your mother wouldn’t approve of.
So if the gala gets boring or weird, we could dip out and attend that.
I’ve been thinking a lot about sirens recently. You wanna be sirens?
HJG

Hermione,
To be entirely frank, there’s part of me that wants to attend a
Muggle party more than my mother’s gala. I heard that McGonagall’s
gonna be there—did I ever tell you she was at my house last month?
I have a sneaking suspicion that she’s part of the driving force
behind this party that Mother’s inviting all sorts of wizarding folk to.
Regardless, a Muggle party with loud music and lots of booze
sounds like a blast. Loads better than trying to keep my hair in line
and my etiquette perfect for all the people visiting my house.
I haven’t thought about sirens since fourth year—the Slytherin
common room had a window into the lake and there was always
some older boy making crude remarks about the mermaids. I was
always a little intimidated by them, more so after the Triwizard Cup.
So yeah, I wanna be sirens. I’ll leave it all up to you—my only request
is that I look fuckable but too intimidating to approach about it.
DM

Draco,
I didn’t know you were familiar with Muggle parties. Got any stories
to share? I will probably only know less than ten people there,
apparently the guest list keeps getting longer.
Is there anyone else I should prepare to
make small talk with at this gala of yours?
And your request shall be granted—I’ll start pulling things together
and practicing glamour options tonight.
HJG

Oh, Hermione, I’ve got loads of stories from the couple years I spent
in Muggle London. The parties were always great for helping
me get out of my own head—to forget about the war and all
the things I regretted, to feel like someone I couldn’t be.
There was one bash I was particularly drunk for—the
lads started comparing tattoos and I wasn’t going to
show mine but the girl I was with spotted my Mark and
pulled up my sleeve. It scared me enough to make me
too brave, and I bragged about how it still hurt years later,
and how sometimes the snake came to life and bit me (not
something I’ve actually experienced, but embellishment
comes naturally to drunkards). I think it got me a few free drinks.
I don’t think about those years much anymore.
I like that my life is simpler now.
Oh, I can ask my mother to send you a guest list if you’d like.
DM

Draco—
That is a wild story, and I’m glad that your Mark is fading,
if only to decrease the pain it causes you.
I think it’ll be fine—being by your side will help, you did
wonders with my mum.
I’ll apparate to the entrance hall mid-afternoon
to get our costumes and glamours set.
HJG

Hermione, plan to apparate into my rooms, Mother
is adamant that the decorations in the hall be undisturbed
until guests begin arriving. It’s a lot.
DM

Chapter 66: October 29, 2005

Notes:

It’s been absolutely forever since I updated, and for that I apologize. This is a short chapter but know that a lot more are on their way (and so is some art!). Hopefully I’ll be able to get all of Halloween uploaded within the next week!

Hermione casts one more glance around her living room. She thinks she’s got everything she needs, but it’ll be hard to know for sure until she’s in the middle of Draco’s glamour and realizes she forgot some crucial thing. It will be painfully obvious in the moment, of course, but for now she has no choice but to commit to what she’s got with her. A backpack bursting with fabric holds her costume, while a bulky tote bag holds Draco’s. Those boots take up an obnoxious amount of space. Another, smaller tote bag contains her makeup collection, glad to finally be deployed in such a large scale.

She shoulders the backpack, then pats Crookshanks’ head and scratches under his chin.

“I left food hidden but accessible. Crooks, I need you to pace yourself. It should be enough to get you through tomorrow afternoon if I end up staying the night somewhere, but I don’t want you to go looking for it until you’re actually hungry, okay?”

The cat purrs, probably understanding.

Hermione straightens, picks up the tote bags, and apparates to Malfoy Manor.

Chapter 67: October 29, 2005

Draco is pacing around his room when Hermione appears in the corner, facing the wall. She turns, looking confused, then smiles when she sees him. He lets out a breath and smiles back. His mother is in such a tizzy—he did a few tasks this morning but has been avoiding her since then.

Hermione sets her bags on the floor, one landing with a solid thunk.

“How are you?” She asks, taking off a backpack. He was not expecting her to bring this much stuff.

“Uh, good!” He responds, “A little antsy. My mother’s incredibly anxious and that means the entire Manor is filled with a crackling energy—I had to ward my rooms against it so we could get ready in peace.”

She laughs, and it’s delightful. “I get where your mother’s coming from—if McGonagall was coming to my party I’d be an anxious wreck.”

There’s a pause, then Draco gestures to her bags, “What do you have for us today?”

“I’ve been working all week on our costumes—I thrifted some things and then modified them. I wasn’t sure on your clothing sizes but we can alter those here if needed. Where would you like to start?”

“You tell me, please.”

She chuckles and hefts one of the bags onto a stool.

“Try these on and we’ll go from there.”

Chapter 68: October 29, 2005

An hour later, Draco’s sitting at his vanity, something he hasn’t done since he was a kid. He had to adjust the mirror to accommodate his height, which felt embarrassing with Hermione looking on, but she didn’t say anything about it so it’s probably fine.

He’s wearing a costume that will take some getting used to—a cropped suit jacket with a cape and trousers (they feel a lot more like leggings) with a flared ruffled hem. The boots are interesting too, big blocky things in a shimmery white color. He’s not sure if he’s ever worn an outfit that exposes his midriff. It does make him feel fuckable, even if he feels silly at the same time.

Hermione plunks her other bag down on the vanity and starts digging through it. Draco has no idea what to expect—he’s never worn makeup before. She pulls something out, a little tube of something?

“This is a shimmer foundation,” she says, and neither of those words really make sense in this context.

She meets his eyes, and he must look nervous, because she smiles softly and sets a hand on his shoulder.

“Sit back, Draco. Close your eyes and let me work.”

He takes a deep breath and readjusts in the chair, then tells himself to trust her and closes his eyes.

Over the next half hour, Draco relishes in her closeness. With his eyes closed, he focuses on listening to her breath and the way she mutters to herself. His mind wanders and tries to imagine what he’ll look like when she’s done, but that’s just making him anxious so he tries to pay more attention to her touch. At first, her fingers rub across his face and, later, she sets her thumb under his chin. At some point, one hand braces against the back of his head as the other does something seemingly very detailed along his brow.

Not many words are exchanged, but that’s okay, Draco figures they’ll have loads of time to chat at this gala.

Admittedly, he is a bit nervous. Mother said it was a healing Halloween gala, which sounds rather contradictory considering the history of the holiday, but he can’t deny his desire to mend the tears in the fabric of the wizarding world. Well, not him specifically—that sounds more like a task for Hermione Granger, the girl currently dusting his cheekbones with something.

It makes Draco wonder, for the first time, what his mother will think of this costume that Hermione’s put together. Exposed midriffs aren’t exactly becoming of Malfoys, or of gala hosts.

He decides he doesn’t care when his makeup is finished and he looks in the mirror.

“Hermione,” he says in awe, gazing at the siren in his reflection. “You’ve fulfilled my request perfectly.”

She grins and something about feeling so hot in this costume makes him want to kiss her.

“Do you need to get ready now?” He asks, to keep himself from taking her hand and pulling her closer.

“Yes! My costume should be pretty quick and my makeup will probably take as long as yours.” She walks over to the backpack on the floor, hefts it over one shoulder, and proceeds to the bathroom.

Hermione was right about her costume being quick; she emerges sooner than he had anticipated.

She’s wearing this gorgeous shimmery skirt that hugs her hips in a lovely way and the equivalent of a seashell bra with strings of pearls that loop around her arms. She’s stunning, and it leaves him speechless.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she says with a little laugh and a broad smile.

Draco blinks a few times and forces his expression into a smile, then stands from his chair.

“Anything you need me to work on while you do your makeup?” He’s worried that without something to do, he’ll just watch her and want her.

“Could you work on some long-term small-scale levitation charms? I think having our hair float a bit like we’re underwater would be cool.” She settles into the chair and starts rearranging stuff on the vanity. When she pulls out different tubes of things, he realizes that she must have bought new makeup to match his skin tone since hers is so much darker. The realization makes him grateful to be her friend.

“I can definitely do that. I’ll do your hair and you do mine?” Draco moves to stand behind her.

She meets his eyes in the mirror and nods, then sets to rubbing stuff into her face. And Draco gets to stand there and watch while he touches her curls and does some spell work.

Chapter 69: October 29, 2005

Hermione is absolutely thrilled with how her makeup turned out. Getting the pearls to sit where she wanted them took a few tries but they really pull the whole look together. It’s been a long time since she wore this much makeup, and it’s surprisingly delightful. She keeps smiling and then reminding herself that she’s supposed to be aloof and sexy and dangerous.

Draco’s charms work perfectly—she’s got several curls swaying around her head like seaweed in the current. He’s sitting in the chair again while she lifts locks of his hair and tries to replicate his work.

Draco is surprisingly fidgety. Hermione wonders if it’s the foreignness of his costume or if he’s feeling nervous about the gala.

When his hands wring for the tenth time she speaks up.

“How are you feeling about tonight?”

“Um, okaaay,” he says, but doesn’t sound like he feels okay.

She chuckles, “Sure, Draco. Tell me how you’re really feeling.”

“I’m anxious. I look hot but I’m nervous about how my mother will react. I’m nervous about what McGonagall and anyone else will think.”

Hermione meets his eyes in the mirror.

“Why does it matter? Your mother knows how you normally dress. It’s a couple hours, and if you get freaked out about it we can go to a Muggle party where you’ll be modest by their standards. I get it if you’re nervous but I don’t think you should stress.”

Draco takes a deep breath.

“You’re right,” he says, “I should just let myself feel hot and let them think whatever they want.”

“Precisely,” Hermione tells him as she finishes the final charm on his hair. She sets her hands on his padded shoulders and smiles at his reflection.

“You ready?” He asks.

She nods and slips her wand into the pocket she sewed into the skirt before stepping back. He stands and—damn, she did good: he looks fuckable and his bed is right there. She looks at his boots because tonight is not the night and besides, they’ve got a gala to attend.

“Follow me,” Draco says, leading her to a doorway they haven’t used yet. With a wave of his wand, the wards dissolve and the door swings out into a hallway Hermione hasn’t seen. He steps through the doorway and beckons her after him. She follows, a wave of crackling energy washing over her as she crosses the threshold. It’s not necessarily uncomfortable, but trying to do her makeup while the hair on the back of her neck stands up sounds complicated.

Draco glances over his shoulder and gives her a look that says he feels the same way.

He leads her down the sparsely decorated hallway that eventually becomes one she recognizes. Then the wall becomes a railing and the entrance hall blooms before them.
It’s… somehow gorgeous and haunting at the same time.

Spiderwebs crowd the spindles of the railings and drift from the chandelier. Long swathes of gauzy black fabric are suspended to create a rippling ceiling. Black candles float in the air, and Hermione watches as a droplet of wax falls from the candle and hangs, frozen, a few inches down.

They approach the stairwell, passing bouquets of black roses on pillars and crystalline ribbons on the handrails. Larger black and red floral arrangements populate side tables in the hall.

eivie appears next to Draco as they descend the steps, their boots thunking.

“Where’s my mother?” Draco asks.

“The Mistress is in the kitchens fretting over macaron arrangements.”

“Will you send her out into the hall, please? Guests should be arriving soon and she needs to be settled enough to greet them.”

“Yes, Master Draco,” eivie says before disappearing.

They reach the bottom of the staircase and Hermione pauses to look up, taking in the majesty of it all. It’s a bit overwhelming, but probably works for a Halloween gala.

“Do I still look okay?” Draco whispers.

She turns to find him fidgeting with the hem of his jacket.

Brushing his hand away, she nods.

“You look exactly how I wanted you to,” she promises, “And that’s nearly all that matters.”

He’s breathing deeply when Narcissa appears from the passage at the back of the entrance hall. She looks amazing. She’s got this big black gown on, one with a fitted bodice and a gauzy train. Her hair is done up in an elegant way that leaves a hefty ringlet coming down over one exposed shoulder.

“Mother, I’ve never seen you dress like this,” Draco says as she approaches.

“And I’ve never seen you dress like that, but it’s Halloween and I think both of us had similar goals in mind.”

Draco chuckles, “You wanted to look hot and intimidating, too?”

“Precisely,” Narcissa says with a gesture to her face and shoulders. Hermione notices her cleavage, something the woman has but clearly doesn’t flaunt often, and wonders if she’s interested in finding a new partner or if she’s just committing to the look because it’s Halloween.

“Your gown is gorgeous, Narcissa,” Hermione says.

“Thank you, Miss Granger.” A hawkish smile, but Hermione knows she’s not the intended prey.

There’s a pause, and Narcissa’s fidgeting with her hands just as much as her son was upstairs.

Hermione smiles. “Come on, you two. Show me where the food tables will appear so I can stand in the right place.”

Chapter 70: October 29, 2005

Notes:

I was a little too optimistic in hoping to get all of Halloween uploaded already, but hopefully it won’t take much longer before you have it all!

Draco is surprised at how well Hermione handles parties. For how nervous she was with her mum, she’s incredible at small talk with all the people here. And she doesn’t discriminate with her conversation either—she spends just as much time talking to McGonagall as she does some ex-Death Eater he can’t recall the name of. She’s incredibly polite, and people flock to her. They comment on the charms on her hair and ask why she isn’t a lead healer at St. Mungo’s by now. They compliment her costume and hope to see her again sometime soon.

Hermione takes it all in stride, but he can see it wearing on her. He’s about to step up to her when Zabini blocks his path and offers him a glass.

“Malfoy, the sitting room is really swell. How long did you say it took you?”

Draco takes the drink from him but doesn’t lift it to his mouth—he’s trying to keep himself aware at the gala. Regardless of how Hermione’s handling it, he’s going to explode if someone touches her.

“The majority of two months,” he responds, trying to surreptitiously catch Hermione’s eye over Zabini’s shoulder.

“It’s impressive, and your elf was saying you did most of it without magic?”

He nods and shrugs, then changes the subject. “I heard you had vanishing sickness, how did that happen?”

Zabini throws his head back and laughs. Draco grits his teeth. He would like nothing more than to leave this conversation.

“I caught it on assignment in America! Took me weeks to get my hands to stay on.”

“That sounds positively awful,” says Hermione’s perfect voice.

Draco turns, relief flooding through him as she walks up to join them. She stands closer to him than to Zabini, and Draco tightens his grip on the glass to keep from putting his arm around her. He can’t act like they’re dating because they’re not, and as much as he wants to throw his friendship with the brightest witch of their age in Zabini’s face, touching her like that without prior consent would make the next several hours uncomfortable.

“I feel like my whole life would fall apart if I randomly lost my hands sometimes,” Hermione tells Zabini.

The smile that crosses his face makes Draco want to smash this glass in Zabini’s teeth.

“Granger, right? It’s been years, and it’s good to see you.”

Draco forces himself to take half a step back. He reminds himself that he’s not here to start fights, he’s here as a host. But Zabini must have taken that as an invitation because his boldness blossoms.

“I’m loving your costume,” he says with a lingering glance down Hermione’s body.

“Thank you,” she responds, “It took me a lot of work and I’m not looking to mess it up.”

Hermione turns and walks away. Both men watch her go.

Draco’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at how confused Zabini looks. It was a refusal of epic proportions; the venom in her voice was palpable. He’s both glad that he didn’t step in and grateful to be on her good side.

“Well, guess that’s one point for the girls in attendance and zero points for me,” Zabini mutters before throwing back the last of his drink.

He grabs the glass from Draco’s hand and says, “I’m gonna need this one, mate.”

Then Draco is left alone in a crowd of costumes.

Chapter 71: October 29, 2005

Hermione’s walking towards the food table and trying to shake off the feeling of Zabini’s gaze when she bumps into Ginny.

She’s standing there in a loose fitting button-up and cargo pants, coiling a whip in her hands. Luna’s giggling next to her, wearing a tight tank top and a surprising amount of gun holsters. Both of them are dirty, with glitter eyeshadow smeared across their cheeks.

Ginny turns, raises her eyebrows, and smacks Hermione’s arm.

“What the hell, Hermione? You didn’t tell me you were going to be here.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to be here!”

“Yes I did, in the letter I sent over a week ago. What have you been doing?” There’s another eyebrow raise, and her eyes scan the crowd behind Hermione.

“I was making costumes,” Hermione explains, but even that just further complicates it.

“Costumes? Multiple costumes?” Ginny steps closer, fiery eyes glaring up at her.

“Hi, Luna, it’s so good to see you,” Hermione says, trying to sway out of Ginny’s rage, “I haven’t formally been introduced, but I’ve heard you’re dating Ginny and I think that’s—“

“Oh, you bitch,” Ginny mutters, and then Hermione’s back is against the wall and Ginny’s finger is in her face. Luna is ten yards away, looking around. Did Ginny just apparate them over here?

“You have so much to tell me,” Ginny growls.

“Uh, do I?” Hermione asks, trying to laugh it off.

“You made a matching costume for him, didn’t you?”

Hermione nods and laughs nervously.

“Matching costumes but you’re not together, hmm?”

“No, not—“

And then he’s there, sidling up next to her and staring intently at her assailant.

“Hi, Ginny. Please don’t hurt the person my elves have become rather attached to.”

Ginny’s glare slides to him, and then she takes a step back and her face relaxes.

“Hermione hasn’t been reading my letters and didn’t even tell me she would be here tonight,” she mutters, “But your costumes look great so I can’t complain.”

Luna walks up and nods at Hermione, then leads Ginny away.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” Hermione whispers to Draco.

“Any day,” he replies, then asks, “You wanna get out of here soon? I’m tired of people antagonizing you.”

She chuckles. “I need some macarons first.”

Chapter 72: October 29, 2005

Narcissa can’t help but wonder how involved her son has become with Hermione Granger. They seem to revolve around each other, but they aren’t at each other’s sides the whole time. Their costumes match but he barely touches her. Didn’t he say he was deeply in love? Why hasn’t he done anything about it?

Narcissa supposes only time will tell.

She is rather impressed by the number of people here. In the past, the number of invitations sent far outweighs the amount of actual attendees. But her entrance hall is full of people for the first time in too long, and it’s nice. Maybe she should host more parties.

She’s standing at the foot of the staircase when a pop of bright green catches her eye through the crowd. She swishes the last of her water through her mouth, swallows, and vanishes the glass to the kitchens. Then she’s on the move.

Narcissa is grateful for her mother’s training in commanding a room. Wearing a gown this big should have been an issue in a room this crowded, but the people part for her, and she doesn’t look at them. Her eyes are scanning for that green again—it’s the precise shade of her favorite shrub and she’s got to know who’s wearing it.

She finds it on the cloak of a man just shorter than herself. He’s standing at the entrance to Draco’s sitting room, and approaching him from behind means she gets to admire his cloak for a moment.

It seems to be a living thing—she can’t see any wool or velvet—and has got to be a closely matted tangle of vines and branches. The leaves sway and a tiny flower blooms as she looks on.

Narcissa smiles. She could spend hours studying this cloak, but she steps up next to the man wearing it.

“My son did such a lovely job on the colors in this room, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes, I was just admiring the green of the ceiling and how it complements the pinks.” The man’s voice is so much gentler than hers.

“I think the greens of your magnificent cloak would pair just as nicely,” she responds, trying to take the edge off her voice. It’s difficult work.

“Do you like it?” He asks, turning to her for the first time.

He’s a beautiful man, though far different from Lucius even in his younger years. His features are sharp, but the short dark beard softens the lines around his jaw.
There’s a stirring within Narcissa that she hasn’t felt in too many years, and she’s surprised to find herself wondering if he’d follow her away from here.

“I do, very much,” she says, meeting his dark eyes. “Though I wonder how you managed to match the leaves of my favorite shrub.”

“Well, had I known it was your favorite, I would have brought a second cloak.” There’s a hint of a smile, and she watches his eyes wander.

“Are you the lady of this Manor?” He asks. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Yes,” Narcissa says, extending her hand, “You may call me Narcissa.”

“I’m Filigree Thorn, but you can call me Filly.” The hand that takes hers is rough and calloused.

“Are you a herbologist, Filly?” She withdraws her hand but now she doesn’t know what to do with it. She puts both of them behind her back and fiddles with the ribbon ties.

“It’s a lifetime hobby and now a second career. I’m attempting to lobby for an additional department in the Ministry, one dedicated to herbology, but we’ll see if that leads anywhere.”

Narcissa smiles, then asks, “Would you like to meet my favorite shrub? She’s a little finicky after dark but I’d love to introduce you.”

Filly gestures for her to lead the way, and she’s glad to get some fresh air.

Chapter 73: October 29, 2005

Hermione has eaten at least a dozen macarons on her own. Draco just keeps handing them to her, and there are so many flavors to try. There’s a delightful butterbeer and an orange cream that is suspiciously reminiscent of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, but her favorite is probably the one tastes like honey and lavender.

Draco stiffens next to her when she’s grabbing two more of those ones. Turning slightly, she sees someone entirely unexpected approach the table.

“Severus, I’m surprised—I thought public appearances weren’t your style.”

“And I thought exposed midriffs weren’t yours, but here we both are.”

Hermione straightens and very quickly swallows the bite in her mouth. Severus Snape is standing before them, older and grayer but no less sharp.

“I’m here to ask a favor of you both,” he says in a low voice.

Hermione’s head tilts.

“Of what nature?” She asks.

“Personal to both Draco and I, for now.”

Draco speaks up after a moment. “You want answers about the Mark.”

Snape nods slowly. “And about the diagnostic—there’s a lot I don’t know about a spell I built. Granger, I’m given to understand that you dabble in spell creation yourself.”

She blinks, wondering where he heard that from, but she can’t deny the fact that she’s interested now.

“I do, yes, particularly on the topic of healing.”

“Then I believe your expertise will be valuable. I’d like to meet with you both a week from now. I’ll send owls with details.”

And then Snape is disappearing through the crowd.

Draco turns to her. He looks shocked, but Hermione can feel excitement rising within her.

“Fuck yeah, research,” she whispers to him with a smile.

He chuckles and shakes his head, then looks up as Ginny and Luna approach.

“Alright, ‘Mione, which flavor is the best?” Ginny asks with a gesture to the macarons.

She holds up the ones in her hand, “Honey lavender is my favorite, but you should try the bright orange ones, they’ll remind you of George.”

Ginny smiles softly, and Hermione registers the mask of bravado her friend has been putting on tonight. She wonders if being in Malfoy Manor is as hard for Ginny as it was the first time she was back here. She’d love to show her all the spots in this mansion that make her happy now, like the library and the kitchens and the sitting room.

“But let me know which one you like best,” Hermione continues, “Because we’re thinking of leaving here and going to a Muggle party.”

Luna perks up at this. “I love Muggle Halloween parties. Anything goes while you’re there.”

Ginny whips her head around and stares, wide-eyed, at her girlfriend. “You wanna get out of here? I’m desperate to. Could we go with you?” She turns and makes a pleading face at Hermione, who just laughs and nods before turning towards the hallway that leads to the kitchens.

“Follow me,” she says.

When the four of them have ducked into the slightly-less-busy kitchens and said hello/goodbye to the elves running around, Hermione explains her plan.

“I’ll apparate with Ginny there and back, and then you can take Luna and I’ll take Draco. Normally I’d just describe it well enough for you to get there on your own, but I don’t really want to take any chances with where we end up tonight.”

She waits for acknowledgement from each of them before touching Ginny’s arm and apparating behind a bus stop shelter. It’s down the street from the party venue, and she can hear the thumping music from here. Ginny looks around for a moment, then nods at Hermione and they apparate back to Malfoy Manor. The four of them wordlessly step around each other and are lost in space and time for a moment before appearing together behind the bus stop.

After three apparition jumps, Hermione’s magic is pretty drained, but she doesn’t plan on casting much more tonight so it should be okay.

“This way,” she tells her friends, even though the venue is obvious. It’s well-lit from the outside, purple lights casting shadows of spiderwebs across the facade. She’s never attended a party here before, though she’s heard that it’s always a great vibe.

Draco walks next to her, Ginny and Luna a few steps behind. Draco’s confidence seems to have increased—his shoulders are back and he’s walking purposefully. He looks hot. He looks so hot.

Hermione looks straight ahead again. She can’t do anything about that right now.

But when she gives her name to the bouncer and steps into the lobby, she begins to wonder if maybe this is the place where she can do something about how she feels.

Chapter 74: October 29, 2005

Draco loses track of Luna and Ginny fairly quickly. They peel off and seem to be headed straight for the dance floor, while Hermione’s taking a less direct route: milling through the lobby and chatting with a few people.

He trails behind her, paying more attention to the way people are looking at them than anything being said. The small crowd in the lobby looks curious and intrigued, and he even gets a few winks. Their strategy seems to be working so far—people notice them but don’t approach.

Draco parts the holographic ribbons over the doorway for Hermione to walk under, and they enter the main party space. There’s a bar along the wall to the left, seating along the wall to the right, and a huge open space for people to dance and mill about. Lights are flashing, music is thumping, and Draco smiles. It’s been a while, but he’s never been opposed to parties like this. There’s a deejay setup across the large room with large speakers. He notices patio lights strung between the concrete pillars that rim the dance floor, then realizes that the ceiling must be at least thirty feet high.

“This is an incredible space,” he says to Hermione, raising his voice to be heard over the music. Some Muggle Halloween song is playing and there’s some overlaid bass that resounds in Draco’s chest.

Hermione’s response indicates to him that they’ve been looking at different things.

“I think we’re the hottest people here,” she says.

“Oh, come on, there’s got to people wearing less than us.” He throws a quick glance around the people closest to them. A few girls nearby are wearing 1980’s Muggle workout clothes, which are tight and rather revealing but ultimately cover more of their skin than Hermione’s costume.

“No, I’m serious,” Hermione replies, “Look, there’s a frat bro in a hot dog costume who may or may not be naked underneath it, and that guy over there has a dick hat on his head. They think they’re so smug and so hot, but they’ve actually painted themselves with huge red flags and I hope no one here gives them the time of day.”

“Point taken,” Draco admits with a nod. “I think you’re the—“

His words are cut off by the approach of a girl wearing a slutty devil costume, who screams at Hermione and gestures to her costume.

“You look incredible!” This girl shouts.

Hermione throws her head back and laughs, and Draco likes looking at the line created by the stretching of her neck.

“Thanks, and you’re so sexy!” Hermione responds, then turns to Draco. “Ashley is a friend from school. Ashley, this is Daniel, an old friend of mine.”

“You wanna dance with me?” Ashley asks, and it takes Draco too long to realize that the question is directed at him.

“Drinks before dancing,” Draco says, trying to evade the invitation without directly refusing it. Of course he doesn’t want to dance with her, he only wants to dance with Hermione and that’s definitely not happening tonight.

“I’ll dance with you for a bit!” Hermione grins at Ashley, who jumps at the opportunity and practically drags her out on the floor.

Draco watches them go and wishes that he could hold Hermione’s hands like that. He turns to the bar instead.

On the wall is a poster for some themed drinks and he asks the bartender for all three, spread out over the evening. He’s not a picky drinker and is all for a fun sip of alcohol.

The first glass set in front of him is full nearly to the brim with black liquid. Three skull-shaped ice cubes bob lazily in the murky drink.

He takes a sip and is pleasantly surprised by the robust flavor. Draco opens a tab, thanks the bartender, and wanders deeper into the crowd with the hope of catching a glimpse of Hermione.

Chapter 75: October 29, 2005

Notes:

A hefty update coming your way!

Ginny is getting fed up.

Dancing with Luna is great—she’s hot and moving with her feels like they’re alone on the dance floor. But she’s also high off her ass and keeps trying to take her clothes off, which would be fine if they actually were the only ones on the dance floor, but they’re not, so Ginny’s had to swat Luna’s hands away from the hem of her tank top half a dozen times.

The music swells and the bass drops and the people around her are jumping up and down. And Luna’s jumping with them, eyes closed. Ginny smiles and lets herself get caught up in it all, but she shouldn’t have because now Luna’s got her thumbs hooked in her waistband.

She shows half her ass-crack to the crowd before Ginny throws an arm around Luna’s waist and yanks her away.

Ginny’s grumbling under her breath and Luna’s whining about wanting to dance, but they make it to a perfect spot—one out of sight behind the speaker towers.

She apparates to Luna’s flat.

“Luna!” Ginny shouts, louder than she means to because she’s not used to the silence here yet.

“Luna,” she repeats, softer this time, “Honey, you’ve got to keep your clothes on in public. I know you get lost in the music, and I love that about you, but I’m the only one who gets to see you dance that way.”

Luna blinks a bunch. Then she slowly unbuckles the myriad of holsters, letting them drop to the floor.

Ginny smiles, her body thrumming again.

“Keep dancing, Lovegood.”

Chapter 76: October 29, 2005

Notes:

TW: getting drugged at a bar

Draco is on his second drink by the time he’s finally able to reunite with Hermione. She’s got a brightness in her eyes and a sheen on her face that he wouldn’t have expected from her. Hermione Granger, enjoying a raging party? It’s nice. Makes him want to touch her.

“What’s that?” She half-shouts when she returns to his side.

“Some fruity cocktail—it’s better than I thought.” He likes the drink even if he can’t name any flavors in it.

“Is that glitter in there?”

“I think so! Although the lights make the green look a little sickly.”

“Huh,” Hermione says, looking out at the dance floor from their spot next to a pillar.

“Can I try it?” She asks after a moment.

Draco’s cheeks flush. Please.

“Of course,” he responds, passing her the champagne flute, glad that most of the sugared rim is still intact.

She takes a sip, and then another. She looks pleased but confused, which is about how Draco felt about this one, too.

He laughs and nods, then accepts the glass from her.

“I think I’m gonna need my own to decide whether or not I like it.” Hermione steps around him and the pillar.

While she’s gone, he watches a couple dance with a surprising amount of their bodies pressed against each other. Draco sighs. He should tell her how he feels. What’s keeping him from that? He’s not afraid of her response. But what if she tells him that he’s not the kind of person she wants to interact with in the way he wants? That… does scare him a little bit. He’s worked so hard to become something more than what he was and hearing her say all that work was for nothing sounds heartbreaking.

How did he get so sad?

He takes another sip, getting a mouthful of the purple sugar to make it feel new again. And then Hermione is next to him again and everything feels okay.

Draco smiles and clinks his glass against hers. He promises himself he’ll tell her soon, tell her everything.

“What cool costumes have you seen?” She asks.

“Uh, a couple dead brides, one with a vintage wedding dress that looked a lot like dress robes. Someone who looked suspiciously like the Hogwarts librarian, though I can never remember her name.”

Hermione throws her head back and laughs. The charmed curls sway mesmerizingly, but even just her laugh is drawing him in. He loves it when she laughs this hard.

“I’ve seen several princesses with tear away ball gowns.” She pauses, then adds, “I’ve also seen a bunch of people I recognize but I can’t seem to place where I’ve seen them before.”

“Like, from school and stuff?” Draco takes a drink to keep from feeling like he’s asked a dumb question. He’s certainly buzzed by now, which is nice, even if it comes with a lack of clarity.

Hermione nods, watching the crowd with a furrowed brow.

That girl from before is approaching them again, it’s like she’s got a honing device on Hermione.

She’s towing a man along with her—he’s dressed very smartly and Draco’s got to admire him for that.

“Hillary!” The girl—Ashley, right?—shouts. Hermione turns and Draco can tell the smile on her face is a false one. He’s glad to know the full Hermione Granger. Only knowing a part of her would be dull.

“Hillary,” Ashley repeats, “I want you to meet Charlie, the guy I told you about earlier.”

Hermione extends her hand, “Charlie! Hi, it’s good to meet you, I’m Hillary. This is my friend Daniel but he was about to go get another drink.”

He shares a glance with her. Is she giving him an out?

“Yeah,” Draco says, holding up the mostly-empty champagne flute, “Can’t decide if I like this one.”

Charlie smiles a smile full of very white teeth, and it’s off-putting.

“I didn’t like that one either,” Charlie says, holding Draco’s gaze for what feels like too long.

A tension builds in his shoulders, but instead of arguing Draco throws back the rest of the cocktail and turns to leave. He’ll have to keep an eye on that guy, his vibe is worse than Zabini’s when it comes to women. At least Blaise just wants to play—Charlie seems out for blood.

Draco chooses a seat at the bar with a good view of Hermione and those Muggles. He slides his empty glass across the countertop, which the bartender takes after a moment.
The third and final drink that Draco plans to buy tonight is shortly thereafter placed in front of him. Another tumbler this time, filled with a light purple drink. Two blackberries are balanced on the rim, blackish purple juice dropping down the side. And there’s a wisp of dry ice smoke, which is impressive.

He decides that Hermione might actually like this one after his first few sips. The blackberry flavor comes through surprisingly well, which is interesting to pair with the carbonation from the dry ice. Waving the bartender over, he orders another. Then an idea occurs to him.

“There was a woman earlier who ordered the bright green cocktail, she’s dressed kind of like a mermaid and her hair floats like mine. Could I pay for her drink?”

“Yeah, man, she your girl?” He pushes some buttons on a register before sliding Draco a check.

Beneath the bar, Draco summons a Muggle card to his fingers, then sets it on the check and pushes it back to the bartender.

“I’m hoping to make her my girl soon,” he says.

The bartender chuckles and swipes the card.

“Tomorrow’s your best bet for soon, buddy. Enjoy your drinks.”

Draco ponders the man’s words as he vanishes the card and receipt. Maybe he should tell her tomorrow. What if she hates him?

She can’t hate him. There’s no evidence for that, and being honest about how he feels probably won’t change that.

Someone slides into the seat next to him.

Draco sighs and takes another drink.

This one really is good and might be his favorite of the three.

“What are you drinking?” Asks the person next to him, whose voice feels sickly sweet. What is it with all these Muggles and their ill-intentions?

“Some blackberry cocktail, it’s one of the—“

“Oh, is this for me?”

Draco turns sharply as this girl not only picks up Hermione’s drink, but downs half of it before coming up for air and meeting his astonished eyes.

“No,” he says, “That wasn’t for you.”

He turns away from her, taking deep breaths as he faces most of his body away from her. He searches for Hermione. She’s in the same spot, listening as Ashley tells her some wild story. Charlie isn’t with them anymore, thankfully.

He watches Hermione laugh, leaving his glass unsupervised for just long enough for a vial to tip across the rim.

“Sorry,” the girl says. “I guess I just got carried away.” A little laugh, and Draco forces himself to be polite.

“It’s fine.” He doesn’t look at her. “I’ve just already settled up, so I guess my friend won’t get to try this one.”

“I did really like it.” Another little laugh. “Thanks for buying my drink, I guess.”

Draco lifts his glass and takes several swallows so he doesn’t have to say anything. It’s upsetting, but maybe they’ll leave this place soon and he can just be with Hermione and forget about all this.

“I’m gonna go check on something, you okay if I leave my drink here? I’ll be back in like ten minutes.”

He nods to get her to leave and eats one of the blackberries, which is fine. If Halloween were at the end of September the blackberries would be lovely.

He turns to gaze at Hermione again, wishing that Ashley would just be done with her already. Telling her tomorrow seems better than telling her tonight, but he’d still like to spend some time with her before the night is over.

By the time that girl comes back for ‘her’ drink, Draco is getting sleepy. It’s not something he expected, what with the pounding music and all those lights, but maybe sitting instead of standing is making him feel more of the effects of the admittedly-long day.

He’s taking the last few sips of his cocktail when that girl sits next to him again. What did she say her name was?

“Happy Halloween!” She says with a big smile.

Draco smiles back.

“This monster mash is supposed to last til dawn, but I don’t think I can dance for that long without a cup of coffee. Thankfully, my suspicions were correct and I found a coffee machine in a back room.”

Draco perks up.

“A cup of coffee is exactly what I need right now.”

“I was hoping you’d say that—I put on a whole pot but obviously shouldn’t drink it all myself.” She smiles again. “My name is Kylie, by the way.”

“Kylie,” Draco says with a yawn, “Take me to the coffee.”

Chapter 77: October 29, 2005

Now that Ashley has finally finished regaling her with Charlie’s entire dating history (apparently there have been some doozies), Hermione glances over at Draco to find that he’s still sitting at the bar. One of the girls that she almost recognized earlier is sitting next to him, and now she’s leaning real close. Hermione frowns as she’s finally able to place where she knows this girl from: she’s shadows the anesthesiologists a couple times. She’s not in Hermione’s cohort, but there are so many people here who aren’t, so that doesn’t mean any—wait, did Draco just take her hand? What the hell? And now she’s standing up—

Hermione shifts through the crowd here at the edge of the dance floor. Concealing her wand hand between a ball gown and a pillar, she casts a modified diagnostic charm, one she hasn’t used since her early days of residency. The rings appear, tiny and translucent before her eyes, and—

Fuck.

She’s moving through the crowd as quickly as she can now, watching Draco follow this girl out into the lobby. The frat bro in the hot dog costume blocks her path for a moment and shouts at her when she pushes past him. She considers blasting her way through because she’s got to get to him, but making a scene isn’t what she needs today.

Hermione finally bursts through the curtain of ribbons over the doorway, just in time to catch sight of Draco drifting around a corner. She grits her teeth and sprints after him, not paying any attention to the way her gait rips the seam on her skirt.

She rounds the corner as Draco’s being pushed backwards into a room, smiling like an idiot.

Instinctively, she fires off a hex and a body-binding curse and barely pauses to watch the girl hit the floor. She’s in front of him a moment later, taking his hands and pulling him away—away from this girl and the room she would have hurt him in and this party and everything else.

“Hermione! I can’t believe you’re here, Kylie was just telling me about the coffee machine in that room. You don’t like coffee but do you want one? We’ve got lots of party left.” His voice is airy and slurred and his eyes look glazed over.

“I can’t believe I let that happen to you,” Hermione mutters, concealing her wand in its pocket again as her other hand grips Draco’s arm. She can’t let him out of her sight. Truthfully, she’d love to find an empty hallway and apparate home, but they need to be seen leaving this place so they’re not reported missing. It’s happened before—nasty business, trying to gaslight people into believing they saw you leave.

“But Kylie was so nice, she was gonna find me coffee.”

Hermione grits her teeth again. She has no idea what drug is in his system or what she needs to do to combat it, but that can’t be her priority right now.

“I don’t think there was ever a coffee machine,” she tells him as they weave around a group of girls lying on the floor in a giggling heap in the lobby.

“That’s sad, I was getting tired of drinking.”

“Oh? So you’d be okay if we left?” She waves to Ashley, whose head is sticking out from the ribbon curtain. Ashley looks confused for a moment, then she smiles and waves and ducks inside.

“Yeah,” Draco says, “It’s getting too loud here. The lights are making my eyes fuzzy.”

Hermione has to strain to hear him—it’s like he’s fading. She pulls him through the double doors, relieved at the cool air that meets her lungs. Apparently the fresh air doesn’t have the same effect on Draco.

“I’m cold,” he murmurs as she slowly leads him down the steps.

Hermione surreptitiously casts a warming charm and tries to keep the guilt-racked thoughts out of her head, at least for the moment. She can feel awful about allowing him to be roofied later, once he’s safe.

“Let’s get you home,” she tells him, ducking into an alleyway. He’s swaying with drooping eyelids when she turns to face him. She hopes he handles apparition well enough.

A moment later, they’re standing in her kitchen—she brought them here in case he needed to vomit in the sink, but he just looks like he’s about to fall over. Hermione wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him against her side, leading him step by step to her bedroom. She sits him carefully on the edge of the bed.

“Draco, I’m going to take off your shirt now, then I’ll clean up the makeup. Okay?”

She waits for some semblance of acknowledgement before lifting her wand and carefully slicing his top into easily removable pieces. She tries to ignore the fact that he’s shirtless on her bed—there’s no chance of her feeling okay about touching him until he’s sober. She glances at the sobriety potion on the shelf across the room, then decides against it. He needs to sleep it off first. Magic can’t perfect this right now.

It’s when she’s standing between his knees and using gentle cleansing charms to remove his makeup that he speaks for the first time since arriving.

“Hermione, I… I think you’re gorgeous and, yeah, your costume looks spectacular tonight but even without it you are… delightfully beautiful. I like it when you wear crop tops and leggings and I like it when your hair is big and I love the way you laugh and I’m… glad—I’m really glad—to be your friend but I’d be damned if I said I didn’t want to kiss you because I… really want to kiss you right now.”

Hermione freezes, meeting his sleepy eyes. What?

Is that really how he feels about her?

It’s got to just be the drugs in his system.

But if a symptom is dropped inhibitions, why wouldn’t he say anything but the truth?

He seemed genuinely interested in Kylie’s coffee but equally interested in leaving the party. He’s following and listening to her but even after saying that he’s just sitting here, looking up and waiting for her to respond.

He’s got to be serious, right?

It would be so easy to give him everything he wants tonight. It would be so easy to get everything she wants tonight.

But, no. It can’t happen like this.

Not when he’s under the influence of Merlin-knows-what and they’ve both got alcohol in them. Not when he looks so delicious and is sitting on her bed. Not when he says things that make her think he wants her just as much as she wants him.

Hermione lets out a breath. She completes the final cleansing charm, rubs a thumb across his eyebrow, and presses her lips to his forehead.

“Tomorrow,” she murmurs, a promise only she will remember in the morning.

Chapter 78: Halloween Costumes!

Hello! I’ve been working on this illustration for a while now and while I’m not perfectly happy with it, I do think it’s worth sharing. Enjoy the sirens!

 

Link to full version

 

Link to easier-to-see version

Chapter 79: October 30, 2005

Draco returns slowly to consciousness, groggy as hell. Everything feels murky and swollen and bad. Everything’s bad. His throat is so dry and his eyes hurt. It takes more blinks than he’d like to clear his vision and once he can see, he sits up too fast.

He shuts his eyes tight again and groans, sinking back against the pillows. He’s not in any rooms at the Manor, that’s for sure. What happened last night, and how did he end up here? He rolls over, trying to slowly make his way to the edge of the bed, but burying his face in a pillow fills his nose with a scent that makes him want to stay put.

Hermione. It smells like her hair—reminds him of standing in her bathroom and watching her braid her curls back, of the way the vines on her porch make curls like hers, of the way her hair floated at the gala.

Is this Hermione’s bed? It’s got to be. Why was he sleeping in her bed, and why isn’t she here?

Too many questions to make staying here possible. She’s got to be around here somewhere.

It’s hard work, but he pushes and pulls his aching body to the edge of the bed, then swings his legs over. He’s still wearing the trousers that are practically leggings from his Halloween costume, but this shirt is one he’s seen Hermione wear. It’s less slouchy on his body than on hers. Where is she?

Standing up is the hardest part but getting to a point where he can support himself along the wall nearly rivals it. He’s not sure if he’s been in her bedroom before, but right now he just wants to get out. He promises himself he’ll return and tried to keep himself from tripping on the threshold.

He can hear humming now. He follows the sound, shuffling into the kitchen.

It’s too fucking bright in here.

But she’s here. And that’s all that matters right now.

She’s sweeping the kitchen, humming a tune he recognizes but can’t pinpoint. Probably some Halloween song. Her long legs are out, topped with some brightly-colored little shorts and a matching crop top. Her curls are tied up in a big pile on the top of her head, but there’s one little curl swaying loose from the back of it.

He’s about to say something when she turns and sees him standing there, hunched over and squinting. Her lips part in a huge grin, and maybe the light isn’t too bright anymore because she’s so lovely.

“How the—“ he croaks, then clears his throat and tries again, “How the hell did I get here?” He can’t say the second attempt was much better, but at least he got the words out.

Her response is another smile, softer this time, and a potion levitating towards him. A little tag on the bottleneck labels it ‘for sobriety.’

Thank all the gods, but especially Hermione Granger.

He throws the sobriety potion back, grateful for the way it coats his throat and clears the murkiness from everything. His head feels so much clearer. Even the aching in his body has lessened.

Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he breathes a sigh and sets the bottle on the counter.

“Thank you so much,” he tells her, “That’s exactly what I needed.”

“That and some sleep—I’m glad you rested well.” She sends the broom levitating to its corner and turns to face him. Hearing her voice is like another dose of potion calming his heart.

“Did you?” He asks, wondering where she slept but not yet feeling ready to ask.

She nods. “I haven’t slept a full night on the sofa in a while but it’s more comfortable when you set out intending to sleep on it.”

There’s a pause, and his brow furrows. “Hermione, why did I sleep in your bed?”

She lets out a long breath, leaning against the counter. “What do you remember of last night?”

Now he’s suspicious. Last night… was the gala, even though it feels as though that happened a week ago.

“Uh, I remember my mother’s gala pretty well. I know I started drinking when we got to that Muggle party, so it gets progressively fuzzier after that.”

“Do you remember talking with a girl named Kylie?”

Draco meets her eyes and feels his cheeks flush. “No, not at all. What happened?”

“You were fairly drunk by the time she approached you. I was on the edge of the dance floor, chatting with Ashley, and you were sitting at the bar. I think you were chatting with the bartender, but then Kylie sat next to you and captured all your attention. I’m not sure what she said, and it’s probably lost in your memories by now, but I watched you follow her out into the lobby. I was a little concerned, and then I cast a diagnostic and was really concerned.”

“Damn, I don’t remember any of this,” Draco whispers.

“She roofied you, Draco, she spiked your drink, and then you followed her like a puppy. I caught up right before she pushed you into a room. I don’t know what she intended to do to you, but I couldn’t let it happen knowing that you had no way of giving informed consent. I do know that she promised you coffee, which now that I think about it is very silly and probably wouldn’t have worked on anyone else. You told me very excitedly that she was going to show you the coffee machine.”

“Huh. That does sound like me.”

“That’s the thing—I don’t know what she used but it made you really honest and open and manipulable. You also told me…”

Draco meets her eyes, brow furrowed again, confused by her hesitation. What else would he have told her? He’s not usually a sad drunk, but maybe the drugs made him confess to war crimes she hadn’t been aware of.

She looks down and continues, “We left the party and I brought you here. I wanted you to sleep off as much as possible and, to be frank, I didn’t want to have this conversation at midnight. I cut your shirt off and cleaned your makeup, then put a new shirt on and removed your shoes and socks and put you to bed. I felt like you were mostly asleep by the time I was telling you to lay down.”

He considers this for a moment, but isn’t necessarily surprised by any of her words. It makes sense that Hermione would extend care to him in that way, but what is she leaving out?

“You didn’t say what else I told you.” His voice is quiet but he hopes that the request comes through firmly enough.

She looks up at him, fidgeting her hands together.

“You told me you wanted to kiss me.”

Shit.

Why would he say that? It’s not as though it isn’t true but—

She moves fast, and being pressed against the wall is the last thing he had expected of this morning, but then she’s so close that it doesn’t matter.

Kissing Hermione Granger is everything he imagined it would be and everything he wants right now. Well, maybe not everything.

It’s like he can’t pull her close enough—his fingers are spread across her lower back and holding her to him. She’s soft and lovely, and the hem of her crop top brushes his knuckles, tempting him.

His breath comes in short bursts but the scent of her is a good reminder to breathe. Her lips are warm and soft and he likes the way her nose touches his cheek.

His knees feel shaky but the wall keeps him from falling over and the way she’s pinning him here is so hot.

His hands are in her hair now, pulling the locks and twists from their organized pile. Curls tumble around his face and he’s surprised by the sound he makes in response.

There’s another sound, but it doesn’t come from either of them.

Hermione pulls away first, leaving Draco simultaneously feeling hard and like he’s about to collapse to the floor. He blinks and watches her rub at her mouth, turning away.

“Sorry, Crookshanks,” she mutters, “You’re right, it’s time for breakfast.”

And Draco is left leaning against the wall, watching the witch he’d really love to kiss again feed her fucking cat. Even if he’s glaring at it when Hermione isn’t looking, he is glad for the chance to catch his breath and think this through.

She kissed him. Does that mean she feels the same way? It makes a small part of him wish he had told her sooner, but he also can’t deny how delightful kissing her this morning was. If not telling her weeks ago meant that fate allowed her to pin him to the wall, who is he to say no?

He pushes off the wall as she approaches, instinctively extending his hand to her. She takes it and leads him into the living room, plopping down on the sofa.

Draco sits next to her, his cheeks flushing again. What should he say? He can’t just kiss her again.

“I like you,” Hermione begins abruptly, “A lot. And I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while.”

“Why didn’t you?” Draco asks, trying to sound more curious than accusatory.

“I didn’t think you wanted it.”

“That’s what kept me from kissing you.”

Hermione laughs a little. “I guess Kylie’s drugs did one thing right in tearing down the walls that kept us from each other.”

A broadening smile crosses Draco’s lips. Looking at her is like falling towards the moon, and he’s desperate to let go of the rope and drift away from everything he’s ever known.

“Can I kiss you again?” He asks in a whisper.

“Please,” she murmurs, leaning forward.

This kiss is gentler than before, more cautious. Less rushed, more exploratory. Kissing her in this way is like letting go of tension he didn’t know he was holding, like a sigh that lifts so much weight from his shoulders. The fact that she knows how he feels brings with it so much peace. He doesn’t have to keep rationalizing away his desire to touch her hair—oh, her hair.

His hand cups the back of her head, curls between his fingers. Feeling the locks drift across the back of his hand draws so much of his focus that she pauses, lips millimeters from his.

Feeling her breath on his mouth makes him want so much more than this, but she speaks and he can center his attention again.

“Draco Malfoy, you are the last person I was interested in at Hogwarts; teenage me would have never expected this and probably would hate me for it. But you’re everything I want right now.” She pulls back a little more so their gazes meet.

“You’re a lovely friend but I want you to be more than that,” Draco murmurs.

“Like a best friend?” And then she giggles.

“Like a girlfriend, you twat.”

She giggles some more and Draco can’t help smiling as he kisses her again.

Notes:

was it everything you hoped and dreamed?

Chapter 80: October 30, 2005

Draco spends the rest of the morning in a daze. He keeps forgetting which day it is (it’s Sunday) and keeps asking Hermione to tell him the story of last night (the bit about the coffee is really quite funny now that it’s all done with).

Speaking of coffee, Hermione brings a steaming mug to his place on the sofa, along with an envelope from his mother, of all people. He takes a sip that clears his head and looks over the note.

“That arrived with your owl this morning, before you woke up. I read it just in case it was worth waking you up for.” Hermione summons a second paper to her fingertips, then adds, “I thought about replying, but figured I should wait.”

“What did you write?” Draco asks, absentmindedly reading his mother’s note again. The tone seems a little off, but maybe it’s host hangover. He feels a little bad for not being around to ask her how her evening was.

“I told her that you had a mishap at our second party, that you’re safe, that you’re with me.”

He nods and lifts a hand towards her. She passes her reply to him as a pen zooms in from her study.

Levitating his coffee mug, he takes the pen and adds to Hermione’s note.

Safe and sound, Mother.
I slept at Hermione’s place last night.
I’ll tell you about it upon my return,
though I don’t yet know when exactly that will be.
Love, Draco

He hands the letter to Hermione and asks if his owl is still here. She gestures towards her study.

Standing, Draco grits his teeth, feeling rather foolish in these mismatched clothes. He acknowledges that he could simply apparate home and get a fresh outfit, but that—even if he immediately returned—feels like a farewell he doesn’t want to say yet. So he walks into the study, flared hems swishing about his ankles.

His owl is on a dusty perch, looking out of place in the cluttered room. He supposes Hermione’s crows don’t make a habit of entering her home. With a pat on the head, he slips the rolled paper into the small case on the bird’s back.

“Return to the Manor,” Draco instructs. Once his owl has cleared the open window, he shuts it against the October chill and turns to find Hermione lingering in the doorframe. His eyes drift to the paper bag on the floor, stuffed with fabric scraps. It’s got a logo on the side, one that looks like a Muggle recycling symbol.

“I’ve got an idea,” He tells Hermione.

Her eyebrows raise and an image flashes through his mind of holding her in his lap and touching her legs, but then he shakes his head. She just agreed to be his girlfriend.

“Take me to your secondhand shops. I need some new clothes.”

 

An hour later, Draco’s standing in front of a mirror wearing what is possibly the most Muggle outfit he’s ever worn. Hermione chose a handful of tee shirts adorned with what are apparently band logos, but they’re all a little baggy (which he’s realizing is nice). So he’s got one of those on underneath a pair of loose linen overalls. Normally he likes a closer-cut pant leg, but for some reason, these Muggle clothes make him feel comfortable and homey.

Hermione approaches from behind him. He meets her eyes in the mirror and smiles, and then she holds something up.

“A cardigan to ward off today’s chill,” she says as he takes the pile of soft burgundy fabric from her.

He pulls it on and it’s somehow exactly what he needs. The man in the mirror looks more Muggle than he ever did during the years he lived among them, but even beyond that—the cardigan is warm and soft like Hermione is, and it’s nice to wear.

He turns and smiles, then pulls her into an embrace. It’s so relieving to know that she’s accepting of him holding her like this.

“Thank you,” Draco murmurs into her hair, “I needed to get out of those leggings but going back to my place sounded like a nightmare.”

She nods, holds him for another moment, and pulls away.

“Unfortunately, you do have to put your leggings back on so we can pay for these.”

He laughs and ducks into the dressing room once more.

When he emerges, Hermione’s holding an orange gingham dress that he never saw her try on. Handing her his stack of clothes, he touches the dress and gives her a questioning look.

“It makes me feel like a pumpkin picnic,” is all she says before stepping up to the register.

Draco summons his Muggle card out of sight, but when he goes to hand it to the cashier, Hermione scoffs and pushes his hand away.

“I’m not letting you steal my rewards points!”

This gets a laugh out of the cashier as Hermione slides her own card across the counter.

Although he wasn’t allowed to pay, Draco is allowed to carry out the paper bag of clothing, and he’s glad to help in anyway he can. He follows her into an alleyway and they apparate to Hermione’s living room.

“I could have paid,” Draco tells her as he sets the bag on the sofa.

“I know,” she responds, scooping the cat into her arms, “And I’m serious about my rewards points—today got me a lot closer to a big coupon. But also, I’ve gotten by just fine without a Malfoy paying for my dresses.” He opens his mouth to reply but she cuts him off, “I’m not opposed to you paying in the future, I just really wanted to make that purchase today.”

He looks at her for a moment, orange fluff purring in her arms as she sways, then decides that he doesn’t have anything else to say.

“Thank you,” he says again before pulling the tee and overalls from the bag. He hesitates, then asks, “You mind if I shower?”

She beams at him from behind the fluff. “Go ahead! Fresh towels are underneath the sink and you’re welcome to use any of the supplies in the shower.”

He returns her smile, removes his boots (should he have bought new shoes?), and pads off to the bathroom.

Undressing in Hermione Granger’s home feels odd, and it creates a tension in his abdomen that he forces himself to ignore. Locking the door is more for his sake than hers: he’s here to clean the party off him, not to have a steamy shower with Granger.

He pulls out a towel—have they always been this pretty periwinkle color?—and flashes some quick cleaning charms over his socks and underpants. He glances at the thrifted clothes and figure they deserve some cleaning charms, too.

Draco relishes the hot shower. It’s nice to know that she’s been naked in here too, but nicer still is the opportunity to get cleaned up. Scrubbing his skin is cathartic even though he knows Kylie barely touched him last night. Washing his hair feels like a fresh start, and finally knowing the scent that has tempted him for months feels like a victory. Her shampoo is coconut and lavender scented, a combination he never would have guessed. Being surrounded by such a strong concentration of the smell makes him hard, but he reminds himself that he’s here to get clean, not riled up, so he rinses the scent of her from his hair.

He takes another minute to do a final rinse, turns the water off, and is surprised by the rush of cold air that meets him when he slides back the shower curtain. As soon as his hands are dry he snatches his wand and casts a warming charm. He shivers once, then towels himself dry.

Pulling on the new clothes is refreshing, but then he spends too much time looking in the mirror and trying to determine what to do with his hair. Eventually, Draco decides to leave it the way it is—wet and stringy and floppy. At least it’s clean.

Hermione is in the kitchen again, stirring some sort of batter in a red bowl, when he finally leaves the bathroom.

She looks up and smiles so broadly, Draco fumbles a step. She’s gorgeous, and she’s… his?

“I’m making waffles,” Hermione says, “Well—pumpkin waffles, so hopefully that’s okay.”

He steps up beside her, furrows his brow, and frowns deeply. “Actually, Miss Granger,” he says in a timbre different from his own, “I’ve never liked pumpkin-flavored things and I will require the use of a Time Turner to rectify this grievous oversight.”

Hermione turns sharply, “I know you’re making a joke and, while it is cute, I need to know whether or not you knew about that.”

The exaggeration slips from his face. “Knew about what?”

“In third year,” she says, and then pauses.

Draco tilts his head. “All I really remember from third year is the dementors and the hippogriffs and that one time you punched me in the face, though I can’t recall why you did that anymore.”

She visibly relaxes and stirs the batter a couple more times before setting the bowl on the counter. She hovers a hand over the waffle iron as she speaks quietly.

“I used a Time Turner in third year, I got approval to take more classes. It also allowed me to save Buckbeak and Sirius. I’m glad I had it then but I’ve felt unsettled about Time Turners since.”

“How so?” Draco asks as he sidesteps Hermione and picks up a stick of butter. He touches it to a few spots on the waffle iron, lets it sizzle, and pours a bit of batter. Hermione doesn’t say anything until after he closes the iron and turns to her.

“First of all, taking more than the suggested workload at Hogwarts was utterly exhausting. But even beyond that, it took so much brain power to remember where I was in time. And now, years after the fact, it’s unsettling to consider the unseen ways in which that magic affected me. Like, I feel sick to my stomach just thinking about jumping in time.” She stares off into middle space for a moment, then she blinks a few times and takes a deep breath. “So, no, Mister Malfoy, I will not be reversing in time to leave the pumpkin out of your waffles.”

He smiles and shrugs. “It’s not something I actually mind. And I’m sorry that time travel feels so bad to you, though I can’t say it’s my favorite flavor of magic, anyway.”

“What would pumpkin-flavored magic be like?”

Draco uses the time it takes to pull out the first fragrant waffle and refill the iron with batter to consider the idea. He turns back to her, leaning against the counter.

“Maybe it turns everything into pumpkins, or leaves an afterimage of a pumpkin when you cast.”

“Or adds a pumpkin scent to every spell you cast so you’re trackable.” She steps really close to him then murmurs, “Can I kiss you?”

He breathes her in for as long as he can hold himself back. “As long as waffles don’t burn, I’m yours.”

Chapter 81: Author’s Note

Hey folks! Thanks so much for 10k hits, it’s a little mind-boggling! In light of that achievement, and of the upcoming 1yr anniversary of Love-Colored Glasses (I started posting this in September of last year!), I wanted to share an update. In the story, we’re at the end of October 2005. I’ve plotted for it to finish up around the end of February 2006. That’s about 4 months of story left, though it will undoubtedly take me longer than 4 months to write.

While I’m motivated to finish this story, I find myself drawn to what it will become beyond AO3. I end up thinking about Lamna Lake Charter School, where kids learn magic in the suburbs. I end up thinking about Malady Magnolia Virch and the way she’s blending magic and medicine in adulthood. I think about her childhood enemy, Henry Helio Vensheld, and how he’s working to understand a curse affecting old magic families. I think about how they reconnect, and why they become friends. I’m not done with Hermione and Draco, but I do have to admit that Henry and Malady are taking a lot of my brainspace right now.

I haven’t done this before, and I don’t know if I’ll leave this up for very long, but I’m going to include a link to a post I shared on Patreon recently! In it you can read about the two membership tiers I offer on Patreon, one of which includes support for turning Love-Colored Glasses into an original work of fiction. I would love it if you checked out the post (even if you didn’t end up subscribing).

Read the post here!

In addition, I’ll be sharing more information soon about a request for beta readers! I’d love to build a little community outside of AO3 where we can chat about Malady and Henry and what their story will become. 

Thanks for reading! I hope to have more Halloween shenanigans for you to read soon :) 

Chapter 82: October 31, 2005

This Halloween is—by far—the most interesting Halloween of Hermione’s life. Even encountering a troll in the lavatory during first year doesn’t hold a candle to how today unfolds.

The day starts with awaking to find that Crookshanks is not in her bed, which leads her to believe that he must be with Draco on the sofa because that damn cat won’t sleep without someone to cuddle. So she gets up earlier than she normally would and puts on clothes, which she normally wouldn’t. Having her boyfriend in the other room makes walking to the bathroom in her skivvies seem rather forward. Granted, she would like to get naked with him soon, but she should probably eat something first, so she pulls on a lightweight but long sweater, one that covers enough of her bum to feel okay about.

She doesn’t see Draco on her way through the hallway, meaning he’s probably still lying out of sight on the sofa. Knowing that he’s here brings a certain undeniable joy to her heart. She keeps smiling at the girl in the mirror, the one who was lonely just a few months ago, the one who never expected someone like Draco Malfoy to be asleep in her living room.

Hermione brushes her teeth and pulls most of her curls back in a loose bun. There’s an unruly one near her temple that can’t decide which way to go—something she can’t be bothered to fuss over at the moment. She has a boyfriend and he’s in her house.

That he’s awake in her house is the discovery made when she creeps towards the living room. She hears him first, talking softly.

“—think you’re a bit ridiculous but I guess I’m also honored? Your mum’s bed is probably more comfortable, so thanks for joining me on the sofa.”

Hermione rounds the corner to find Draco with one hand behind his head and the other on Crooks’ back, orange fluff on his chest. She can see a sliver of his midriff between his rumpled tee and the softer of the blankets she offered him, which is good amount of skin to see because she doubts her ability to resist him shirtless. Certainly not again—it was challenging enough the other night.

“Picking new favorites, Crookshanks?” She asks while kneeling next to Draco’s reclining form, a position reminiscent of the time she spent healing him. If only she’d known how much those moments would change her life.

Draco chuckles and turns to look at her, his gaze open and lovely. He reaches a hand towards her face, then twirls that unruly curl around a finger.

“I like it when your hair is big,” he says simply. Then he adds, “I like being able to touch it now.”

“You wanted to before?”

She watches him smile as she takes out the scrunchie holding her messy bun and gives her head a shake to release the curls.

“Desperately.”

The tone in his voice makes her want to touch every inch of him, but she can’t yet. She needs breakfast, remember?

“Well, you have my permission now, though this is a bit much for me. So you get sixty seconds before I tie them back up.”

He sits upright, sending Crookshanks mewling to her bed. “Then I better make the most of it.”

 

She ends up giving him more than a minute because feeling his hands in her hair is delightful and meditative and grounding. Kneeling there, eyes closed, she focuses on his breath and the way her curls twirl and tumble in his hands. It makes her sleepy, which is the only reason she stops. Her head is bobbing a bit when she forces her eyes open.

“This is lovely but I really need breakfast.” Her voice is slow and she’s fighting off a yawn.

He laughs a little, then leans forward and presses his lips to her forehead.

“I could go for a muffin right about now,” Draco says.

Which is how they end up in the drive-thru half an hour later, ordering big muffins and blueberry scones and pumpkin cream coffees.

She drives them to a local cemetery, parking at the top of the hill, so they can eat breakfast and watch the fog roll back. It’s a dreary day, making it the perfect spooky morning. Hermione’s thrilled to be sipping a coffee in a cemetery on Halloween.

“Didn’t even know this was here,” Draco mutters into his muffin, “Can’t believe we’re five minutes from your house.”

“Muggle cemeteries often end up surrounded by suburbia as cities grow.”

They eat in silence for a moment. These scones are surprisingly delicious.

“Where do you want to be buried?”

The question comes out of left field, and Hermione finds herself blinking at the headstones.

“It’s not something I’ve thought about in a while,” she answers slowly. “During the war I wanted to be buried near Hogwarts, since I was positive I’d die near Hogwarts. Now, though… I don’t want to be buried here, in this Muggle cemetery, surrounded by people who don’t really know me.”

There’s another pause, then Draco says, “I’ve been thinking recently about the Malfoy mausoleum and how little I care for most of the people in it.”

Hermione sips her coffee.

“Do you miss your father?”

“Not really.” He shrugs, eyes on the landscape, “I miss him as a partner for my mother—I sometimes worry that she feels incomplete, but he caused us both so much distress. I certainly don’t miss the shouting and the pressure and the darkness, and I don’t think my mother does either. The healing and growth we’ve experienced would be impossible if he were still around, and I’d much rather be happy than have a father, so…” He shrugs again.

Hermione nods and finishes her muffin, noting that not much remains of Draco’s muffin either.

There’s an anxious thought picking at the back of her mind, and she tries mulling it over, considering the best way to ask the question. It isn’t fully formed by the time her mouth gets impatient.

“So, um, the weekend is over and I’m, you know, sure that you have life to get back to and stuff so I—guess I just wanted to check in with you.”

Draco sips his coffee and she likes the way his fingers look as they curl around the cup.

“It’s a holiday, Hermione. I’m not doing anything until at least tomorrow afternoon.”

“You, uh, wanna go to another party tonight?” She feels weird asking, for some reason, and is looking out the window.

“Another Halloween party? As long as I don’t have to watch other people flirt at or dance with you, I’m game.”

Hermione’s heartbeat quickens and she smiles at him.

“Zabini was rather forward the other night, wasn’t he?”

He nods gravely. “I wanted to punch his teeth in and wrap my arm around your waist but—“

“But we weren’t on the same page yet.” She considers for a moment. “Or maybe we were on the same page, just in our own copies of the textbook.”

She watches the corner of his mouth lift slowly.

“So you’re telling me,” he begins, shifting his weight towards her. She leans in a bit, elbow on the console.

And then his face is mere centimeters from hers, his breath warm and scented on her lips. Hermione wonders (for the very first time) what having sex in her backseat would be like. She’d at least have to shove aside that pile of papers from the—

“You’re telling me I did look fuckable, and that you were too intimidated to approach me about it.” His voice is low and it’s making her insides simultaneously feel like tensing and melting.

“Mmm-hmm,” she says, but it ends up more like a whine than anything else.

A smile twitches on his lips, and then he’s pulling away.

“Well, I guess we’ll have to see what I wear tonight,” he says as he settles back into his seat.

Hermione grits her teeth. “You fucking tease.”

 

He eventually gives in to her, resulting in ten minutes of snogging inconvenienced by that center console.

As Hermione is driving home from the cemetery, she’s glad to have her own place. Of course she’s been grateful to live on her own in the past, especially when it comes to casual uses of magic, but this feels like a relationship that wouldn’t have worked at Hogwarts. It’s just so nice to be alone with him, without a worry for anyone else budging in.

Which is why she’s surprised to find Ginny and Lily on her front porch when they pull into the driveway. Hermione’s cheeks flush and now she’s glad that backseat sex didn’t happen.

She hops out of the car and waves.

“Hi, Lily!” Her voice is higher than normal.

Lily bounds down the steps but she’s not running into Hermione’s arms, she’s running into Draco’s. He swings her up and laughs. “Hey, Lily, happy Halloween!”

“Happy Halloween,” she giggles.

Hermione looks at Ginny, intending to ask a questions with her eyes, but there’s an unanswered inquiry in Ginny’s gaze.

Ginny’s eyes skirt to Draco and then back to Hermione. Then an eyebrow lifts.

Hermione nods and feels the pink return to her cheeks when Ginny winks.

“Lily was hoping to carve pumpkins this morning,” Ginny says as Draco walks up with a little hand in his.

“That sounds perfect,” Draco says. He points at the porch steps and adds, “‘Mione’s got all these pumpkins that need using.”

“Go choose a pumpkin to carve, Lily. I’ll get the kitchen table ready.” Hermione waits for Lily to leave Draco so she can hold his hand as they walk inside.

Ginny catches her eye when Draco’s back is turned and makes a crude gesture, eyebrows raised again. Hermione sighs, then mouths ‘if you hadn’t shown up,’ and shrugs.

Ginny chuckles and grimaces, mouthing ‘sorry.’ She’s called away when Lily asks for help carrying her chosen pumpkin.

 

Draco has a surprisingly steady hand. Not only is he able to perfectly draw the jack-o-lantern face of Lily’s dreams, he’s able to carve it away with his wand in fluid and precise motions. It reminds her of wand work she does for healing, then makes her wonder about two very different things—what his hands could have done if unaffected by Dark Magic, and what his hands could have done to her if they hadn’t arrived home to find company on her porch.

Lily does very little of the actual work related to carving pumpkins, sitting here with three adults under her command. She does hold the top of the jack-o-lantern to let Crookshanks lick at the flesh of it (otherwise he’d be shoulder deep in the pumpkin Draco’s currently slicing through).

When the work is nearly done, Hermione asks Ginny and Lily what their Halloween costumes are.

“Dragons!” Lily shouts, startling Crookshanks away from the table.

Ginny laughs and nods. “Charlie’s putting together dragon costumes for all of us. Mum’s got a party planned and we’re supposed to go tramping around the neighborhood, but only if Lily doesn’t fall asleep before then.”

“I promise I won’t,” Lily says seriously, hand over her heart. Then she hops down from her chair and goes off in search of Crooks.

“She did last year, in spite of her promise,” Ginny whispers.

Hermione smiles.

“What are your plans?” Ginny asks at a normal volume.

Draco looks at Hermione, probably wondering the same thing. She proposed the party earlier, but then they got distracted.

“Um, there’s a big block party up in the university district—I wasn’t initially planning on going, but figured we’ve nothing better to do so we’ll probably go to that.”

“Nothing better to do, huh?” Ginny leans back, smirking.

Hermione slaps her arm. “Shut up. Your kid is here.”

Ginny raises her hands in defeat. “Just saying, I’m surprised you haven’t.”

Hermione gives Draco an exasperated look and is impressed when he levels his gaze at Ginny.

“What, ‘cause you and Luna fuck every night?”

It’s Ginny’s turn to blush. She puts a hand over her eyes and mutters, “Shut up, my kid is here.”

There’s a moment of quiet, when the only sound is the carving of Draco’s wand. Then he speaks up again.

“I was thinking of dressing as farmers or something, since we’ve got my overalls. I don’t really feel up to something as complex as the sirens were.”

Hermione voices her agreement, vanishing away at least some of the rubbish.